Sunshower

“The best thing one can do when it’s raining is to let it rain.”
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

When Caramel woke, the first thing he heard was the rain.

Rhythmic and steady, the rain assaulted his roof, his windows, his mind, providing a low, buzzing undertone to his morning routine. It seemed to be raining far too often lately.

Unlike his colthood days, Caramel did not spring out of bed, ready to greet the sun. Nor did he raise his head to look at his jingling alarm clock and curse the sudden appearance of daybreak.

Instead, he simply lay there on his belly, closed-eyed and regrettably conscious, until the racket of the clock and the rain lulled him into complacency. When he finally rolled over and looked at the time, thirty minutes had passed. He turned off the alarm and slowly peeled himself from the sheets.

With a groan, he shook out his hooves, stretching and popping his joints. He had slept for almost twelve hours, but it did little to quell his exhaustion. Sweat of a restless night matted his fur. His throat burned with indigestion, his body as restless as his mind.

While he made his way into the bathroom, Caramel stepped over piles of… well, just about everything.

Food-crusted plates and utensils, garbage that needed to be sorted into recycling and trash, jackets and scarves that should’ve been in the wash, and other forgotten items littered the floor of his bedroom and the hallway. Subtle mountains they were, attracting a myriad of flies but none of his attention.

Caramel barely acknowledged the discards, stepping over them without missing a beat. I’ll take care of all that after work today, he thought as he opened the door to the bathroom. I’ll even write it down, so I don’t forget.

After clicking on the light, he gazed at his reflection. The stallion that stared back at him looked far older than twenty-five. Five o'clock shadow dotted his muzzle. Dark circles hung under his eyes, which, even in the pale light of the dawn, reflected gray rather than the sapphire blue mares adored so much.

Mares. From the corner of his eye, he spotted a picture of himself and a light-blue pegasus mare hanging in the hallway. They were smiling genuine smiles for the camera, their hooves wrapped around each other in tender embrace.

Caramel scowled and turned on the water. He began the joyless task of making himself look presentable for work. Brush teeth. Comb mane. Wash sleep from muzzle and eyes. He cleaned up just enough that he could be left alone without drawing attention to himself, but not enough that he would take some kind of foolhardy pride in his appearance.

The stallion in the mirror performed each task with the same enthusiasm he displayed upon the morning of his first root canal.

Once he deemed himself ready enough, Caramel remembered to turn off the water and the light. He was grateful to have remembered such a basic task, recalling a time before—last week, or was it last year?—when he’d forgotten both. It had taken days to completely dry the hallway carpets. They were still a bit damp.

Caramel headed from the bathroom to the kitchen, not out of hunger but habit. When he reached the kitchen, he noted that the rain had escalated from a trickle into a downpour. Shooting a cursory glance at the skies, he sighed, then opened the fridge.

Half-empty shelves, dirtied with condiments and bits of rotten food, stared back at him. Assorted fruits and vegetables—some of which were already spoiling—littered the majority of the space. A few leftover takeout containers and sauce-crusted condiments filled the rest.

Caramel forced himself to grab an orange and shut the fridge. He checked the clock. Fifteen minutes. Bon-Bon’s sweets shop was a ten-minute walk away, if he hurried. That left just five minutes to pack a lunch.

Caramel looked at the fridge, then at the fruit in his hoof.

While the rainclouds began to gather into thunderheads, he grabbed his saddlebags, threw the orange inside, and left, locking the door behind him.

Despite his long fast, his stomach didn’t growl. Its only churning was due to the rain.

From the first step he took, the rain unleashed its assault on his mane and fur, rolling down his forehead and blurring his vision. He struggled to put one hoof in front of the other, feeling as hopeless as a stallion who’d earned the privilege of wearing cement horseshoes in his lake of choice.

Caramel should’ve heard the chirping of birds, the laughter of foals, the gentle breeze through his mane. The cheerful conversation and happy hum of passer-by should’ve filled his ears.

All he heard was the rain, the endless torrent and tempest of the heavens pouring down upon him.

As he walked, a hoof of ice settled in his stomach, proliferating its stomping frost through his veins. He shivered and kept his head hung low, letting his sopping-wet mane cover his eyes.

Caramel was so preoccupied with the rain that he didn’t notice when a large, red object impeded his egress. That large, red object asked in a low but gentle voice, “Ya alright, Caramel?”

“Huh?”

Blinking, Caramel tilted his heavy head up to see an old friend. Big Macintosh was looming over him, a benevolent tower of concerned frown and keen eyes.

Caramel shook the rain from his eyes and took a step back from the stallion, who was standing calmly beside his family apple stand.

How did I get to town square already?

Big Mac repeated his question. “Ya alright?”

“Oh, er… Hey, um…. Big Mac.” Caramel adjusted the straps of his saddlebag and wiped moisture from his eyes. “I was just, uh, heading to work.” He commanded a smile to spread across his muzzle, and so it did, toothy and painful.

Silence settled between them.

Big Mac tilted his head slightly and seemed to analyze Caramel, taking him in with piercing emerald eyes—sharpened gemstones tunneling straight to the dark caverns of his soul. The smaller stallion swallowed hard and looked around, feeling the rain continue to mat his fur.

Indeed, Caramel had reached town square. Many vendors, like his quizzical friend, were setting up their stands, ready for another day in paradise. A few foals rushed past them, juvenile delinquents soon to be tardy.

In the seconds of silence that ticked by with all the care of molasses, Caramel resented them all for a moment, resented that the rain did not bother them.

Despite the lack of music, everypony seemed to be dancing when compared to him. They appeared to be in possession of some strange power, some dark art that allowed them to walk where the rain wasn’t.

How he wished to be that powerful.

At long last, Big Macintosh said something again, snapping Caramel out of his dark daydreams.

“Ah see,” Big Mac said, his thick baritone weighing heavily on the rain-drenched stallion’s mind.

Caramel scrunched his snout and looked at Big Mac’s stand. “Good apples today?”

The apples were the same as they always were.

Big Mac nodded. “Eeyup. Gettin’ close ta the end o’ harvest season.”

Caramel nodded, darting his eyes around. “Y-yeah.”

The question was asked a third time, albeit with a different spin. “Ya sure yer alright, Caramel?”

“Why?” Caramel challenged with a nauseating chuckle. He reached up to wipe his mane clean of rain and stared up at his friend. “I’m just going to work. I really don’t have time for much chit-chat, Big Mac.”

Nudging his muzzle towards Bon-Bon’s Sweets & Treats, Big Mac said, “Looks like yer ‘bout there.”

“Smart mouth,” Caramel mumbled as he straightened his mane.

Big Mac snorted. “Beg pardon?”

Taking a step back, Caramel shook his head. “N-nothing.”

The stern frown on Big Macintosh’s muzzle fell away, melting with the rain. It was replaced by what Caramel knew as the look.

The look was a mixture of concern and pity. The look was a conglomeration of sympathy and sadness, fear and helplessness.

The look acknowledged that there was more to Caramel than he gave away, but its bearer was too worried about prying into why.

The look was worn by those who meant well but knew nothing. It was something that he had seen on Big Macintosh’s muzzle for far too long.

Big Mac cleared his throat before gesturing to the apples. “Granny’s gonna be makin’ a big round o’ pies ta-night outta what’s left.” A small smile replaced the look, to Caramel’s great relief. “Yer welcome ta come an’ join us, Mel.”

Mel. Mel was worse than the look. The look was consideration, contemplation; Mel was desperation.

Mel was Caramel’s old nickname, in days and dusks he could no longer remember. When the gentle giant before him used that name, he was trying to call his old friend back to those days. Those brighter days. Those foalish days.

Whenever that cursed syllable escaped Big Mac’s tongue, it took every ounce of Caramel’s worthless dignity to hold in his phantom anger.

Anger. Caramel knew that it was something more, knew his rage was only the ghost of something else that had long died within him. But he didn’t want to exorcise this demon of his rage, nor lift the veil of the phantom’s cowl.

Anger was concrete. Anger was grounding. Anger was energy. Anger was what let him know he was awake rather than asleep.

In this moment, Caramel caught his anger, caught it in his teeth, caught it hard and fast. He pushed the source of his anger down farther, farther, farther, where not even the most violent of rain could find it.

“I’m busy, Mac.”

The look jumped up and grabbed ahold of Big Macintosh again. His mask had fallen.

So had Caramel’s.

Big Macintosh began to object, “But, you’ve sai—”

With a forehoof smoothing his mane back, shaking droplets of rain here, there, and everywhere, Caramel said gruffly, “I’ve gotta go to work.”

Before he could adjust his mask to compose a semblance of a courteous goodbye, Caramel trotted off.

Though he didn’t have far to go, he chose a steady pace, and chose not to hear when his most loyal friend sighed into the morning mist.

“Good morning, Caramel!”

Bon-Bon stood beside the candy counter, smiling from ear-to-ear. Her apron was dotted with bits of sugar, flour, and chocolate. Though her mane was a bit disheveled, she looked lovely as ever this morning, glowing brighter than the sun climbing its ascent to the summit.

Truth be told, Caramel always thought she looked lovely. This was not a lustful observation; it was an envious one.

She always walked where the rain wasn’t.

“Good morning, Bon-Bon,” he said bitterly, shutting the door to the shop behind him. While the store was open, it would be at least an hour or so before the first customer arrived.

“Ready for another day?” Bon-Bon asked.

Slipping past her as he made his way to the back of the shop, Caramel chose not to reply at the moment. Her cheerfulness, like the look, stoked the coals of his ethereal anger. He busied himself with putting his saddlebags in the breakroom and his orange in its fridge until he was able to calm himself.

Once he returned, Caramel nodded. “Y-yup.”

Bon-Bon stepped aside to give him room beside the counter. He joined her.

Monday through Thursdays, the two of them would be hard at work in the shop’s kitchens, whipping up various batches of taffies, chocolates, and other treats for their customers before opening. Fridays, the two were granted a small reprieve, having more than enough stock to hold off on cooking more until Monday.

Barring the destruction of Ponyville or Pinkie Pie falling back into binge eating (which happened more often than her cheerful demeanor would suggest), Fridays were the easiest day for Caramel. Bon-Bon’s wife, Lyra, took over the shop on weekends, granting both he and his employer two days free. Fridays were usually slow.

Fridays were easy.

Nonetheless, Caramel sighed and rested his muzzle in his forehoof as he leaned against the counter. The rain dribbled from his soaked mane past his eyes and snout, pooling on the glass. The ice in his stomach showed no sign of melting.

“Hey.”

Glancing briefly over his shoulder, Caramel saw that Bon-Bon was looking at him.

Fire began to rise and threaten the ice within him.

“Hey, are you okay, Caramel? You haven’t been yourself lately.”

Stoke the coals. Swirl the ice. Rub the rain from the mane. Caramel did all of this and more without moving a muscle.

He counted the variety of taffies inside the display. “I’m fine, thanks.” Nine.

“Are you sure?”

Her voice sounded closer, as if she’d taken a step towards him. He didn’t budge.

“I’m fine, Bon-Bon.” He turned his attention next to counting the number of each variety of taffy. Eighteen.

The question again, reworded with enough saccharine in her voice to make him nauseated inside a candy shop.

“Are you sure you’re sure? If you need a day off or something…”

Against his instincts, Caramel turned around.

Not only was Bon-Bon giving him the look, she was smiling in her concern, invoking a righteous, phantom anger within him above the corpse of his truth.

It was sweet and sour and beautiful and terrible that she cared. It was what he so desperately wanted and so deeply abhorred.

It did not matter whether it was Big Mac or Bon-Bon standing before him. Visages of the concerned stallion flickered between those of the caring mare, until all before him was an androgyne giving him the look.

Fearing that he would not be able to quell his anger, Caramel briskly stepped away from the counter and walked into the back of the store. He headed towards the kitchen, counting the tiles on the floor all the while. Thirty-six.

Her hooves hit the floor and pivoted towards him. “Caram—”

“I’m going to clean the kitchen,” Caramel snapped, stopping in his tracks to look over at her. His vision was beginning to blur again, remnants of rain flowing down his forehead and pooling in his eyes.

Bon-Bon bit her lip. “But—”

“Let me know when the rush starts and I’ll help,” he added, taking considerable effort to sound calmer, more helpful, more normal.

Everything else aside, Bon-Bon was his employer, in possession of his keys to slavery and freedom. Caramel reckoned that it would rain more harshly under a bridge than it would in his home, however humble and barren was the latter.

As he reluctantly met her eyes and forced a smile to show his sincerity, he saw the look return, but only for a moment. Defeat replaced it within a few seconds, followed by a nod and a sigh.

He knew it had to have been defeat, for he had seen the same in his own eyes.

“Alright. Please don’t forget to clean the stove. Lyra got creative with dinner again.”

Caramel chuckled. “Of course she did.”

Bon-Bon chuckled back, then turned around.

Left alone at last, Caramel sighed in temporary joy and stepped into the kitchen. Mixing bowls sticky with cheese and sauce, whisks and spatulas thick with dough, and a colorful array of vegetable scraps greeted him, along with the usual candy-creation mess.

After grabbing a mop and bucket, he set to work, eager to lose himself in the monotony of this task. He made sure to first mop up the raindrops he’d let drip on the floor. There weren’t many, but they were noticeable.

For that, he was ashamed.

Sometime later, Bon-Bon called him up to the front counter. The rush had arrived.

Ponies of all genders, races, and ages packed into the shop, filling it to the brim. Elders, parents, childless couples, lone ponies, even schoolfoals were counted among the mix.

Their chatter and clamor normally would have brought a soft smile to Caramel’s face, but all he could think about was the overcast skies, the threatening thunderheads still hanging low. Tonight’s gonna be a hell of a storm, he thought as he ran through the motions of his position, which were as reliable as the rise and fall of alicorns. He could do this job in his sleep.

From counter, to backroom, to candy-shelf, to cash register, to smiling customer and goodbye wave, Caramel did as he was taught, as he was told. A servant in all but name, he catered to the masses of equine flesh that flooded in through the door, doing his best to adhere to their every whim.

All the while, he mustered his phrases as authentically as he could, injecting humor and cheer into the words where there was none.

“Welcome! How are you today?”

“Caramel or toffee, ma’am?”

“Which kind of taffy, sir?”

“I think we have some in the back. Let me check.”

“Thank you. Have a nice day.”

All of those words tasted foul, a lingering disgust filling his mouth that no amount of sugar could overcome. His mask ached as the day wore on, becoming itchy, aggravating.

Worst of all, some appeared to see through the mask enough to give him a hint of the look, but none were as wise as Bon-Bon or Big Macintosh, at least when it came to him.

Caramel ignored their charade of concern and continued to work.

Today was no true occasion, no reason for the shop to be as packed as it was, other than the popularity of their product. While there were many hooves, there were no hearts to accompany them. While the hearths of homes may have been warm, there was no eve to anticipate or experience. There were no nightmares to be found in this night, neither.

No, if Caramel was honest with himself, the day was more terrifying than the night. The night could be slept away. The day demanded acknowledgment and acquiesce of it, recognition and ritual of its rain.

Caramel meandered through his daymare through the morning and into the afternoon. He took his lunch break at Bon-Bon’s insistence and picked at his orange. Try as he might, he was unable to eat any of it. He returned to work after thirty minutes, stomach empty but silent.

“Ah! There you are, Caramel!” Bon-Bon said when he joined her at the counter. Her cheer had returned in full swing, their morning’s exchange seemingly forgotten. “Did you have a nice lunch?”

Caramel leaned his hooves up over the glass and painted a smile back to her. “I sure did.”

He looked around the shop. The rush had ended. Only a few lone ponies wandered through the store, eying both the custom candies inside the display case and the common fare arranged throughout the shelves on the walls. “Looks pretty quiet in here now.”

Bon-Bon grinned and wiped a forehoof across her brow. “And just in time, too! Lyra should be coming in soon to have lunch with me.”

“Still playing by the fountain, is she?”

Waving a forehoof dramatically, Bon-Bon replied with a bit of an edge to her tone, “Ooh, yes. But she isn’t singing and strumming songs about those… monsters anymore.” She shuddered and shook her head. “She and I had a good talk about that.”

Caramel laughed, a hollow sound. “Too many noise complaints?”

Bon-Bon snorted. “Too many ponies looking at her like she was crazy.” She shook her head and clicked her tongue. “Furless, two-legged monsters walking around the Everfree Forest, speaking Equestrian and eating meat?”

With a groan, Bon-Bon added, “If such a thing were true, wouldn’t we have proof of it by now?”

Caramel shrugged. “Who knows? Though, I gotta say... I always thought those songs were entertaining.”

Bon-Bon scowled and rolled her eyes. “You and Lyra, and that’s about it.”

Caramel laughed again. Bon-Bon laughed too.

He forgot about the rain for a moment, about the thunder and lightning under the sky of gray.

When their laughter died down, Bon-Bon looked at him again, looked at him, and Caramel remembered that it was raining. He frowned and tried to avoid her eyes, her pity.

“Been a while since we’ve laughed like that,” Bon-Bon said quietly.

“Mmhm.” Caramel turned away and started reorganizing a shelf of toffees.

From the corner of his eye, Caramel saw Bon-Bon open her mouth briefly, then close it without a word. She turned away and busied herself with ringing up a customer.

The ching and clink of the cash register was sweet music to his ears, as was her silence.

Toffees wrapped in gold, silver, and purple on the shelves occupied his hooves. He worked deliberately slowly, buying time by wasting it. Seconds of minutes passed by, the clock’s steady ticking a hypnotic metronome.

While customers continued to browse and add to his inner silence, Caramel allowed his peripherals to spy on Bon-Bon, as they were oft to do. Looking a pony in the eyes these days wasn’t exactly the wisest thing, after all.

For, as Big Macintosh had done, as Bon-Bon had done, and as both of them would continue to do, eye contact was the essence of the look, and if nothing else, Caramel was determined not to be pitied.

When he could no longer arrange the myriad of toffees in further color combinations without risking an insanity diagnosis, Caramel finally turned back over to Bon-Bon and looked about the shop. The latest customer had left, leaving them alone again.

Face-to-face contact. Working alongside another pony. All dangerous.

“Busy day,” Caramel observed, leaning up on the counter. He drummed a forehoof and whistled, avoiding her eyes.

Bon-Bon nodded. She stared at him again, but without the look, for which he was grateful.

Then, as if she had been blessed with a revelation, her eyes brightened. “Hey, Caramel?”

“Yeah?” He didn’t turn around.

“I was wondering…” She looked away for a moment before turning back to him, a slanted smile on her muzzle. “Lyra and I are going to see this play this weekend. The Phantom of the Opera. One of our friends is in it…”

Here it goes again.

“... I was wondering… If you aren’t busy, of course… Would you like to come with us?”

The slanted smile struggled and twisted into a bright beam behind him, but Caramel was no fool. The discomfort on Bon-Bon’s face was obvious, and he was the only cause. A little trickle of shame found the ice in his stomach, but served little to melt it away.

Caramel straightened his posture and locked his eyes on the door, waiting for the next customer. Willing them to hurry and save him from this, this endless torment of everyday life.

“I’m busy.”

“Busy with what?” Bon-Bon challenged.

“Stuff.”

Caramel’s replies were growing lower in octave and tempo with each passing word, slowly dissolving into grunts. Soon, he would be reduced to the primal language of syllables, and, then, when he finally became unintelligible, silence.

It would be better that way.

Bon-Bon shuffled closer to him. “What kind of stuff?”

“Just stuff,” Caramel said gruffly, not taking his eyes off the door.

There was silence. Then, a sigh. He heard Bon-Bon take a long and slow breath, in seeming preparation for the tirade that he had long been anticipating.

However, the light jingle of the shop’s bell interrupted any forthcoming rant. Two Earth ponies stepped inside.

One was a mare—a strange mare to Caramel, but a mare as any other, lithe and toned and beautiful, with striking features and flowing mane. If the skies had been a little bit brighter, he would have found himself stirring with desire at the sight of her, or, at least, admiration.

Here on this rainy day, when the mare brushed inside the shop, a little filly at her hooves, Caramel felt only annoyance. Another customer. Another pony to please, to satisfy, to charade.

Another set of judging eyes.

Ah, but the filly. Two sets of eyes, to be exact.

Caramel did not recognize the filly either, though she resembled the mare enough that “mother” and “daughter” were fitting enough titles in his mind. Yet, to say that this filly was as any other would have been a lie.

One of the filly’s eyes was smaller than the other, which, Caramel supposed, affected her balance. While her mother trotted in with the grace of any Canterlot fashionista, the filly stumbled and skittered, bumbling across the floor like a one-winged pegasus in flight. She apparently took no notice of her difference, a bright smile on her muzzle and two widened eyes staring at the rows and rows of candy.

“Oh! Welcome to Bon-Bon’s Sweets & Treats!” Bon-Bon greeted as she stepped away from Caramel. She approached the newcomers with an outstretched hoof and grin. “I’m Bon-Bon, owner and proprietor!”

The mare grinned back and shook hooves with Bon-Bon while her filly hurried over in her awkward gait to one of the chocolate shelves. “Nice to meet you, Bon-Bon,” she replied slowly, seeming almost nervous.

Caramel heard a strong accent in her voice, thick, dragging her words down. Never heard that accent before...

“Are you and your filly new to Ponyville?” Bon-Bon asked, breaking the hoof-shake. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you around here before.”

“Oh, yes…” The mare dug a forehoof lightly at the floorboards. “We moved here, just today.”

“Ah. Well, welcome!” Bon-Bon smiled and gestured to Caramel. “If you need anything, just ask Caramel, and he’ll help you. I’ll be taking care of some inventory in the back for a bit. But it was good to meet you!”

“Good to meet you, too,” said the mare, her voice and smile almost sheepish.

Caramel raised an eyebrow, shooting Bon-Bon a glance that was a mixture of inquisitive and offended. Bon-Bon simply returned it with a little smile as she trotted briskly past him, making her way to the back office and slamming it shut.

Great. Just great.

Alright. Let’s get this over with.

Caramel turned to his visitors and forced a meager grin. “H-hello. How can I help you ladies today?”

The mare cleared her throat. “Well, we looking for—”

“Mommy! Mommy!”

The filly stood up on her hindhooves, swatting a forehoof at a display of chocolate bars. She jumped and groaned in protest, far too small to even hope to reach them. “I want those! I want those!”

“No, not getting chocolate,” the mare said firmly.

The filly groaned and jumped higher, swatting furiously at the shelf. A trio of candy bars slid off the shelves and scattered on the floor.

Caramel started away from the counter, but the mother mare held up a forehoof. He paused, watching as she trotted over, picked up the candy bars, put them back on the shelves, and scolded her daughter in a language he did not recognize. Snippets of words seemed vaguely Equestrian, but he could discern none of them in totality.

However, he did hear the filly repeat one word he knew, over and over again, as he mother addressed her: “Huh? Huh? Huh?”

The mare raised her voice each time, until the little one finally nodded and backed away from the shelf.

Caramel just stood there, chuckling nervously. “Er…”

The prospect of continuing this encounter much further was outright terrifying. The ice in his stomach solidified and spread, making his limbs feel even heavier. “Er, um…” He coughed and managed, “Do you want the… the chocolate—”

“Oh, no, no.” The mare shook her head as she led her filly by the hoof over to the counter and pointed at a set of taffies inside the glass display case. “No, we need taffies. Sorry about that,” she muttered, a visibly strained smile on her muzzle.

“S-sorry?” For what?

The mare ran a forehoof through her filly’s mane. “Forgive us. She is… How you say… hy… hy… Er, hy—”

“Hyper?” he suggested.

“Yes. Hyper,” the mare explained, laughing slightly.

“Oh. Heh. That’s… that’s alright.” Caramel forced a laugh.

The mare tightened her grip on her filly’s hoof and brushed a strand of mane from her eyes. “Ah, heh, yes.”

Thankfully, before this exchange could dissolve into thick and further unease, the filly began to tap her forehoof on the glass, pointing at a row of taffies. “Those! Those! Those!”

Okay, let’s make this quick, Caramel thought, reaching below the counter and retrieving the tray of taffies. He leaned over the counter and held them down at the filly’s level. “Which one would you like?”

The filly tilted her head. “Huh?”

“Which one would you like?” Caramel repeated, a little louder this time.

“Huh?” The filly tilted her ear towards him, leaning closer.

As she did so, Caramel could see a distinct shade of gray clouding the iris of her smaller eye, rather than the hazel of its twin.

From the corner of his eye, Caramel saw a light tinge of pink spread across the mare’s cheeks. She nudged her daughter and spoke to her loudly in the same strange language, which prompted the foal to point fervently at a row of strawberry taffies.

“Strawberry? You want the strawberry ones?” Caramel asked as loudly as he could, trying not to startle her.

The filly nodded and clapped her hooves together. “Yeah! Yeah!”

The small hint of a true smile curled at his muzzle as he pulled the display back up and met the mother mare’s eyes. “How many?”

“Just few.” She pulled her foal close to her with a forehoof. “Too much sugar.”

“We have some low-sugar ones,” Caramel offered.

The mare’s eyes brightened. “For true?”

“Wh—oh, yes,” Caramel said quickly, catching himself. “Be right back. I’ll get some of those.”

While the two waited, Caramel went into the stockroom and retrieved a half-dozen low-sugar strawberry taffies. Since most Ponyville residents worked on farms or otherwise with their hooves, calorie and sugar counts weren’t a concern to most. Nevertheless, Bon-Bon made a few special batches for those who were watching their weight or couldn’t handle sugar.

Caramel had long thought that Bon-Bon should’ve marketed these modified treats to a certain Cake family for a certain tenant of theirs, but he was too polite to voice this opinion.

He returned to the counter with the box of special taffies, which he presented to his patiently waiting customers. The filly gasped and began bouncing with joy, while the mother smiled widely. He observed that she finally appeared at ease, and found himself smiling as well.

After ringing them up and placing the taffies in the mare’s saddlebags as requested, Caramel waved goodbye to the foreign mare and her daughter. They both waved and smiled back at him as they left, the gentle bell bidding them adieu.

The shop was empty again.

Caramel stood in the middle of it, looking at the chocolate shelves in slight disarray, the display of taffies mildly offset, the clock slowly, slowly, slowly winding down his workday.

He brought his forehoof up to his mane. While matted, it was no longer wet.

The rest of the workday was a blur. Customers came and went, hustling and bustling, another rush in between the lulls of boredom and shelf-stocking. Bon-Bon returned from the backroom at some point, a mountain of inventory forms and payroll sheets behind her. Lyra stopped by an hour before the shop closed, hashing gossip that she had picked up in between songs on her lyre in town square.

Lyra was always polite to Caramel, but he drowned her out for the most part, too much sunshine against his rain. She possessed a mastery of physics, he reasoned, that allowed her to always walk where the rain wasn’t, to make "mind over matter" a truth rather than a cliche.

After Caramel was dismissed, his workday finally over, he went to the back breakroom and ate his orange before leaving, or tried to. He had neglected it during lunch, for he had no appetite then.

He had no appetite now, either, but Bon-Bon had given him the look when he declined accompanying her and Lyra to an after-work dinner at the Hayside Cafe.

This time, when Bon-Bon gave him the look, he felt guilt instead of anger, and mentally noted how visible his ribs were becoming.

So, Caramel sat in the breakroom again, and picked at the orange once more.

The fruit felt wet and cold, as if had been soaked in the rain. While he had gone outside during an earlier break for fresh air, he had not brought his saddlebags with him. He pondered this and tried to shrug it off the best he could.

When he peeled the orange and brought it to his lips, he found it bitter. Caramel threw it away.

He began to space out, thinking and wondering about something other than the rain.

For far too long, all he’d thought was rain: every coherent thought, every daydream, every tired rambling of his mind, every insomniac fear, every waking recollection was clouded by an undercurrent of stormclouds, of overcast, of torrent and tempest and downpour.

Even if his thoughts were drier than the Badlands and more fiery than Celestia’s sun, they were all dotted, dampened, and drenched with the rain, the rain that wouldn’t let him be, the rain that screamed all night and wouldn’t let him sleep.

And, yet, in spite of everything, part of him wanted the rain, needed the rain.

A part of him needed the chill in his bones, the ice in his stomach. A part of him needed the clouds darkening above him, the gathering that blotted out the sun.

A part of him needed the rain—needed not only to be caught in it, but to live in it, even if he was offered sunny skies all day long.

He was nothing without the rain.

The rumbling of his stomach interrupted his thoughts, tore them away from the rain. He thought of Big Macintosh, of Apple Family pie.

He glanced around the break room and spotted a poster for an upcoming play. He thought of Bon-Bon’s offer, of The Phantom of the Opera, of a weekend spent doing something other than hiding from the rain.

He thought of those things, but knew what he needed, what he craved.

He looked at the clock, then at the horizon. The sun would be setting soon.

Caramel slung his saddlebags over his back and left out the back door.

The rain streaked through his mane, rolled over his muzzle, blurred his vision, and dripped down his chin, but Caramel pressed on. The passing ponies around him became as blurred as his workday, as insignificant as the events between hours eight and five.

He pressed on, though not too fast. He could not escape the rain. He was foalish to think so, to hurry, to run from what would forever haunt him.

Those few moments that he had contemplated going out instead of hiding in had been nonsense. Dangerous, cancerous nonsense.

If he wasn’t careful, those thoughts would spread through him, through his rain-soaked limbs and rain-drenched fur, and extend to others, to innocent others.

And there was nothing more than he wanted than to not hurt anypony else, any more than he had hurt himself.

The stormclouds rolled above him, the distant thunder drawing closer. Nevertheless, it was only Caramel who was vulnerable.

Foals played in the street; vendors continued to sell their wares, squeezing out more bits before they closed up shop; couples walked hoof-in-hoof through the streets, of all genders and races but always happy; and distinguished ponies, mighty in bit and blood, strutted towards a night on the town, their coiffed manes and pressed suits a testament to their enduring pride.

Nopony else needed the rain.

By the time his home came into his field of vision, Caramel was thoroughly soaked, fur, flesh, and sinew. He was more rain than stallion.

Saddlebags bearing the weight of a thousand millstones, rumbling stomach reduced to an empty, needless growl, Caramel trudged forward those last few steps, bowing his head low.

A mantra circled in his head, overtaking him, like it always did when he so dared to contemplate becoming like Big Mac or Bon-Bon or Lyra or anypony else:

Stay inside, it’s raining…

It’s too cold to go outside…

You don’t want to go and catch a cold…

And get more sick than you already are…

Caramel closed his eyes, squeezed them shut, wished it all away.

When he opened them, he was standing in front of his humble abode.

There was a note taped to the door.

Caramel stepped away and blinked. Closed his eyes again.

When he opened them once more, the note was still there.

Caramel cautiously approached the door, grabbed the note, and, through blurring vision, began to read:

”Caramel—

Please forgive the letter. I asked Bon-Bon’s wife where you are so I could give to you this.

Thank you for helping me and my daughter. We are new. Where we are from, not many ponies are nice to us.

You seem like nice stallion, but so sad. Deep down, sad. I hope you are happy soon.

You made my daughter very happy today. I hope that makes you happy.

Sorry for bad Equestrian. We speak a different language from where I from.

It is a beautiful day today. I hope you enjoy it.”

Caramel read the note twice, then a third time. Then another. Then another.

All around him, the rain began to slow, falling in decrescendo from a steady downpour to a light drizzle.

Then, it fell to nothing but the occasional drop, if only for a moment.

Physics suspended around him, as they did for everypony else, if only for a moment.

The ice in his stomach began to loosen, slowly melting. A new strength flowed through his limbs at the slight warmth he felt, now that the rain was letting him be, if only for a moment.

Caramel fished for his keys in his saddlebag.

Clutching the note tightly in his opposite forehoof, he opened the door, then dropped his saddlebags in the living room.

Caramel rushed into the bathroom and stood at the sink, bracing himself with his forehooves on the chrome. As he stood on his hindhooves, he took slow, heaving breaths, letting the rain fall, fall from his fur, from his mane, from his eyes, from his lips.

He read the same lines on the note again.

You seem like nice stallion, but so sad.

You seem like nice stallion…

… But so sad.

Deep down, sad.

Trembling. Quaking. Shivering.

A leaf in the wind.

The only stallion in the rain.

The only one not walking where the rain was.

Where the rain was...

It’s a beautiful day today.

I hope you enjoy it.

Caramel looked up at his reflection and stared straight into himself.

An hour later, Caramel emerged from his home and locked the door behind him.

The piles of trash littering his floors had been separated into garbage and recycling, both properly disposed of. Laundry was drying on the clothesline in his laundry room. All of the dirty dishes had been scrubbed clean, toweled dry, and placed back where they belonged.

Caramel had made a grocery list, taken a shower, and straightened his mane in time. Night had not yet fallen.

He started towards Sweet Apple Acres, making a mental note to stop by Bon-Bon and Lyra’s tomorrow and ask about the play.

From the first step he took, he felt the rain, like he always did.

Although… this time, he, too, felt the sun.

It’s alright, Caramel thought as he took another bold step—a small step, but a step nonetheless—towards his destination.

It’ll be alright.

Caramel watched the sun begin to set as he walked in silence, in between drops of rain.

Shades of red, yellow, and orange brought the sky afire, bringing with it another cold summer’s night. The untouched grass swayed in the light breeze as Celestia gave way to Luna, another day ending.

It’s alright, he thought as he pressed on. It’s alright that it’s raining. It’s raining, but the sun’s still shining.

I can walk where the rain isn’t. I can and I will.

And it’ll be alright.

Caramel stopped for a moment and stared off into the horizon.

It’s beautiful today.

He stood in silence, watching.

I hope you enjoy it.

He watched and remembered a time before the rain.

And, for the first time in a long time, he wanted to be like the others. To walk where the rain wasn’t.

He wanted it, needed it, just as desperately as he needed the rain.

You seem like a nice stallion…

But so sad.