>You are shook from your sleep by a bump on the head.
>You look around the bedroom groggily, in time to see a gray pony peek around the doorjamb then dart back.
>You rub your head as you search for whatever it was that woke you.
>A kiwi.
>There is a kiwi on your bed.
>She threw a kiwi.
>”What is with her and throwing stuff?” you wonder.
>You step into your slippers and slowly pace to the kitchen.
>Octavia is at the counter slicing fruit for breakfast.
“You know,” you begin, “I set an alarm. You didn’t have to wake me, I wasn’t going to miss this.”
>She turns to you, blushing a little.
>”I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she declares, returning to her chopping.
>You walk over and slide your hands around her waist, propping your head on her shoulder.
>She gasps a little and stops her chopping.
>”A-anon, what are you..”
“I’ll take care of this, Octi,” you place your hands on her hooves. “We don’t want you hurting yourself on your big day.”
>”Fine. I suppose it will save me some time.”
>You kiss her on the cheek as you step aside to let her get ready
>”H-Honestly, Anon! You are so impossible sometimes!” she says, blushing furiously.
>The two of you go about your morning routines, albeit a little quicker than usual given the importance of the day.
>You pick up Octavia’s cello case as the two of you head out the door.
>”A-Anon, I am more than capab-“
>You muss up her hair and gently push her out the door, following her.
“It’s fine, Octi,” you reply.
>”Well if you absolutely must,” she answers, with the tiniest hint of a smile on her face.
>The two of you huddle together in the bus stop as the winter wind blows outside.
>You curse yourself for not looking at the schedule beforehand.
>Suddenly you feel something grasping you tightly.
>You look down and see Octavia hugging you as hard as she can.
>”Th-The preservation of body heat in situations such as this is cruc-“
>You wrap your arms around her, resting your chin on top of her head.
”You’ll do great today.”
>A faint, muffled “Th-thanks” reaches your ears above the sounds of the wind and traffic.
>Finally the bus arrives
>You step in and pay the fares for both of you then select a seat near the back, carefully setting down Octavia’s cello.
>”S-Since there’s no room, I guess I have to sit with you,” says Octavia.
>You look around.
>The bus is nearly empty.
>You check your watch – 7:32 am. Plenty of time.
>”You didn’t need to come, anon. I-It’s not like I need your support or anything.”
>Today is Octavia’s recital, hence the early start, and she ought to have someone there who cares for her.
”Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Octi.”
>”Hmph,” she replies, turning to stare out the window.
>You press the button to stop the bus as you reach the concert hall where the recital is being held.
>Octavia has been fidgeting the whole journey here.
>Once you have checked in with the receptionist, the time comes for Octavia to head backstage.
>She hovers around you, nervously.
>You rest the cello case on the ground and embrace Octavia in a warm hug.
>”A-Anon! Not in front of all these people!” she protests, though she hugs you back fiercely.
“Break a leg out there, Octi,” you say.
>She picks up her instrument and begins to walk to the stage door.
>However, she halts just before her hoof reaches the doorknob.
“Oh?” you wonder.
>She scurries back and stops in front of you.
>Without looking at you, she motions for you to lean down.
>You take a knee, bringing yourself to her eye level.
>She gives you a quick kiss then hurries back to the stage.
>You chuckle to yourself a little then take the door intended for members of the audience.
>It’s quite full but you are still able to find a seat near the front.
>A hush falls over the audience and the light dims.
>You can see a few ponies in formal attire in the front row.
>Judges, you think to yourself.
>Suddenly the light dims, the curtain is drawn, and the recital begins.
>A pony walks up and plays a piano piece, then a violinist, and one pony plays the marimba.
>The music is great but, as you so often tell yourself, it’s nothing like what Octi plays.
>Finally, Octavia appears.
>She struts to centre stage, wearing a beautiful dress.
>In a word: breathtaking.
>You’ve seen her like this so many times, but you can still never get over how gorgeous she is.
>As she takes her spot you see her eyes scanning the audience.
>You sit up in your seat.
>Her eyes stop on you.
>You think you see in that short moment a look of reassurance cross her face.
>She begins.
>The piece begins slowly, her hoof delicately moving the bow across the strings.
>You take a deep breath.
>The sound is haunting and unforgettable.
>She closes her eyes, her face a portrait of grace and concentration.
>The piece moves faster now, and Octavia’s rhythmic moving of the bow quickens.
>It’s as though she’s breathing through the cello.
>It’s as though she and the cello are one.
>Through the cello she is able to speak her mind, to give light to the many thoughts she keeps cloistered in her head.
>Her movements are elegant and sensual.
>It’s this passion that made you fall for her all those years ago.
>The audience is gripped by the performance.
>You realize that your fingers are digging in to the armrests of your chair, you’re gripping it so hard.
>You try to relax but remain focused on the beautiful mare on stage.
>You want this to be perfect for her.
>You want to see her walk off the stage wearing a genuine smile.
>The piece reaches its climax, the bow moving feverishly across the strings.
>Octavia’s brow furrows a little, but she gives no other sign of her intense exertion.
>You lean forward allowing the sound to crash against you, wave after wave like a vast glittering sea.
>Finally, the piece comes to an end.
>Octavia stands, finding you again in the crowd.
>She never breaks her gaze with you, even as she bows.
>The audience, shocked by the power of the music, is silent for a moment.
>But the dam bursts, and the auditorium is soon roaring with applause.
>Octavia remains professional, bowing a second time then heading offstage.
>Hers was the final performance, and you duck down to make your way back to the foyer before the hall is too crowded.
>You lean against the wall, waiting patiently for Octavia.
>The hall is filled with ponies congratulating each other, but your eyes remain fixed on the stage door.
>Eventually Octavia emerges, carrying her cello case.
>You rush to her and pull her in tight with your arms.
>She buries her head in your chest.
“It was beautiful, Octi,” you whisper.
>She hugs you a little tighter.
>You remain locked in this position for some time.
>Some ponies are staring, others chuckling to themselves, but you don’t care.
>You rub her back a little and ask:
“Shall we head home now?”
>Octavia nods a little, her head still tucked tightly against you.
>Slowly you break the embrace and pick up her cello.
>As you leave she walks close you, her sides brushing your legs.
>The bus ride is quiet, neither of you speaking very much.
>Octavia has a deep, satisfied smile on her face.
>Moments like these are what you live for.
>There’s no need for words.
>As you step through the door of the apartment you share, you set the cello in its usual spot and offer to make something for lunch.
>Octavia shakes her head.
>”I think I’d like to rest first,” she says.
“Then let us rest!” you declare.
>In a single sweeping motion you whisk Octavia off her hooves and plant a kiss on her lips.
>She blushes deeply.
>”P-Put me down, anon! Wh-what are you doing?”
>You kick the door closed behind you, then stride down the hall and into the bedroom.
>You gently place Octavia on the bed and cuddle up behind her.
>”Y-you’re so absurd, Anon,” she says.
“Mm-hm,” you reply, playing with her hair.
>The light peaks in through the blinds, casting a nice afternoon glow in the room.
>You tuck one arm around her and pull her in close.
>The two of you lie in a dream-like state between awake and asleep.
>Every so often you kiss her shoulder.
>Despite her protests earlier, she curls in a little closer.
>Fin