Sensation (SFW Version)

by Vivid Syntax

Chapter 11 - Help

I blinked a few times and squinted at the sliver of light that snuck in through the window. The sun was up, but just barely, and I was in the same position as when I’d fallen asleep. I don't think I moved a muscle the whole night. My whole body had that awesome heaviness that you feel first thing when you wake up. Even though everything's stiff, you're too comfortable to register any pain. I felt more rested than I had in weeks.

Without stirring, I took in the first breath of the morning, nice and deep and slow. A tiny bit of Braeburn's scent lingered on the pillow, but it was mixed with my own. It was... nice. I wanted to wake up to that smell every morning. I nuzzled the pillow and thought, 'Hell, why not every morning?' A dreamy haze clouded my thoughts, but pretty soon I found myself tumbling back to reality. 'Well, for one, you barely know him, and for two, he'd probably freak out if you tried to get him in bed again.'

I flopped onto my back and stared at the ceiling. The paint was chipping off.

I kept thinking about getting with Braeburn again, how he'd act all coy at first and I'd knock him off his hooves with my charm. Then he'd say something about how he couldn't possibly open himself up again, but I'd smile a little and whine in a playful, raspy voice. "But I waaaaaant you." And then he wouldn't be able to resist anymore. I pictured myself putting the moves on him, running my tongue over his chest and making him squeal, and then things would get really heavy.

It was pretty hot, and, well, yeah, I know what you're thinking, but I didn't. I swear. Would have been too weird in his aunt's bed. Plus, just my luck, McIntosh would have probably walked in on me right as I was finishing.

In the end, I took another slow breath and decided that I completely sucked at the whole planning thing – I still do – and that I'd figure it out when I got to him. 'If I can just apologize, then... who knows? Probably don't have a chance with him, but... worth a shot, right?' I shook the circular thoughts out of my head when I realized how quiet the room was. I didn't want to start another day off on the wrong hoof.

With a little effort, I rolled out of bed and stretched everything out. There was a lot of grunting and lip smacking and yawning, and I thought, 'Well, if I get cut from the 'Bolts, at least I can sleep in every day.' I love being lazy.

I walked out into the hallway and fluttered down the staircase to loosen up my wings. When I got to the bottom, I was welcomed by the smell of apples and batter and a flopping sound followed by a sizzle. I knew better than to startle McIntosh, so I cleared my throat and announced myself as I trotted around the corner and into the kitchen. "Goooooood morning, Mister Apple!" I didn’t know where the well of bounciness had come from, but I had a decent idea.

With the spatula held deftly in his mouth, McIntosh flipped a finished pancake onto a plate that was already piled high. He added some butter to the hot skillet and poured in more batter. The loud sizzling came back. It was comforting, especially once I looked around the kitchen and saw all the flour, sugar, and whatever else goes into pancakes on the counter – these things were made from scratch. I'd never had homemade cakes before, and I wondered if they'd be better than a restaurant's.

McIntosh set the spatula down on a spoon rest. "Mornin'." He seemed wide awake – or at least no more lethargic than last night – like he'd been up and about for hours already. "Coffee?" He jerked his head toward a fresh pot.

"Don't mind if I do." I made my way to the counter and poured myself a mug while a moist, post-storm breeze blew in through the open window. It hit me how bizarre it all was, that I was waking up to breakfast from a stranger – you know, one that I hadn't slept with – and being totally relaxed about it. I chalked it up to McIntosh's good vibes. "Sleep okay?"

"Eeyup."

I sighed a little. I was gonna be a long morning. "Can I... help at all?"

He picked up the spatula in his teeth and flipped the pancake. He spoke with his mouth full. "Can ya' cook?"

My turn. I turned my head up, spread my wings, and gave him my best, "Nnnnnope!" He didn't laugh. Braeburn would have laughed.

"Ya' can set the table." I did what I was told, piling a few scattered papers on one edge of the table before putting out some plates and silverware. Honestly, I was thankful it gave me something to do besides stand there staring at him, especially since I wasn't at all hot for him. He had a great physique, sure, but something about the lingering fear of dismemberment is kind of a turn-off.

After a few minutes, breakfast was served. McIntosh plopped a few pancakes onto my plate and topped them off with some syrup. He didn't use enough, but I'm guessing he didn't want me to hog everything in the tiny bottle. Good call on his part, and the cakes were tasty enough with what I had. Not Braeburn's-pie-tasty, but at least as good as most restaurants I've been to.

We ate in silence. I didn't want to be the first to speak up, since I still had no idea what McIntosh thought of me, and my shoulders relaxed when he finally said, "Ya' seem pretty set on talkin' to Brae again."

I let the fork clatter onto my plate. My head felt heavy, and my gaze dropped downward until I ran my tongue along the inside of my lip. I snapped back up and looked him in the eye. "Yes, sir."

McIntosh leaned back in his chair and scrutinized me. "Why." He stated it more than he asked it. Now that I think back, he probably wanted to make sure I hadn't been putting on a show for him the previous night.

"Well, I–" I stopped before I could spill the beans on the whole dresses-and-closet conversation. If Braeburn was having that much trouble with who he was, he probably hadn't come out to any of his family members. 'Gotta be delicate. Be diplomatic,' I thought. '...so I'm pretty much doomed.'

I took a long sip of coffee to stall for time before I continued. "It's like I said. He's a great guy, and I really liked talking to him. I don't get a lot of chances to just sit and hang without some fangirl or something trying to abduct me." A thought struck me. "Did Breaburn tell you what I do for a living?"

"Eeyup."

"Yeah, it's..." I didn't want to go into Wonderbolts politics, so I skipped over that part. I didn't notice how quickly I was talking. "It's great most of the time, but it gets tiring, you know? Ponies bothering you all the time when you just want to be left alone or be with somepony you connect with."

McIntosh nodded. Everything about him radiated calm gravitas.

I, on the other hoof, kept talking faster and faster and started repeating myself. "Aaaaand, Braeburn was great to be with. Talk to. He was great to talk to." I nodded and grimaced. "He's great."

McIntosh was stoic. He barely moved as he casually asked, "That all?"

"Um..." I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to get caught lying, but what the hell was I supposed to say? 'Oh, one more thing. You know that couch you slept on last night? I was groping your cousin on it.'

He sighed, closed his eyes, and shook his head. After a beat, he looked back up at me with his lower lip sticking out and one eyebrow raised. His head rolled back and forth, and I suddenly felt a lot of empathy for the rest of the 'Bolts during Spitfire's one-mare firing squad routine. I sweat a little. He spoke up again, "But that ain't all."

My insides were all twisty. I took a deep breath, checked to make sure there was at least one open window I could escape out of, and let it out. "And... I was into him." As much as I tried to keep my eyes on McIntosh, I had to look away. "Like... hard-core jonesing for him." I didn't want to out Braeburn, so I framed my story the best I could. "I pushed too hard, and he... resisted." My voice was low. I had to fight myself to keep it above a mumble. "...and I didn't respect his boundaries, and I have to apologize, at least for that."

My skull was still intact, so I dared to look back up. McIntosh just stared with a blank expression. I watched his chest puff up with another deep breath, followed by a simple, "Well, alright then." He reached over to the pile of papers I'd stacked up before breakfast. After some digging, he pulled out something that was folded in thirds and slid it over to me. I just stared at it until he said flatly, "Go on."

I wiped some syrup off my hooves and unfolded the paper. It was a letter.

Cousin Mac,

Hope you're well. Sorry to be so short, but I think I need your help. No cause to fret, now, I'm not in any danger, but I could really use a friendly ear.

I could hear his voice in my head. His hoofwriting was messy, and I thought it was endearing. I... tend to miss subtle hints.

You might remember, Auntie Honeycrisp has her yearly visit to the bottling company going on right now, and she always needs somepony she can trust to mind the day laborers and keep order around here. After the last few months back home, I was more than happy to offer a hoof to help her out. I just needed to get out of town, get away from all the old rigmarole and stop thinking about B-Bronze.

I blinked a few times and looked again. 'Bronze?'

Seemed like a good idea at the time, but I guess I'm not as dependable as I thought. Here I am, less than a day on the farm, and, well, no point in beating around the bush. It's colt trouble again.

I took a sharp breath and snapped my head back. My jaw hung open. I shot a look at McIntosh, who drank his coffee with a glazed-over look in eyes. He put his cup down and sucked at his teeth.

'Colt trouble? AGAIN?' I shook my head and waved a hoof. "Wait wait wait. Hold on. You... " I leaned in and turned my head toward him. "...know about Braeburn?"

His expression didn't change. It was like I'd asked him about the weather. "First one he told."

I couldn't believe it. I read that last line over and over again, thinking, 'But he seemed like such a closet case! Why didn't he say any–' I remembered. I hadn't given him a chance to say anything before I'd stormed out, and that is what he'd tried to tell me.

"Oh, fuck me!" I slapped a hoof to my face and covered my eyes.

"Language."

"Yes, sir," I moaned before reading more.

I know you probably think I'm naïve and foolish and too lovedrunk for my own good, but I hope you can forgive me and you'll be here soon, right? I just It's so hard to get beat up again over something like this.

His words were getting sloppier. I saw a couple wrinkled spots on the bottom of the page. Tear stains.

You know I wouldn't ask if I didn't really need and it's such a burden to put on you but just maybe for an afternoon, maybe? I'll pay your fare. I'm at Auntie Honeycrsp's farm. I'm sorry. I probably shouldn't even have even asked. I'm sorry.

Dont wory about coming out here. It's helps to put it all on paper, and we'll catch some other time. I'll be fine. Give the family my best.

-Braeburn

I read the whole letter again.

I started to say something, but then I read it a third time. "Shi... shoot."

"Yer food's gettin' cold."

I set the letter down and picked up my fork. My heart throbbed slowly. I went through the letter over and over in my head, and if I hadn't been so starving and distracted by my thoughts, I wouldn't have eaten any more of the pancakes.

We finished up, and McIntosh gave himself a minute to digest before walking to the sink and turning on the faucet. The sound of water rushing from the spout brought me back out of my head, and I saw McIntosh cast a glance at the dirty dishes. I took the hint and helped move plates and silverware to the sink, where McIntosh started washing.

Slinging a nearby towel over my back, I waited for him to pass something my way. Birds sang outside, and the breeze rustled the tops of the apple trees, and those were the only sounds besides the sloshing water right next to me. I'd forgotten how peaceful the country can be.

I zoned out until McIntosh spoke up. "Ah don't think ill of him." He kept his focus on scrubbing a plate. "Some do. Ah don't. Ah just try to be there for him."

A few dishes had piled up, so I started rinsing. I was still too stunned to say much, but something bothered me enough to speak up. "Why'd you show me that letter?"

"Brae told me the whole story. 'Bout you and him." I didn't know if he was answering my question. He didn't look up.

Not knowing where to put the dishes, I started piling the dry ones on the table. "I've been thinking about him a lot lately."

"Colt ain't had it easy." We weren't so much conversing as talking past each other.

"Who does, though?"

"Wonderbolts, I figure."

I picked up the next plate. I could see my reflection. The light-blue pony frowned back at me. "You'd be surprised."

We didn't say anything for a while after that. McIntosh washed everything except the cast-iron skillet. Instead of putting it in the sink, he rubbed a bunch of salt on the inside and just rinsed it off. It took me months to figure out why.

We finished our chore, and I'd collected my thoughts enough to speak up again. "You didn't answer me." McIntosh turned and stared. He seemed so quiet and calm and gentle, despite the broken floorboard from the last night that I could see out of the corner of my eye. I waited for him to say something, but he kept that blank look on his face. I tried again. "Why'd you show me that letter?"

McIntosh blinked a couple times. "Brae thinks it's his fault."

I rolled my eyes. "Ugh. It's not."

"Don't matter." His ears flicked. "He thinks it is."

I looked up at him. For somepony that seemed so simple and plain, he was the most impenetrable stallion I'd ever met. "I'm still going to apologize."

"For whose benefit?"

"I..." That question turned itself over in my mind a few times, and I slumped. "...have no idea."

I half-expected a reprimand, but instead I got a hoof solidly on my shoulder. He wanted me paying attention when he said, "Be gentle." He let those simple words hang in the air for a second, then set his hoof back down and walked past me towards the door. "Best of luck. Know where yer headin'?"

I turned to watch him leave. "Yeah. Gotta cash a check, then first train to Appleloosa."

He undid the deadbolt, gave me one last, "Eeyup," and disappeared outside, letting the squeaky door shut itself behind him. It didn't sound so scary that morning.

I leaned against the counter and looked out the window at the orchard. A soft breeze rolled in, and I could hear my breathing. It felt synchronized with the wind, but I could have been imagining it. It was even and calm, and something about the simple life of a farm pony appealed to me right then. The idea was relaxing. It was healing. It was something I thought I could settle into.

But not then. Before long, I felt something yellow and sexy and in need of a friendly ear pulling me toward the sky, and I nodded to myself. "Academy first, then Appleloosa." I hopped back from the counter, left the farmhouse, and flew towards my condo.

* * * * *

I look up from my notes, then around the white kitchen. The omnipresent cloud motif is already starting to get to me. "Back here? Why?"

Soarin' cocks an eyebrow and frowns. "Really?"

Did I miss something important? Will it look too desperate to flip through my notes? What was back here that was so necessary?

He blows air through his lips again, and his voice has an edge. "Dude, to and from the Academy." He taps a hoof on the table. "Freaking out in the parlor." Another tap. "City center and back." Tap. "Sex with Holli." Tap. "Flying to the farmhouse and getting the crap scared out of me." Tap. "Sleeping and washing the dishes." Tap.

I know. I was listening the whole time. I took notes on all of it. What's he–

"Dude! I really, really needed a shower. Badly."

Oh.

I manage to avoid looking at his leg as he points to my empty glass. "You done with that?"

Well, it's been completely drained, so, "Yes."

"Cool," he says flatly. There's an intense look of rage in his eyes, barely hidden. He's not looking directly at me anymore, and his back is aggressively arched as he delicately picks up the glasses. His left wing twitches.

Part of me wants to dismiss his mood, pretend like I haven't noticed anything, but I can't ignore my intuition. Something was off with his story. Reciting Braeburn's letter, he'd stuttered on one word.

Soarin' carries the glasses to the sink and starts washing them. He moves slowly this time, not like when he was pouring the drinks. I stand, grab a towel, and trot up to him, careful to give him a wide berth.

Soarin's eyebrows are furrowed. He's staring intently at the glass he's washing, and his head shakes just slightly as he finishes cleaning the glasses. He snorts, and his tail swishes back and forth. He glares out the window. Or is he looking at his reflection?

With an eye on Soarin', I start drying the glasses. My pulse has quickened. I'll need to speak slowly. "Soarin'..." He doesn't look my way, but his head lowers. He must know what I'm about to ask. No going back now. "Who's Bronze?"

Soarin' draws a sharp breath. His muscles tense, and he sneers. He growls a response through clenched teeth, ignoring my question. "So I flew back here and took a shower."