Illusions
Within the Trottish language, there were over fifty different synonyms for 'anger', from the sublime simmering of 'frustration' to the blood-and-thunder soaked 'wrath'. Micro Chips would consider his current mood number #37, or 'splenetic'.
“-and another fish for Trixie!”
Yes, splenetic seemed appropriate right now.
Camp Everfree wasn't what Micro Chips would consider his natural habitat. He was a creature of steel and fibre optics, with endless rows of precision-built concrete bringing a sense of natural serenity that often eluded those more artistically inclined. They claimed it was crushing to the human spirit, inhuman even. While he wouldn't go so far as to spit on their romanticism or even the ideologies' sad adherents, he certainly looked down on them. Despite the influx of supernatural events in his life he stuck by the words of Drifting Apple, there's was a world of order, not confusion. That Sunset Shimmer and the 'new' Twilight Sparkle, (human Twilight' felt too clinical even though it was objectively correct) could perform demonstrable, repeatable experiments involving 'equestrian magic' only strengthened his beliefs.
Which made him all the more choleric (#22) that he was stuck with a walking, talking, poster board for the romantic movement. Not that she knew it. If asked, he suspected she'd answer, “Trixie is more about the va-va-voom” followed by a bout of ridiculous hip thrusting, or some other inane answer. Fishing, though, was supposed to be relaxing, something new yet familiar. Simple mechanical movements aided by infrequent mathematical equations to garner the optimum zone for drawing in his prize.
Instead, he'd been sitting on damp grass for the last hour with zero fish, zero silence, and a marked increase in full-body tension. Right this second Micro Chips would have preferred the silence of the three options. Not only was it something he'd been assured was integral to the 'art' of fishing, but his erstwhile companion (picked up like a stray electron in passing) didn't seem to understand the meaning of the word. He knew Trixie liked the sound of her own voice, it was impossible to be in a single class with her and miss that crucial fact, but today was a real education in how a person could speak much, but say very little.
The slowly growing pile of Rainbow Trout next to an exuberant Trixie did nothing to aid in Micro Chip's irritation (#5).
“Do you fish much?” He inquired, hoping that, with his eyes focused on the murky lake water, she'd miss the hunger in them for even a crumb of victory right now.
“No!” She cackled, flopping on her back in Micro Chips field of view, silvery hair now cascading outwards like a second-rate halo. “Trixie's just great that way... and powerful of course,” she added, smugness exuding not just from her little grin, but the writhing mountain of fish that had grown with alarming regularity since their arrival.
“Of course,” he replied through gritted teeth.
“You know-” Trixie began, shuffling close enough that he could feel the girl's hot breath on his naked calves, “-we don't hang out a lot Micro Chips. Why is that?”
A year ago, he'd probably have answered her. Whilst he doubted the paranormal effects of friendship in a purely physical manner, he had to admit the changes Princess Twilight had set into motion had created a certain... magical effect upon his behaviour. The sarcasm and cutting remarks had certainly eased in their frequency; his paper on the intersectional social relationships forming was another fascinating result. Who knew the rockers and eco-kids enjoyed lectures on nuclear physics?
“Trixie considers herself a very popular and fun girl to be around.” She continued, barely pausing for air, “Scores of adoring fans beg to follow in her wake every day, in fact.”
“The last group of 'fans' that were following you demanded refunds.”
The sarcasm had lessened, not stopped. Unlike the Princess, he was only human.
Still intently staring at his forlorn line, now a miserable testament to ineffective fisherman the world over, he heard a feminine grunt as Trixie rose from the grass. Would it be churlish of him to hope she'd leave? Allow him the peace and solitude he'd craved so much? Micro Chips weighed the odds briefly before frowning. Yes, it would indeed be in rather poor taste. Trixie may have been an irritant, but rarely an intentional one. She was rather like a butterfly stuck in your home. Vibrant, distracting, and self-absorbed? Yes. In the long run, utterly harmless, however.
“Potato-Tomahto,” she answered, voice slightly distant, with a tone that was light and breezy.
It was automatic at this point, honestly. Under pressure, he’d admit to it being something he wasn’t entirely in control of. More compulsion than a true illness, perhaps. He wasn’t a doctor, though. Yet.
“One is a tuber, the other a fruit. Their similarities are non-existent, save for being an example of a ‘true rhyme’, one whose stressed vowel sounds identical in both words. Also, for being both indigenous to ‘the new world’ and members of the deadly nightshade family.”
The rustle of… something was his only answer. Was she leaving? Had he forced her away? While hesitant to attribute anything to the superstitions created by their primitive ancestors, Micro Chips felt a quiver in something his more flowery peers would refer to as 'a soul’. It was a paradox, frankly. Logic demanded that he feel little regarding an action of one's own accord. He didn’t push her. Every human being was ruled by their own internal sets of weights and scales. It would even be of empirical benefit for him. Without Trixie's mountain of piscine flesh there was a chance he’d catch a bite today! Yet…
“You're a funny guy Micro.” Trixie declared with surprising sincerity and a brief chuckle. Also a large rucksack, which she deposited with enough due care that its bulk snapped the tip of his fishing rod, empty line and all.
Suppressing an urge to wrap its loose remains around the girl's neck, even with an upper body as… sleek as his it would still have been frighteningly deadly, he breathed deeply. Eyes shut, the forest air was a rejuvenator of sorts. Eyes open though and he found himself staring at the blue nuisance, her attention focused squarely on the contents of the worn fabric backpack she was rifling through. Not the damage she caused, but her stupid-
"Aha!" Trixie crowed, pulling forth a bulging sandwich bag, the bottom straining dangerously. “By Hoofdinis ghost, I found it!”
Unlike the fish, he decided to bite.
"You found what-" He answered back dryly, squinting through bottlecap lenses to make out the contents of the translucent bag. "-perfume? I don't think free samples will be of much use here Beatrice."
"Hah!" She wagged her finger. "Trixie needs no 'free samples'... even if her financial situation isn't exactly as stable as she'd like, no. This Micro-" a twirling flourish of her arms 'magically' transported one of the containers into an open hand, "-is fishing vodka! Want some?"
Unimpressed with her paltry attempts at misdirection, Micro shook his head slowly.
"I don't care for alcohol, it's a mental retardant." A sneer wormed its way loose. "That’s ignoring the plethora of avoidable diseases and behaviours it can cause."
Micro left out his opinion on their classmates who imbibed too much. As much as he enjoyed a scathing critique of Berry Punch, and her staggering excuse for a 'lifestyle', there was a growing suspicion that things with her weren't quite right. Things social services might be required for.
"More for Trixie!"
Abandoning the now-useless rod, something else their obviously cash-strapped host would neurotically try to hide beneath a pithy catchphrase, Micro Chips considered how things had come to this. Here he was, with a brain so large its only rival was someone whose dump stat consisted of everything but intelligence. Stuck with a girl that thought birthday parties and wowing simpletons in the streets was a viable career path.
Said girl was currently failing to open a simple five-centilitre bottle in fact. Such was the cliche sitcom he'd become trapped in.
Roll on the canned laughter.
No, if a Goddess did exist, something Micro held a ninety-nine-point-nine percent chance of being false, then she had a rather unfunny sense of humour in his opinion.
"Wait…" he mumbled, stray thoughts coalescing into a whole, "You said fishing vodka, correct? You packed alcohol for this specific activity?!"
Pausing in her attempts to remove the bottle's lid, she flashed a knowing smile, eyes half-lidded.
"Oh Micro, Trixie has vodka for every occasion. "
'Every occasion' implied many things, including the discomforting existence of archery vodka. A deep shudder ran through his spine. Those plans for a force field emitter suddenly gained significantly more motivation. Spin Fix’s correspondence would be shuffled to the top of the pile, no doubt about it. Cold fusion could wait. Its day would come.
"Remember!" she declared, taking a 'heroic' pose indicative of a more-than-passing familiarity with those odd comics he'd caught Fluttershy with on occasion. “A magician always has something up their sleeve-
The motion was swift and singular, yet the sound would haunt his memories for the next few nights. Something about enamel on aluminium always did make him uncomfortable.
"- or their backpack in this case." She finished, spitting the lid out with every ounce of ladylike grace she possessed.
"Charming."
Her boisterous laugh was all the riposte she needed, a broad smile radiating comfort its following act. It didn't irritate (#2) him, but as she settled onto the damp grass, a few stray blades still nestled in her hair, he did note a creeping anxiety or two.
While the camp had several prime fishing spots, the weather, seasons, and rotating levels of measured stock had ensured they were stuck with the central lake. Micro chips could acknowledge it certainly held a strong level of aesthetic charm, however, the pristine waters and clear, flat view of the campgrounds weren't ideal at this moment. He could practically see Principal Celestia from here… or maybe it was Rarity? Chalk white blurs aside. The notion of their authority figures catching Trixie, and him by proxy, with alcohol was unacceptable.
His record was pristine, and it would damn well stay that way.
Deceit, he could admit with some mild shame, was astonishingly easy. If not for the appalling amount of corruption inherent, he’d take his father's suggestion of a political career more seriously. It was all a matter of data, perception, and good old-fashioned intelligence. Considering he was always the smartest man in the room, it inevitably became something of a cakewalk. What would be Trixie's fulcrum, though?
Her ego seemed obvious, yet sharpening that into a blade for his hands would be fruitless. The girl couldn’t be goaded into sobriety; their whole age range consistently prided itself on the lengths they could abuse themselves. He toyed with the loose reel in his hands, deep in thought.
Trixie's stagecraft was the next possibility. Surely any performer worth their salt certainly would know that intoxication impaired fine motor control? Yet the way she was nursing her third(!) drink suggested the fat lady was rolling up her last aria. No, he needed to rely on the basics. Trixie was a teenage girl.
What do teenage girls like?
“You really shouldn't drink,” he began, finally ready. The girl had emptied her bottle and was already reaching for a new one. His voice wavered for a second, but he steeled himself, being careful to ensure the tone wasn’t nagging, but from a place of care. “Not only is it poor for your developing body, but if the Principals or camp counsellors catch you, it could be a serious mark against your struggling grades.”
She hesitated, fingers curling gently around the tiny glass container in her hand as a rolling cloud cast a dark pall over the duo.
“Just as planned. Imply a girl's appearance will suffer and-”
“Eh, fuck it,” Trixie said, casually waving away his concerns while necking the bottle swiftly, sunlight radiating once more from the girl's silvery tresses. “Queers getting drunk while fishing is practically tradition, and unlike you, Trixie will honour her ancestors!”
Micro Chips wasn’t fond of the common metaphors used to describe how a human brain functioned. It was all a bit simplistic, and somewhat insulting truthfully, but he found comparing it to your average computer the least irksome. As such, if asked, he’d say Trixie had caused a forced reboot, so… unusual was her statement. Like all computers, though, files were recovered quickly, and it didn’t take long for his sense of self to note something in particular.
Purple fingers lashed out, snapping around a pastel blue wrist with surprising speed. Despite being a ‘bean pole’, as his mother put it, puberty had gifted the young genius with some modicum of strength, and he utilised it now. Carefully, but with purpose.
“What did you say?”
He was calm. Calm. The opposite of anger. He didn’t need to know every possible permutation of the word because just the one would suffice. C A L M. He had to be. This wasn’t assault of course. He was just keeping Trixie sober. Yes, sober. A clear head was important for accurate information. Something he required.
“Well,” the girl said, tearing out of his grasp with contemptuous ease and a snort, ignoring her latest bottle falling to the damp earth. “Trixie was merely extolling the virtues of following tradition, of-”
“The other thing!”
“The queer thing?” she shrugged. “Trixie's not down with the 'f word' even if it's in vogue but-”
Micro Chips had never owned a dog. As cliche as it sounded, allergies were the bane of his life. Yet right that second the impression was uncanny, a low growl crawling up from deep within his chest.
“I. AM. NOT. GAY.”
Seated on the lush grass with legs crossed, her head resting in a palm, Trixie looked to all the world like a great thinker. Someone who was deeply in attunement to the mysteries of life, the universe, and everything. A mind that could deftly negotiate the pitfalls of philosophy, theology, and every other rhetorical trick used in the intensities of dialogue.
“Nah.”
Wordlessly Micro rose, a cold, mechanical efficiency in each following stride. The fishing rod was his first objective, damaged it may be, but within moments it had been dismantled back into its constituent elements. Let Gloriosa have a fit. Micro Chips didn’t care right now, he needed his backpack.
“You're definitely selling the whole ‘totally not gay’ idea to Trixie by flouncing off in a huff.”
Everything consisted of atoms. It was a known fact. They were also silent, something neatly envisaged as he marched past Trixie, the girl's voice non-existent in a world where she was merely her constituent elements, rather than a human avatar for his displeasure (#40).
“Trixie will assume your silence is affirmation, and duly add you to Trixie’s pride planning committee then?”
He was shaking.
The tremors reverberated through him, especially his hands. Even something as simple as opening his drawstring bag was nigh-impossible, the nylon cord slipping from trembling fingers again and again. While it was possible to abandon it, his personal effects were somewhat on the pricey side, and any littering would doubtless tarnish a perfect record when it was inevitably discovered. No, he was trapped.
Micro Chips couldn’t see it, but he knew she had that insufferable (#27) smile on her face. It was as rock solid a fact as Galineighos assertion over moving objects. A giggle on her part hammered the point home.
“Beatrice,” he hissed, teeth clenched and body hunched, “I’m aware that I don't fit society's ideal concept of what they currently consider masculine, yet that doesn’t mean I'm physically or emotionally interested in my own sex.” A foot stabbed at the drying earth, “I thought such poor logic was abandoned when we entered high school?”
“Oh, this has nothing to do with your physique, Micro,” Trixie drawled, circling the slim young man till she was in front of her fishing partner once more. “You just light up Trixie's gaydar like a Winter Festival is all.”
“Intuition!?” Purple knuckles bleached out, his fists tightening until they ached in unfamiliar pain. Glaring at the girl standing over him, his voice gravitated towards the imperious tone he reserved for conspiracy theorists and the overly religious, “You harass me over something as ridiculous as-”
“Plus there’s Sandalwood.”
Before High School most of the bullying he’d endured had been physical. An all-boys school tended to excel in that, amongst other academic pursuits, and he'd helped make a lot of grade-a students. Yet even ‘Supersize' Smooth Brain didn’t hit as hard as those three words.
“S-Sandalwood?” Micro Chips choked out.
Objectively Trixie's grin was rather standard, lacking even a hint of her usual egotistical smirk now, yet that didn’t stop it from feeling predatory, however.
“Mhm. Big guy, wears contacts, plays the conga, owns a disturbing number of guinea pigs.” A pastel blue finger tapped his forehead with feather lightness. “Ring any bells?”
Lips curled back, he swatted at the girl’s retreating hand before rising from his bag. Any thought of leaving now long discarded.
“I am familiar with the dreadlocked ape, yes,” His tone reflecting the cold energy pulsating through him. “We’ve collaborated on the odd group project for school, but nothing more. He's a colleague at best. Aside from all that, I find his personality rather… lacking, shall we say.”
“Like your mister personality Micro?” She chuckled, sauntering back to the gaudy tarp she’d placed for her catches, its neon pink obscured by the horde of sea life struggling for oxygen.
It was only a few seconds, but the girl's showy crack of her knuckles, followed by an alarming display of control over the fabric, reminded Micro that Trixie's skill in the performing arts weren’t just simple card tricks. Loathe as he was to admit it.
Her observational skills were lacking, however, the numerous floating corpses in the lake could attest to that. An incoming flurry of herons certainly appreciated the miraculous bounty, though.
“Now that Trixie has magnanimously returned her catches to their mundane fishy lives, let us continue, hmmm?”
The glare he shot at the returned girl could have doubled as a plasma torch.
“No.”
“Too bad," She shrugged, a fresh bottle of 'fishing vodka' somehow in hand. "The queer and sapphic Trixie has noticed many things in her travels through the halls of Canterlot High, especially concerning you and the 'dreadlocked ape'.
Any attempt Micro Chips had in mind to cut her off was shattered by another cringe-inducing demonstration of 'hillbilly bottle opening'. This time, he could feel his teeth rebelling at the sight.
"Yes, there were furtive looks, touches, even the brush of hands on occasion," Trixie mumbled through the aluminium lid, this time deigning to remove it by hand. "Once or twice could be a coincidence, even if Trixie disbelieves in such things, but thrice and more? No. Trixie has you pegged Micro Chips.” A softness betrayed something in the girl's usual braggadocio, her lips pursing in a rare display of concern. “What she doesn’t understand, though, despite her great and powerful brain, is why you hide yourself?”
“This is ridiculous,” he bit back, slinging his arms up in frustration as hasty thoughts and feelings strangled the serenity he’d desperately tried to gather. A normally calm river was now furiously splashing against his psyches dam, one constructed with meticulous care. “I refuse to engage in idle fantasies from an even idler fantasist!”
He needed to get away. To regroup and breathe. It was all becoming a blur, one that churned his stomach and squeezed the air from an already over-laboured body. A tentative step past the girl, the simplest of escapes, was barred though. While Trixie's grip wasn’t particularly strong, it seemed almost magnetic, holding him firmly in place.
“Once again you try to run from Trixie, but ask yourself Micro. If she is wrong, why are you so angry?
“I am angry-” he snarled, tearing her hand off his shoulder, “-because the school's resident lunatic is speculating on my sexuality. I am angry-” his voice grew, the reedy tone gaining a sharp edge with each decibel of volume, “-because you're hounding me over a non-existent relationship. I am angry because-”
“Trixie saw the texts.”
Micro Chips had never wondered what it was like to be stabbed, yet right that second he had a good idea he could describe it pretty well to anyone curious enough.
“… what?”
It was little more than a squeak, but right that second, it was all he could muster. No amount of titanic efforts, brainpower, or ‘magic’ could garner more.
“Sandalwood had left his phone in class. Trixie, being the model student that she is, decided the courteous thing to do was return it, and not steal his phone data. Just another scurrilous rumour, one of Trixie's many exes spread no doubt.” she said, rolling her eyes. “Unfortunately he’d left it unlocked, and… well… Trixie saw things. Things 'colleagues’ don’t say to each other.”
His father had often bemoaned how weak-willed he was. That standing up to your problems, raising your fists, and loudly demanding ‘enough is enough’ would solve all life's issues. Action over words. Brawn over brains.
Understandably, Micro would admit he didn’t get on with the man. Yet, as the dam within burst and he boiled over, there was a sneaking suspicion the old bastard would be applauding.
“What would you know about colleagues Trixie-” he barked, pushing down any lingering hesitancy as his personal space swiftly became hers, “-about relationships, tartarus, even friendship!?”
For the first time since kindergarten, he willingly raised his hand in anger. It was a simple poke, nothing more. Yet he jabbed at the girl's chest like his index finger was a blade of solid iron.
“You're utterly alone!” The teen continued, a perplexing feeling of satisfaction bleeding into him as Trixie stumbled backwards, his advance slow but inexorable. “Beatrice the school bicycle, barely able to hold on to someone for a week. No wonder you're such an attention-seeking fool!”
Another poke, another stumble. As the third stab began, she ground her heels into the soft earth, wide-eyed shock replaced with… something. Something that Micro Chips certainly couldn’t place. Despite the adrenaline coursing through his system, or perhaps because of it, he halted.
This was wrong. She was wrong.
The laughter didn’t help matters.
Trixie's laugh was surprisingly mundane, a fact which often threw those new to the girl. There was an expectation of something operatic, magnificent, or at least distinctly showy. Instead, it was your average chortle, perhaps an octave or two lower than you’d expect from a girl, but aside from that it was utterly unremarkable. A fact which the wildlife, already perturbed by the intruding humans, rather appreciated.
“Are you done?” She eventually said, her mirth slowly petering out.
Dumbfounded, Micro Chips could do little but nod. This… didn’t make sense. None of it did. Today was supposed to be for relaxation. it had evolved into something radically different.
“Cool,” She rocked on her heels for a moment. “Trixie will let you have that by the way,” it was a faux-whisper but surprisingly sincere despite that, “She’s humble enough to see when a fellow queer is so deep in the closet they’re tangled in linen.”
He should have been furious, defensive, even violent again. Yet the last burst had drained him, those chemicals briefly empowering his not-exactly-substantial form taking their toll. In a pitiful summary, the brawn had failed, and not for the first time.
Father would be so proud.
Nature held a special place in Beatrice Lulamoons heart. She was a city rat by birth, trade, and soon-to-be superstar career, so even the slightest touch of green was relished. The anaemic grass of her local park, infested with cigarette butts and fast food wrappers, was above most people's concerns. Yet she’d still spent many childhood days watering it diligently, her and… someone?
The memories were hazy and honestly didn’t matter right now. What did was Everfree Forest and Micro Chips. A pristine paradise coupled with a mess of self-denial.
She’d worked with worse.
At least the scenery was pretty this time.
“It’s confusing, isn’t it?” Trixie said, a gentle sigh on her lips, “You think you’ve got all the angles covered, every answer ready. Then someone just shatters it. Trixie… forgets sometimes how hard it all can be. The lies, the secrets.”
“Bu-”
“Uh-uh, this is Trixie's time, Micro,” she lectured, finger-wagging contemptuously. “We aren’t the same, of course. Trixie has been out for years now. Trixie has the limelight, the passion, the-” violet eyes closed for the briefest of moments as memories were rifled through like a deck of cards, “- the pain. Beatrice was different, she… no, I understand. You're worried, terrified even. Is it parents? The school?”
Extended silence from someone who once lectured the class for two hours on artificial intelligence would normally irritate her, even generate a spontaneous bout of ego. Now it seemed petty. No, she knew it was petty.
“Ok, clam up for me,” She shrugged, “I just think Sandalwood deserves better.”
That got a response, one she was well versed with in fact. You became incredibly intimate with angry looks as a part-time illusionist, even one as magnificent as her.
“Hey, I’m just saying, no relationship survives like this.” Her face darkened. “I know from personal experience.”
How long had she cried after Cherry Crash? Certainly longer than she did with most girls these days. Micro’s verbal slashes did have an uncomfortable ring of truth to them. The thrill of the chase was always better than the catch, a maxim that applied to much of Trixie's life. Although the physical side of things certainly ranked quite high on her list.
The greatest illusion in her repertoire was that of being a stable partner. It was one she never knowingly cast, yet it refused to fade.
“Y-yes, I’m scared,” Micro Chips whispered, a few seconds ticking by. He was utterly still, yet somehow emanated an aura of sugar-glass fragility. “I’ve seen the figures. I know the numbers. Princess Twilight may have made Canterlot High a better place, but not the whole world.”
A butterfly flitted past the two, the insects’ soft flaps drawing their gaze as it danced ever higher. As if prompted, Micro Chips exhaled, the sound somehow having a bitter edge to it.
“I've endured so much. Every step of my life dogged by one ignorant clod after another.” He continued, faster now as his voice ran away from him. “If it’s not some thug on a power trip, then it’s Sunset Shimmer, or girls like her,'' he hurriedly added. “That’s without standing out more than I can help. Why should I suffer? Tell me that Beatrice? Why should I suffer more pain when I can avoid it? It’s illogical. Insanity even!” He shuddered despite the beaming sun.
“No. The optimal choice of action is to stay the course.” He clawed at his bare arms, dark streaky marks blooming. “No one will ever know I-” the teen paused as utmost shame crawled over his face “-I like men.”
One of the most basic elements of magic, stagecraft that is, since the weird and wonderful world of sparkly horse powers had entered Trixie's life, is leading your audience. Look to the left, not the right. Watch the assistant, not me. This gun is definitely load- ok, she hadn't gotten quite that far yet. It was still an essential skill though, and one she’d mastered readily. Today was just another tick in the ‘great and powerful’ box.
“I know though Micro. You just told me-”
While not the most reliable teachers, movies, tv, and her therapist had shown Trixie that this was her key point to strike. She could almost literally see panic blossoming in Micro Chips eyes’, the magnitude of what she’d just said hitting home.
“- but how does it make you feel, now you’ve gotten it off your chest?”
If she wasn’t such a humble and nice person, the opportunity to trap a genius under her thumb in the offer of permanent silence would have been irresistible. Instead, she’d merely thought of it. Maybe ask for tutoring later though? It couldn’t hurt.
“I feel… I feel… good?” He managed to blurt out, somehow avoiding hyperventilating himself half to death, at least if Trixie’s vague remembrances of panic attacks were accurate. More exes than she’d like to admit were on the nervy side.
Maybe she had a thing for neurotic girls?
Throwing that thought to the wind, she looped an arm around the calming teen, pulling him into a friendly half-embrace.
“While Trixie isn’t a scientific powerhouse like yourself, Micro, she understands that the scientific method involves repeating yourself, correct? ‘Accuracy requires repetition’ or some mumbo jumbo, mhm?”
“Well yes,” he cringed slightly at her touch, “but-”
“There we go then!” She cheered, cutting him off and pumping as much ‘Trixie confidenceTM’ into the young man as she could. “The only way you’ll ensure this positive feeling of yours isn’t a fluke, is to go and be out, be proud, be with Sandalwood!” The stars faded from her eyes, “Go do couple stuff Micro. Hold hands, kiss, be happy. Ok?”
The secret to her greatest trick? It only affected herself.
Clear skies, fresh air, and honest, useful work. These were the things that Sandalwood vibed with. Camp Everfree gave them all, and in plentiful supply, something he appreciated with gusto. The idea of a ‘corporate camp’, even one family owned, had been a buzzkill at first. What was wrong with open nature? He had to admit, though, Gloriosa Daisy was on the level. She got it. Respect the wilderness and it’ll respect you. Though the dock did seem to disintegrate at the slightest glance, local wood or no. Maybe he could suggest some stronger lumber?
“I’ll be back in a minute, my dudes,” he grunted, dropping his hammer before pushing himself up from the half-constructed platform. This was thirsty work, and he had a big, big need to get his quench on. That and a new shirt. He was dripping in sweat! Not that he cared, of course, but the girls in ‘Operation Dock Fixer’ weren’t too fond of guy-funk.
Passing the few students milling around the grounds, some enjoying a blazing sun or merely awaiting the return of Gloriosa, he caught sight of a familiar duo as he neared the cafeteria cabin.
“Hey Trixie, hey Micro, how's it hanging?”
Tick boxes weren’t Sandalwood's thing. They were too conforming and often used for nefarious purposes in his opinion, but he’d begrudgingly identify himself as ‘bisexual’ if pressed. Micro Chips, on the other hand, was a guy who knew how to press his buttons in all the right ways. Unlike Micro, though, he was well known to be a free-love kind of guy, and found the spirit more attractive than the flesh, no matter what junk it had attached.
So there had to be rules.
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he thought as the three converged, suddenly disappointed in himself for the negative energy he’d briefly created.
He didn’t like the rules.
They were constrictive, and lying never felt right to the teen. Despite that, he instinctively understood why his boyfriend was so paranoid. Micro had a beautiful soul, full of astounding wonder at even the smallest thing, but it was heavily fractured. Every fragment reflecting negativity, cynicism, and materialistic pride. They were working on it, though.
His first rule? No ‘intimate touching’ in public. They were friends at best, barely even that. It was obvious something had changed when the shorter teen practically fell into his arms though, tightly embracing him in a way they only did within the privacy of Sandalwood's home, now on display for all to see.
“H-Hey man, you ok! What about the rules?” he whispered, secretly indulging in the gentle touch while indifferent to the few students roused interest.
“Fuck the rules,” Micro muttered, nuzzling into his chest.
Ok, something was up. Micro never cursed, and Trixe only had a smile like that-
“Kiss me.”
While not the sharpest person his age, something Micro teased him over endlessly, Sandalwood often considered himself fairly unflappable. When Fluttershy and her friends suddenly turned into furries, he was cool. Same with the Dazzlings. Even Crystal Prep Twilight turning into a demon seemed pretty normal. So it was weird that this, of all things, caused him to choke on his tongue.
“Oh, come here,” Micro mumbled, rolling his eyes as he dragged the taller boy down into a kiss the likes of which he’d only experienced once, many midnights ago.
Passion was something Micro understood well. Sandalwood had learnt that fact very quickly. Yet despite this, there was a fervour behind the boy's lips he’d never felt before. Something pent up, finally given its long-sought release. The atmosphere certainly helped, a light cheer rising up from the surrounding students as the two clasped each other close.
Breaking away, gasping for air, a thousand thoughts rushed to escape. As usual for Sandalwood, though, it was always the most obvious.
“What was that for?”
Micro was mercurial, stormy at times even. At his best, Sandalwood found him a difficult read. Often consumed by the roiling darkness his splintered self earnestly created. Now those same shards aligned perfectly, with a radiance clear for him to see.
“Cause I love you, you big doof,” he whispered, holding the taller boy close, those same words uttered only in the darkest of nights. “I just needed the help of a… friend to let the world know.”
A small tilt of his head told him who this ‘friend’ was. She tried fronting, but he knew better. Anyone who could pierce Micro’s shell would find themselves an expert in reading people. Trixie was nervous, yet happy, in an odd, sad way. It was a surprise, but a welcome one to say the least.
“DUDE!”
The crushing embrace, rush of overwhelming joy, and girls’ unintelligible wails deafened Sandalwood to his peers. Something of a faux pas in Canterlot High. Especially when it meant you missed important observations. The latest was particularly critical.
“Why is Gloriosa floating?”