• Published 26th Jul 2015
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The Things Tavi Says - shortskirtsandexplosions



Let me tell you a few things about my roommate, Octavia. After all, she saved my life.

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Lonely Things

Author's Note:

Ponies are weird ceatures.

For all of our colors, our social mirths and frailties, we enjoy sleeping alone... and yet we don't. We're such sickly sweet cantering conundrums, tender accidents that cling to cuddles, and yet we yearn for space and solitude.

Tonight, I've fallen into a sore spot nestled somewhere in between. I'd be selfish if I pretended to claim that I was alone in this. Every room on every floor of this hotel, there's a pony on the road, trying just as hard as I am to get some much-needed shuteye. And yet, against all the odds of exhaustion, they fail. I know this, for their bitter breaths filter out their muzzles and collect over the hotel roof in a brown cloud, only to settle in a filmy curtain of droll tan that drapes over every window and balcony overlooking Baltimare Harbor.

Tan. It's the color of loneliness. I hate it, and I exclude it from every one of my songs.

I used to know that color quite well. But that changed. So many things changed. I would like to say for the better, and judging from my day-to-day contentment, I'd concur that I've been absolutely right.

But it doesn't change the fact that some nights—many nights, as a matter of fact—have felt absolutely wrong.

Tavi doesn't know about this. I don't expect her to. After all, she has it as bad as I do. Sure, I recall the words she said at the wedding, but I see through a lot of it. I see through it with the same eyes and ears that register the tan tendrils rippling off the wings of her breath as she quietly trills herself through another tearful evening, alone with her dreaded thoughts. It's not just that she wants a stallion in her life. It's not just that she wants to hold hooves with a special somepony who will cherish and protect her. Tavi simply wants—like we all want—to be a part of something bigger than ourselves. That's why the two of us are musicians. That's why the two of us have moved in with one another. And that's also why—for better or for worse—we allow that to be as close as we'll ever get.

Because ponies need space to feel like they're part of something too, and individualism is as strong a ballad as any duet. Still, despite our friendship, despite the hurdles that we have jumped together—and most of them due to her strength more than mine—there has always been and will always be something lacking. It really can't be helped, though it hasn't stopped me from trying.

After all, I was the one who suggested that we adopt a kitten, even if Tavi forever insists that it was her idea. I made the connections with Fluttershy. I brought us to her cottage, opened the door, and crossed the threshold into feline felicity. I even chose the name "Scribbler." Why? Hell, you tell me.

And although, in the daytime, I can tell that Tavi adores the little varmint, once the sun goes down things take on a whole new light... a rich, resonating orange light—situated in my room. For some goddessawful reason, the kitten only likes sleeping in my bed. At first, I was bothered by it, and I'd put the poor mewling thing outside, where it performed soprano solos to the lonely hallways. The tan echoes murdered me, so I gave in, and I became one with the fuzzy bright orange, a strangely pastel purr that put me to sleep every night.

But that's not what I miss now. Scribbler isn't what I'm thinking of as I toss and turn in bed, struggling to keep my eyes shut and my ears plugged in order to shut out the tidal waves of tan... and failing.

No, I'm thinking of a different frequency, a different source of fountaining waves, cool, satin, velvet and purple. They collect a continent away, on Octavia's side of the apartment, and for as beautiful as it all sounds, I can't shake the gut-wrenching feeling that she drowns in it. And when you drown in something that's so exquisite... so soft... so cherishable, then what hope is there for you finding joy in anything else?

I know Tavi is stronger than that. I just... can't feel it. All I feel is the soft, squishy, overly-starched fabric of this hotel pillow that I am squeezing to absolute death between my limbs. I rub a hoof along it, and beads of moisture stab me with tan-tinted daggers.

There are a lot of things that etch permanent impressions in my mind. The one that cuts the deepest is tears.

I groan... and I groan again.

No way in Tartarus am I going to sleep now.

So, I kick the covers off with righteous anger. Blindly, I reach across the bedside table, my hoof performing bright red salvos against the wood finish. At last, I find my shades, and I slap them onto my face with a vengeance.

Damn Dr. Pony.

Yeah... that's it...

That's all that ever is.

So I get up. I grab my headphones. And I go out for a long trot on the beach.

After all, Tavi loves those... ... ...

... ... ...damn it.

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