Day 1 - The First Performance
He could hear his band warming up outside on stage. Straightening his tie, he checked his appearance in the mirror. Bluey’d spent an hour just on his mane, teasing and combing every errant hair into a perfectly parted mane, bristling like a lion, the glossy spray he’d used to hold it in place catching the light and drawing it towards not your face, but his mouth. He’d had a close talk with the light director of the Canterlot Balcony Cabaret, and they’d managed to fine tune the setup the night before, not without a lot of hoofs-on work from both Blue and the director.
The Balcony’s on-site makeup artist, a mint earth pony with cream mane and a flaxen highlight, stepped in to powder his nose, reeling and giggling simultaneously as the blues lion let out a raucous sneeze.
Hooking the lucent brass of his alto in one ankle and the slide ring of his trumpet in the other, he parted the side curtain with a burdened forehoof, wobbling for a split moment on his hindquarters.
His old pal Ragtime was letting his hooves move languidly over the keys, playing a scale in D then flicking back to play a simple chord progression to warm up his hooves. The crowd was very receptive to this, it seemed, as they were swaying back and forth with his magic touch, almost as if he’d laid a hoof between their collective thighs. Bluey’s eyes narrowed, Ragtime catching his gaze and matching it with a shit eating smirk.
Snap Crackle sat at the drum kit, tweaking the cymbals with a careful touch of his hoof, positioning them so they were at just the right height. Crackle was a piece short, but the stallion had a crowd on its feet swingin’ away at the first beat of the drum, though his snout barely cleared the kick drum.
Bluey’s backup saxophonist, Coal Train, lay back in a plastic folding chair, having a smoke, hind legs crossed and lifting the front legs of the chair off the floor. Coal had a rough home life growing up, but he’d tell no one why. Not that it mattered, he was the best saxophonist Bluey had, asides himself of course.
Last, but certainly not least, Bluey gave a subtle nod to his bassist, Wrong Carter. Earth pony with a coat like soot, never spoke. His chocolate mane fell over his eyes. Now that Blue thought of it, he’d never seen the stallion’s eyes. Rumor had it he had a helluva lot more gigs than this one, but Blue didn’t know of any, and he never missed practice anyways, so he didn’t care how many other bands he played for.
His band prepared and at rest, Blue beat at the mic, meeting the eyes of the multitude with misgivings in his mind. The crowd ranged and raged around him as a river, talking and tittering. The lion remained, masked in a murky shadow, a sheen marking the scheme of his mane. His sinuses seethed, the strong smell of seductive smoke and spices filling his lungs.
Exhale with a tremble, expire to thine own self as thou touch the reed to thine lips.
As such he succeeded, the world withering away to a scarlet wisp of smoke, his sounds warbling from his sax, filling the hall with all that is well.
His eyes were just beginning to gloss gray, lost in sublimity when another sliver of slate caught his gaze. A gray punctuated with pink, a pink bowtie. She emerged from the scarlet smoke clouding his cranium wreathed in the wrath of Aphrodite scorned. She’d known, been shown that fate would favor their juxtaposition, and that fair goddess was jealous. The saxophone quavered on without him, his head hung up on that slate gray dirty ice queen staring back at him with eyes as pink as her tie.
He finished his set in a haze, trotting off the stage to raucous applause without even a polite bow to signal his passing. Snap raised an eyebrow, calling after him, “Don’t you worry a thing, brother, I’ll pack up!”