Playing Second Fiddle

by Desavlos

Scoring for Three

The ink didn't smudge; it wouldn't dare, not today. Symphony's quill pen flew across paper; a dot, a stave, an incidental sharp, all perfect and measured and precise. The glitter and shine of diamonds, written in ink and genius.

Three sheaves of paper lay side by side on Symphony's desk and dozens of screwed up attempts littered the floor around her. Not that she noticed of course; it was Fiddly's flat. The sound of chuckling drifted through from the other room; it was friendly, but nervous. They hadn't practised the piece at all and they'd be standing in the Canter Club tomorrow; Symphony's pen brought the final lines to a close and the melody played in her head as she wrote in the last notes with a flourish.

A sprinkling of fine sand sealed the music into place. It was complete. Paper held delicately in her mouth, Symphony pushed open the study door and squeezed into the living room.

The weather had cleared; bright sunlight streamed through the window and two pairs of eyes looked up at her from the coffee table. Expectant. Eager.

Symphony tossed each mare a sheaf of music with a grin. "Finally done."

"Really?" Fiddlesticks smirked. cynically. "You said that last time. And the time before that. An-"

"Yes, ok, I get it. No changes this time, I promise."

Fiddlesticks' blue mane brushed down over her music as she inspected it and her hooves began to move as she silently picked out the notes on an invisible violin. The other mare was just reading; she was engrossed in the music, or seemed to be, and Symphony was content to wait for a response. It came in a hum; faint, and pitch perfect, and beautiful. It ran over the notes and faded away and, smiling, the mare looked up.

Two Days Ago

A crumpling of paper and a frustrated groan accompanied Symphony's abandonment of her latest composition; it'd been the third such attempt of the day. The scattered paper around the desk in Fiddly's spare room had been building up to knee height and now every few hours Fiddlesticks would wander in, grab a hoof-full of the paper, leave a cup of scalding black caffeinated tar-like ooze on the desk, and tip-hoof out so as not to wake the exhausted composer from her involuntary, but necessary, sleep.

Symphony swallowed a mouthful of the so-called coffee and shook her head, vigorously. She was writing on borrowed time now; she'd borrowed it from her future self and, sooner rather than later, that vengeful and sleep deprived mare was going to want some repayment.

It wasn't working. She didn't know why, but it just couldn't be done; every twinkle, every sparkle, every diamond on the velvet sheet in her mind was missing something infinitely necessary. Symphony slid down from her desk chair with a groan and stretched out her limbs to the click of loosening joints. Beams of light from the room's one dusty window had faded to almost nothing; Symphony knew that her compositional block wouldn't matter if she couldn't see well enough to write in any case. Temporarily defeated, she nudged open the study's door and sagged into the living room.

At the creak of the door, Fiddly looked up from her book. "It's about time you took a break, you've been in there all day."

Symphony just grunted.

"No progress?" She sounded sympathetic. Symphony dragged her body over to where her sister sat on the couch and collapsed on top of her with a sigh. Fiddlesticks jumped, surprised, then relaxed and rubbed at her sister's shoulders; it hadn't been an easy day for her either, but at least she'd had the chance to rest. Symphony melted, exhaustedly, and Fiddlestick lay her paperwork down on the scratched and dirty coffee table. Yes: it'd been a long day.

She rested her forehooves on her recumbent sister, her head on the couch, and closed her eyes.

---<<<>>>---

This morning was many things; anypony in the street, especially one without an umbrella, would've been able to tell you that it was cold and wet, and the smell of true rain falling on dusty tiles did indeed fill her nose when Fiddlesticks stepped out into the open air. As well as being wet, this morning was also sore, and unusually so; Fiddlesticks put it down to a night spent sleeping in an entangled heap on her couch.

The mare brightened up as the rain began to soak her hair; it'd been weeks since the last proper downpour and the apartment was always stuffy: she'd missed the freshness. Other ponies huddled themselves away under hoods or in cloaks or jackets, and as she trotted towards the city centre passers-by glanced in confusion at the yellow mare's bare fur, soaked mane, oblivious gaze and dopey grin. Their judgements ran off her as easily as the rain.

It was a good day.

---<<<>>>---

There was a second apartment, and it was entirely different from Fiddlesticks'; even after a brutal sorting, tidying, cleaning and possible exorcism Fiddlesticks' flat wouldn't reach the heights of cleanliness and perfection on display, or, more accurately, hidden behind locked doors, here. Deep red couches and curtains, the colour of old wine, were a sign of the coordinated mind of the tenant, and the warm cream carpet, thick and luxurious, was a sign of the depth of her purse. As was the location; a single spotless glass window replaced one wall, and from the crown of the highest hill in Canterlot it looked out over the city below with a view that would've satisfied even the most megalomaniacal of cat-wielding villains.

And the tenant was a "her"; there was no doubt. Whispers of perfume drifted throughout the apartment, alone they weren't unpleseant, but they collided in the bedroom and filled it like a pig in a milk bottle - which would've had about the same effect on the sinuses.

Perhaps she was used to the perfumes, or perhaps her nose had shut down, but Octavia couldn't care less. The ruffled mare lay on her ruffled bed; the only two untidy things in the flat. The blinds were drawn and the lights were off, and in the darkness Octavia sighed.

It'd been her fault.

She hadn't seen the newspapers; she'd barely left the apartment. The shock had hit her a few hours after the groups final practise.

Symphony was gone, and it was her fault. Why else would she have left?

Octavia remembered bitterly every suitor's rose, every patron's cheque, every audience's applause: she had taken everything, and they had lived off the dregs. She felt like a parasite. No, worse, she felt like an aristocrat. Cringing, she rolled over in an effort to block out the memories: the shrill voice, icy as winter and stern as steel; the poisonous gaze, pricking and stinging; the hours, alone and cold and frightened, reading, absorbing, hiding in the books.

Her eyes snapped open. No. Never again. She'd left to get away; she wouldn't bring her past with her.

She wouldn't be her mother.

She would make things right.

Rolling determinedly off the bed, Octavia shook out her hair and inspected herself in the mirror. Hair: tangled, bow-tie: missing, coat: frizzy, problems: none. Grinning, the cellist scooped up her keys, stored them in her mane, and trotted briskly from the apartment. Ten seconds later, she trotted back to grab a cloak; making a point was one thing, torrential rain was quite another.

---<<<>>>---

Symphony awoke to the distant sound of carriages and the rather more local scent of unwashed couch. It wasn't an unpleasant smell as smells go, but it was sticky and hard to ignore, like a foal with a toffee apple. She sat up, laboriously, and rubbed at her eyes. Her neck hurt - she must've slept on it, insofar as that was possible - and the grey sky beyond the shabby curtains did nothing to improve her mood.

"Fiddly?" Nopony replied.

Shrugging, then wincing, Symphony slid herself to standing and stretched her legs. Fiddlesticks was right; she needed a break. Buck the music; it could write itself today. Of course it wouldn't, but that was a problem for Future Symphony and after all the hangovers, caffeine crashes and exhausted faintings Future Symphony had inflicted on her over the years, she felt that she was owed some payback.

Sleep deprivation and tar-thick coffee do not a logical mind make.

Trotting cheerfully, if shakily, into the kitchenette, Symphony began to cook breakfast.

Something proper today, she thought. It's not like I'm in a rush.

---<<<>>>---

Octavia was in a rush. The wind and the rain were soaking through her clothes because no matter how waterproof a cloak is it can't protect you from rain that seems, against all reason, to be falling so sharply sideways that it was moving upwards. The torrent hadn't eased since she'd left the apartment and she'd quickly realised that in her haste she'd left behind any money for a cab and indeed anything but the vaguest idea about where Symphony actually lived.

She'd found the house after twenty minutes. It'd been empty.

Cold, miserable, and mad at herself and at her mother and increasingly at the weather (and with her present pennilessness temporarily forgotten), Octavia ducked into a coffee shop for some shelter.

The sign above the door had said, "The Bean Counter", when Octavia had read it outside, and presumably it still did so once she stepped into the warmth of the entranceway and took off her cloak. The calm and welcoming aroma of coffee was obvious in the air and, having missed her morning dose, Octavia inhaled deeply.

And beside the window, warm coffee in hoof, Fiddlesticks smirked to herself; Octavia worked fast, she mused: she hadn't expected her for another ten minutes. In Fiddly's game of social Tetris, she'd finally found that long thin bit that she'd been waiting for all week. Standing, she approached the bedraggled cellist.

Two minutes later, they were gone.

---<<<>>>---

Symphony knew that she didn't like bananas. It didn't matter that there wasn't any other fruit and it didn't matter than she hadn't eaten one in years; she knew, in her heart of hearts, and no contrary evidence would change that.

Or at least she'd never admit it.

She wolfed down her second in as many minutes and gazed at the cheap, fuzzy TV set. The grainy images were getting on her nerves and before too long she had gestured the box off with the remote.

There must be something in this apartment worth doing.

The violin was out of the question: she had nothing in particular to play and, besides, she was meant to be relaxing.

Fiddlesticks' radio was, apparently, broken, but the thought triggered memories of some otherwise forgotten conversation.

"Yea, just careful ah the record player." Fiddlesticks had said, accent and all. New last week.

Intrigued, Symphony rolled off the couch and peered about the apartment. She couldn't recall seeing a record player lying about, but it sounded like her sister wouldn't just leave it in the detritus. She began pulling open cupboards; it didn't take long to find.

It was sleek, it was polished, it was expensive and whatever Fiddly said it was most definitely not new. Oh it might've been newly bought, but this thing was ancient, antique even. Using it might even have been some sort of artistic vandalism, but there were the disks, stacked beside it, neat and tidy and dusted.

Symphony wondered where she kept the duster.

Slowly, and with extreme care, Symphony lifted the gilt and mahogany box from the cupboard and took the top record from the pile. Neighthoven. Her eyes widened.

Surprised, but pleased, she put the disk on the player and dropped the needle. The music began to wash over her. It'd been too long.

Five minutes later, she moved the player and it's record to the cramped and stuffy study room. By ten minutes, she'd found a quill, and ink, and paper. Ideas sleeted through her head like the rain; all she needed was a cello, and a cellist.

Day off be damned.

---<<<>>>---

The ink didn't smudge; it wouldn't dare, not today. Symphony's quill pen flew across paper; a dot, a stave, an incidental sharp, all perfect and measured and precise. The glitter and shine of diamonds, written in ink and genius.

Three sheaves of paper lay side by side on Symphony's desk and dozens of screwed up attempts littered the floor around her. Not that she noticed of course; it was Fiddly's flat. The sound of chuckling drifted through from the other room; it was friendly, but nervous. They hadn't practised the piece at all and they'd be standing in the Canter Club tomorrow; Symphony's pen brought the final lines to a close and the melody played in her head as she wrote in the last notes with a flourish.

A sprinkling of fine sand sealed the music into place. It was complete. Paper held delicately in her mouth, Symphony pushed open the study door and squeezed into the living room.

The weather had cleared; bright sunlight streamed through the window and two pairs of eyes looked up at her from the coffee table. Expectant. Eager.

Symphony tossed each mare a sheaf of music with a grin. "Finally done."

"Really?" Fiddlesticks smirked. cynically. "You said that last time. And the time before that. An-"

"Yes, ok, I get it. No changes this time, I promise."

Fiddlesticks' blue mane brushed down over her music as she inspected it and her hooves began to move as she silently picked out the notes on an invisible violin. Octavia was just reading; she was engrossed in the music, or seemed to be, and Symphony was content to wait for a response. It came in a hum; faint, and pitch perfect, and beautiful. It ran over the notes and faded away and, smiling, she looked up.

"Any good then?" Symphony asked.

Fiddlesticks had raised her eyes, expectantly. The room seemed to hold its breath.

"Yes." Octavia nodded, slowly. "I rather think it is."

---<<<>>>---

And the strings sang, as if it mattered.

Not one of the trio's ears heard the music, or the silence, or the cheers. They might have noticed their absence, of course, but they were busy watching instead. Watching the roses fall.

They fell on the stage, brushed away by three pairs of hooves.

All three. All brushing.

Symphony remembered the music hall; the first night of this madness. Everypony there had known her name. Everypony here knew her music.

Locking forehooves, they bowed.

Music written with love, and heard with love. What could be purer than that?

Comments

[Sketchbeam]

Your descriptions of the scenery and situations the characters find themselves in provide the story with a fanciful, but substantive tone that I enjoyed reading. It made me feel satisfied inside, since there is nothing purer than contentment.

[agentporpoise]

This was a truly perfect story, nothing short of masterfull