Big Macintosh, wishing for some peace and quiet after a long season of Harvest—and a variety of problems he'd rather not touch on—heads north to stay by his lonesome in a wood lodge.
Big Macintosh, wishing for some peace and quiet after a long season of Harvest—and a variety of problems he'd rather not touch on—heads north to stay by his lonesome in a wood lodge.
Thanks to TheBreadMaker for the cover art! Go give him some love.
It wasn't so much as him being mute or anything, or even really wanting to speak a lot, but more in the interest of simply remaining quiet. He had a sharp tongue and a sharper mind, despite what some might assume with his upbringings on the farm back home, and it was harder than stone to clench his jaw and jam his clever retorts back down his throat whenever they decided to try sputtering out. Keeping quiet was just his way of avoiding trouble, and doing so was what he really needed if he were to maintain the Acres for all his years of living. You couldn't quite buck apples off their branches or plow through rich dirt behind steel bars or in a crowded courtroom. Big Macintosh drank alcohol, but he did so in his house behind a locked door so as to not bother anypony, and Big Macintosh only got angry when there was something worthwhile to be angry about.
Seeing as how he could really handle anything that came to him either by brains or brawn, and his usual problems concerned either apple trees or his yoke, Macintosh never really got angry. Sure, there were a few times when Apple Bloom had done something wrong, and he had gotten a little heated, but he always growled at the gut feeling in his chest and apologized profusely almost immediately after committing the verbal attack. This broke his rule of remaining quiet, but it was worth it to feel better about himself. He liked to be quiet, and to be quiet you had to be happy inside, otherwise you'd go all stir-crazy and start hearing voices like Aunt Clementine.
Quiet stallions liked quiet environments, and peace and relaxation were things he always looked forward to at the end of the day. Applejack was usually back from some grand old adventure with the others, and would fall asleep really anywhere in the house from her bed to the downstairs welcoming mat. Apple Bloom needed more and more sleep in her growing years as school got tougher and tougher, and was coerced to head off and sleep right after finishing her homework. Granny? Well, she was just plain old, and she slept a lot on their recliner out in the main room. He'd been glad he'd gotten it and built it for her, but it was starting to become an excuse of hers to doze off.
Big Macintosh didn't really mind. With three mares sleeping, he could have some peace and quiet all to himself. He could sit down on the front porch and watch the sunset, or he could take a nice walk around the farm and have a conversation with himself. Big Macintosh may not have been crazy, but he had to admit that he talked to himself audibly, and not in his head like he assumed most ponies did. Something about actually moving his mouth and formulating words seemed to aid him in his ramblings, and he touched up on topics he'd otherwise not let other ponies know he harbored. There were things he had to say about the prices of farming equipment, and there were things he had to say about the mailmare who always seemed to be so late every day.
Then again, he'd heard that she had some kind of mental disability, so he couldn't rightfully get angry without seriously despising himself. It wasn't all too right to get so angry about such a little thing, and so he usually didn't. Her bright smile and even brighter mane served to only infect him with a good mood each time she dropped by, and good moods were admittedly pretty rare in his days. Big Macintosh never really got angry, but a good mood to him was something else untouched as well. Sticking a stalk of hay in his teeth, slapping on his yolk, and going about his day, he found that he was... all right, at best. He enjoyed what he did, but it wasn't something he looked forward to every morning he spent looking into the mirror. What he saw was just a red Earth Pony with duties to do and ponies to look up to him. He was simple in that, but the course he took was a bit more complicated.
Harvest was no exception. It came every year, around the same time, at the beginning of fall when the leaves started dropping and the apples started bittering. It wasn't so much the start of the cold weather as it was just too much time on their branches, but the Apple Family—and usually a group of friends—plucked them off anyhow. They'd all show up, scarves around their necks and light coats on their bodies, ready and willing to help out the local farmers do all they needed, and for that he could let loose a bit of a good mood. Help was something he was glad to receive, unlike his sister, and he welcomed it with a wide embrace and a small, almost absent smirk. Big Macintosh may have had good moods once in three blue moons, but it wasn't on a level like Pinkie Pie's. He was simply content with just nodding and grinning through the work at anypony who spoke to him.
It was how he'd met Cheerilee, actually.
He'd met her, well, first, back when his little sister and her friends had used that love potion on the two of them, but they hadn't talked all too much after that until the Harvest had sprung later that year. They didn't have a lot of opportunities to see each other, with her teaching every weekday and him working every day of the week, and their only deviations being on completely opposite sides of town, and so when she'd shown up alongside Twilight Sparkle that first fall day, he'd double-taked and about spit the water in his mouth onto the ground at the sight of her.
She was pretty; there was no other way to beat around the bush with it. But he was shy and kept to himself so he'd never thought of pursuing her. Now here she'd been, all smiles all the way to her flanks, and she was happy to help him out with whatever he needed for awhile. Applejack and her friends tended to keep close to the farm, citing that it made it a lot easier on them and helped them get inside and eat dinner quicker than he. It was a race he wasn't too sour to lose, but always felt great about winning. He never really minded his area, because he did a lot better and, well, a lot more work by his lonesome, but that year had taken a turn for the worse. Applejack had turned to Cheerilee, opened her mouth, and very simply asked her a question.
"You think that you and Big Macintosh could take the outer fields?"
At that, he'd frozen, and he didn't think he could blame the weather on it one bit.
Applejack had caught wind of the Crusader's little Hearts And Hooves Day scheme about a day after it had happened, and she'd about lost her wits as she fell to the floor and laughed until her stomach was in knots. Big Macintosh had pursed his lips, but said nothing, because he knew there was nothing he could do to stop his sister from teasing him. She'd brought up the teacher's name from time to time, always lingering on it and turning her head his quiet way, but he'd usually just shook his mane and walked outside to keep on working. He hadn't thought she'd go to a length like this, but now she was trying to set them up.
For the Element of Honesty, she sure could promise something so menial.
"We're gettin' a few stallions from down in Appleloosa to help us out. They'll be over there in a bit, so why don't you two get started?"
If Cheerile hadn't immediately turned around and clapped her hooves with excitement, she might've noticed Applejack's cheek-pushed grin and wink, one that Big Macintosh only narrowed his eyes and snorted at. If she was gonna try this, he wasn't gonna cooperate. Forcing them to work together on something neither was so keen on wasn't the right way to go about it, but then he'd never really known Cheerilee all too well. She was all talk as they trotted down the orchard toward the hills in the distance, her green eyes wide and glimmering in the light of the wayward sun.
She'd apparently been looking forward to helping out this year. Twilight had stopped by a week or two before at the schoolhouse after the work day was over and mentioned the Harvest to Cheerilee during their conversation. As it had turned out, farm work had been something Cheerilee was itching to try! That's what Twilight had told him later, at least. He didn't really believe her. If anything, Applejack had enlisted the help of her friends in her mission of love, and everypony involved had suddenly lost each and every single ounce of trust that he had to give.
The mission may have been part of a scam, but Cheerilee's enthusiasm didn't show it one bit. She'd wanted to know all about what they were doing that day; where they were headed, how many trees they were bucking, what kinds of apples they were getting, how many they'd be putting in buckets every hour, and all kinds of mathematical, theoretical nonsense he was very bothered he hadn't seen coming for the school teacher walking alongside him. Despite the company, Big Macintosh didn't say much, mostly restricting himself to one-word answers, hums, and curt nods with every question the mare had at hoof. She was doing a good job at seeming interested—at all—in what he did, but he knew a trick when he saw it, and so he had just kept on trotting toward his—their—destination.
This "their" thing bit him on the ass a lot more than he would've thought. A lot of times, he'd rear around and buck one of the trees without looking where he was hitting, narrowly missing the mare who was just curious about his methods so she could try them herself. Sometimes, he'd have to actually talk while he was working, continuing his answering of her questions whenever they came. These ranged from his form, crouched forward and forelegs like coiled springs in the dirt, to how he always got every apple in the trees, which he didn't really know. Once, he'd missed the tree by a foot, courtesy of Cheerilee pointing up at the branches and talking about the sturdiness of oaks, then had had to pass it off as a "practice buck". It had been a little larger of a tree compared to the others around it, and so he'd been able to safely explain that he wanted to make sure he was positioned right. The very obvious lie, in which he was very obviously fumbling on, didn't stutter the look in Cheerilee's eyes, and she'd smiled her smile and directed it at him.
He'd been too focused on not screwing up again to give her one back.
The asking and the answering and the determined bucking had gone by quicker than he'd thought up in his head, and dinner time came around before he could even realize Granny Smith was ringing the dinner bell. Beckoning Cheerilee alongside him again—mainly because she'd probably get lost—he walked back toward the farm and headed inside for a quick meal. Only when he'd opened the door for the mare did he realize she hadn't done any work apart from watching his own. He felt a frown cross his lips as he joined the rest of the group, eyeing them all cautiously while they ate their corn and beans. Not that he'd expected Cheerilee to do the other half of the orchard in tandem with he, but she'd been invited up here for a reason, and at the very least she could've tried knocking out a few trees or so in his wake.
"Seems y'all've almost got the entire west side cleared, Big Macintosh!"
At that, he'd stopped. He... hadn't. If anything, he'd gotten almost halfway down, if not even that. There was still the upper parts of the orchard to get, along with a few closer to the house that he'd promised himself to get later. Unless his sister was being generous with her words, he still had a lot of work left to go.
"Yeah, I swooped on over to see how far you two'd gone! You and Cheerilee are beating the hay out of us!"
Rainbow Dash wasn't the Element of Honesty. She was... Kindness, right? Or was that Pinkie Pie? There were six Elements, too much for him to keep track of, but he knew Rainbow Dash wasn't Honesty, and so she was just joking him with him right there on their dinner table. He'd been working the trees row by row, in a spiral, all day. To a bird's eye view, it'd look a lot more like he was just skipping out on work and was lagging behind like a colt. There was no way he was doing a good enough job under a watchful glance to merit a lead.
Cheerilee had giggled, and he'd almost spit his water out into his cup at the sound of it, but he choked it down and only shook his head when Apple Bloom had looked over.
"Ya dyin'?"
He'd had one of his trademark negatives on his tongue, but he was worried it'd come out all shaky.
The dinner flew by smoothly, with big talk coming from the ponies seated at the table, and Big Mactinosh was the first to get up and walk back outside to try and reaffirm how much more had to be done on his end. Opening the front door and standing on the porch, he'd craned his neck and looked to his left.
His jaw had dropped, but he picked it back up when Cheerilee creaked the floorboards next to him.
The entire west side—his side—was almost done. He hadn't gotten the middle area yet; he was waiting to do them after dinner because those trees were always a little harder to get, but they looked clean of those familiar red dots from where he stood gaping at them.
"Well, we still have work to finish!"
He droned out a very poorly thought over note, then shut his mouth when the mare giggled and began trotting over to the distant trees. The questions remained as they walked through the treeline, but they concerned the food they'd just had instead of the work he'd apparently breezed through. He didn't know which apples Granny used in the pie, and the beans were ones they kept inside their cellar in a big ol' jar Big Macintosh had bought a couple years ago, and Apple Bloom was a surprisingly big eater, but yeah, she was a growing filly anyway so it wasn't too hard to believe.
They returned to where they'd stopped working, and this time, Big Macintosh paid close attention to what the mare was doing. He'd been mostly staring at the ground, or the sky, or the tree behind him about to receive a brisk bucking, but now his attention was solely on the mare.
"So why do you wear that yoke all the time?"
This wasn't a yes or no question, and he couldn't feel good about giving a yes or no answer. He worked his jaw, got into position, minded where he stood and how he did it, and promptly bucked the tree behind him.
Then he realized why she'd been asking about his posture. At the exact same time as he, she crouched forward, pressed her forelegs against the dirt, and shot her hindlegs back into the surface of the apple tree to her rear. He about stumbled over when he watched every single apple fall off their branches and into the baskets below.
She didn't even break a sweat as he followed her path and bucked the next tree in line in time with her.
"Uh."
She looked over at him. Apparently, she hadn't been expecting an answer to come out of his mouth either.
"It was my pa's."
Cheerilee pursed her lips and nodded. She kicked another tree.
"It does look pretty ancient. I think I've actually seen that a fossil museum somewhere."
He couldn't stop the chuckle from vibrating his throat. She was successful in breaking his quiet, and so she celebrated with a chipper snicker.
The conversation, as small and meaningless it turned out to be, wasn't as one-sided as Big Macintosh was used to. He replied, for a change, with more than one word out of two that he seemed to know. By the time that ten o' clock came, and with it the few Appleloosa stallions that Applejack had promised, Big Macintosh and Cheerilee were just getting into a pretty heated, albeit short, argument about whether or not the wood buckets they were using would dent the apples.
"Quitting time!"
Then they trotted off as quickly as they'd arrived. They'd come, alright. Applejack always found ways to promise something in the smallest of ways, and, well, they technically did be over there in a bit. Big Macintosh and Cheerilee, slightly perturbed by the random stallions, rolled their eyes and began walking back over to the farm to part. Adjusting her scarf and swiping at her bangs, she'd occupied the short while they spent on their trot with a continuation of their argument. Big Macintosh found himself grinning wider than his nose as it grew more and more ridiculous.
"When the apples fall, they'll chip their skins on the wood. With a metal bucket, they'll clatter inside but be a lot better off."
It wasn't disagreeable, but he was much more content on just using a wooden one.
"Plus, they're easier to clean up if you get more than just apples in them, and they'll last longer."
Probably not for the second part, but he couldn't really deny the first. With wood, it'd soak up bits of water or other kinds of unwanted things, and it was a pain to wash.
He was almost upset when they finally cleared the treeline and found themselves walking past fences. If Cheerilee's long sigh was any indication, she was as well.
"I had fun today."
He raised a brow. Then he turned his head so she could see.
"It was pretty hard work, and now I'm all sweaty, but it was a great learning experience!"
He chuckled from down in his gut. Of course, the school teacher left this with a new thing to have learned.
He had raised a hoof to head back into the farmhouse, but her next words froze him solid.
"I was, um... thinking of heading over to the bar to get a drink before I head home. Would you wanna... come with?"
He didn't really drink outside of his house. He liked to be safe about doing it.
"I'm starting to think that wooden buckets are a much better alternative."
She was definitely lying. He had to actually convince her how much better they were to use for Harvest, and so he'd mulled about it in his head, hummed to himself, clucked his tongue, and finally replied with something familiar.
He felt a whole lot of something around her. About her, too. Actually, now that he thought of it, there was a word—and several, too—describing each and every thing on the subject of... her. A large part were... good, obviously, which was... good, but there were some... others in there.
And if only he had the words to even try describing them.
Big Macintosh was no real good with words. And looking back on his prior musings, it was pretty clear that he definitely could have been a contender for the Element of Honesty alongside his sister. Maybe it just ran in the family. This lacking proved a very massive, very much irking problem for his new relationship.
Cheerilee was a mare who spent her days talking. Whether at a conference she'd had to intend instead of one of their mutually nervous dinner dates, or every weekday from about eight to two o' clock where he could only swoop in for half an hour or so before going back home to work the fields awhile. Cheerilee's career was completely based on talking, and talking, and talking. She used words day in and day out to ed-u-cate students; she spun them and exercised them like it was the only thing she could earthly do.
Well, that was kind of presumptuous. And really rude.
He didn't mean it like that.
She was smart, and he felt nothing less than paling by her side.
There she was, a smart teacher teachin' mathematics, dating a farm-grown farmpony whose only other concern was, well, his farm. He liked to joke about it—a lot more than he should, to the point where he was probably endlessly annoying her even as she giggled away and snorted her cute little snorts—but she, time and time again, told him that she wasn't into snooty, super smart stallions whose sole objective in their relationship would be to show her up anyway. Which led to him thinking she much preferred somepony worth talking down to who wasn't much better than a mortar-and-brick wall, but she must have realized what she'd said, and always followed their usual conversation deviations with a gentle reassurance of some kind.
What word was that? He'd been trying for many years, wracking his brain, tearing it apart, picking at it like a scab, completely turning it end over end as if searching for a prized needle in a haystack in the barn, looking, for it. They didn't have a dictionary in the farmhouse, Big Macintosh was—as he'd admitted—not too well off in the word department, and he was much too wary of asking Rarity's smart younger sister about it even if he'd get the answer in a couple of seconds or so, raised eyebrow and little devilish filly grin notwithstanding.
Well, he knew a few words. They came with the feeling that he got with her. The kinda feeling you got with someone that truly made you happy.
Big Macintosh was no stranger to happiness, as it was. Getting a new yoke for Hearth's Warming, enjoying a nice cider after a long day of work, biting into a warm apple pie for dessert, finishing up the West Fields at a record time, not tripping over himself on that damn stump he'd year after year promise to stomp into oblivion. He knew what being happy was like, because his life was no tragedy. He knew the smiling, and the crooked grin, and the flappy ears, and the straighter posture, and the feeling of just being that came with the whole package.
But it was... different, around Cheerilee.
Like the sun. Like flowers.
That's what Cheerilee was. Like flowers.
He'd just likened his lover to inanimate objects that wilted without water. That wasn't the most romantic comparison he could make. He really was hopeless, wasn't he? If he'd been in any brighter state of mind, he'd shake his head at himself and scold his thoughts. She'd probably poke him, too. She loved poking him.
But he'd always liked flowers. The idea of water, the sun, and a little seed coming together to create pretty-looking petals with pretty-looking colors ponies used as deep messages for one another felt strong in his head. So maybe it was okay to think that.
Cheerilee was like flowers, which he guessed fit, since her Cutie Mark was three of the little suckers smiling like they were glad to be where they were. Then again, permanently being on the flank of a beautiful pony for the rest of your life sounded pretty swell to him...
He felt like he could take on the world with her, but he could settle for just the farm.
Maybe it was reliance. That was a word, right? Like, some kind of version of 'rely', right? It sounded right. Reliance. Knowing that, at the end of any day, great—getting his daily work done before schedule—or horrible—finishing later than he'd usually liked—there was always someone waiting to hear about it with a grin and a hug. Not to say that his family wasn't up for seeing him after a whole day, but Applejack was usually out with her friends doing something... big, Granny Smith was usually draped over a couch, or a table, or a staircase, or—most of the time—her rocking chair asleep, and Apple Bloom... well, Apple Bloom was at least someplace safe, he hoped. She was a growing young mare, and he wasn't her pa by any fitting definition, but she deserved her own time anyhow, and he was happy to give it to her. Where Applejack played a bit of the cautious, wary mother-figure, Big Macintosh was the more easy-going, if more understanding father, who, as part of his role, always got a stern earful after sending the filly off to go do whatever the hell it was she always did.
Cheerilee liked to listen, though. It was one of the greatest things about her, on the long list of literally everything about her that he liked. They'd meet at a bar, or a restaurant, or the park, or a street corner, and as they began drinking, or eating, or sitting, or walking, she would listen, and he would talk, and his misgivings about his part grew more and more apparent as he went on. Despite his stumblings, and his restarts, and his reddening cheeks and his scratching of the back of his neck, she had a big smile on her face and a patient ear flicking in the air they were both pleasantly sharing with one another. She was waiting for him. And she was happy to do so.
It was a feeling of belonging, for sure. Of knowing that, out of millions upon millions upon probably way more in the world, there was one for him, and he was one for them. Ponies happily greeting them as they passed; familiar faces beaming in their direction; introductions, simply, as "Cheerilee's new boyfriend", with hoofshakes and compliments and jested jealousy. Folks around town began to root for the new couple and, to be completely honest, it made him feel... good. He never really liked the idea of "belonging" to one another, because you couldn't rightly own another pony... but what he and she had came pretty darned close. They spent the entire day apart from each other practically every week, and when it came time to be together, they were inseparable, like glue on the old cabinet, or a nail in a creaky floorboard.
It was a feeling of greatness. Being satisfied knowing the greatest, most incredible pony in the world, and having them right by your side through anything it tried throwing at you. They each had their own daily trials and trib-b-bul...ations in life, and they only had to sit next to each other, smile, and talk and listen, and listen and talk to dissolve it all away, like toothpaste down his drain. He wasn't good with words, or talking as he'd later found out, but what little he could muster was more than enough for her, and she took up most of their time talking anyway, so excited to just talk to him about how Diamond Tiara had given her lip, and how she felt terrible writing the big red F on Scootaloo's last test, and how angry she was with Rainbow Dash constantly barging in to whisk Scootaloo away as if she actually had the right to. He was glad to listen. They could at least share a skill at that.
It was a feeling of... everything, honestly, but miles and miles above all else, it was mostly a feeling of happiness.
And he saw all of it whenever he looked Cheerilee's way.
When she smiled, when she frowned, when she hummed or when she sang, when she nodded, or shook, or picked up a hoof to wave it about, or when she pushed her mane out of her eyes and threw her locks back over her ears, or when she looked right back at him. When she was there.
It was relief, because he knew that there was no one even slightly better that he'd love nothing more than to be with.
He could talk to her about anything whenever he managed to get the old locomotive up and going, and she always had an interest in his words, and had her own, countless questions as she tilted her head and bunched up a cheek that he loved nothing more than answering. She didn't judge him, even at times he knew his other friends would interrupt him with a loud laugh not too helped by the beer in their bellies and tease him until they either fall onto the floor face-first, or giggled themselves asleep. She also watched herself whenever they drank together. He counted himself both lucky and unfortunate that he didn't have to carry his drunken, red-faced girlfriend halfway across town over his back to deliver her home, but knowing Cheerilee, she wouldn't have been in any state of mind to be rational, and they might have ruined their relationship over the course of a single night. Not to say that she... ugh.
That was another thing. She was a bit of a roadblock for all the times he'd make fun of himself as he spoke. He knew he could barely keep a conversation up, but she was on the constant drop of a hat to let him know that he was "just being dumb", and waited for him to collect his thoughts before continuing. He really liked that about her. Really, he did. Even if they were lovers, she was still a friend just watching out for another friend, and that made them both feel good about this whole relationship thing that neither of them had really put much more than a few thoughts into.
Lovers, did he just say?
Huh.
He never put much thought into that either.
Despite his lack of skill, Cheerilee had been the one to blurt out that she'd loved him before he left to go back to work early one morning in her bedroom. Simple, and in a matter of seconds. He never understood the hesitation toward professing such things to each other, but, then again, he hadn't been on the sending or receiving part of it before Cheerilee, so what would he have even known about it all? His reply, as she'd instantly clamped a hoof over her mouth and went wide-eyed, was more like a verbal shrug.
"Okay."
And there he was again.
Cheerilee obviously hadn't expected it. She'd shut her eyes tightly, thrown the other hoof into her mouth, and, beginning to burn red across her cerise face, she'd laughed and laughed and laughed until he'd had to walk over to her and throw a shoulder over her to keep her from falling onto the floor. And even then, she just couldn't stop, and he'd had to spend the rest of his afternoon giving her glasses of water and sitting down on the carpet, against the wall, next to his brightly glowing mare. She must have been thinking too much of him to expect an "I love you, too," from the most inexperienced conversationalist this side of the country—and probably even in it as well—but, really, was it too hard to do? Say? Four words, or even just three if he was quaking, and they'd both feel satisifed, and happy, and filled with renewed... something. They both knew that they loved each other. It was like some kind of unspoken, mutual thing only worsened by being made vocal.
Despite, they were quick to tell each other their "I love yous" right on the floor of Cheerilee's bedroom, and, after a nice muzzle nuzzling, they went to go get something nice to eat to ease the stress that had so needlessly built up since the break of the day.
It had been a nice restaurant, serving Bitalian pastas and fine wines that neither of them felt well enough to indulge in. Big Macintosh had, after scouring the menu for apple-related dishes, settled on a fettuccine alfredo, and Cheerilee, not even looking at hers, had ordered some kind of linguine with a hard-to-pronounce name that Big Macintosh, pushed by Cheerilee, had tried three times thereafter to say, failing miserably each time. As it turned out, Cheerilee didn't know how to say it either, and as they both laughed and just... enjoyed each other's company, Big Macintosh began to realize that this was his life now. Eating food with a beautiful mare, talking shop with a listening mare, walking around with an active mare, and being around a wonderful mare. She might not have had the methods to test it or even see it, but Big Macintosh's heart felt ready to burst at the seams, and, right then and there, he'd blurted out what he'd, earlier that day, intended to say.
Whether it was because he didn't know what to say to begin with, or he didn't want to ruin a thing with a word or two, it didn't matter.
He couldn't say much when he'd walked back into the farmhouse that afternoon, happy as could be but completely unable to put it all into words, which he was no good at in the first place. He couldn't say much when he'd opted on sitting down in the living room and staring up at the ceiling with a big, goofy grin plastered on his face, thoughts drifting between faces and words he couldn't wholly appreciate due to his own gluttony. He couldn't say much when he'd been disturbed by Apple Bloom's return from her rather late meeting—"And just what were you three up to so late?"—but he'd tried anyway, and, as the young mare ascended the staircase to search for something in her room, he'd silently cursed himself out for being so nosy, because he couldn't do much for speaking aloud. He couldn't say much as he did so. And he couldn't say much as he'd heard old Granny Smith twirl about in the excited filly's wake, tip over at the top of the stair, and tumble end over end down the entire flight and crack her skull open at the bottom. And he couldn't say much as he watched, even as the rare sounds of Apple Bloom hellishly screaming in his ears threatened to bleed them dry. He couldn't say much as he frantically grabbed for the old mare off the floor, and he would have been reduced to mere babbles if he had anything to say as Applejack, hearing the noise from the barn, rushed back in and told him not to move her until they called for somepony.
Whether it was fate, or destiny, or what have him whatsoever, a young nurse leaving work alongside her boyfriend happened to be trotting past the Acres' front gate in an admitted attempt to barter for some leftover cider for the night, and was able to administer useless care for Granny Smith until she finally had to just look up at the three of them and shake her head, tears in her eyes.
He couldn't say much as Applejack clenched Apple Bloom in a tight hug, both wailing miserably but only one of them able to drown the other out.
He couldn't say much at the funeral, even as his name was called to come up to the podium by the closed casket to say something. He was dismissed as catatonic by more than a select few, and swiftly given a pardon, but he still couldn't say much even as Cheerilee, dressed in black and weeping into a tissue, pulled him closer—her foreleg linked with his—and buried her head on his shoulder. He couldn't say anything, but he was sure he wouldn't be able to, because the absolute stone expression stuck hard on his face wouldn't let him move his lips for even the tiniest quiver. He couldn't say much as a ringing in his ears began to grow louder, and louder, and louder, and he was deadset on simply letting the whole thing run its course, burning up his head and clenching his teeth and keeling him over and beating his heart and seizing his breaths and now sucking out his brain and running ice water over his head and–
"Mac?"
And there she was again. The one thing in his life that saved him, time and time again, even as he faced death a couple times every other month or so.
An old cow passing peacefully in the night. One of their pigs at the bottom of a food-driven stampede in the morning. A rabbit—a new addition—getting lost in the apple trees one afternoon and quickly snatched up by a lone wolf.
Death wasn't a stranger to him, as odd it came to his door, but he felt somethin' completely awful for only feeling for Granny Smith's.
It pained him when he suddenly stopped seeking out Cheerilee, but, mostly, it was because he couldn't say much about the whole thing, and even as he newly spent his every waking hour staring at his bedroom's ceiling alone as could be, words just didn't come to him, not audibly or mentally. He waited for them, time and time again, and maybe that was why he just kept sitting there every day and every night and every early morning and every late dusk just watching nothing in particular but speckles of dust floating through the air in the light of the sun or the moon. He thought for awhile his interest to be in the poorly-layered paint, then the odd shadow his fan made when the current luminance hit it all just right, then how hungry he was and the sensation of aching for the smallest morsel, then how dry his throat felt when he prodded it with his hoof and tried to make vowels and consonants, then how... not there his limbs and his bones and his muscles and his entire self felt on his bed there. But then his thoughts pushed, and pushed, and pushed their way to clarity, and all he could tell was that he was entirely at fault for every little reason he was just sitting there in the first place, ignoring the soft cries of Apple Bloom down the hall every night and the door to his room knock-knock-knocking with Applejack's well-toned foreleg rapping at it ceaselessly.
He could have stopped it. He could have saved his sisters from their misery and torment and blame, and all the concern from their respective friends and all the letters in the mail and the visits and the knocking and the tears and the crying and the sobbing and the horrible gutwrenching muffles of Apple Bloom in the bathroom, and he could have done it all if he had just said any little thing that day. He could have called out to Granny Smith as she trotted toward the top of the stair, stopping her from being in Apple Bloom's way with a discussion of the later forsaken night's meal of soup and pie. He could have called for Apple Bloom as she put her first hoof on the landing, letting Granny Smith descend it peacefully all while he questioned Apple Bloom for further details on her excursion that he was sure she'd be more than happy to tell him all about and more.
He could have done literally anything, but, in the end, he hadn't, because Big Macintosh couldn't say much, and he couldn't very well save his Granny from splitting her skull wide open from the very wood she so precariously walked up and down his entire life.
It was all his fault, and there was nothing that could be said to change it, even if it was from somepony managing to tear down his locked door to give him an entire earful and a half.
The fields began to grow unhealthily, just as his own declined in turn.
The apples grew rancid, picked by birds and other wayward animals who didn't deserve such good graces.
His room became his world, and even then it felt as far away as the sounds of his own home just trying its hardest to comfort him.
Big Macintosh couldn't say much, but he didn't need to in the hopeless spiral of isolation. He made small sojourns in the kitchen, prying open bottles and downing them by the pack, and his blue moon partings from his room were emphasized by his involuntary sway and stumble, and the clinking that met his ears whenever he adjusted his position on his bed. His long, quiet hoping for a beard was scraggly met in short time during a time he didn't want it to, and his mane grew so grossly misshapen he had to push it out of his eyes by the minute so as to not disturb the liquids pouring uselessly down his throat whenever he felt the strength to grasp their homes. His yoke threatened to choke him as he stared, feeling tighter and tighter each day until he felt no possibility of being able to tear the whole thing off. It grew dirty, and collected stains, a disgusting sight completing a disgusting stallion that, if anypony were to see him, would probably vomit at the mere prospect of being known again. His goal was to disappear, and make sure of being forgotten in a farmhouse still occupied of three, sometimes two, but always by at least one.
Big Macintosh knew what it was like to feel happy, and at the back of his mind all he wanted was to return to such times, face to face with a face of smiles and cheer that he'd put on hold so selfishly and rudely. A face of beauty and belonging that he wasn't sure he'd see again. The face of Cheerilee, who he'd so ruthlessly shoved away at a time when they both needed each other desperately, after so recently exchanging three-word sentences that had changed their lives for the absolute best.
And about three months later, he finally rose from his bed and opened his door to find a mare covered in snow and wrapped in a scarf and coat, bearing food and drink and a runny nose she kept cutely wiping at.
And a day later, in the early morning, he threw her out again. And he kept her accessories, and returned to his bed.
And that night, he was back to it all, but he at least had a new smell to smell. And whenever he smelled it, he reached for the scarf and clutched it as close to his heart as he could without pulling it all open, feeling the warm embrace of a figure he so terribly, so horribly, loved so, so dearly.
