Sensation (SFW Version)

by Vivid Syntax

Chapter 7 - Little Victories

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Soarin' chortles a few times. It's heavy. It isn't forced, but the hollowness makes me cringe. I think I see a tear in his eye. He's looking to his left, staring at the picture he was just describing. "Heh heh. Lucky I didn't break it. I don't have the negatives anymore." His eyes are sunken, and he looks tired. He rests on the braces on his forelegs while a pause overstays its welcome.

I speak up, gently, "Did you–"

His head snaps back to me, like he's suddenly remembered I'm here. "Dude, I didn't offer you anything to drink! Sorry about that." His words have a rhythmic cadence and wooden timbre. "You must be thirsty." That was less of a question and more of a command, wasn't it? "I'll get you something." A broad smile creeps across his face.

There's desperation in his eyes. He's an animal caught in a trap of his own mind. Talking about losing his job and his closest friend is hurting him, and he's suddenly feeling the need to distance himself from his story. We've been at it all morning, and frankly, he needs a break. Who am I to deny him a respite?

"Uh... sure." I close my notepad and put it, my inkwell, and my quill into my small saddlebag. "Thanks. What do you have?"

Soarin' lets out a breath I didn't realize he was holding. "I make an awesome Long Island. Just a sec." With a push of his back legs and a beat of his wings, he floats in the air and dashes to the kitchen. As he whooshes by – much faster than I'd ever want to run in my own home – I see another small glimmer in his eye. I should give him a moment.

I rearrange my belongings again, then sit and wait while I hear a few clinks of glass from the kitchen. One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand. I stand up and peek around the corner.

Two glasses sit on the counter, and a cabinet is hanging open. Soarin's front hooves are both on the counter, and he's inspecting the bottles. No, his head's hung low, and there's no way he could see the labels that way. His shoulders rise and fall with his slow breathing. The taught muscles on his leg twitch. He shakes his head slowly, his wild, spikey mane bouncing back and forth.

Should I recommend a counselor for him? I know of a wolf that's great at that sort of thing, but offering advice like that would probably be too invasive.

I need to focus. I'm here for the story, and it's up to Soarin' to take care of Soarin'.

Still, nopony likes feeling vulnerable, least of all in their own home. I duck back around the corner and face away to throw my voice a bit. "Well, it looks like you haven't lost any of your wingpower," I say cheerfully. "You almost tore the notes off my pad!" I saunter into the kitchen to see that Soarin' has turned around and composed himself. The grinning pegasus give me a knowing nod as he leans awkwardly against the countertop behind him, forelegs dangling in front. Poor guy.

"You know it. Doc told me to take it easy, but flying is my life." He gestures into the air at nothing. "I'm a little slower than I used to be, and landing's a bitch, but I'm getting there." He looks down at the metal braces on his legs. "Actually, she said I could spend some more time without these crummy things, too. Do you mind if I...?"

I sit down at his table. "Go right ahead."

Dropping onto all fours, Soarin' twists his neck to reach the brace on his left foreleg. He wraps his lips around a butterfly screw near the top (which can't taste pleasant) and slowly loosens it. His eyes squint as the screw slips out of his mouth a few times.

I lean forward. "Do you need a hoof?"

He shoots a glare at me, and I jerk back a bit. 'Need' was probably a poor choice. His eyes widen, then soften, and he spits out the screw. "I need two. These ones are busted." He waits for me to chuckle, and I obliged. "But no. I need to be able to do this on my own." I can respect that, so I wait patiently at the table while he finishes.

It takes a couple minutes, but he does it. Rearing up on his hind legs and giving his forelegs a swift shake, the braces slip off and hit the ground with a sharp clang. He has a few scarlet red rashes in his pits where the padding has been rubbing against him. Soarin' flaps his wings a few times to soften the landing, and he barely makes a sound as his forehooves hit the floor. I try my best not to react at what I see. His forelegs are the same beautiful light blue as the rest of his body, but they seem wrong somehow. They've atrophied slightly, muscles wearing away from disuse. It looks like somepony took the legs of an adolescent colt and stuck them on a full-grown, muscular stallion.

Shoot. I'm staring at his legs. I meet his gaze and quickly sputter out, "So, a Long Island, then?"

"Cooooooming right up!" Soarin' sings as he turns back to the glasses on the counter. He walks tenderly to keep as little weight on his forelegs as possible. Though he has to flap his wings a few times to stay upright, he does pretty well overall.

Despite his physical limits, he makes quick work of the drinks. Ice clatters into both glasses. He draws expensive-looking bottles with fancy labels from the cabinets, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he gingerly pours about five different types of alcohol into the long glasses. Most of the bottles are nearly empty – he polishes two of them off in the process. Looking up at the cabinet, almost everything there is nearly empty, too. I turn my attention back to Soarin', who takes a deep breath as he stares intently at the finished drinks. He did it. Every little victory, my friend.

Did he put any tea in there?

Soarin' slowly walks over to the table and passes me the concoction. I take a drink. It's... salty? Damn, wasn't expecting that. I take another sip and let the flavors linger on my palette. It's salty and sweet with just a hint of bitter tea flavor. I greedily suck down another gulp. "Dude, this is great!"

He whinnies with a smile. "Told you." He prances away, throws his forelegs back onto the counter and stares out the window. His posture sinks again. I wonder if he gets outside much these days. Something grabs his attention, and he perks up, craning his neck to see. His tail swishes excitedly a few times, but then he sulks with a heavy breath. Caught in his own head again.

I'm losing him. He glances at me, and his face has that "Maybe you should go" look to it. I see the whole chain of events: 'let's try tomorrow' turns into 'I've been busy lately,' which leads to a lot of unanswered messages before we lose contact completely.

Don't give up, Soarin'.

He throws his head back, quaffing all his alcohol in seconds. The glass slams down hard enough that I'm worried it might shatter, and he takes a deep breath before letting out a small burp. "Sorry, you probably–"

"What happened next?" Real subtle, Syn.

"...What?" Soarin' looks my way and cocks an eyebrow.

"What happened after the living room?" It's my turn to be the fast-talker. "You obviously didn't stay on the floor forever."

His head turns toward the ice box, but I get the distinct feeling he's staring off into space. He stays still a moment before he replies sadly, "No. No, I didn't."

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