My Poor Old-Fashioned Baby
There was something about the music surrounding them in the dance hall, it made Rarity think of the closing credits in the grandest romance film that could ever exist. It befitted the end of the world more than the end of a night, steeped in cocktails and the remnants of sweat, dabbed frantically away with whatever toilet paper could be salvaged from the ladies in surreptitious visits.
She looked over at the band, to the cellist, to the brass section, she saw how their dickie-bows had loosened over the night. Saw how hair, once sculpted with pomade, had borne stragglers to be blown in cheap, dry air-conditioning.
Rarity and her partner shared at least one thing still, and that was that neither had been looking at the other. Twilight was gone with the wind, away with the fairies, eyes scanning the kaleidoscope of flowing dresses and flanks meant to be hidden, meant to be seen, meant to tease and titillate.
Rarity adjusted her leg mid-dance to let her cutie mark be seen in the amber lights, a practised act of elegance that went neither seen or appreciated, and then leant forward to capture Twilight’s lips in her own.
There was something about her reactions to everything Rarity said.
She could recall a time when every joke would elicit rapturous, heaving laughs. Twilight would snort and it would be so unladylike, and in her fluster there would bead sweat on her brow, and still she’d be so gorgeous. Like a leading lady, retaining composure under punishing theatre lights.
All the world was a stage, after all, and yet somewhere along the way it appeared they’d become extras.
Because now Twilight chuckled politely, and smiled politely, and then returned to politely eating her light lunch, which she enjoyed with sparkling water. How quickly did their luxury of prosecco at lunch give way to a world where all the flavour had disappeared, leaving only the empty air.
Twilight had once told Rarity she was acting weird and suspicious during a fight of theirs, spurred by another such reaction. A lack of reaction, it should be clarified.
Twilight preferred to tell Rarity that she didn’t always have to react so dramatically to everything, and that Rarity should trust her when she insisted that it wasn’t anything to do with her. That she was just tired, that the princess was really ramping up the workload recently, that she’d had to clean the whole of Golden Oaks all by herself recently because Spike was away, that it wasn’t because she felt any differently about Rarity.
And Rarity liked to pretend she didn’t disagree, at least privately. Because she didn’t like to think she was being suspicious, nor did she like to think that Twilight had never used to let a tricky academic schedule get in the way of their relationship, or that Spike had only been away for a single night, or that she could see a lack of light in Twilight’s eyes when they stared at each other these days.
Rarity didn’t like to apply all the evidence to the situation, it made her stomach feel twisted in knots. Because love was something that was greater than logic. Romance was constrained by logic, then romance surely wasn’t magic any longer?
That couldn’t be right.
Twilight might have told her that magic and logic weren’t different, and in fact one relied on the other, but then Rarity might have asked her who was being the suspicious one now?
No, Rarity didn’t like to think about their relationship like this.
Rarity liked to think that they were simply in their difficult part of the film, the part to make the audience clutch their programmes to their chests in fear, that maybe the startlingly beautiful heroines may not end up happy together after all.
What was romance without strife, daring, unearthly stakes? If it was all just predictable, boring, everyday messiness… then what was the point?
Twilight carried on eating her lunch in silence. Rarity studied her facial expression, and left her own meal untouched.
How she longed for the final act to begin.
There was something about the way that Twilight didn’t really seem too enthused about the kiss.
She reciprocated, she slipped her tongue into Rarity’s mouth and caressed all the right places, polishing three diamonds with a caress from her hoof.
And yet, there didn’t seem to be passion in any of it. It was performative.
Maybe Rarity was suspicious, but surely there had to be passion to romance? Surely?
Twilight was a busy unicorn, and, of course, not every single time she reacted neutrally to something was a comment on Rarity. Even when she reacted neutrally to everything.
The dance hall didn’t dim, no lone spotlight fell to illuminate them, no swell in the music to herald her stupid, passionate, senseless romantic gesture with the gravitas it deserved, that Rarity was owed. The band continued unabated, heedless of the turmoil Rarity faced with her love interest.
Soundtracks often did that, didn’t they?
There was something about the flickering of the projector, something about the crafted unreality of the images on the screen. If Rarity focused, peering through film grain and monochrome sets she could make out the motes of fakeness. The way that the actors positioned themselves, subtly unnatural, in order to make the shot look good to a viewer.
The way they said things to explain to the audience what was happening, with little thought to how it would be in real life. Would anyone ever call their sister ‘sis’? Would anyone walk through their door and not bother to close it properly?
Surely that was part of the charm, no? What kept her coming back here?
There was something beautiful in the lack of minutia in the pictures. These characters didn’t worry about deadlines, they didn’t worry about eating the right amount of calories, they didn’t worry about whether things were going to turn out right in the end. Of course they would. Rarity could see it in the twinkling leading lady’s eyes, the timbre of the laughs of her dashing stallion love interest.
She looked away from the screen and turned to Twilight, who was staring at the pictures, absentmindedly eating some popcorn. Rarity remembered taking her here on their first date, they’d sat near the back. She couldn’t remember what picture they’d seen as they’d spent the majority of it giggling like school-fillies, caressing each other and revelling in the secrecy, the spice from worry that an usher would catch them and ban them from the cinema.
Back then they could barely keep their hooves off of each other.
Dates would have the nearest exit factored into them, if only unconsciously, so that they could abandon whatever trite little activity was that day’s excuse to be close to each other. To have their fur touch, their skin touch, their mouths touch. Rarity wasted many nights trying to find a fabric that might be the same colour that their coats made when fibres intermingled.
Rarity could feel a sob begin to build in her throat when all these thoughts came to the forefront of her mind, standing sentinel over her as she stroked Twilight’s forehoof with her own and hoped against hope that Twilight might turn and giggle and gesture with her eyes to the exit so that they could sneak into the ladies and be that special kind of dignified undignified.
It was scripted indignity, thematically permitted, dramatically celebrated, it had a place in love and it had to remain there because currently Twilight was looking at the screen, focused on the logic of remaining for the whole film.
The leading lady swooned, falling into the forehooves of her stallion, who gave a grin that would have once left Rarity weak at the knees, and the two of them began to kiss in front of the whole restaurant.
Twilight frowned and moved her hoof slightly away from Rarity’s touch, later she’d likely say she was just tired.
Rarity didn’t want to finish watching the picture.
“Why don’t you love me anymore?” she wanted to ask, but she didn’t want to seem like she was suspicious.
The mares from the movies would never be so candid, they’d just work out the issue and fix it.
The cinema around Rarity was bathed in the flickering, black and white glare from the screen. If Rarity squinted, it looked like all the colour had drained from their world.
She preferred it that way.
There was something about the desperation of Rarity’s Hail Mary. She gripped Twilight tighter and was gripped tighter in response. She kissed Twilight harder and was kissed harder in response. The sweat on her brow and body increased with the close contact, and she could feel Twilight’s fur get more moist.
The band continued unabated.
Just hit a bloody climax, please.
There was never any doubt that the final kiss would work in the movies.
And yet, when it was all said and done, and Rarity pulled back and looked into Twilight’s eyes, she wondered whether she was finally out of time.
There was something about the bed in Golden Oaks. It was much less comfortable than the one in Carousel Boutique, and, given the unusual building format, it was always colder over here.
Twilight had tried to rectify this, of course. She’d worked on having magic heating throughout the building, but there was only so much it could do. Usually, as soon as it got towards the late night, Rarity and Twilight would find themselves cuddled together for warmth and for so much more.
Rarity loved sleeping over at the library.
Only the last few times, when she’d gotten into bed…
Twilight was perched up, reading through some dusty old tome, as she so often was.
“What are you reading, darling?”
“It’s about thermodynamics,” Twilight replied.
Rarity nodded before climbing into her side. The sheets smelled pristine, they’d been cleaned since she was last over.
“Do you want to tell me about it?” Rarity offered.
“Not much to tell really,” Twilight said without looking up. Rarity thought she was going to say something else, but nothing materialised.
Well, that was until Twilight lowered her book. But Rarity’s hope was quickly quashed when she just put said book on the bedside table and lay down.
“Night Rarity,” she said simply.
“Night darling,” Rarity replied, “I love you.”
“You too,” came a muffled reply.
And Rarity smiled.
And Rarity stared into the dark of the bedroom, feeling all for the world like this would have been a lingering shot, remaining fixed on her. Maybe the camera would pull backwards, showing how cavernous the space she occupied felt. Maybe there’d be some clever filming trick to make the distance between her and her lover seem to grow.
Her breathing quickened, she felt a little like she was dying.
She didn’t want to be suspicious, but it had been weeks since Twilight had cuddled with her like she used to.
She didn’t want to be suspicious, but if she applied logic to this situation, it seemed like everything between them was dying a lingering, torturous death.
But that couldn’t be the case, love wasn’t a bastion of logic and rational thinking. It had to be different, surely it had to be like the pictures.
Rarity wasn’t a suspicious mare. She was a dreamer, she was a lover, she was a leading lady, she was a love interest, she belonged to a time captured in glorious black and white, and surely so did Twilight.
Love didn’t have room for suspicion, romance was greater than logic.
And yet…
“Do you… Twilight? Do you love me?”
A soft snore confirmed that Twilight had already fallen asleep.
There was something about suspicion.
There was something about romance.
There was something about the pictures.
There was something about love.
“Baby, baby, baby, you’re out of time,” crooned the front man, filling the dance hall with his pleasing baritone.
Rarity tried not to listen.
Twilight was looking back from her safe place, nestled in Rarity's hooves. She went to say something, but Rarity got in there first.
“Did you like the picture the other night, darling?”
“Hmm? The cinema?” Twilight asked, confused.
“Yes, did you enjoy it?”
“Rarity, we’ve been through this,” Twilight replied, voice laced with audible irritation, “I like our dates, alright? You need to stop being so-”
“No… no I asked if you liked the picture,” Rarity said, and Twilight’s look turned quizzical, “As in the film we saw… Did you like the picture, Twilight?”
“Yeah of course, It was fine.”
“Just fine?”
“Yeah? Like I said it was fine Rarity. That sorta stuff is more your kind of thing than mine anyway. I don’t know how you get so much out of those old romance movies.”
“Do you want to?” Rarity asked, breathily, hoping the mist from the cheap old smoke machines, and motes of light from trashy disco balls disguised moisture beading in her eyes.
“Do I want to what?” Twilight replied.
“Know how I get so much out of those old romance movies, I could tell you if you want?” Rarity offered, voice quivering.
“Uhm… sure,” Twilight said, and Rarity tightened her hooves around her.
She wondered what she could say now. Maybe she could tell Twilight about how there was always a neat resolution in the films. Maybe she could talk about how everything seemed to contort and shift against the dullness of reality, so that it always worked out. There was a real, tangible sense of destiny. Of course there was, there was a reason the stories ponies wrote were always better than real life.
When one had all the figures and facts accounted for, and could excise needless, silly things like the flightiness of true, real emotion, then the stories would always be sweeter.
That’s what Rarity had always wanted, deep down. A grand, twisting, dramatic, epic, boring, predictable little story.
The bodies shifted around them, and Rarity briefly looked up to see a swathe of happy, smitten couples, eye contact like liquid fire between them all making her feel so hot and so cold.
She wondered whether she could talk about how the mares in the pictures never had to be suspicious, and if they were it was always so transient. Always allayed in scenes to follow of blooming romance and relieved laughter. How silly in their pondering, how joyous in the bright light of day when they see there was never anything to fear.
Because the pictures were greater than logic, above the dirt and doubt and suspicion of the physical world.
It didn’t matter what the evidence said, there was nothing save for that kiss in the end.
Maybe Rarity was a suspicious mare.
Goodness, she tried not to be.
“I think it’s important to live one’s life like the mares you see in the pictures, darling. The world is more beautiful that way,” Rarity said, and found all her words seemed to dry up. What else was there to say?
“Baby, baby, baby, you’re out of time,” the frontman sang again, and Rarity tried so much to not be suspicious. She tried to hope against hope Twilight might reveal that this was the final, final act, and close the distance between their lips again.
“Are you gonna let me go anytime soon, Rarity?” Twilight asked, and Rarity wondered whether the teasing tone or amused expression were real or not.
Maybe Rarity was out of time, but for the moment she didn’t care to entertain suspicion. She’d rather not know.
The song finally came to an end, and Rarity realised with some disappointment that she’d missed the crescendo.
She guessed she’d likely have to wait for the next one, but all the world was a stage, and the pictures never stopped.
There was something about love, so Rarity let Twilight go, and allowed their dance to continue.