Sandbar and Gallus

by Botched Lobotomy

Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books

The amount I simply didn’t care about this play could not be overstated. It was maybe the single dullest thing I’d ever read – or, well, attempted to read – and every time I sat down to it I could feel myself drifting to sleep. Which was probably why I ended up where I was. Sitting, in the middle of the night, stretched upon the floor with the book clamped tight against my eyes. I’d tried, I really had. Nocreature could deny that. I’d tried, and failed, and now I was here, book glued to my feathers, as I waited for my roommate to return.

Tick-tock, went the clock in the back of my mind, the timer counting down the hours I had left to read it. Tick-tock.

I barely heard the door creak as Sandbar entered. He’d gotten pretty good at sneaking about, and usually I’d be with him, so I wasn’t used to being on the receiving end. All the same, I’d know his hoofsteps anywhere.

“Oh,” he said, as he spotted me laid out on the floor. “Hey.”

I let the book slide from my face and fixed him with one bloodshot eye. “Dude, you have to help me.”

He smiled, and dropped his bag carefully under his bed. “What is it this time?”

“I am so, so screwed.”

He turned back to me, and his gaze fell upon the rather battered book beside my head. “Seriously, dude?” he asked.

“Seriously.”

“Isn’t that due, like, tomorrow?”

“Twelve hours and forty-two minutes,” I said in a small, horrified voice.

He laughed, picking the book up and placing it delicately on his bed. “You really gotta get better at this.”

I watched him feebly from the floor. “Help?”

He looked over at me, and I could see on his lips the smile he was fighting to keep down. “’Course,” he said, after a moment, and patted the bed beside him. “Come over, then.”

When I was perched upon his bed, close enough to feel his warmth and his strength just beside me, he took up the book. “You’re holding this, by the way.”

“My...claws hurt?” I tried.

“Hooves,” he pointed out.

“Fair enough.”

He passed me the book, and I opened it with a sigh. “Kay,” he said, “so, where did you leave off?”

I blinked, and flipped it to the first page without a word.

“Dude,” he said, flatly.

I shrugged. “It really is super boring.”

“It’s not.” His voice was firm. “Listen, I’ll show you.”

And he began to read.

---

At some point, time had stopped. The room had melted away around us, and all that remained was Sandbar, and me, and maybe the bed, I wasn’t sure. We were floating along on something, at least. All around was velvet black, the very silence holding its breath between Sandbar’s every word. His voice was hoarse from talking, but I didn’t care.

It had started simply enough. In fair Verona, where the scene was laid. I’d read that line so many times I muttered it in my sleep, but somehow when Sandbar said it something had clicked, and it seemed to make so much more sense. Of course that was how it should start, it was only natural. And then he’d gone on, and I’d found myself nodding along as he read Benvolio, and Mercutio, and Paris, all these old pony names that had stopped me short flowed so easily from his tongue. He was a good reader – the voice he did for Tybalt was particularly great – and the story came alive as he spoke. The words themselves didn’t matter so much, it turned out – you got the idea of what they were saying pretty well by half-listening – but it was the emotion that came through. For some reason, he used his own voice for Romeo, and as dumb as it was, that seemed the most natural thing of all.

“That I were a glove upon that hoof,” he said, softly, “That I might touch that cheek!”

We had shifted, he and I, and somehow I’d ended up almost on his lap, against his chest, his head resting on mine as he spoke. I could feel the rumble of the words through his body, into mine, and for some reason I found that strangely comforting. If I noticed my heart beat a little faster every time he moved around me to turn a page, I don’t remember: I just knew his voice.

It should have been torture. Sandbar helping me out like this was nothing new – well, some of it was new – but even when it had been fun, or at least exhilarating, to sit up well into the night and race against the clock to finish some old book or other, it had never been...this. Whatever this was.

The story marched on, the lovers wept, and quarrelled, and held each other, and I found to my surprise that I was actually enjoying it, a tiny bit. I wasn’t transported, as Ocellus liked to say, it wasn’t that I was somewhere else, in the story itself – no, I was hotly aware of just where I was, and with who – but all the same it was different. I don’t really know how to describe it except that when the pair were married, my heart jumped, when Juliet danced around Paris’s questions, I laughed, and when Juliet approached the crypt to lay herself at rest, a terrible sense of dread sank its claws into my spine.

I knew how it ended, of course, but that wasn’t the point. As Ocellus had said, it told you that right at the beginning. What mattered was swell I felt within my breast as Sandbar hoofed through the final pages of the book; what mattered was the quiet murmur of his voice as the final tragedy took the stage; what mattered was the strength and ease of his hooves around me, holding me, as he said, at last, “For never was there a story of more woe, Than that of Juliet, and her Romeo,” closed the book, and whispered, “Exeunt.”

Silence fell, only it wasn’t silence, cause Sandbar was there too. I blinked, and blinked again, willing whatever it was rising in me to go back down where it belonged. It wasn’t sadness, exactly, or joy, or even relief, it was...well, I didn’t know what it was. A stirring, maybe.

“Huh,” I said at last, into the quiet. I realised with an effort it was dawn.

Sandbar chuckled, and my breath caught again as it rumbled through me. “There you go, then,” he said, “we’re done.”

Neither of us made any motion at moving.

“So,” he said, and I half-turned to face him, “what did you think? Still boring?”

I shook my head. “It was...” I wasn’t sure what it was. “...good.”

“Yeah.” I was painfully aware of every breath he took, every shift and bob of his throat. “It is, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I repeated. My body seemed to nestle into him all on its own. “Totally.”

He laughed, again, just slightly, and something inside me leapt. Not a normal kind of leap, because it didn’t fall down after it was done – it stayed there, warm and fuzzy and floating, and a desperate desire surged within me to lay my head against his chest and see if he felt the same. His breath was quiet, sweet, but filled the silence to bursting. He dipped his head to nuzzle against me, and I felt, to my shock, a purr rising in the back of my throat. I hadn’t purred since I was a hatchling – yet I felt no need to force it down. Suddenly, stupid as it was, I imagined I heard his voice again murmur against my ear the many declarations of love he’d made that night as Romeo. I shivered.

O speak again, bright angel, for thou art As glorious to this night, being o’er my head As a winged messenger of heaven.

So I guess that was how I realised that I’m maybe sorta kind of in love with Sandbar.

Comments

[semillon]

beautiful

[Parker]

This was fantastic! I really enjoyed seeing Gallus get swept up in the story and in Sandbar's touch.

[Ice Star]

Lovely and very, very gay.

this can't be almost over wtf

[Bicyclette]

“Isn’t that due, like, tomorrow?”

“Twelve hours and forty-two minutes,” I said in a small, horrified voice.

oof now i am getting flashbacks to my school days!

I watched him feebly from the floor. “Help?”

He looked over at me, and I could see on his lips the smile he was fighting to keep down. “’Course,” he said, after a moment, and patted the bed beside him. “Come over, then.”

of course i did not have a Sandbar in my life then which is too bad!

“My...claws hurt?” I tried.

“Hooves,” he pointed out.

“Fair enough.”

which just raises further questions about how earthponies are supposed to read books! (i guess on a table or à la Applejack in that one scene?)

For some reason, he used his own voice for Romeo, and as dumb as it was, that seemed the most natural thing of all.

oh hell yeah it’s natural! (oh wait no Romeo and Juliet are not at all a romance to be emulated no it’s not natural!)

We had shifted, he and I, and somehow I’d ended up almost on his lap, against his chest, his head resting on mine as he spoke. I could feel the rumble of the words through his body, into mine, and for some reason I found that strangely comforting. If I noticed my heart beat a little faster every time he moved around me to turn a page, I don’t remember: I just knew his voice.

augh i love this! always an adorable romantic trope, hearing the other’s breathing and speaking through their body, just makes my heart melt

Silence fell, only it wasn’t silence, cause Sandbar was there too. I blinked, and blinked again, willing whatever it was rising in me to go back down where it belonged. It wasn’t sadness, exactly, or joy, or even relief, it was...well, I didn’t know what it was. A stirring, maybe.

really one of those ineffable experiences anycreature would be lucky to live even once

I hadn’t purred since I was a hatchling – yet I felt no need to force it down.

aww love involuntary noises specific to a creature’s species

O speak again, bright angel, for thou art As glorious to this night, being o’er my head As a winged messenger of heaven.

hey Gallus has wings!

So I guess that was how I realised that I’m maybe sorta kind of in love with Sandbar.

what a beautiful way to reali[z]e it!