Carry On, Carry Mine

by The Elusive Badgerpony

Out

The summer night was cool, but Braeburn was still sweating.

He sat alone, in the old barn lost deep, deep in the expansive orchards of Sweet Apple Acres, the sugary smell of the sweet fruits wafting in through the wide gaps in the rotting woodwork. Blue harvest moonlight shone on through the same gaps, casting bars of eerie glow across the empty dirt floor. Empty, save for Braeburn, and the small crate that came up to his gut, and the lantern atop this crate that served as his only source of light.

The light itself was dim, yellow, warm. Homey. It was the sort of light that a weary traveler would be relieved to find after a long journey. It was the light that meant that this place, even if it was old, rickety, leaky, was a place of peace and rest in the harvest light. It cast soft, warm shadows, illuminating Braeburn’s humble features, merciful enough to hide the sheen of sweat that was building underneath his coat.

He was silent, ears perked up, at full alert. The deafening, neverending screeches of cicadas in the trees, the comparatively mild chatter of the grasshoppers, the whispers of wind through the trees as they swapped stories, kicking back and remembering times when trees grew as they wished, not underneath the care of ponykind. Braeburn was hoping that the conversations he would be holding tonight would hold somewhat more weight to them than the idle gossip the wind whispered.

Yes, the night was cool, but Braeburn was still sweating, a knot tied in his intestines and left there, his mouth dry, incapable of speech, his eyes watering at the many different scenarios playing out in his head, the results of this very important conversation he was going to have. No matter success or victory, Braeburn was going to cry during this very important conversation, even if he tried to hold it in, to suck it up, to be a stallion.

He sat straight up, his face straight, his eyes staring straight ahead, mentally chiding himself for even thinking such thoughts. He wasn’t going to cry. He was a grown-ass stallion and could take rejection of this sort. It didn’t matter how long it had been brewing, he had a duty to himself to stay underneath control, especially if things went belly-up. It wouldn’t be prudent, mature or manly to cry.

He whimpered. Well, a stallion had to let it out on occasion.

Braeburn turned away from the wide open barn door, put his head into his hooves, and started silently sobbing. His shoulders shook, his eyes squeezed shut, tears trailing down. Better now than during the conversation. Better here than in front of… Braeburn wiped his eyes, breathing, trying to regain control. It was a good cry, no doubt about it. At the very least, in the next few minutes, he wouldn’t suddenly explode.

He pulled in a big breath, and heaved out a sigh. There. All better. No worries. The conversation was going to go fine. It was going to succeed. There was no reason why it shouldn’t, no reason at all. None. Braeburn turned around, returning to his silent vigil, his ears perking up again, praying for a noise, just one noise, that would say that the conversation was actually going to happen.

But all continued to be quiet. It was the orchard, late at night in late summer, the trees still whispering, now about the cream-colored colt in the softly-glowing old barn, telling awful mistruths and lies and slander about him, all because of…

Braeburn sniffed. He got enough of that at home. Not here. Here, ponies were okay with that… Detail. It didn’t matter to them. He figured it was the proximity to Canterlot that let it be… Okay. There. And here. Not where he lived, though.

Braeburn sighed. Maybe he wasn’t going to come. Maybe he forgot, or maybe he meant to leave Braeburn in the dust. It would have surprised him, yes, but in his nervous state, Braeburn was willing to listen to any old theory about why his companion for this midnight conversation wasn’t here yet. Imaginings of abandonment filled his head, his eyes watering, and he rose to his haunches, beating on the ground with a forehoof, begging himself to stop lying to himself. He was going to come. He was going to come.

A minute passed.

Braeburn was pacing back and forth, muttering worried curses underneath his breath, hoping and praying, but still not a sign. The dejected farmcolt sat down behind the crate again, and let out a shuddering sigh of resignation.

A twig snapped.

He was coming. That was enough. Like a deserter in front of a firing squad, Braeburn’s life flashed before his eyes, and he struggled to maintain control, to sit there and face his destiny. Unlike the deserter, though, Braeburn wasn’t struggling to reel in spite, but something infinitely more powerful and less understood. His gut threatened to burst out of his body and crawl away, his heartbeat pumping in his throat as if he was going to vomit the blood-carrying organ out, the sweat making the cool night cold as ice. This was it. No going back. He was going to do this.

He closed his eyes, and silently prayed to whatever powers may have been. This had to go right. This had to go right. This had to go right this time. And nothing was going to keep it from going right. The conversation would go the way it was meant to go, or so help him, Braeburn was going to… Well, he didn’t know. He really didn’t know. But none of it mattered, because this was going to go perfectly right.

The door creaked open.

A big, red, lumbering stallion slowly slipped inside, looking behind himself as if to make sure he wasn’t being followed, peering into the harvest moon-lit trees. Satisfied, he turned around, gently kicking the door behind him, and nodding to Braeburn as he slowly trotted over.

Macintosh’s green eyes flitted all over the barn, as if expecting somepony to pop out of the shadows and oust the midnight tryst, and even as he sat on the other side of the crate, they still searched for a nonexistent witness. It took Braeburn’s nervous, girlish sigh to make Macintosh actually put his eyes on the colt that he dwarfed by mere proximity.

Somehow, the fact that he had actually shown up gave Braeburn just the smallest bit of peace of mind. Big Macintosh was beautiful, built like an ancient Romane statue, tall and wide and powerful, features always impassive, never changing. Big and strong, yes, but graceful too, those fetlocked hooves barely making the smallest sound as he approached the crate, the light, Braeburn. He smelled of sweat and mud, the scent of labor, and Braeburn pulled in huge breaths through his nose just to get more of it.

A silence fell over the two, as they both tried to figure out what to say first.

Braeburn cleared his throat. “Uhm… Hey, Mac. How ya doin’?”

“Okay,” the other, bigger fellow whispered.

“Good. Good,” Braeburn murmured. “Good, that’s… That’s great. Absolutely.”

Another pause, another silence.

“So…”

Braeburn raised a shaky eyebrow. “Hm?”

Macintosh blew a lock of mane out of his face. “You wanted to talk. Said it was important.”

“Right,” Braeburn stammered nervously, “Right, yeah, right, I did. Yeah. Uhhhmmm…”

The smaller farmcolt rubbed the back of his neck, closing his eyes, trying to keep the nervous tears in, trying to stay in control. Big Macintosh was here. They were going to have the conversation. It was about time for it.

Or maybe not. Not right now.

“Uhm… It’s a lovely night, ain’t it?”

Macintosh nodded.

“Okay,” Braeburn breathed. “I… I mean… they’re awful nice, these harvest moon nighttimes, y’know? You’ve got the big blue moon, and all of the cicadas, they just seem to… Fit. You think it’s ‘cause of the buttercup pegasus? D’ya know her? Is she a witch, cause–”

“You didn’t bring me out here to talk ‘bout the weather or… Whatshername. AJ’s friend.”

Braeburn sighed.

“Not… No. I....”

Macintosh nodded. “So what’s on yer mind, then?”

Braeburn swallowed. He didn’t gulp. Gulping was for cartoons and comedies. This, the most important encounter of his life, the one that would give him the one, was not a gulping situation.

“Oh, well, tons a things. Ya know me, all over the map n’ such! I… I guess… Uhm…”

Braeburn’s mind was completely blank, his brain incapable of any sort of thought, and when words did come out, it was automatic.

“Well, I already told Jackie about Bloomberg and all that, so I guess you already know all about it, right? Ya know that he’s in bloom… Bloomberg… Bloom… Eh. Uhm, but, yeah, he’s a werkin’ his branches and most of the other folk workin’ the orchard thinks we’re gon’ get a whole grove out of him. So, uhm… You pulled him out, right?”

The larger pony nodded.

“Right! So, yeah, was wonderin’ if you’d be interested in hearin’ about him…”

Macintosh shook his head, but said nothing. Once again, silence. One again, they were left to consider what to say.

“Braeburn,” Macintosh said, gently, “it aughta be really important if you’re draggin’ me out here in the middle of the night on a harvest moon.”

Braeburn chuckled nervously.

“W-Well… Ya see, we don’t… Talk so much, like, face-to-face like, y’know? A-And, well, when we have, it’s always been… Stuff. Stupid stuff.”

“Brae…”

“Looks like you folk down here in Ponyville are gonna have quite the harvest on your hooves this year! It’s like every tree is Bloomberg down here! Real amazin’, I say…”

“Braeburn,” Macintosh muttered. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”

The cowpoke stopped babbling for a moment, then shook his head vigorously.

“N-No,” Braeburn mumbled. “No, what we’ve talked before, I know. You didn’t want, need, or have to know about… Me at all. I… Y’know, that’s enough about that, I think.”

He glanced around the barn, as if searching the darkness for inspiration.

“You could fix this ol’ setup real easy, or tear ‘er down and put up a new one. Plenty of resources, apple wood is the best ya’ll can get, after all. If ya just picked out the right trees…”

Braeburn jumped as the thud of hoof upon wood smacked into the empty air, Big Macintosh having thrown his hooves onto the crate. His eyes trailed over those big, strong working hooves, up those powerful, sinewy front legs, to that barreled chest, up that thick, strong neck, to the face of the stallion he knew he adored. He saw anxious concern in those green eyes, and immediately felt shame course through his veins.

How could he have doubted himself? How could he have doubted Macintosh?

“Braeburn. I told you, there is nothing wrong with you likin’ colts, at least as far as I’m concerned. I told you you could talk to me ‘bout it whenever ya felt the need. Clearly, somethin’s eggin’ you, so lest you’ve got more to beat around the bush with, I’d like you to at the very least tell me what’s up.”

Braeburn pawed at the ground, pulling in a shaky breath.

“It’s…”

Macintosh leaned closer, and the shaky breaths grew faster.

“Them ‘phobics back in Apploosa are givin’ you the rap again? I aughta–”

“No! No!” Braeburn cried, loud enough to make dust fall from the ceiling and Macintosh to recoil. The pair looked at each other for a few seconds, before Braeburn cleared his throat, still looking at the ground.

“...No. Nopony ‘cept you n’ me know a thing about… That. It’s…”

Braeburn swallowed one more time. Here went everything.

“I think I found somepony. I… I think I’m in love, Mac…”

For a moment, it was so quiet, Braeburn could have sworn that Macintosh had just gotten up and left. Instead, the big, strong farm stallion had merely looked at Braeburn and waited for their eyes to connect again, his face as stoic as ever. Slowly, nervously, Braeburn brought his eyes up, expecting skepticism.

Instead, the statue’s features cracked into a small, happy grin, and Macintosh leaned off of the crate, sitting up with the tiniest of smiles on his face.

Proud.

Braeburn felt himself lift up into the air. Proud. Macintosh was proud of him. Macintosh was happy for him. Macintosh was there for him. There was nothing there that didn’t say that it couldn’t evolve, could it? Or that it hadn’t evolved yet?

The smaller cowpoke blushed, rubbing his neck with a hoof.

“It’s just… I don’t know if he feels the same. I know he likes me, and I know he… Well, I don’t know how he, uhm, swings, I guess, but… But I can tell. I can smell it. He… He might feel the same, maybe. He might feel the same way. But I don’t know for sure, and I just… I’m just not sure about it yet. If he… If he says he loves me back, I guess. Then I’ll come clean with everypony. They deserve to know.”

Braeburn sighed, looking up into the ceiling as if somepony had painted inspiration up there. “Do you think… You think it’s about time for me to do that?”

“Do what?”

Braeburn swallowed. “C-Come clean.”

Macintosh nodded. “Eeyup.”

“Uhmmm…” Braeburn sighed, looking down at the floor, trying to muster up the courage to say how he felt, but to no avail.

“Brae?”

He lifted his head, green eyes looking into green eyes, one pair impassive, the other barely restrained.

“Yes, Macintosh?”

The larger stallion cleared his throat. “I… I don’t really get why ya talk to me about this stuff.”

“Well…” Braeburn started, swallowing down the words that would start the conversation. “I… I trust you, Mac.”

Big Macintosh blew the tuft of hair out of his face again, looking at Braeburn expectantly, as if egging him to go on. The smaller cowpony gulped, putting his forehooves together nervously.

“I don’t… I don’t trust my folks. I don’t trust much of anypony back home like I can trust you. You… You,” Braeburn said, slowly and carefully. “You make me feel so happy. I feel like I can tell you anything, Macintosh. Anything at all. I… I can give myself up to you, y’know? It always feels like you’re there, even when you’re not. Even if it’s a letter every other week, Mac, I… I feel like you’re there for me.”

Almost done. Macintosh’s face hadn’t changed a bit. So far so good.

“M-Macintosh, what I’m trying to say is… I… Uhm…”

The silence yet again, only now, Braeburn was looking up expectantly at Macintosh, who was trying his hardest not to look him in the face. The smaller colt brought himself up with shaky hooves, trotting over to his side. Braeburn nuzzled into Macintosh’s big, red neck, a gesture that Macintosh had often done to him when he had bawled his eyes out during midnight trysts like this in the past.

“Mac?”

The big red pony hummed.

“Mac, that pony I’m in love with… I…”

“It’s me, ain’t it?”

Braeburn was silent.

They stood there, basking in each other’s warmth, once again waiting for one or the other to say something, Braeburn shivering in nervous anticipation, Macintosh still stoic-seeming as ever. Yet, Braeburn could hear him taking in shaky breaths, and waited for him to return the affection, nuzzling into his neck and sighing.

This was what he wanted, every night from this night forward, just him and Macintosh, together, close, bodies warm on cool summer nights, close, touching, nothing really dirty yet, just them, the rest of the world nonexistent. There was no apple orchard to care for or sisters to get nagged by or fellow townsfolk to worry about being beaten by should you be… Open. There was only two hearts, one place, connected, one.

“Braeburn…” Macintosh began.

“Yeah?”

He heard his should-be partner swallow.

“Brae, I…”

Something was off. Macintosh seemed stiff, not welcome to the contact, only standing still because of his gentle nature. The shaky breaths sped up, Macintosh lowering his head and softly pushing Braeburn away. The stiff, stone features didn’t change a bit, but Macintosh’s eyes stuck to the floor, as he pawed against it.

“I… I kinda like you too. Yer just… I’m just…”

No.

Braeburn felt the world fall underneath him, and held onto the crate for support, leaning back into it, tears falling, but no sobs or crying. No. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. But it was.

“Just what?”

The smaller colt’s voice was tiny, sheepish, ashamed. Big Macintosh cleared his throat.

“Just… I can’t. I can’t do that to my family.”

“The hell does that…” Braeburn bit back the rest of his comment, swallowing it, closing his eyes gently and shuddering.

“Means if they found out, well… I don’t know what they’d do to me. If they found out it was you…”

“They seem to take AJ’s fillyfuckin’ pretty well!” Braeburn cried, tears in his eyes.

“You watch your mouth,” Big Macintosh glowered.

“Stop giving me bullshit, Mac! I thought… I thought…”

The larger pony’s features softened as Braeburn held back a sob, and he put a hoof against Braeburn’s shoulder, sighing, hoping to transfer at least a little bit of compassion through it. It didn’t seem to be working, though– Braeburn wouldn’t stop shivering, tears coursing down the younger colt’s cheeks.

“Look. It’s nothin’ to do with you, Brae. Nothin’. I just… I just prefer ma–”

“That’s bullshit too,” Braeburn muttered, smacking Macintosh’s hoof away. “That’s… You’d have beat me good by now if that was the case.”

“Braeburn, not everypony who’s straight–”

“Most everypony that was straight wouldn’t left by now instead of stickin’ around to… To make stupid excuses for why he can’t be in love with who he ‘posed to be in love with.”

Big Macintosh didn’t counter his point. He bit his lip,trying to avoid eye contact with the little blonde colt in front of him, who begged for the truth.

“Braeburn… I just…”

“Tell me the truth, Macintosh.”

There was a small pause. Braeburn and Macintosh gathered their thoughts. Braeburn was half-tempted to leave, such was his agony and disgust, he just wanted to curl up into a ball and die, but for some reason, he stayed, he decided to stay and listen to the death bells to love. His heart pounded out of his chest, his face already soaked, a damp spot of tears on the ground.

Macintosh spoke. The hammer clacked as the nails went into the coffin.

“Well, I know that AJ prefers mares, and Apple Bloom’s restless, she won’t stay here, and I think some day she’ll go someplace far, far away and never come back. I can’t… I can’t let the Apple clan up here… Die out, y’know? Ifn’ I do, the whole farm’s at risk. One pony plus hundreds o’ apple trees just doesn’t add up.”

“So you’re a breedin’ horse,” Braeburn spat.

Macintosh swallowed, biting back a more ironic use of his favored phrase eeyup, the eyes to the floor telling everything.

“I just can’t risk it none, Brae.”

Braeburn swallowed. This was a bad dream. This wasn’t what the night had been leading up to at all. Macintosh was so wonderful and accepting and special and never got mad unless it was something really important. They were meant for each other, every weakness met a strength, they had so much in common, this wasn’t happening, this wasn’t happening.

The large red pony got up, and turned around. Braeburn reached with a hoof, stopping him just for a moment.

“But don’t you… You like me, right?”

Big Macintosh shook his head. “I’m sorry. I might like you, but I love my family, and I need to keep the family goin’ over here. Them’s the rules, Brae. Eldest carries the blood.”

“But…”

“Braeburn, I’m sorry.”

Braeburn fell on his flank to the floor, to weak to give chase.

“Don’t go!”

Big Mac turned around, his face still like a Romane statue, still not letting a single bit of any emotion out. If anything, they had hardened further, looking down upon Braeburn almost dismissively. But in his eyes, Braeburn could see something that he was feeling. Macintosh wanted out, he knew, because somehow, the big, red stallion would give in, he would let emotion override the needs of everypony else.

One last time, he blew the tuft of hair out of his face with a shaky breath.

“We ain’t got anymore to discuss, Brae.”

“At least consider–”

“No, Braeburn.”

A sob overtook Braeburn’s body, and he fell in a heap to the dirt, in such wretched display that Macintosh had to avert his eyes.

“If it’s… If it’s any… Consolation, Brae, I… I really, really wish I could. I do.”

He was gone before Braeburn could pull himself from his despair long enough to make a reply. The lantern went out, and Braeburn was truly, impossibly alone.

Comments

[Crescent Wrench]

Congratulations, Badger. You done good with this thus far.

[Bad_Seed_72]

Dammit, Big Mac... there's surrogates, and other arrangements, and...

But he's not comfortable with himself, either... that's probably the real problem. Onwards to more!