Sensation (SFW Version)

by Vivid Syntax

Chapter 37 - The Enemy Within

* * * * *

Soarin' is breathing harder, and his pace has slowed down considerably. He rotates his shoulder for the fourth time in as many minutes, and his braces squeak. "Dammit, I… think I need to sit down. Heh." He chuckles, but there's a hollowness to it, and he just barely glances at me. "There's a gazebo about a block away. Mind if we stop?"

It's not just his legs, is it? He wants to sit down for whatever comes next. "Certainly."

"Thanks." He hops into the air, but his wing flaps are labored, and he flies so quickly that I need to half-gallop to keep up with him. We meander through somepony's yard, and a tiny pang of guilt jabs me as I wonder if I'm trampling a perfectly-manicured cloud-lawn.

Beyond the houses, Soarin' swoops into a wooden gazebo, painted lavender and sitting at the top of a large, rolling hill that drops down into a valley. He sits on a bench inside, and I set down my saddlebags and join him. The sun is in our eyes, but in just a couple hours, we'll have a marvelous view of the sunset. Do they look the same this high up?

I look down at the hill while Soarin' catches his breath. For a large puff of cloud, it looks remarkably solid. "Does the topography stay the same up here?"

Soarin' nods. "Mostly. I mean, clouds are clouds, but it's somepony's job to keep everything where it is. It makes owning property a lot easier, ya' know? And it's nice to know some places won't ever change." He trails off at the end and gets dreamy-eyed.

I raise an eyebrow. "Like… this place, for instance?"

"Yeah." Soarin' smiles and turns to me with soft eyes, squinting in the sunlight. He's slightly sweaty. "This is where Dad took me stargazing. I come here whenever I need his advice." He sighs and looks out at the sun again.

This is a special place for him. And he's sharing it with me. I crack a smile and make myself more comfortable.

My mouth opens, but I see Soarin's ear twitch. He's peering at something far away, far beyond the present, and I understand. I won't interrupt him. I wait and feel the sun warm my face and the breeze cool my skin and the clean air fill my lungs, and all the while, Soarin' keeps listening to something I can't hear.

I allow my eyes to wander. The sky unfurls in front of us, and I can only see the horizon off in my periphery. The world seems so much bigger up here, so much more open, like everything is being exposed without fear of judgment.

And Soarin's been remarkably open, too, hasn't he? He's given me a lot more detail than I'd ever thought, and for that, I'm thankful. Maybe this really has been therapeutic for him. Maybe it's his way of getting it all off of his chest. I don't know whether he'll still accept the book deal, but if he does, it might be one more step in opening back up to the world. Maybe he's telling Equestria that he's finally ready to come back. He'll absolutely be welcomed. We've missed him.

I look at Soarin'. He sits with perfect posture, or at least as perfect as he can with those braces on. He doesn't move more than he needs to, and with his eyes unfocused like that, I get the sense that he's lost in thought. Though he did just say–

Soarin' laughs to himself and snaps me out of my reverie. He turns and says, "You get it, right? Why we're here?"

I nod and smile. "You were listening to Skywise." He smiles a little wider. A warm breeze kicks up for a moment, and I swear it feels like an invisible hoof on my shoulder. "What did he say?"

Soarin's smile quivers, and he sighs. "He says that I should tell you the next part, no matter how much I don't want to, and that you've probably already figured out what Streak told me."

* * * * *

I woke up the next morning with a splitting headache, and when I rolled out of bed, Braeburn groaned. He lifted his head, and even though he still looked half-drunk, he told me to go have fun with Streak. "And no feelin' guilty. I did this to myself." He rolled over in bed again and mumbled into his pillow, "I'll sleep it off eventually, and… I'm sorry about last night."

I was drawn to him. I wanted to get back into bed and spend all morning keeping him comfortable, but I compromised by rubbing his back. "Can… we talk about it?"

He sighed into his pillow. "Probably should. I wanna quit, and I'm…" Cautiously, he rolled his head and looked at me out of the corner of his eye. "I'm gonna need your help, Soarin'. I don't wanna be that pony." He groaned again and rolled back. "Yuck. Course, it's easy to say all that now, when I'm incapacitated like this. How 'bout I feel a little better before I make myself feel worse again? Streak's probably waitin', and you can scold me later."

I frowned. "I'm not angry, Braeburn."

"Then I'm a damn lucky pony. Heh heh–" He winced. "Ow. Later, though? Please?"

"Okay. Need anything? Alfalfa, maybe? I think I've got some bastionroot for your headache, but it's probably expired."

He lifted his head to look at me. "You're a blessin', Soarin'. I'll settle for a kiss and a big glass of water." I obliged, then told him I love him and went downstairs.

The smell of coffee slapped me awake. I followed it to the kitchen, where Streak was hunched over the kitchen table, eyes droopy and bloodshot. His mane was flattened against his head, but he smiled and flicked his chin at me as I walked in. He clutched a large mug, and his voice was raspy. "Morning, Soarin'."

"Morning." I yawned and poured myself some coffee. I used the mug with my face on it. I mean, they all have my face on them, but I like the "Signature Series" one the best. It makes my wings look fuller.

Hey, I'm not gonna buy store brand stuff when I can get the official merch for free, alright?

The faint scent of sweaty Wonderbolt hid just below the coffee. I opened the window, then sat down across from him and said, "So, Captain, you look like Tartarus. Didn't sleep?"

"Lot on my mind," Streak said, swishing the black liquid in his mug. He quietly groaned and rolled his tongue around in his mouth, then stifled a yawn. "Is Braeburn okay?"

I took a drink of my coffee. It burned my tongue, but I gulped down a mouthful anyway. "Yeah, he'll be okay. He feels good enough to kick us out, anyway." I winked at him. "Guess we party too hard."

Streak's eyes brightened up a bit. "Heh. And I thought he was the rowdy one."

I narrowed my eyes at him and smirked. "Did you forget who you're talking to?"

"Sure," he said, raising his mug to his face. Over the rim, he muttered, "The old captain."

I snickered and readjusted my wings. "Screw you, bro."

Streak swallowed his coffee. "No thanks." He looked out the window, and a small, dopey smile spread across his face. He was glowing. With a drawn-out breath, he looked for a second like he'd actually gotten a good night's sleep. "I've got that covered."

My eyes widened, and I grinned as my mug knocked against the table. "No way! You finally gonna score?"

He smirked. "I may have a date tonight, yeah."

"Nice! Let me know how she is." I stuck my lower lip out and looked up and to the side. "I've always wondered if–"

"Hell no," he said firmly as he set his mug down. "I'd rather not get murdered, thanks."

We shot the breeze about the party, about who was making out with who, and who was going to host the next one. I razzed Streak a little more about him and Spitfire, and he came right back about how it's important for captains to work closely together. When I asked if that meant I was invited over for a threesome, he coughed and choked on the last of his coffee. "Touché." He set his empty mug down and wiped his mouth. "Ready to go?"

We stood up, and after he'd grabbed his saddlebag, we walked out into the balmy morning. The sunlight brought my headache roaring back, but once we were flying and our blood was pumping, our bodies processed the residual hangover.

Streak didn't say much, though. I egged him on a little more about being captain, but he just responded with shrugs or the occasional chuckle. Eventually, I just gave up and focused on taking deep breaths of the morning air, and I thought to myself, 'Keep it cool. He'll be his usual self once he gets… whatever this is off his chest.' I considered a bunch of different possibilities, from trouble with the team to needing advice on choreography, but with how cold he'd been at practice that week, none of that seemed likely. Whatever was on his mind, it was heavy enough that I could feel it, too.

We landed at a restaurant called The Pampered Egg. It's this diner just off the Estates that pretends to be big and fancy by hanging up expensive velvet curtains and keeping the place super dark. They have needlessly fruity art on the walls and serve stuff like "Mimosas kissed with a lively gust of raspberry." You know, shit like that. I mean, it's not awful, but it's no Bad Sun Rising. There were a few customers there for breakfast, but we'd made it before the big rush.

Streak had reserved a private party room in the back that could serve about a dozen ponies. The staff had pushed the extra tables to the side, and a table for two sat in the center of the room. It was the only one with its candle lit.

I whistled as I looked around and raised an eyebrow. "So… you are trying to get me in bed, aren't you?"

Without looking at me, he stiffly said, "I wanted some privacy."

We sat down at the table, and a reasonably hot stallion in a tight black dress shirt took our drink orders. We got the freaking raspberry-kissed mimosas, because why not, right? The waiter left, and I smirked at Streak. "So, you gonna spill it?"

First Streak startled, then folded the menu he'd been fiddling with. "Can we talk first? I want to make sure we have time to catch up." His voice had that low, urgent quality that always meant he was upset.

I trusted Streak. I still do. With my life. He needed me to just play it cool for a while, and with everything he'd done for me that week, how could I refuse? "'Kay," I said with a shrug. I glanced at the menu, but… nothing… jumped out at me. I quickly closed it. "Meh. I'll just have whatever the waiter recommends. Uh… you okay?"

Streak was frowning deeply. He took a drink of his water to try to hide it, then set his glass down and waved a hoof at me. "Don't worry about me." He forced a smiled and leaned forward, and his voice became bouncier. "And don't keep me in the dark, bro. I'm paying good bits for this breakfast, and I want to hear the whole story."

I grinned evilly. "Even the parts where I fucked Braeburn's brains out?"

His ears flattened. "Most of the story."

I talked a lot, but I was only able to give him the short version. I told him about skipping practice and crashing into the tree in Braeburn's orchard, which made him cringe a lot more than I thought it would. I told him what it was like getting cut and how I looked for Braeburn at Honeycrisp's farm. I gave him plenty of details about the train ride and Appleloosa, and he got a laugh out of all the shit that went down in Las Pegasus. I told him about the trip back to Cloudsdale, and when I got to the date with Braeburn at Honeycrisp's, the room felt warmer. He was smiling at me – he felt it, too, and I know he was thinking about Spitfire from that goofy smile on his face. Streak asked tons of questions, and we talked all the way through breakfast (omelets, at the waiter's recommendation).

In a lot of ways, it felt like closure. I was coming back and laying everything on the table, and for an hour or so, we didn't worry about the media or the 'Bolts. We got to be friends again. Bros. Streak gets me, maybe more than anypony else on the planet, and it felt like we were telling the story together. He knew what parts to ask questions about and when to just say, "I feel for you, Soarin'." And for all the years of Streak taunting me about taking my spot as captain, there's nopony I'd rather have as my replacement.

After Streak picked up the check, he asked the waiter to give us some privacy, and we were alone.

I was stretching out. I'd eaten too much of my omelet, but as least I had a little to bring back to Braeburn. "So, you got the whole story. Your turn, bro. Lemme hear about being captain."

Streak thought for a moment. His posture faltered, and he stared down at his empty water glass. "It's damn weird, Soarin'. I'm thankful for the opportunity, but I spent so long thinking about it that it's all a little surreal, you know?"

"Totally." I gestured widely with a hoof. "I went through it, too. Every captain does. You're out there, striving to be your best, hoping for a shot at the big time, and then one day, BAM! You're captain, and everything changes course in half a wingbeat."

Streak lifted his head. "Ha. Yeah, and right when you think it's smooth sailing, everything gets a whole lot harder. It feels almost impossible sometimes."

"That's how it should be, though." I drank the rest of my mimosa. "It proves that you're passionate about your job and that you understand what a big deal it is. You've put in a lot of work, especially these past couple weeks, Streak. There's a lot of honor in leading the Wonderbolts, and you deserve all of it."

"Heh…" He folded his wings in and looked down. "I deserve the bad parts, too, then."

"Ooookay, dude," I grumbled as I put a hoof on the table. "You've kept me waiting long enough. What are you freaking out about?"

Streaked leaned onto the table. "Soarin', I almost fucked up. I…" He looked at me. "Things were crazy after you left. You're a tough act to follow, and I was… jealous." His voice was muted, and his shoulders drooped.

I lowered my voice. "You can tell me anything, Streak. Promise."

He sighed, and he told me. "Soarin', you know that the media didn't really cover my first show, right?"

My ears drooped. "Yeah…" I remembered him telling me back at the Academy, during that whole episode with Bottom Line. "I'm super sorry about that, bro. If there's anything–" My eyes widened. "Hey! Now that all this bullshit with the media is over, I can, like, promote you or something! Duh! Why didn't I–"

Streak smiled but shook his head. "I appreciate it, bro, but no thanks. I'm over it. Really." His smile faded again. "But it was hard, and I almost, well…" He ran a hoof through his mane. "I almost sold you out."

I cocked my head to the side, convinced I'd misheard him. "What do you mean?"

He looked me in the eye, but he looked strained. "I… wrote a letter to the Equinerer, Soarin'. About you."

My breath caught in my throat. "You… what? Dude, what…" I shook my head. 'Let him talk,' I thought. 'It's probably not that bad.' I sighed and motioned with my hoof. "Sorry. Go ahead."

Streak looked down again. "I still can't believe what happened. I didn't send it, but I filled it with all these stories and allegations and signed it 'An Insider.' It was bad, bro. Stuff about foal support and doping and…" His neck muscles tensed, but he kept looking at me. "…and some stuff that was actually true."

My mouth hung agape. I felt hollow and full of fire at the same time, and I couldn't form words. My brain was too busy thinking about all the awful things Streak knew about, all the stuff we'd done together that we agreed to never tell anypony about. But he'd nearly spilled it all.

It felt like a knife in my chest. My mind raced with images Streak sitting in his office, cackling to himself and filling line after line with lies and truths and everything that we work so hard to keep our names off of. I imagined him rubbing his hooves together, snarling and just waiting to throw me to the dogs.

But that wasn't the pony I saw in front of me. Streak wasn't pleased with himself. His posture had collapsed, and he frowned at me, and his eyes searched mine, almost asking me to yell at him.

The silence felt like a thick gel around us, and Streak finally broke it. "I'm sorry, Soarin'." He head shook subtly. "I can't tell you how… sorry, how… disappointed I am that I let myself… I got so wrapped up in the glory and the fame, and…" He trailed off.

My nerves buzzed, and my brain tossed, trying to figure out what to feel. I sat like a statue, and all I could say was, "Keep talking."

And he did. He told me about the week leading up to the show, when he'd had to work harder than he ever had in his life to get the team back on track. He told me about the show itself, how nervous and excited he was and how euphoric those first few moments were. Without missing a beat, Streak described the press conference, where it became more and more clear that the media didn't care about him at all. The next week had been awful for him, and he told me all about how it kept eating at him, how he always felt cold in my shadow and how cancerous it was to see his dreams of fame die on the rocks, even if he realized now how stupid it was to chase after idolization. He'd learned what was important to him, "And what's important is my team and my friendship, Soarin'. And I'm sorry I lost sight of it."

Throughout his story, my anger faded. I remembered what it had been like to be in his hooves, pining for a better spot on the team, and as hard as I tried, I couldn't imagine what it would have been like to go through rejection on that scale. But one thing stuck in my mind. 'After my first show, I got a spread on the front page of all the papers. Dad framed them, every single one. He was so proud. What if he'd never gotten the chance?'

And in the end, I sighed and said, "I… I get it, bro."

He looked me in the eyes. Streak doesn't cry, but he was close. "I know you do, and that's why it kills me. I came really close, Soarin'." His eyes unfocused, and he shook his head. "Really, really close. I almost ended your career."

I forced myself to smile and sit up. "But you didn't. You made the right choice." For a second, I sounded like Dad, and in a way, I think I understood how he'd felt about me. As much as it burned me inside to think about Streak stabbing me in the back, I felt a lot of pride in him, too. He's my friend, and not only that, he trusted me enough to tell me the truth. He cared enough about our friendship that he didn't want any secrets between us. The more I thought about it, the less I had to force my smile. "Yeah, you pulled through, Streak, and that's what matters."

He smiled, too, just for a second. "That's what Spitfire said, too."

"See?" My wings spread out. "She's smart. You should listen to her." I jabbed his hoof from across the table. "You've got this leadership thing down, Streak."

"Feh," he huffed as he crouched down a little. "It's not always that simple. Friday's roster was… complicated."

"I do like my job, Streak." I laughed. "I mean, you're already a captain, bro. You don't need to worry about my position anymore, and sweet Luna, you made Bottom Line put me back in the show!" My pride in my friend swelled again. "Bro, if it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be back flying at…" Something was off, and I raised an eyebrow. "Uh… Streak?"

Streak had lifted his head, and I felt his bright blue eyes stare deeply into me. "I shouldn't have let you fly last night, Soarin'."

I stopped dead. My body was frozen for a few seconds, but then I shook my head and said, "Wait… what?"

Streak let out a long breath. "That's… actually what I needed to talk to you about. Besides the last few weeks, I mean. I made the wrong call, Soarin'. You shouldn't have flown last night."

My jaw hung open. "Dude, what the fuck?"

Streak winced. "Hear me out."

'How could he say that? Wasn't he listening? We've all had to go through so much bullshit just to get back to normal!' I slammed my hooves onto the table and rattled the glasses. "Streak, I thought you were freaking happy I was back!"

"I am!" His wings flared out, but he kept his voice mostly even. "I drove myself nuts this week, but I care about what you want. Why do you think I grilled you about how badly you wanted to fly last Tuesday?"

"Streak, I have to fly! My career would have been–"

"You think I didn't know that!?" His jaw clenched. "Soarin', I know how important this is to you. I understand. Really. More than anypony." He set his hooves down again and looked at me, and his voice got quiet. "But I put your career ahead of your safety." He covered his face with a hoof. "Tartarus, I didn't even give you the choice… It doesn't matter, though. You shouldn't have flown."

I felt cold. "…Safety?" I leaned in and turned my head. The S-word only came up when matters were serious. As far as I'd known, nothing had gone wrong at the show, but I suddenly felt doubt creep up my spine. "Streak… W-what are you getting at?"

He paused. Then, slowly, he reached into his saddlebag. He glanced at me, then solemnly drew out an envelope. It was a letter: the letter I'd written him from Appleloosa. He asked, "You know what this is?" I nodded. "Soarin'… Ugh! Soarin', this is hard."

Panic gripped me, but I told myself that of all the ponies in the world besides Braeburn, he was the one I could trust the most. I chuckled shakily. "Well, that's… why you're the captain, bro. You're the only one that can make the hard choices."

A tiny smile curled on his lips, then faded. He looked down at the envelope. "Soarin'… I need you to understand that I'm here for you."

My fur prickled, and I sat up rigidly. "You're freaking me out, bro." I breathed heavily, and my skin itched all over.

"I know," he said calmly. "But you really need to get it through your skull. You need to feel it. I'm here, and so is Spitfire, and we won't let the organization abandon you."

My chest felt tight. I snorted and demanded, "Streak, what the fuck is going on?"

Calmly, he took the letter out of the envelope and slid it to me. "What's it say?"

…

I glanced down without really looking at it, blinked a couple times, and looked back up. "It says I know you're going to do a good job."

"How much did you drink the night you wrote–"

I shouted, "None! Dude, what's your deal?"

Stone-faced, h-he…

Ugh…

Stone-faced, he said, "R–"

Fuck. Sorry. I…

He said, "Read it to me."

And I said, "Fine!" And I put my face right up close to the paper. "It says: Streak, I–"

He cut me off. "Read the first word."

I glared at him and jabbed the paper. "Streak, it's your fucking name!" And…

…

The–

The corners of his eyes drooped, and… quietly, he said, "No, it's not."

A-a-and I froze, and my throat sealed up, and when I looked back at the paper, the back of my neck felt really hot all of a sudden. And I think I had a headache, but I don't know, and I didn't, I didn't fucking, like… Ugh! I…

Fuck. Thank Luna for Streak. He stood up and stepped next to me. He wrapped his wing around me, like I was a foal, and I kept looking everywhere but at the paper. But he needed me to see it. With a careful hoof, he covered up the first word. He covered all of it except the last letter.

I could… I was so fucking scared, and I wanted to fly away and never come back, because I could see it. I could see it, but it wasn't…

He… h-he asked, "Soarin', what's–"

Dammit.

H-he…

Fuck! This shouldn't be this fucking hard!

"What letter is… is…" He asked me w-what l-letter… letter it…

* * * * *

Soarin' is hiding in his wings. I hear faint sobbing mixed with more cursing. He's shivering. The gazebo, the hill, the sky… Everything else feels completely still.

My skin tingles, and I try to will myself to speak, but the words catch in my throat. But I have to know. Gently, as gently as I can, I take a breath and ask, "Soarin'?"

He peeks out from behind his wings. His jaw is clenched tight, but he whispers, "Y-yeah?"

I make my voice as soothing as possible. "That crash in Honeycrisp's orchard, back when you met Braeburn… You hit your head on that tree, and…" I take a deep breath and swallow a lump in my throat. "Soarin', you have aphasia, don't you? You can't read anymore."

Soarin' heaves and hides behind his wings again.

There is a long moment. The air has gotten colder.

My inner professionalism is telling me to leave him alone. But that doesn't seem right. He seems distant now, not unlike Braeburn must have on the night of that party. My heart is heavy, and I fear I have no way to comfort him.

I scoot closer and gently stroke Soarin's back. It will have to do, but it feels so inadequate.

The fur on his back is very soft, and I can feel the tiny vibrations inside him as he breathes uneasily. The Wonderbolts on the posters and in the papers always look so strong and invincible. They don't get shaken. They don't flinch. But here's Soarin', right in front of me, and I think about how much more pain he's feeling than he's even letting on to.

It's quiet.

I continue petting him for another moment until I hear him mumble something, but I can't make it out. I say, "I'm sorry, Soarin'. I didn't hear you."

Slowly, Soarin' folds his wings back in. He looks at the sunlight, and I see the corners of his eyes still glistening with tears. A little louder, but still barely audible, he mumbles, "I said, now you know. I'm… damaged goods, Syn."

A feeling wells up in my chest. "You seem more like a survivor to me. You've come a hell of a long way on your own."

Soarin's words are breathy. "Doctor… Doctor Hope says I-I'm getting better. A little. But I dunno." He sinks into himself. "It's still just so hard to…"

He doesn't finish.

The scene around us feels calm, but uncomfortably so. It feels like there should be more, but the clouds and the gazebo and the air all seem callously indifferent to us. But I remind myself that we are not alone, and perhaps Soarin' needs to remember that there's somepony else here with him. We look at the slowly dying light together, and when I hear Soarin' start to sob again, I ask, "What's Skywise saying now?"

"Heh." Soarin' wipes his face with his fetlock, then pauses for a moment to listen. "He says I should keep going."

* * * * *

Art by SoarandBurn

I-I could feel the tears sting my eyes. I was scared, Syn. I was forcing myself to look, or Streak was forcing me to look, and… I can't describe it. Injuries are supposed to hurt. Your body is supposed to tell you when something's broken. That's what we've always been taught. I can't tell you how disturbing it is, how unsettling it is and how much it paralyzes you and leaves you feeling like a stranger to your own body to know that something inside you is so profoundly wrong.

That first word of the letter. It was supposed to be 'Streak.' I held my breath, looked at the last letter of that word, and whispered, "It's a 't.'"

I felt a light squeeze on my shoulder. Streak said, "Soarin'… you said you crashed into a tree in the orchard, but Braeburn didn't bring you to a hospital."

I tried to snap at him, but my voice came out a lot weaker than I wanted. "It's not Braeburn's fault."

"Sorry. That's not what I meant. I should have said… I thought the letter was a fluke, but you couldn't read Bottom Line's hoofwriting either, could you?"

I shook my head, and I felt my brain throw up its self-defense mechanisms. My body hung slack, but I managed to mumble, "His hoofwriting is terrible."

Sternly, Streak responded, "His writing is pristine, Soarin'."

"This… This isn't right. This isn't right!" I put a hoof on the letter and pushed it away. "Streak, this is sick! Why are you doing this? I know I can read!" I fished around in my head. My untrustworthy head. My tail thrashed behind me, and my hooves shook. Everything shook, and my heart beat so fast I thought it would give out. "How could I not notice something wrong like this? This letter's not real! It's fake!"

Calmly, Streak asked, "Soarin', have you had any other–"

"It's fake!!!" I hid my face with my hooves. I could hear the blood pumping in my ears, and the room spun around me.

Fire Streak set a hoof on my shoulder and took a breath. "Soarin', for your–"

"Whitewing's Big Score!" I jumped out of my chair and put a hoof on his shoulder, pleading with him with my eyes. "W-Whitewing's Big Score!" I searched his face, begging for a sign that this was hazing, that it was a joke. "It's a book Braeburn gave me! I-I was reading it!"

Streak's eyes lit up with hope. "When?"

"Just last…" My eyes widened, and I set my hoof down. "I mean, a couple weeks ago, I…" I was starting to put everything together. 'I could read it in Appleloosa…'

But then I remembered more. I remembered trying to read it in Salt Lick City, just before we'd visited his parents. I'd found myself reading pages over and over again, trying to process them. At the time, I'd thought I was just tired, but…

I remembered that mysterious bruise I'd gotten on the train ride to Ponyville, the one that had appeared overnight that I'd had no memory of. How could I not remember hitting my head so hard? It was impossible, unless I'd already concussed myself so badly that I was vulnerable to another injury. And if that was the case…

I remembered the bottle of lube Rarity had given us on the trip back to Manehattan. Sure, the writing had been small, but I'd leaned in and squinted hard, and I'd had no idea what it said. How many other red flags had I completely dismissed?

Answering my own question, I remembered Braeburn's shopping list.

And the specials board at the Bad Sun Rising.

And Bottom Line's writing.

And I remembered baking apple pies with Braeburn. During our date at Honeycrisp's farm, it had taken all my focus just to read the words 'flour the work surface.' But if that had been bad, then the pot pies had been worse. Six trowels of whale. Extra fake crust. It had only been three days between making that dinner and talking with Streak.

My body nearly crumbled as I thought, 'It's progressing,' and I felt the cold horror burrowing into my soul. Even when I'd been cooking with Braeburn, all those times that we'd been having fun or goofing off or making love… All the times that I had felt safest, it had been there. It had been inside me, slowly eating me away.

I looked back down to the letter, forced myself to stare. "I-I can still read it. I can still read it." I was lying. "Whitewing's Big… I'll be able to finish Braeburn's book. It'll be fine. I'm fine."

Streak hugged me again. "I'm sorry, Soarin'."

My voice became bouncy again, and my body felt light. I couldn't figure out why. "You don't need to be. I'm fine." I felt dizzy, but I chuckled and said, "Ha! Had me going there, Streak. Guess you really are insecure about your position." I punched his shoulder and laughed woodenly and very, very loudly. "Haha! Nothing to worry about, bro. You're a great captain, and I'm fine."

Streak frowned. "Soarin', you're not."

"I am!" I slammed my hoof on the table and felt white-hot rage pulse inside me out of nowhere. My emotions kept reversing so fast I thought I'd get sick. "I'm fine! It's okay. I'm okay." My head whipped back to him. "You're not going to tell anypony about this!"

Without breaking eye contact, he shook his head. "I'm not choosing your career over your safety again, Soarin'." My brain stalled. "You have an appointment with Doctor Hope. He's being discreet." He was talking about Doctor Radiant Hope, a head injury specialist the 'Bolts have a contract with. "You're seeing him tomorrow at his private practice."

I snorted. "Don't have to. I'm fine."

Fire Streak's chest inflated and deflated rapidly, but he remained stoic. "You will see him, Soarin'. Captain's orders."

I stared him down. Through gritted teeth, I said, "I refuse."

"Then you're fired." The air was still, and I felt like I was made of glass. Fire Streak locked eyes with me and slowly shook his head. "Celestia as my witness, I'll do it, Soarin'."

"You can't," I growled.

"I can, Soarin', and if I can't, Bottom Line will."

My hackles raised, and I stepped forward, jamming my face against his. "You fucking traitor!"

His eyes pouted, and he quietly said, "Hard choices, Soarin'! I love you, and this is for the best." I started to yell again, but he interrupted, "Listen! You passed the physical inspection this week, and you're not the first one to ever get injured. There's a good chance you'll fly again, maybe even this week."

It had barely even dawned on me – what did the aphasia mean for my career? 'Am I done? How many shows do I have left before it becomes debilitating? How am I going to support Braeburn?' My eyes widened, and I felt dizzy, and all the anger drained out of me, leaving me hollow. 'What's Braeburn going to think when he finds out? He's going to blame himself. Dammit, he's going to blame himself! It's not his fault! He tried to help me. He tried!'

I zoned out, and all I could think about was sitting at the kitchen table, stuttering and trying to tell him. And I imagined him crying. And blaming himself. And drinking. And leaving.

And leaving.

'I can't tell him.'

I breathed heavily. I wanted to be angry again. Anger is powerful. It pushes you forward and tells you there's still something you can do. Numbness leaves you with nothing. My eyes fell to the letter, but I turned away and shook my head. "Promise?" I felt myself pouting at Streak.

Streak put a hoof on my shoulder. "Soarin', I can't promise you'll be clear to fly, but no matter what, I swear I'll get you through this. Please trust me." He took his hoof from my shoulder and held it out.

I looked at his hoof for a long time, just waiting for him to pull it back. My lip quivered, and my voice was low. "I'm scared, Streak."

He nodded. "Me, too."

Instead a hoof-bump, we hugged again, and with very few other words, we left. I didn't grab the leftovers. As we flew back, Streak kept asking if I needed anything, but I didn't respond. I wanted to be alone. And I wanted to be with Braeburn. He flew me back to the edge of the Estates, and when I asked him to leave me there, he understood.

The last stretch of the flight home felt heavy. My brain tingled, and my stomach felt like it was full of acid. My flight was shaky, and as I neared our condo, I felt myself struggling not to cry. My breaths came thick and labored, and even though the sun was on my back, I felt cold. I flew even slower to try and delay the inevitable.

Home felt foreign again, just like after I'd been cut. There were so many questions I didn't have answers to. I didn't know how bad the injury was, and just thinking about it made me sick. I didn't know how Braeburn would react or if I could even manage to tell him. No, I'd already decided I wouldn't. 'He can't know.'

I walked in, and the aftermath of the party had been mostly cleaned up. It seemed like a week ago, maybe more. The condo was back to normal, which was the most unsettling part of all: I'd thought my new normal was a happy life with Braeburn, but now I had a head injury that threatened to screw everything up. 'It doesn't have to be that way,' I told myself. 'I'll get it taken care of, and it will all go away.'

I wandered through the condo and thought about calling to Braeburn, but my voice caught in my throat. Water was rushing in the shower upstairs. I wanted to go up there and jump in the shower with him. It would have been just like normal: I could sneak in, let the water keep running, and kiss him all up and down his neck. I could press my body into his and feel the hot water rush over us as our contact got more and more intimate. At the right moment, I could have him moaning up against the wall, and for a few minutes, all my problems would melt away. I took the first step up the stairs.

And my legs buckled. I nearly broke down, and I knew I could never fake it long enough to convince him I was okay.

So instead, I wandered into the parlor.

And there it was.

My bookshelf, which Braeburn had repaired with his own hooves, stood against the wall of the parlor. And on the middle shelf, all on its own, was 'Whitewing's Big Score.'

I spent a long time just standing there, staring at it, so transfixed that I didn't hear Braeburn stop the shower. I don't think my heart was beating, and I couldn't look away from that book. I had to know. I walked over, reached up a shaky hoof, and grabbed it. It felt heavier than I'd remembered.

I took it to the kitchen and set it on the table with a soft thud. The bookmark stuck out, mocking me, and I slowly opened to the page I'd marked. I told myself that I wouldn't look away, that I would blink a few times and realize that there was no problem at all, that it was all just a nightmare, and in a few seconds, everything would be fine. I tried to read the first sentence on the page.

…

And I wept.

"Soarin'?"

My head turned towards a mostly-dry, beautiful stallion that looked blurry through my tears. He stood frozen, deep lines on his forehead and his lips slightly parted in a frown. Gently, like he was speaking to a delicate foal, he asked, "Soarin', what's wrong?"

I tried to hold it back. I tried to tell myself that Braeburn didn't need to know. That I was protecting him and that he wouldn't be able to forgive himself. A giant knot had formed in my stomach, a source of pain and discomfort that wracked my body, but I told myself I could live with it. I pleaded with myself. I made promises that I would do whatever it took, as long as Braeburn didn't have to know. As long as I didn't have to hurt him like that.

But I looked into his eyes, and he looked back at me. He was already starting to tear up, too, and he didn't even know what was wrong. He just saw that I was in pain, and that was all it took for him to walk up to me, wrap me in a hug, and whisper in my ear. "I love you, Big Blue, and whatever secret you got ain't gonna change that."

And in the blink of an eye, I was clinging to him, and it all flooded out.