http://pastebin.com/Zmtgdt0W
http://pastebin.com/u/StayedGolden





Saturday
	In the penultimate Earthspin of the sevenlong, a pair of see-globe covers tremored, then vanished. The sleep-place within the look-gallery, the lash-flaps removed it several times while your live-motor cranked itself to a start-place. A small windtorrent of de-oxided breath-gas fled from your lip-circle, the pink edges of which smacked wearilously. At the summoning of your up-limbs, a blockade of the port-homed member is brought to mind-view.
	A minor retrieval was sought, and, arm-stayed, you direct your observating-ovals to the predicted home of the move-enemy. You kill the quiet air-bite in your throat-tube with the free five-finger over your facehole. The wake-noise stopped, the anti-mover remains considerated in your stilled top-globe. For the arm-trap is none other than your very own aunt-spawn, the El Doradon personette Apple Bloom. Her front cushions lift and unlift with her vacillatory oxide-feast, captivorating your thought-place entirely. Her port up-looking, the homed up-reacher cloaks your own high-chest. Dainty fifth-longs hang over your starboard top, faint-sweeping it at intervals. 
	Both tragesorrowedly and unwished luck-holding, your semi-lovepal was cloaked in a T-shape of the Southern whitefluffs and double-longs of the rough-blue. The bottom-standers were cutiferously unheld, adore-calling end-nubs clenching and unclenching as their homes swayed with the un-normed temperature. A bouquet of cherry ultra-thins homeseized your lefting-grabstick, the soft-wrap of the snoresquare, and even part of your limb-base. Curiousasking why the ticklebearing rosethreads didn’t untriple-z you pre-now, your collect-sift the animesque waywarders to a more together-bound area. 
	Unthinking of wakecausing, the proper course solestands, your see-globes cannot but shimmer upon the beautyowner. The livegranting regalite, somehow miraculized into your gratefilled embrace. Brown youthspots over her puffcircles and olfactory organ adorable to the max. Her speakmaker crescented in some enjoyitude, evercute. Willingless to desirecease, your hand lovestrokes the see-treat’s blushholder, the smoothflesh liplifting your still dazed personage. 
	With the tendersweep, the residual resident of the refugous nocturnal imaginarium stirs. The shortquake of the halfduo alarms you after-caught, your lovesnugg mitt still her-homed when sunshone see-globes encapture your sightform. Uncontent with usual cornerlip-heightening, her reaction up-antes to a personpaw mouthmeet. Enjubified and butterflated, you switch your stroketool with your own mouthpiece, lightly liplocking with the femalian friendlove. Emotative topbulbs parted, hilarious shypbreaths were lost to the atmosphere. But peril, ever banished for littletime, rode in upon shrill woodraps. Three bonks stageset the impestuous call:
	“Boyguest?” Doublepairs of flabbergastic alarms meet, follow by the sweetbreath of the prime planner.
	“Pseudosleep, speedily!” Upperholders unweave and topbulbs featherfall soundless to the bodywarmer, your bodies devicinitated to each other. No sooner than the chaste tableau apparates than the fourwalls is impaired, an easthole bearing the a second personette, triple appled. Viewing the hornified hiders, a pair of citrous lips imply a protectorating discontent. With a falsitous deep cough, you’re cued to informize the toe-tapping invesitigant. Subpoenaless, your bedmate intersects, placepilfering the hotseat designed for you. 
	Cinematoriously, the pro-you Apple hammocks her highglobe in double personpaws, lazylooking at the duellish trespasser. Tumbox hidly tingling, the present unsleeper awaits, first move declining. Crosslimbed, the inquisitor enquests explanation, the suspectily gossipfodder unaloneable. The responder’s headfront is undazed, unproblemed. AJ depatiently words the lewd potential pre-now causes of doublysleeping, unbuying the innocence. Uprighting herself to a greater degree, the defending personette mouthsounds another tale, a pre-now mirror of unsame cousins. Chestsinking, the listener rightpredicts the incoming names: her own, and Braeburn. 
	Backfooted, the now-focused elder wordswats away the implicatory rejoinder, the defenses failworthy. A mere topeye brush-raise is enough to wordstop the blusher, retractily wording some apology as she hurries exitwards. The wallhole shuts, fading footdrops indicating the disapperated danger. Sightsafe and deperilized, you celebratiously lovepour into the salvatory sweetheart, ultimatedly tilting girlwards. The pro-pair recipient pinkifies at the saxifragous encoupling. Toplimbs rewrapped in the safespace of inhabitory fourwalls, interrupters unexpected. You unspot the both, brazefully amorating the chest cushions as he arranged a superior lesiurelay. 
	Horizontalized, the permissing pal halfcrawled on your tophalf, starboard limbs curled pleasurily over. Minutepassing with the girlish loveholder, you lose yourself in the splendidspot of being a subqueen’s alphaknight. Palmfives poke through the rosethreads, eliciting a puffchested lovegroan. Her rapturous see-globes vectorize to your headfront, appreciously lovelusting the lipgrasp once more. Syncroniziously thoughtful and message receiving, you wishgrant the lovebuddy. Timelocked, the sunfurthers into the clearwalls, lightbathing your effulgent belover. 
	Eventualending, you fastly persongrasp the treasure, closeness the prize. Responding lasciviously, your own toppiece constricts in the ecstatic yougrip of the amoriscious emotator. An unfinal retreat leaves you personless, a necessary redress calling to both halfpairs. Waterfall intending, a pretendinvite spurs schemes in each, the jokelaughs fading in the seriousing of youngwishes. A futurepromise threatens to lovesplode the doubleheart, and the wallhole begins anew. But before the sleepspace singlizes, the depantsing of the male begs a stillstay. Unshirting, the watchgirl fins her previous pretense of innocence boyheld as you casualsearch for your nextcovers, boxerbound solely. At the rehiding, you drop a see-globe cover to the flushcheeked watcher, who, untranced, finds the fourwalls exitable once more.

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	Slowly, through a torrent of vivid dreams, Saturday came around. The last day of the week, the last day of your visit with the Apples, crept into your blinking eyes through the early sun. You blinked a few times, barely blocking out the light, which still crept in through that hazy red of a sun through closed lids. Your head and heart begin to stir, transitioning to a more lively state. You breathe in deeply, letting loose a great yawn. In those stretches that bring awareness of the body, you find your left arm unable to move. You try to move it again and, still failing, glance over to identify the source of the impairment. 
	Laying atop your arm is Apple Bloom, looking as radiant as she ever did in the bright sunbeam. Another yawn is cut off midway by your hand clasping over your mouth, suddenly desiring quiet. Her back is on the bed, her chest rising and falling slowly with her relaxed breaths. The rise and fall of the fair breasts captivates you for a moment, your staring face frozen for a moment. Your silent adoration eventually ends, allowing you to look at the rest of her. Her left arm is laid gently over her stomach, traveling across to the right side, with the hand dangling over. Her little fingers are close to your own chest, the occasional shifts from her breathing making them brush you very lightly. 
	Unfortunately, but probably fortunately, she’s clothed in a light cotton shirt and some jeans from yesterday. Her feet lack socks and shoes, looking cute at her toes furl and unfurl in those natural reactions of the non-static temperature. You try to remember if you’ve given her a foot massage yet. You feel like you have, but nothing comes to mind, and so you resolve to get one in there somewhere. Her rosy hair has cast in all directions, coating the hand that came from under Apple Bloom, her shoulders, and a little bit of your own chest. You wonder why the ticklish strands didn’t wake you up before, and try to brush them into a less-crazy area.
	But you hadn’t thought of the possibility of her waking; your mind was still stuck in the singular function of appreciation this gorgeous girl you’d spent the night with. Surprisingly, though not justifiably so, she stirs, her own eyelids fluttering as she tried to snatch wakefulness. The adorable little yawn makes your head swim with affection, multiplied by the following grin as she recognizes you. Your hand moves, seemingly off its own accord, lightly stroking her cheek in dazed affection. Her grin widens at the tender display of love, and she places a light kiss on your hand as it passes by. Feeling as though your heart may burst, you pull her into a long hug, the failure to connect as fully as possible unthinkable. She pulls off just a little bit, then immediately solves your confusion with a kiss. 
	Your moment, tragically, doesn’t last. Just as you’re about to step up your kiss, shrill raps can be heard upon the door, followed by a piercing call.
	“Anon?” It’s Applejack; for the first time, the notion of her makes your heart sink. As good of a friend and family member she is, you find yourself wishing she’d fucking stop and go away. The continued knocking informs you that your wish is ungranted. Apple Blooms eyes, filled with alarm, meet yours. The realization that this is not only a disruption of your romance, but a potential injury to it, fills yours with the same. Her voice, still sweet under the fear, comes quickly and quietly.
	“Quick, pretend to sleep!” Your arms unweave, both bodies falling soundlessly on your bed, not too close to each other. Your portrayal of an innocent scene is completed just in time, the door opening not a moment after your pretense is complete. Her lips purse as she spies the scene, your frozen forms not enough to push her away. She taps her foot and coughs loudly, inviting you to an interrogation. But before you can respond, the shifting of your younger cousin alerts you to her volunteering. She assumes a look of pure innocence, not too hard for her, and places her head in hands, supported by elbows propped on the bed. Her nervousness doesn’t show while she waits for AJ to speak first. 
	“So, ya wanna explain this?” 
	“Explain what?” You’re worried she’s piling on the naiveté a little thick, but you trust her anyway.
	“Somebody lookin’ atcha like this might assume something… a little more than what family oughta be doin’.” Apple Bloom looks down at you and herself, then turns up to her with am able response:
	“Who’s gonna see besides you? Ah mean, you’re the only one that’d come here an’ see anything.”
	“That’s not the point. Ah mean, Ah don’t know if anything happened. Should Ah be thinking so?” The hidden question of what you and Apple Bloom were was nearly tangible; you wonder if Apple Bloom can still get you off without lying. From what she’d told you, AJ was something of a lie detector. But Apple Bloom takes a different route, trying to divert her.
	“Well, Ah don’t know, AJ. Should Ah have assumed something when Ah saw you an Braeburn sleepin’ on your bed together?” AJ turns bright red, facing the wall. She looks for something to say, but can’t find an answer. Meanwhile, Apple Bloom goes on: “Ah mean, Ah don’t know if you two were wearing clothes like me an’ Anon here, seein’ as y’all were under the covers…”
	“Alright, alright!” AJ nearly shouts, throwing her hands up in surrender. She still just looks around, trying to find something to say. Nothing can be found, and she leaves quietly, apologizing about the accusation. Under the growing shock that AJ might have had a similar experience that you were having now, you feel a little bad about shutting her down so hard. But still, if it gets you to be with Apple Bloom, you’ll take it. Hearing the door close, you finally rise from your pretended slumber to see your dearest cousin grinning in triumph. Immediately she jumps on you, kissing you deeply in continuance of your halted outpouring of love. Your arms wrap around another as you make out heavily, and you try to keep your hips from moving thrusting forward, as they so wanted to do.
	Eventually, one of you does pull away, though it isn’t clear who. You do have to get ready for the day, after all. You hop off of the bed, promising the kissing session will be resumed at a later time. Trying to hide your erection, you make your way over to the dresser. She gets off as well, moving towards the doorway.
	“Ah’m gonna go take a shower.”
	“Mind if I join you?” you ask, initially in mockery, then realize the underlying seriousness. She blushes at the thought, not wanting to admit how much she wanted it to. 
	“Ah think, with what just happened…” she trails off, regretfully understanding that you should probably not test the waters right not. But she does glance back up at you, a determined look in her eye: “Eventually, though.”
	“Yeah,” you affirm, as she smiles once more and opens the door. Before she goes, you drop your pants, not thinking of her as somebody you should be clothed around. Your shirt taken off, you’re now solely in boxers, the full light of the morning shining on you. She stops her exit, staring lasciviously at your unnoticing form. You notice her watching, and give her a quick wink as you pull some new clothes on. Removed from her trance, she finally leaves your room, hoping you don’t hear how heavy her breaths have got.
	As you see her leave, you yawn again, rubbing your eyes. In the absence of Apple Bloom, the delirium of the morning fades away, though not without leaving a small tinge of magic. You walk over to the edge of the bed and sit, trying to clear your head from the stubborn cloud of sleep. For the most part, you’re feeling pretty refreshed and awake. Stretching out, you can feel your muscles tingle, ready for the grape-stomping of today. Still, you take a minute before you go off to shower; Apple Bloom is probably still using it anyway. You can feel the soft give of the mattress, depressed beneath your weight. Your torso leans back, both hands extending in the same direction, keeping you at a 45 degree angle above the bed. You toss your head and take a deep breath. A clear head and full lungs portend a good day ahead. With your head falling back, you smile with eyes closed in the simple enjoyment of where you are right now. The bliss invites a full fall, and you give ion, letting your torso lightly smack the top of the bed in a muffled thump. Your body calls for another stretch, delighting in the feeling of such. After a few soft half-yawns, you finally push yourself off the bed and stand up. 
	You walk over to the door and head out into the hallway. The nearby bathroom still holds light coming from beneath it, indicating its occupation. But before you can turn around and continue the wait, the door opens, and a vision comes through. Wet hair, long and straight falls down the shoulders of your little cousin. The darker red color parts as she tilts her head to the side, exposing her eyes to a greater degree. The light copper skin of her face and shoulders disappears beneath the veil of a brilliant white towel, ending just below her hips. Your eyes travel to the lower end of the towel, where the shining, glorious legs erupt from the cotton fields. A breathy gasp makes its way past your lips, mortifying and flattering in one spontaneous motion. Coughing, you try to distance yourself from the many seconds spent staring, and greet her happily.
	“Hey Apple Bloom.” You go in for a hug, the type of greeting pretty common and immensely desired. You realize only a second later that she isn’t returning it. Stepping back, you see her giggling features, still joyous from your earlier ocular compliment.  She shrugs, saying,
	“Ah’d hug ya back, but Ah think Ah’d lose my towel.” You nod, trying to believe that that’d be a bad thing.
	“Oh yeah, definitely don’t want that to happen.” Your insincerity comes out in an almost subtle sarcasm, unfortunately caught by her. She blushes, then bites her lip. 
	“Well, Ah’ll see ya in a minute.” With both parties unsure of how to address the mutual desire to see each other fully, you’re not too unhappy at the ending of the conversation. Still, you’re never a fan of her image disappearing into her room; but it’s not like you can follow her or anything. Ignoring the fantasies that streak into your mind like unforeseen fireworks, you blush and head into the steamy bathroom. It smells like her. You try to clear your head while walking into the shower. But the mental images of her in this space are a little too much to ignore. A good fifteen minutes later, your shower ends, your heart rate significantly dropped after the relaxing experience. You dry yourself off, then put your clothes back on. Heading out of the bathroom, you’re greeted once more by Apple Bloom, who’s jumping up and down in short bursts. 
	“Hey AB-“
	“Blueberry pancakes!” She returns your greeting with great news, the words bringing a huge smile to your face. You fucking love blueberry pancakes. In response to the news and her still hopping body, you jump along with her.
	“No way!” She nods her head up and down in that excited way as she counters your claim. 
	“Way!”
	“Those are like, my favorite!”
	“Ah know!” Wait a minute. You stop your hopping and tilt your head curiously, not having recalled imparting that information. 
	“Wait, how’d you know?”
	“You told me!” 
	“I did?” She stops jumping for a minute, placing her forefinger on her lip as she assumes a thoughtful pose. Looking to her upper right, she explains.
	“Well, on our date, you were telling me about this one time you were tellin’ me about how you’d slept over, way back when you were in third grade. That means Ah was in kindergarten at the time…” She trails off as she compares her timeline to yours, before snapping to attention and continuing. “An’ you said that in the morning his mom made you blueberry pancakes, and you’d loved ‘em since!” You’re a little awed that she remembered such an insignificant detail of an insignificant story, and feel your heart swell a bit at that. A pretty girl paying attention, noticing, remembering you is always good; but when that girl is Apple Bloom? Your cheeks flush, just a little bit, but enough to be noticed and to surprise both parties. You’re going to say something to break the silence, but you don’t actually know what to say here.
	“Uh… thanks.” What would be an awkward, somewhat discouraging response is alleviating by your obvious happiness, and Apple Bloom smiles brightly at the appreciation. Grabbing your hand, she bolts down the stairs, a motion joined immediately by the necessity of your holder and excitement over the destination. You tromp down the halls, loud clanging heard when you pass over the kitchen area. The stairs fly under you boisterous sprint, the hubbub unnoticed by either of you. Your minds are on pancakes and held hands, and nothing could penetrate your attentions but the entrance of the first or disappearance of the second. The former appears before you, bringing the latter as you part for plates. Dishing up, you fill yours to the brim and sit down, the table filled only by the lush plates and two cousins. As you devour your meal, a thought crawls into your mind. There’s nobody else here right now, and these pancakes are still steaming from their being cooked. It becomes clear that Apple Bloom had made them, not Granny or AJ, as you’d expected. You ask her, just to be sure.
	“Hey, did you make these yourself?” She looks up, then closes her eyes and nods vehemently. A piece of waffle, not fully placed in her mouth, interrupts the sweet curves of her smile. You feel your own eyes crinkle as a similar expression works its way across your face. Something about that small act of making you breakfast fills you with a greater happiness than you’d expect. You really want to hug her, but she’s on the other side of the trouble. Uh… Hmmm. Yeah, screw it. Without thinking past your decision to do so, you stand up and quickly walk to the other side of the table, kneeling down, and giving her a big hug. She squeaks a little as you embrace her, and does her best to return the gesture from her somewhat awkward position. Finishing, you return to your seat and resume eating, though not without flashing a little grin and explaining: “Couldn’t help myself.” She’s visibly delighted at your inability to hold back your happy gratitude. Both of you continue eating, and finish up after a little while. Looking at your empty plates, you think you see a way to repay her. 
“Hey, I can do the dishes for you if you’d like.” Again she looks pleased at the gesture, but doesn’t find it necessary.
	“That’s alright, Anon. Since Ah made it, the others gotta clean up; family rule.” 
	“And that doesn’t include me?”
	“Not if Ah don’t want it to. And since you’re a guest, Ah’m not gonna make you.” Well, you kinda hoped you could respond to her kindness this way, but you’re not going to mourn the loss of dish-duty. Your stomach full, you lean back and release a hefty yawn. 
>Your mind turns towards the events of the day as you look on the slowly brightening room. 
	“So we’re gonna go stomp grapes today, right?” She bobs her head in a quick nod, wearing that closed-eyed smile you’ve come to love.
	“Yup!” 
	“Cool. So when’s that start?” She touches her finger to her lip, then glances at the clock behind her. 
	“Right around 2’o’clock. So we got about… four and a half hours to kill.” Geez, was it really that early? This is your last full day, so you don’t wanna waste any time just hanging around. The thought of the finality of the day sends a tight clenching to your stomach. You take a deep breath, and try to ignore it. You’re not going to screw up your last day by filling it with worry. If anything, you’re going to make sure you appreciate it as much as possible. Just as you’re trying to stick to your affirmation, trying to push away the fear of a wasted day, AJ and Big Mac come in. Both have hands up to their faces in nearly synchronized yawns; AJ’s is recently risen and her brother’s is on the descent. 
	“Morning, guys.” AJ says quietly. You respond in kind, and Apple Bloom joins you. Big Mac gives the two of you a small nod, which you also return. AJ’s eyes find the stack of only slightly steaming pancakes, then smiles sleepily.
	“Ah thought Ah smelled something nice. Y’all made some pancakes?”
	“Yup! Blueberry ones!” your youngest cousin says cheerily. This elicits a wider curve from AJ’s mouth, and a hint of one from Big Mac, though you may be imagining it. As Big Mac and AJ dish up, you casually ask Bloom about pre-stomping plans.
	“So, d’ya wanna do anything before we go grape stomping?” She nods, her eyes focusing on you. Her reply comes lazily, her eyes glazing over as she stares at you. As you’ve spoken, your arms have crossed in front of you, your chest unknowingly pushed out. The more or less masculine pose, completely overlooked by you, captures Apple Bloom’s blossoming interest. She’s loved the way you’ve looked since you first came, from your different style of clothes than the boys at her school, to the specific ways you carried yourself when you walked and stood. But here, the amorous appreciation breaks into the next level, your motions and posture bringing her attention fully to you.
	“Uh-huh.” You look up to the right, trying to figure out something to do. Your finger rises to your bottom lip, and Apple Bloom continues her dreamy gaze. Not used to feeling this way, Apple Bloom isn’t self-conscious enough to stop herself from leering at you. Meanwhile, you’ve never been looked over as you’re being now, and so you fail to recognize what’s happening. You’ve never really noticed the girls who’ve crushed on you, nor understood what it was that made girls like a guy, besides muscles and charm. Naturally, not being terribly gifted in either section, you hadn’t expected any girl to grant you that breathless look you received now. You realize that she might have an input, you turn towards her and ask her.
	“Is there anything you’re wanting to do?” She nods, still looking at you with barely blinking, heavy lidded eyes. Suddenly noticing her expression, your heart leaps in your chest and you breathe in quickly. You’ve never seen that look on her face before, but it’s definitely something to make your heart beat faster. Her reverie snaps in a moment, and she does a little shake of her head before answering. 
	“Uh, yeah. Wait. Ah mean, no. Can’t really think of anything.” She blushes and looks down, becoming aware of that her rapt staring might have been noticed. But neither of her siblings saw, and you weren’t the kind of guy that could identify the look. Still, she didn’t know that, and tries to transfer any spotlight on her over to you. “What about you?” You think for a moment, bringing your finger to your lip once more. Going through the possibilities of both your interests and the speedy list the CMC had given you yesterday, you pick out one that seems pretty good. 
	“Yeah. Uh, do you wanna go get a coffee or something?” Apple Bloom’s never been a really big coffee drinker. She can’t even remember the last time she’d had some, except a sip here and there from AJ’s rare trips. But she’d go just about anywhere for you, so she agrees without hesitation. 
	“Yeah! I love coffee!” AJ and Big Mac both give her skeptical looks, which she studiously ignores. You grin at the acceptance, having missed the taste of coffee since you’ve been here. Most of the time you’d been preoccupied with the other events, but here and there a wave of weariness would crash over you, making you miss the hot, comforting drink. 
	“Sweet!” Your lack of familiarity arises, and with it, the lack of a destination. You struggle to figure out if you’d passed any on your date-night or the other trips into town, but nothing comes to mind. You look over at the three Apples, and speak to none in particular. “Where’s a coffee shop around here? The three Apple as look up, the oldest and youngest trying to figure out if there is one, and AJ trying to remember where one is. You take the silence as a sign that there might not be one, and ask with the slightest of worry: “There is one, right?” Big Mac shrugs his shoulders at the same time that AJ responds.
	“Yeah, we got one. Starbucks in right by the Target, just behind the McDonalds.” She speaks more to Apple Bloom than you, who is definitely a better navigator in this context than you. “Ah think there’s a stand somewhere near the church. Right by Baskin Robins.” Apple Bloom looks confused at the second one, then nods her head vigorously as the memory returns to her. 
	“Yeah, ok! Ah remember now!” There’s another concern that brushes across your mind. What if the other two wanted to go? You really didn’t want to bring them along, but you weren’t sure how to clarify that. You decide to just ask for the keys and head out, hoping they’ll pick up on the implication. 
	“Hey, where’s the keys to the caddy?”
	“Ya wanna take that thing again?” Well, yeah. AJ looks a little uneasy, for some reason or another. It’s not normally used, except in very rare cases; twice in a week is something the tradition-loving girl isn’t used to. Maybe it was one of those things they just keep around, like a knick-knack? You push the thought away, the notion of that car falling into disuse being too much for you to bear. Cars like that needed to be paraded around, and filled with beautiful people like Apple Bloom, not sit in a garage and rot. Before you can inquire further, Apple Bloom speaks out on your behalf.
	“Aw, come on AJ. He’s our special guest.” Her voice stretches out the word ‘special,’ and her eyes goes puppyish. ”Pleeeeeeease?” One of those two factors, reason or cuteness, get the better of AJ, and she grants you the use of the car. 
	“Yeah, alright. Just be careful with it. It’s kind of a family heirloom, if that makes sense.” You guess it does; you don’t know the history behind it, but you can see something like that being treasured and passed down.
	“Don’t worry, I’ll keep it safe.” You grin as you promise her, hoping she’ll recall your love of cars. She smiles in return, understanding.
	“Yeah, I reckon you will. After all, if you scratch her up, Ah’m gonna be tanning your hide.” She responds good-naturedly, knowing you’re not gonna do anything to mess it up. You head over to the nearby key-rack, happy that it’ll just be the two of you. 
>After the risk fades, you realize that it wasn’t ever really an issue. 
>With Big Mac being as quiet and socially recessive as he is, and with AJ’s embarrassment over this morning, neither of them was likely to offer to be a companion or chaperone. Grabbing the keys, you immediately head over to the garage, motioning for Apple Bloom to come with. She does, and the two of you reenter the car.
	Man, even though it’s only been- what, a day and a half? – you feel some strong, pleasant memories of that night. The sweet girl beside you buckles herself in, then looks happily to you. As you return the brilliant gleam as best you can, you realize you’re never gonna get over that smile of hers. That cheer, directed at you, caused by you; if you were asked a week ago if you could feel this happy, you’d have laughed in the questioner’s face. It was almost too good to be true, but with the evidence shining on you, not two feet away, you can’t deny it. The urge to kiss her, an impulse that’s become increasingly more common, starts to rise in you. Looking around to make sure nobody’s entered the room, you move your head forward and kiss her lightly on the lips. You move your head back and turn towards the back window to begin your exit. Her expression makes it clear that she wished you’d stayed so she could return the kiss; but since you didn’t, she makes do with blushing and biting her lip slightly. Her amorous eyes stay on you, barely seen due to the need to maneuver a couple tons of metal around some delicate fixtures. But eventually you do get out of the garage, scratchless, and drive off onto the main road.
	The bumpy road sets both of you thumping up and down in your seats, and you think you hear a squeak after a particularly large pothole. You turn to her, who faces away with carefully crafted poise, then looks at you as if nothing happened and she has no idea why you would ever ask if something had. You can’t help but smile, then look her over. Her legs are crossed, the thighs more than a little visible beneath the short bottoms of her overalls. The straps above go down lower than you think it’s supposed to, connecting to the front portion just beneath her breasts. Both straps are placed right over her perfect chest, looking like they’d barely cover her nipples, had another barrier not been in place beneath. Underneath her coveralls is a light white tank top, with a small lace-border. It isn’t quite see-through, but it’s thin enough to make you stare a little longer than a driver should. Her cute little feet sit atop some dark blue flip flops, which had been cast off upon entering. The cool blue denim of the material strikes a brilliant contrast against the burnished gleam of her gilded legs, perfectly tanned past the natural paleness. Gosh, this girl makes it hard to look at the road. 
	As you fly forward, the occasional farm houses make way for thicker clusters of neighborhoods, then actual stores as you enter the town proper. The sudden arrival of the squat squares, filled with advertisements for things you don’t want, kinda make you miss the country road before. A lone dirt road, with nothing besides seas of farms and the occasional home, was rare for you. In fact, you don’t think you’ve seen a single other car on that road yet. It was a little refreshing in a way you didn’t know how to describe. You couldn’t really place it, but there was something about that quiet little road -no, the whole farm really- that appealed to you. The most you could say was that it felt light; like you could breathe there. Not fully understanding your thoughts, and dissatisfied with your inability to define that allure, you try to change your thoughts. Apple Bloom pipes up, interrupting your thoughts at the right time, and guides you over to the little coffee shop they’d spoken of earlier.


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You are now Apple Bloom.

	“Alrighty now, just take a left right after that Baskin Robbins.” You shift in your overalls, trying to get a little more comfy. Boy, were you excited. Maybe it was just a little coffee date, but still: it was a date! With him! You were a little worried that he might catch onto your being a coffee greenhorn, but you think you could play it off. Even if you couldn’t, you doubt he’d really mind. With the way he’s been acting towards you, his not-so-subtle glances in the car included, told you he probably wouldn’t be too mad. You still can’t believe that he likes you; it almost feels like a dream. You’ve looked at yourself in the mirror a few times, and thought you were alright; that, and your two besties attested to you being beautiful. Still, you had your doubts; you were kinda scrawny, and your chest certainly wasn’t as big as other girls’. What’s worse is your build: you had a few more muscles than other girls your age (you’ve been working on a farm since you were a kid, so what could you expect?). And even though they weren’t anything huge, you still got teased for the little definition you had by Diamond Tiara and Silver Spoon.
	But Anon still stared, and when he touched you with those magic hands… Golly, that boy knows how to work a girl. You mean, a body. Anon knows how to work a body. Gosh, this isn’t getting any better. You try to control your blush as you step out of the car. The hot summer air pushes out the cold breeze of the Caddy’s AC, a pleasant transition for you. There’s nothing like that sweet, summer heat. Especially if you could find place in the shade (which was different from it actually being cooler, darnit), or get a cool drink to even it out. You take a minute to wonder if coffee can be cold. Yeah, you’re pretty sure you’ve heard that somewhere before. You don’t really know any dedicated coffee drinkers, and AJ never describes hers beyond ‘just coffee.’ Looking over, Anon’s form rises from the other side of the car, then meets yours as you move to the front of the car. He takes a step forward, opening the door for you.
	“Aw, what a gentleman,” you say, echoing your thoughts. He gets this giddy little grin that he tries to hide, which just makes him even cuter. “Ah’m glad chivalry isn’t dead.”
	“Not here, anyway.” He says, following behind you. The store is a small little place, with only a handful of tables, chairs and one couch spread out in the customer’s area. The first thing that stands out is the art: there’s this black and white picture of Clint Eastwood hanging over one of the tables, and another of that Nirvana guy, you think. Then there are the paintings made directly on the red and white walls, including a woman with the head of an alligator and another with the head of a zebra. The former has a ludicrously long tail that goes all over the walls, ending behind a metal sign with the image of Betty Boop. The walls themselves are mostly white, with a red outline, and a red line just above the lower perimeter, looking something like one a’ those heartbeat machines. In one spot, the line turns into what looks like a picture of a city, with one weird looking structure in the center. It’s a big pointy thing, with a flat line at the top of it; something about it seems familiar. It’s gonna bug you all day if you don’t find out, so you ask your cousin.
	“Hey Anon, d’ya know what that’s supposed to be?” You ask him, tugging on his hand and pointing to the weird looking building. His eyes squint, then light up in realization. 
	“That’s the Space Needle! Oh man, I’ve always wanted to go there!” You’re still a bit behind.
	“What’s the Space Needle?” He seems pretty excited as he explains. It’s an uncommon expression for him, and one you love seeing.
	“It’s this huge, sort-of skyscraper thing that they built in Seattle for a World’s Fair. I think. Apparently you can see the whole city from it, and it rotates, and there’s even a restaurant! Well, that’s what one of my friends told me. I’ve wanted to take a trip there for ages, but I never actually could.” 
	“Well, what’s stoppin’ ya?” He frowns, then scratches his head.
	“Uh… Actually, nothing. I was too young or too busy before, but this summer, I think I could actually go there myself.” He trails off, looking into the air. Something apparently clicks in his head, and he looks down to you with the same suppressed smile as before. “Hey, would you wanna go see the Space Needle with me?” Yes! Yes, you would. Would they let you? You’re not sure if you could pay for it, and you’re a little averse to asking for money. Not to mention, they usually wanted an adult to chaperone you if you were ever going out of town. Wait, that second one might not be an issue here. You try to hide your sincere wish and excitement, not wanting to let him down if you can’t go. 
	“You’re an adult, right? Ah mean, you’re eighteen?”
	“Sure am. I mean, I don’t really feel like an adult, but I’m not gonna argue with the government over that.” Sweet, so that’s one thing down. You’ll ask your older sister later about the money thing, and for permission at that. It isn’t certain if she’ll say yes, but that’s why you have your plan B: ask Granny. AJ was mostly in charge, so it was more or less her call, but she always listened to Granny, and Granny listened to you more. It felt kind of like cheating to make a plan to go around AJ’s back, but sometimes AJ got a little too strict, and she knew it. If it was a bad idea, Granny wouldn’t say yes either, so its not as if you were tricking anyone, just getting a second opinion. Like how people do with doctors. The moral quandary solved, you finally respond to your waiting boy. 
	“Ah gotta ask for the money and permission, so Ah’ll get back to you on that.” His hopeful face drops slightly at the non-yes answer, and he makes another offer. 
	“Ok, I understand. But if money’s a problem, I can take care of that.” You look at him with widened eyes, somehow not expecting the charitable action. It’s not as if you expected him to be stingy, but still… you didn’t know how much that’d cost.
	“Are ya sure?” He nods affirmingly, confident in his funds. This was great! You were still gonna ask for money from the family bank account, just so you didn’t have to take anything you didn’t absolutely needed. But still, if you got negatives for that, you could bring up his offer. So all you really needed was permission. Delighted at the shrunken potential obstacle, you bring Anon into a tight embrace. 
	“Thank you!” He hugs you in return, saying nothing beyond the tight squeezing. The embrace breaks, and he changes the subject:
	“Alright, now let’s get some coffee.”
	Oh jeez, you’d forgotten. The two of you approach the counter, your worry over keeping the lie afloat increasing when you see the nonsensical titles on the board behind you. You don’t know what half of these words mean. Anon steps up first, and you don’t follow him.
	“You got any specials today?” The barista, a tall brunette, replies cheerfully.
	“Today we’re introducing the Nitrous N20! It’s like our regular White Rockets, but with a couple extra shots in it.” Anon looks intrigued, but doesn’t take her up on the offer.
	“Huh. You know, I think I’ll just go with a black and white mocha, with two shots of black.”
	“And would you like whipped cream with that.” He grins like a little kid:
	“Heck yeah!” Then her turns to you, noticing that you’re far enough from the counter to look like another customer. “Come on, Apple Bloom, I’m paying.” You walk up to the girl, hiding hesitance. You pretend to peruse the menu, then say nonchalantly:
	“I’ll take a coffee.” Both Anon and the barista look at you with confusion. Great job, Apple Bloom. The latter speaks up, trying to ascertain the rare order:
	“You mean like, a drip coffee?” You nod quickly, spying salvation. 
	“Uh… yeah.” She looks at Anon, who just shrugs and pays. She gets to work on the drinks, and you look around for a place to sit, not wanting to talk about the obvious strangeness of your order. It’s a little chilly in here, but there’s a couple white tables outside, with metal imitations of wicker chairs out there. “C’mon, ‘let’s go outside.” Anon nods at your suggestion, following your lead. There’s a great white tarp-like thing hanging out over the small yard, a makeshift ceiling blocking a few of the sun’s rays. As you walk underneath, basking in the toasty air without the direct stream of the burning rays, you sigh unintentionally. This is perfect. 
	Sitting down with Anon, he pulls something out of his pocket. You look closer, and see that it’s a pack of cards. He shakes them a bit, holding that happy look once more. 
	“Found these in the side panel on our date night. You wanna play some cards?” You nod at him, smiling with your eyes shut. While you wait for his shuffling and the girl’s coffee, you lean back in your chair and make yourself comfortable. Your feet slip out of your flip-flops, and drop onto a nearby chair. You’ve never been a huge fan of wearing shoes; having free feet was almost always superior. The gentle breeze caresses every part of your feet now, the plastic straps no longer pressing into your soft skin. You clench and unclench your toes, just enjoying the refreshing feeling. The tender kiss of the sun and the clean air, only a trace of dust found in it, goes onto your bare legs too. The warmth makes you feel a little bit sleepy, the indulgence of that perfect atmosphere on your body giving rise to a sentiment you’d heard a long time ago: ‘I could just fall asleep here and never wake up.’ 
	Fortunately, you don’t fall asleep here. You’d rather stay with your boy than anything else. Just as you’re letting your head fall back in relaxation, you hear some worrying words:
	“Coffee’s ready.” She places two white cups on the table, with tiny streams of steam rising from the small holes in their lids. Anon takes a sip of his, then sighs, clearly pleased with the outcome. Guess it’s your turn. You bring your lips to the cup, tilting it back ever so slightly. The first few drops show you your clear mistake, and you thrust the container back onto the table with the violence of disgust. My goodness, that’s awful. You look up to see if Anon’s caught onto your telling response, but he’s only looked up at the sound of the cup hitting the table. Your disgusted expression having disappeared before then, you try to cover.
	“It’s, uh… hot. It’s hot. Too hot.” Your mouth scrunches, not unlike your older sister when she fibs. Oh please don’t notice, please don’t notice. He raises his eyebrow, then shrugs again. Ok, looks like you’re in the clear. He finishes shuffling, then passes out cards, thirteen each. 
	The game’s Gin Rummy, and you’re lookin’ for groups of three or three cards in a row (of the same suit). Whatever can’t be put into those groups gets counted, the number of its points equal to the number on it (tens for face cards). Dealer puts one card face up on the discard pile, which the non-dealer can choose to pick up. If they don’t, the dealer can. If the dealer doesn’t, turns start as normal, the first turn going to the non-dealer. Turns go as such: you can pick up the top card of the discard pile or a card from the deck, and then go down if the number of not-grouped cards is ten or less. You discard a card at the end of your turn (although you don’t have to if you’re going down, but you usually do). When one person goes down, the other person has to go down too, even if they have more than ten points; they can, however, add their cards to the other’s (e.g. if the person that went down has a group of threes, and the other has a three, the latter can place it on the group and not take the points). The difference is calculated, and whoever has less points gets the total (e.g. if one person has seven points and the other has seventeen, the former will receive ten points to their score). 25 points are added if you go down with no points (a Gin), 31 if you go down with no points (a Big Gin) and without discarding, and 25 points if the person that didn’t go down first wins. First to 150 wins. 
	But despite your eagerness to defeat him, your bloodlust soon dies down. Anon’s not new this this game, but you can’t tell he’s not very good at it. The first game destroys him, a 39 point victory leaving you in a pretty good lead. The second brings you another victory, only two hands in. He had a good hand, only giving you 12 points, but it’s clear he thought he was gonna get that one.
	There’s a bad feeling growing in your gut, a notion that Anon wouldn’t enjoy himself. >It seemed like a small concern, but the worry was real. After all, this was his last day. Unless he said yes to AJ, which you know he will. You know he will. Your heart starts to doubt the once definite future, but you push the feeling to the side, trying to explain away the fear with something else. It’s, uh… this is his first week. Yeah, it’s his first week, and you gotta make it perfect; it’s these few days that he’ll remember above all the other days. That’s a reason to worry, a reason for this pit in your stomach. 
	Anon snaps a card onto the table, declaring that he’ll go down. His hand has seven points, and you have ten. He seems happy enough with an actual win, but the measly three points isn’t something he’s getting worked up over. Trying to retain your cheer, you pick up the deck and start shuffling. Your attempts to act happy seem to be successful, but you’re not feeling it. You remember this one time that a butterfly up and landed on your finger, and by the time you realized it, it took off. That feeling returns to you again, sinking your typical happiness. And try as you might, you can’t force that light feeling, so natural to you, to come back. So you deal, hoping it’ll return. Your coffee remains untouched. 
	A third victory brings 20 points to your 51, close to the halfway mark. His banter starts to fall off, and his acceptance of your successes grow duller. Geez, this isn’t what you want. You’re not gonna throw it or anything, but you do start slacking off a bit; you don’t bother with some strategies, and be a little less vigilant about what cards he picks up and throws. Normally, you’re pretty competitive –you get that from your big sis- but this time, you’re just gonna focus on having some fun. Just then, Anon asks you:
	“Is your coffee still hot?” Huh? You cock your head at him, asking for an explanation.
	“Beg your pardon?” He points to your coffee.
	“Is it still hot? You haven’t touched it in a good hour.” Consarnit, the coffee again? Can’t it just leave you alone already? You’re trying to deal with your emotions and give Anon a good time here! You smile hesitantly, then cover for yourself. 
	“Oh, Ah plumb forgot about it!” You reach over to pick it up, your body rebelling against the reach for that gross substance. Once the cup enters your grasp, you feel that it’s gotten lukewarm. Maybe that’d make it better, you vainly hope. It reaches your lips, but you’re having some trouble actually taking a sip. You struggle against the petulant refusal of your body, and finally succeed in tipping back the cup. But your body was right: this stuff needed to not be in there. Immediately you swallow, aiming to get it off of your tongue ASAP. Your face contorts in disgust, the lukewarm temperature making it much worse. After the unavoidable “blechs” finish leaving your mouth, you look up to see if he was still looking. Yup, sure was. He looks at you with this little sideways smile.
	“You’re not really a coffee drinker, are you?” You shake your head sheepishly.
	“Ah think the last time Ah had some was on our family vacation to Apploosa. About a year ago…” You shrug and open your hands as you offer the small correction. He chuckles, then stands up, offering his hand to you; you’re exactly sure what he’s doing, but that ain’t gonna stop you from taking his hand. You’re pulled out of your chair, and directed towards the counter. “Ah come on, Anon, don’t make me drink any more a’ that stuff!” He turns to you, looking confused:
	“What? Why on Earth would I do that?”
	“Well, you’re takin’ me the counter of a coffee shop, what else are ya gonna do?” 
	“Get you something else! They had smoothies, tea, and hot chocolate, and there’s coffee that isn’t actually that bitter if you’re lookin’ to try it. I mean, you don’t have to go straight black.” He shivers as he mentions the black drip coffee, apparently with you on the sentiments toward such. Looking at the menu again, you revisit the best part of it. 
	“Ah’ll go for a fruit smoothie; Ah can try coffee later. If, uh, that’s alright with you.” 
	“Yeah, that’s fine with me.” Stepping up, you make your order: “Hey, can Ah get one a’ those berry smoothies?” The barista takes a look at you, and asks kindly:
	“Finished that coffee right off, huh?” 
	“Eh… Not really.” But she can’t hear your answer, having turned to a series of machines and begun making your drink. She looks at you and says something unintelligible, also blocked by the noise of the smoothie-maker. In no time she’s done, and hands the colorful drink to you. 
	“Alright, here you go.” As the two of you are returning to your seats, you notice an odd look on Anon’s face. It looks almost hurt, but not quite. Before you can place it, Anon looks at you seriously.
	“You know Apple Bloom, you don’t have to lie to me.” The directness of his assurance is unexpected; you’re not really sure how to respond. You look off to the side as the two of you sit down. Before you can think of something to say, he continues. “I mean it. I know you were just doing it to make me happy, and while I appreciate that, I wanna know what you’re feeling, what you like and don’t like. Even if it’s something as small as this. Hey.” He directs your wandering gaze back to him. 
	“Yeah?” You stare into his eyes, trying to read the emotions on it. Seen again, he starts into a deeper word.
	“Apple Bloom, I love you.” You’ve heard it before, but somehow the phrase still feels new. Despite the outpouring seeming kind of out of place for the context, you feel your heart warming. “Apple Bloom, I don’t ever want you to feel like you’re needing to lie. You’re perfect to me.” He looks off to the side, feeling like he’s made it awkward. “I’m sorry if this sounds weird. I guess it kinda is…” He scratches his head, then continues. “But the thing is, I’ve seen stuff like that happen before, where people start hiding the small things, and before they know it, they’re trying to convince their partner they’re somebody completely different. It’s happened to some people close to me, and I…” He shakes his head with a grimace, trying to move past the ugly memory and back to you. “I just don’t want that to happen here.” He holds both of your hands in his, your breath catching in your throat. “I love you Apple Bloom, just the way you are.” His face returns to that unsure expression just before, saying apologetically: “Um. Sorry if that was weird.”
	It was kind of unexpected, but you think you get it: whatever happened in his past, to him or whoever, he’s just trying to make sure it doesn’t happen again. And, as you’re beginning to realize, he really does love you; the realization impacts you more than you’d expected it to, a tear threatening to form at the sentimental outburst of your dearest boy. The outpouring of love seems justified, given his circumstances and affection, and you’re not going to turn it away. You squeeze his hands back, touched both by his concern for your relationship and his clear love for you.
	“Not at all.” Pleased with your answer, he lets loose that certain smile you’ve seen him wear from time to time. It’s exuberant, just like a kids, but muted, barely suppressed, as if he can’t bear being that happy. It’s almost a twitchy expression, a grand smile growing then halting as he tries to regulate himself, then growing once more. That joy, despite being so hard for him to hold, still lit up your heart. But there was one small issue you were having, some nagging feeling that you didn’t say enough. Here was your boy, your Anon, the one who’s set you alight every time he’s come near, and all you could say in response to that emotional confession is three words? And not even THOSE three words? Aiming to correct the problem, you ready the three most important words you could say. But before you can spill them into the sweet summer air, the same feel stops you. Yeah, those words were important, but were they enough? 
	You set aside your plan to speak the affirmation of love, and set to constructing another. You wanted to say something meaningful, something deeper than the phrase. So what do you say? Looking over at the city boy shuffling dexterously across the table, you let your mind relax, trying to catch the thoughts that come naturally. He catches your silent gaze, and smiles with just a hint of nervousness. Gosh, I love you. The words streak through your head as a soft, contented sigh exits your lips. It was hardly a new experience, but the pursuit of something more to say leads you to a question you hadn’t thought to ask before. Why?
	Beyond the perceived necessity of a response of equal depth, another force pushes you towards answering the question.Curiosity bubbles up in you as you observe the deft motions of Anon. What made him different? Why did he set your heart aflutter, so far beyond all the little crushes you’d had before? This was something else. He was something else. Your mind takes on an explorative direction as you continue your steady gaze. 
	The first thing that jumps to your mind is his touch. At the memory, you can almost feel his hands over your body. You shiver, just barely, as the reminiscence. Gosh, he was so good at it. The way he would move his hands almost felt like he was painting a picture, and your skin was the canvas. A private pleasure erupts from the thought, and your willingness to be a canvas whenever he needed one. The skill in his hands was evident, and that alone, even apart from that vastly enjoyable experience he made, was a reason to love him. You close your eyes, taking a brief break from the happy sight of the beautiful cousin to indulge in the sensual memory of his body moving yours. Damn, he was good with his hands; the thought comes as you unconsciously move your body in a slight reenactment. You don’t like using that word, but what else could you say?
	He was unique. You’ve known a lot of people, despite Ponyville being such a small town. There were quite a few visitors to your house, and even more that would hang out with your sister’s friends (whom you eventually met or caught wind of). But none of them were quite like Anon. Or rather, Anon wasn’t like anybody else. There was something in that worldly, almost jaded way he saw things that was different from others whom the world had hurt so badly. It rung closer to wisdom than that broken pessimism you’d seen in a lot of older persons: he still saw the good in some things, still had his heart open to adventure and love, if not fully. Nobody saw things the way he did, that was for sure. And it was that vision, that world he lived in, that increased your intrigue; you wanted inside of his head, to see what he saw.
	But it was more than just that. You recall the look in his eyes when he sees you, how they light up. He cares for you. Golly, that boy cares for you; the more you think about it, the more you realize how loudly he expresses his affection. Every glance, every touch of his hand feels electrified to you, and it’s becoming clear that he feels the same way. The way he blushes when you kiss him, the way his heartbeat speeds when your lie on his chest. But the time that made it more clear than anything was when you’d taken off your shirt for him: he hadn’t stared hungrily at you, or tried to do anything really naughty. What you saw in him was adoration, love; you weren’t a piece of meat to him, you were somebody he loved. His tender caressing, his passionate kisses told of his love for you. It was almost enough to make you cry; you cared for him so much, you wanted him to be happy so badly. And he cared for you! He loved you too! Not only was he happy, but you were making him happy. It was an honor you weren’t sure you deserved, but nonetheless brought endless delight. 
	“Apple Bloom.” You open your eyes, lifting colorful visions of your love’s beauty. Snapping back to the real world, the emotional daydreams start to wither as they pass into the background. 
	“Yeah?” You respond in the manner of a recently awaken person, not prepared to act in the waking world.
	“You alright?” There’s a note of concern in his voice, and you look questioningly at him. “Are you tired?”
	“No, not really? Why?” 
	“Well, you’ve kinda been… ”I don’t know, it kinda looked like you were napping for the past minute or two.” You shake your head around, clearing it slightly. A pinkish hue still colored your thoughts, clouding the world about. As you focused more on the world, the context returned to you. You were playing cards, and you had a pile of thirteen before you. Oh, he’d probably been waiting for you.
	“Oh geez, sorry., Ah was just thinkin’.” You can see curiosity invade his face as he answers.
	“About what?” Should you tell him? Grinning, you decide to, aiming to tease him just a little bit.
	“You.” His eyebrows grow up, hope and worry tangling within his face.
	“O-oh. Good things, I hope.” Your roll your shoulders back, keeping your coy look:
	“Only the best.” You pick up your hand, and start sorting through your cards. As you arrange them and start playing, your mind falls back to the questions. The answer was only partially found, and you weren’t gonna leave the job half-done. You drop a king of diamonds and pick up a three of clubs. He looks hard at the the cards, a cute seriousness in his determination to win this time around. You knew it had to be something more than what you were thinking of: there were cute guys, guys that liked you, and guys that were somewhat unique before. But they didn’t ignite you like he did. You next card played is slapped down almost in frustration.
	He paid attention to you. You think back of his loving looks, his attentive nodding as you detailed your life and history. He asked questions, referenced your likes and dislikes, and so forth. You’d always been somewhat overlooked by the people around you; you tried to keep it hidden, but you’d always been terrified of being left behind. There were times you thought your friends, even your family would just up and walk away, forgetting about you. And even when you were assured the weren’t, and did your best to believe it, there was still that voice in the back of your head saying they’d leave you behind. Funnily enough, you didn’t really get that with Anon. True, there was that secret terror that he’d be dragged away by his parents and his city, but that wasn’t the same. Even if he did leave, you knew that he didn’t want to, would never want to. And that made all the difference. 
	You reach for the seven of hearts Anon throws down, but he announces that he’s going down, preventing you from a further turn. Crap! Anon’s got only two points, and you’re stuck with a whole buncha un-matching face cards. Counting them out, the points come to 43. Minus his 2 adds 41 to his score, bringing him much closer to beating you. Happy at his reentry into the game, he jumps up and pumps his arms wildly, belting out a 
	“Oh yeaaaaah!” before resuming his more inhibited nature and sitting back down. You laugh at the display, but your smile falters as he catches himself and sits down in needless embarrassment. It isn’t that you dislike him when he’s shy, but you like it so much better when he acts out. You get that he’s a little shy naturally, and that’s fine, even cute; it’s just… some of that is pretty obviously coming from the way he’s been beaten down all his life. And whenever you see him overcoming those barriers, you feel like you could just glow. It was this weird mix of happiness, of seeing him healed from those hurts he carried, and pride. After all, you’re partly responsible for that.
	Thinking of his smile, you return to that proud feeling, the notion that it was you that helped him do it. It wasn’t just pleasure at him being happy with you, though you were certainly cheerful at the fact. It’s the fact that you had helped him get there. Suddenly, your mind moves over to your brother, and what had happened to him. 
	You don’t remember much about your parents; only bits and pieces of them. It was hard for you, no doubt about it, but nobody was hurt worse than Big Mac. AJ would never tell you the full story, always being overcome before she could say it. But you did know that he wasn’t always this way; the quietness of his personality, sort of like the natural shyness you saw in Anon, was massively increased by the trauma they’d experienced. His cheerful smile remained in your memory, only occasionally remade by the brother himself. There was one memory you had, a time your whole family, parents and grandparents, had all sat by the fire at Christmas. Big Mac was just talkin’ up a storm, then; you didn’t understand most of what he was saying, the boy bein’ much older than you, but gosh was he animated. His hands were flying up in the air, his legs kicking up as he told his story; pretty sure it was a bout school or something. Anyway… You sigh as you pull the fading memory closer. You’d always wished you could help him, maybe bring him back to his old self, even just a little bit. What wouldn’t you give to see him talk like that again? Maybe that was why it felt so good, so important, to be able to heal Anon, even if it was only a small amount. 
	Besides, you wanted to help people. That was what you did, and what you were proud of. The CMC was a defender of the weak, the protector of the little, the friend of the friendless, as the motto went. Ok, it was unofficial; you still had to run it by Scoots and Sweetie, but it was on your heart. You’d stood up to Diamond Tiara and Silver Spoon, you’d befriended Featherweight and Twist, and far more, just for the purpose of helping people. The other girls were with you on this; it was your passion, both you and the group, to help people. And when somebody was in need, you could bet your bottom dollar that Apple Bloom would be there. Triumphantly throwing a three of clubs on the discard pile, you snap out of your heroic inner dialogue and look at the boy across from you. There’s this feeling of disconnection you get, the hinting that your reasoning still isn’t complete. Thinking about it, the feeling’s right; Anon isn’t just a patient, or replacement for Big Mac. He was more than an opportunity to help; he was himself, the thief of your heart, whom you’d had the privilege of helping. He was-
	Suddenly, as if on its own, your hand reaches out and touches Anon’s. You just… you just wanted to touch him right now, to connect with him. Throughout your thinking, there’d been this torrent of emotions flowing through you. But now, like some inward geyser, it felt like it had exploded, a surge of emotion threatening to wet your cheeks once more. Seeing the confusion in his eyes, then tender requitement of your loving touch, you wonder if this is what he felt like just before now. His hand gripped yours, a firm response to your unhidden need. It was a strong hold, a steady one. Maybe that was it. You’d had just a glimpse of the pain he’d been through, the misery surrounding him, and yet- here he was. Smiling. Happy. You loved the credit you could take for him, the joy of being relevant and good for him, but you knew it wasn’t just you. He wouldn’t have been able to take your hand if he wasn’t strong, wouldn’t have been able to make this kind of progress toward being alright if he hadn’t already possessed some great inner strength. Resilient, that was the word. He was resilient. As you held his hand, you couldn’t help but be impressed by everything he’s gone through, and still come out the other side.
	You tighten your hold on his hand, looking into his eyes with pure, nude affection. Nothing held back there. Maybe you couldn’t place your finger on it; maybe you weren’t gonna be able to figure out exactly what made this man so special. Everything made sense, everything seemed to fit, but… as you kept his gaze, it still felt like you hadn’t found the answer. He seemed almost magical in your inability to pin him down. All you knew was that you did love him, and that to an immense degree. It still felt like it wasn’t enough, but you think the only response you can give him is those three words, and hope he understood all the weight beyond them. Falling into those perfect eyes, you open your mouth to speak them. But instead of the short declaration you intended, another phrase comes out. Breathlessly, your voice almost cracking, you hear yourself say:
	“Don’t go.” You tighten your hold on his hand, looking into his eyes with pure, nude affection. Nothing held back there. Maybe you couldn’t place your finger on it; maybe you weren’t gonna be able to figure out exactly what made this man so special. Everything made sense, everything seemed to fit, but… as you kept his gaze, it still felt like you hadn’t found the answer. He seemed almost magical in your inability to pin him down. All you knew was that you did love him, and that to an immense degree. It still felt like it wasn’t enough, but you think the only response you can give him is those three words, and hope he understood all the weight beyond them. Falling into those perfect eyes, you open your mouth to speak them. But instead of the short declaration you intended, another phrase comes out. Breathlessly, your voice almost cracking, you hear yourself say:
	“Don’t go.” Somewhere in that short time of holding his hand, the fear of his departure had arisen. The continual examination of him and all those positive traits had brought forth that flow of love you’d held for him, which had been growing since he’s first stepped off that train. But with your affection, the terror over the possibility of him leaving had grown with it, every piece of joy that came with him had become a risk, like a hostage held by parents and city. Unthinking, you squeezed his hand harder, as if the tightness of your hold could overcome the threatened retrieval by his tormentors. You didn’t want him to go.
	Feeling you, Anon places his cards face down, then moves his chair over to your side of the table. Contact is broken temporarily, but the second he moves closer, you dash into his lap, hugging him tightly. Some other time you might have cared what an onlooker would say, but right now, the thought couldn’t be further from you. Your arms constrict him, squeezing tightly. Hearing a cough, you loosen your grip just a tad, allowing for both his breaths and your arms keeping him in Ponyville. And as you allow yourself to experience the previously suppressed fear of his probable departure, the feeling grows far greater than the minor glimpses you’d had before. The thought seems to become more probable with every passing second, and more horrendous. Trying to keep from crying, you whimper into his chest:
	“Don’t go. Please don’t go.” His arms wrap around you, slight tremors evident in his own embrace. You look up, half expecting to see tears on his face. But no water surrounds his eyes: instead, that expression of suffering is drawn upon his features. That firm mouth, and a solid, narrowed gaze pointed straight forward; it’s as if any tremble of his lip or glance at you would break him. He closes his eyes and bends over a bit more, hugging you tighter. There you stay for what feels like hours, both of you clinging desperately to each other, trying not to name the fearful future, trying not to cry. Finally, he looks up, the saddest eyes in the world meeting yours. 
	“I don’t want to.” Immediately, before he can add something else, you jump on him, the chance to convince him like a great piece of driftwood to a floating shipwreck survivor. The eagerness in your voice is almost palpable, and you struggle to keep your words from becoming unintelligible. 
	“Then don’t. You don’t have to go back to them. You can’t go back to them.” Your gaze loses the girlish fear from before, replacing it with the forward urgency of a fanatic. He can’t go back. They’ll wreck him, and everything the two of you built will be for nothing. Can’t he see that? He has to! He has to! A few moments pass before the answer comes… he doesn’t. A grimace invades his face as his mind inhabits the prophesied future: 
	“Apple Bloom, I…” He stops, choking on the incoming word. He closes his eyes forcefully, mashing the lids together in an attempt to stop any tears from escaping. “Apple Bloom, I can’t stay here; this isn’t my home.” Yes it is! Dammit, it is! You immediately jump on his words.
	“Yes it is! Your home is with us! With me!” Your voice cracks on the last word, as you point to your own heart. Not that you could even care. Anon laughs, almost bitterly, a weak smile forming as he acknowledges the truth.
	“I know, but… you know I don’t mean it like that. You’re always gonna be where my heart is, Apple Bloom, but… Come on, you know what I’m trying to say.” His words come haltingly, needing to be ripped from an unwilling mind. “I’m not an Apple. I’m just your cousin.”
	“Yes, you are an Apple!” You slam your fist on the table. “Maybe your last name tells a different story, but Ah know you belong with us. You know you belong with us.” You remember once, not more than year ago, when you’d found out Pinkie was probably related to the Apples; there hadn’t been explicit confirmation, but AJ had told her that she belonged, whether or not a piece of paper said so. An’ if Pinkie could be a part of your family, you better bet that Anon was gonna be. He looks off to the side, the same tragic smile painted across his gorgeous face. Taking your hand and placing it on his chin, you guide his face and eyes back to you. You smile sweetly, only a hint of sorrow in it. You place your other hand on his heart, leading both your attention and his to the spot before you make eye contact once more: “Sorry, honey, but whether you like it or not, you’re an Apple. To the core.” And with that, you lean forward and kiss him. 
	He tries smiling again, then closes his eyes and grits his teeth, desperately holding onto dryness. Back and forth he goes, switching from that joyful smile that came from belonging, to the bitter verge of tears over what he thought was an undeniable pull away from the people that mattered most to him. Biting his lip, he looks down at you with moist eyes.
	“B-b-but,” he stutters, shutting up immediately. Taking a deep breath to collect himself, then tries again. “But that doesn’t mean I can stay.” 
	“Of course you can! We want you to stay!” You blurt out, almost going against AJ’s forbidden offer. She’d told you not to invite him yet, but you’re having severe doubts about the rightness of her call. She said she’d have to work out the details with him, and she didn’t want any false hopes goin’ on. Still… AJ didn’t see this boy, right now, at his most vulnerable. You’re not entirely sure of whether his implicit denial of your request was due to his belief that he didn’t belong or because he didn’t think he would be allowed to. A lone finger ascends to your lip and your brow furrows at the dilemma. You get that you shouldn’t offer a deal if you can’t ensure it’ll go through… But as Anon looks into your eyes, half between his misery and confusion at your sudden, thoughtful pose, you decide he needs it. If only for the hope it’ll bring, you have to tell him.
	“Alright, Ah wasn’t s’posed to tell you this, but AJ’s gonna ask you if you wanna stay.” He doesn’t respond beyond shifting into a neutral expression. His eyes stare into yours and his mouth seems to have frozen at some half-open place. You continue, telling him as much as AJ told you: “You can help out on the farm, help pick up some a’ the chores, and with some of our old machines and trucks. We’re always lookin’ for help, and this way, we don’t have to do a big ol’ background check, since you’re part of the family! Ah mean, we’d still have to clear it with your parents…” your voice drops on that note, the only potential hitch in the plan. “But you can do it right? Ah mean, you want to, right?” He opens his mouth, trying to coax words from within it. Nothing comes out, his lips still trembling in disbelief. You lean in, eyes widening as you anxiously wait for his response. Suddenly it comes in a great hug, tighter than the loose holding you’d been in, and a magnificent kiss. The brief heaven ceases, and he presses his forehead into yours, eyes closed in a happiness too great to believe.
	“Yes. Yes. Yes, oh yes, yes, yes! He repeats the word over and over, the word itself like some wine he cannot get enough of. His pained look slowly turns to one of pure joy, like a girl getting the perfect gift for Christmas. Your arms mirror his own, tightly wrapping themselves around the body of your dearest one, completely absorbed in sheer joy. He’s in! He’s in! He’s- uh. Well. Suddenly you recall AJ’s words about trying not to get him too worked up over something that might not happen. That’s right, he still had to wait on his parent’s answer, and that wasn’t a sure thing. You hate to ruin his expression, but you gotta remind him. 
	“Hey, remember you still gotta get your parents’ per-“ you stop halfway, remember something he’d said earlier today. “Wait, you’re eighteen, right? We were making plans around you still being a minor, but if you’re eighteen, you don’t need permission!” Your wide grin is cut short by his uncomfortable shifting.
	“Uh… that’s actually a month away.” What. Now it’s your turn to stare at him. His expression looks pained again, this time with the agony of shame over that of imprisonment. “I, uh... Well, I was gonna be eighteen by the time I take the trip, and I kinda…” He looks away from you as he finishes, not wanting to meet your eyes. “I was just trying to get you to come. I didn’t think it was that important.” There’s a note of pleading in the final sentence, a clear hope that you’ll forgive it. 
	You’re not gonna lie, this is pretty upsetting. Part of it is the lie, but most of it is because you thought he’d be able to stay, obstacle-free. Taking a note from Anon, you look away, not wanting to show the disappointment on your face. After all, it’s not wholly in Anon; a lot of it is just the situation. Still… why couldn’t he have just told you the friggin’ truth? You take a deep breath, then let it out in a heavy sigh. You wanna be mad at him, but you did the same thing not an hour ago. The shift from misery to joy to numbing disappointment, was actually kinda of tiring. Turning back to face him again, you respond.
	“Ok, just- just don’t do that again. You don’t have to impress me, Anon.” As you begin to move away from the white lie and its immensely magnified inconvenience, you gain a little smile as you assure him: “You’ve already done a pretty good job of that.” You chuckle lightly, hoping to ease the situation a little bit. You need to focus on what’s important, and that’s keeping Anon here. If he does something like this again, then you’ll give him an earful, AJ-style. Anon smiles nervously at you, still slightly afraid that you’re mad. And while you are a little bit mad, you don’t want to surrender the moment to it. 
	You give him a quick peck, then a bigger one at the surprisingly alluring feel. You’re still emotionally exhausted from everything that’s gone on, but these last few minutes of blank discomfort have left you wide open for the shockingly massive affection you had for him. His mouth on yours, passionately working his magic, feels like it’s restoring you. A few moments pass before you break off, wanting to talk about his future a bit more, maybe plan something to say to his parents. But at your lips’ departure, he can only stare at your lips for a few seconds (while you respond in kind, forgetting what you were gonna say when you see his perfectly formed, slightly wet lips) before going in again. Wait, we gotta- Oh, never mind. You close you eyes and give into the amorous kiss.
	Minutes pass, and the third cough from another patron convinces you to stop. You giggle as you stare into Anon's eyes, forgetting the other troubles, just for the moment. Right now, it’s just him and you. Your hands still touch, your bodies only inches from each other. He’s still leaned most of the way out of his seat, like you, in your effort to get as near as possible. Leaning back, he mirrors your actions, but neither of you takes yours eyes off each other. There’s something special about this moment, some vague bubbliness floating gently into the front of your mind. It’s a simple cheer, like some light pink bubble slowly encompassing the both of you. His eyes are half open, fluttering lightly. The tender gaze he gives you feels freeing, as if it could wash away everything else. The threats of before stand at the edge of your mind, ready to torment you the moment you let them in; and while this sweet aura doesn’t dispel it, you do feel as if you’re given a choice. It’s as if you’re able to choose whether or not to let those thoughts in or not. And while a part of you does want to return to the worried planning (though you’ll never understand that draw), you gently deny it entry. You came here to have fun, to give Anon a last day worth remembering. The whole point of this was to just relax with the best boy in the world before you went out to stomp some grapes. So why not? 
	You return to your other side of the table, the neglected cards calling for play. Not that you wouldn’t enjoy some more cuddling, but you’ve still got a while. Besides, you know for a fact that a couple games of cards can bring about some fine memories. You can still remember a perfectly ordinary day, two summers ago, when you went to the park with Big Mac and AJ. All you did was sit by this big old oak, play cards, and eat sandwiches, but for some reason, it was the most memorable day of that summer. Maybe it was pointless to try to manufacture memories, but you might as well give it a shot, right? As the control freak within you cheers at your attempt to create a perfect moment for your Anon, the other part of you gets to playing. 
	Glancing at your cards, you gulp; it’s not a great one. Too many high-point cards. You take a quick peek at Anon, hoping to see any indication of his hand. He nods slightly, and shifts a few other cards; nothing to be gleaned from that. Well, all you can do is hope to pick up a couple kings and queens, maybe find a run or something in there. You draw a ten and keep it; it doesn’t quite get you a run, but it promises more use than that eight. He picks it up, and you drop a quiet Consarnit from your mouth; that meant it was helpful, and if he goes down now, you’re lookin’ at around thirty points. The next two turns bring a king and queen to you, filling the gaps perfectly. With a little investigation, you find that you’ve lucked your way into seven points. The game’s still very early, so you knock the table:
	“Ah’m goin’ down.” His heretofore blank face disappears as a thin smirk stretches across his cheek. His lips are almost pursed in the mocking grin, eyes shining in perceived triumph. Oh geez, this is not good. You place your cards on the table, grouping them in the runs and groups you’ve seen. “Seven points,” you inform him. He nods, then throws down a nearly perfect hand, only two cards left over, both fours. He’s lost by one point. Suddenly, horror overthrows his expression, and his hands fly to his head in stressed support. 
	“Oh, come on! I thought I had this!” You fold your arms, and jokingly respond with a voice of the utmost pretension: 
	“Well, sweetheart, Ah guess you can’t count your eggs bef-“ Your gloating is interrupted by his gleeful surprise.
	“I got it!” What? No! You look at the table, and he’s rearranging his cards so that he’s left his a four and a five of spades, the latter of which he adds onto your run of spades. Now he’s perfectly imitating your previous stance, arms folded and eyes haughty. “What was that, Apple Bloom? I think you were saying something?” In mock grumpiness, you swipe up all the cards and begin shuffling. 
	“Harrumph.” He puts his hand to his ear, like he’s hard of hearing.
	“Oh, what’s that? Twenty-five extra points because I beat you when you went down? Oh, I’m sorry, did you say 28 whopping points for me? Oh gosh, Bloom, you’re too kind!” You send him a grumbling yes as he writes his score down with a huge smile, now having a decent lead on you. Despite the unhappy pretension, you’re actually glad that he’s being silly again. You might be able to deal with the shitty circumstances well enough –after all, you were well-practiced- but you weren’t sure Anon could. In fact, you were slightly worried that bringing the subject up might screw over his whole day, or just a big part of it. But it seemed like he was getting along well enough, and you couldn’t welcome your cousin’s cheer any more than you already did. Oh, that reminds you:
	“Hey, uh, just one more thing before we keep going: can you not tell AJ that Ah told you about the deal thing? She was gonna ask you tonight or something; wanted to give you a little more time, Ah guess.” He nods, stiffening slightly. If you were anyone else it would have been imperceptible, but you know Anon pretty well for the time you’ve been with him; not to mention you do pay a lot more attention to him than most would. 
	“Yeah, no problem.” He leans back into his chair and sighs. But before you can say anything to try to distract him again, he flashes that brilliant smile and says: “Now, are you gonna deal those cards or not? I’m itchin’ to beat ya again.” What surprises you more than the honest happiness in his eyes is his choice of words. Itchin’ to do something? That’s something you say, not something you’d imagine gets said in the city. The conclusion brings a huge grin to your face as you realize you’re rubbing off on him. It’s a small thing, but still, it’s making you grin like an idiot. 
	Dealing out the cards and thinking of the previous result, you realize the loss has made you feel a tiny bit sour, and you recall your habit of over-valuing winning in games. In response, you take a more comfortable pose and take a deep breath. You’re gonna try to take this a little less seriously and just relax a bit. The lungful of fresh air helps, the clear feeling it leaves behind more refreshing than you’d remembered. Taking a minute, you just close your eyes and take in your surroundings. With your feet propped up on a nearby chair and your torso leaned back about thirty degrees, you’re at your comfiest position. Nearby, there’s the sound of the occasional car, scooting right on past. Beyond that, there’s very little noise; the rustling of the wind through the trees, the chirping of unseen birds, and the shuffling of another patron are the only things that fill the air.
	The smell of summer is bright and clean, the aroma of nature filling your nostrils. The park is only a block away, just down a nearby hill, and the trees that fill it could account for the enticing scent. Giving into the gentle relaxation, you feel the need to stretch coming on. You extend your legs, making them as straight as you can, then relax them again. The mostly bare skin can feel the gently breeze softly gliding over them. The slight chill, more cool than icy, brings a certain kind of relief that can only be felt in summer. It was hot, just the way you liked it, but the dark shade and the cooling breeze made it just perfect.
	Your arms, previously laying at your sides, rise up, elbows out and hands brushing your sides as they ascend. As your hands touch your shoulders, chicken-like, you extend you are fully and continue rising, moving into that victory pose every stretcher knows by heart. The light shirt you wear extends with you as your chest is pushed forward in the arc. As you hold the position, just before coming down, you wonder if Anon’s looking at you. You wonder if Anon likes what he’s seeing. The thought of this makes you blush and giggle just a bit, enough to set you back into your comfortable slouch. Suddenly, your absent-mindedness departs, and you remember where you are. 
	“Ah gosh, sorry about that.” You apologize to Anon, who’d been absent from your attention for at elast a couple minutes. But as you face him, it becomes clear that he doesn’t have a problem with it. His eyes are fixed on you, a little half smile on his lips. The moment you spoke, his eyes darted up to you; and while you didn’t see where they were pointed before, you can make a pretty good guess. A smile works its way across your mouth as you realize: guess he did like what he saw. Anon speaks too, also sounding like he’d left a reverie.
	“Uh- Yeah, no problem. You looked pretty comfortable there.” He gulps, obviously a little embarrassed at what he thought he’d been caught looking at. Seems kinda strange to you; he’d actually seen the girls, so why was he being bashful now? Huh. Boys; you’re never gonna understand them. Still, that expression on his face is sweet as peaches, and you take a moment to appreciate it. Leaning forward, your hand comes up on your chin to support your head as you look interestedly at him. Today you got one of the best days of summer, the perfect temperature and few clouds, as well as a boy like that, liking you. And you know what? It felt pretty darn good.
	“Ah was.” You grin brightly at him, “sometimes you just gotta sit back and smell the roses.” The boy across from you smiles sweetly in response: 
	“I hear ya.” His gentle look threatens to melt your heart. Your hands move to the pile of cards in front of you, then stop. A sudden thought enters your mind: dancing. Preferring an impromptu session to the continuing game, you grab his attention.
	“Hey.” His eyes, which returned to an organized hand, move to you. 
	“What’s up?” Now, you could tell him. But where was that fun in that? Instead, you inch your hands over to his, and softly tug at his cards. Ah, there’s that bewildered expression you love. You partly expect him to hold onto his cards, but he relinquishes them, a limp grip allowing you to retrieve them. Placing them with your cards, then adding that to the deck, you put the cards away. His head tilts, but he still doesn’t say anything; instead, he leans his head on his hand, looking pleased to just watch the mystery unfold. Well, hate to ruin the show, but you’re participating in this too. You reach out and grab his hand, pulling him out of his chair. Suddenly standing, he finally inquires:
	“Alright, so what’re we doing now?” All he gets for an answer is excited eyes above a lightly bitten lip. Somewhat satisfied with the promise in your look, he goes along with you, still sporting that confusion that makes him so cute. You turn around, your hand still holding his, but with your arm extended behind you. You make your way over to the car and deposit the cards and your flip-flops.  The initial plan was just to sprint down to the park, but why not skip instead? Barefoot, you give into that sprightly joy that so often possesses you, moving forward with great leaps and bounds. The crumply gravel and soft grass kisses your feet as you pass from the street to the nearby hill. It’s too bad Anon’s got his shoes on; he should be feeling this. You stop in your tracks, Anon soon reflecting the motion. Turning around to him, you disappoint his expectation for an explanation, instead making the appetite grow:
	“Take off your shoes.” 
	“Why?” Huh. You didn’t expect him to actually ask, though he certainly had reason to. But you’re not one to spoil the surprise, no sir! You walk a little to the left, slightly up the hill, lessening the height difference by an inch or two. Then, leaning in, you close your eyes and peck Anon on the lips. His lips pull back as he smiles, and you answer him, the distance between your faces only a couple of inches:
	“That’s why. Come on.” Still smiling, he does what you ask, his excited heartbeat overthrowing any concern of his. You grab your newly barefoot beau and pull him along once more, causing him to let out a small “waah!” as his balance is imperiled. But while his legs do flail a little bit, he regains his footing soon enough, and is soaring with you across the grassy hill. As you and he bound over the brilliantly gleaming grass, you tilt your head back and laugh, the simple motions of joy swelling your heart. Soon enough, both you and the leaping boy are bounding in time, your feet slamming down with the synchronicity of a marching band. An elite marching band, not a high school one. Two right feet pound the thick dirt, then spring upwards, leaving two happy kids suspended in mid-air for one blissful second. The moment seems to last longer than it really does, the unbounded freedom of flight seemingly held in that leap. And when it does end, the descent is no return to earth, but the mere preparation for another majestic flight. Closing your eyes and tilting your head towards the sun, you take a mental picture of this moment. Whether or not you needed it, you wanted to remember this forever. 
	A slight change in the held hand draws your attention over to the holder. He’s catching up, his hand pulling you in just a little bit to help himself. Steering himself slightly rightwards, he moves to your right side, skipping alongside you. His legs take a moment to realign, then mirror yours with expert precision. Glancing to the left, he throws a cheerful glance your way, then squeezes your hand three times. You shake your head, albeit with a happy grin. That Anon; every time you think you couldn’t be happier, he pushes the limits even further. The pace accelerates as the happiness becomes energy, and the two of you are overcome with that curious fire that impels children to run as fast as they can for no apparent reason beyond “I can.” Suddenly wracked by that now-common need to be closer, you retract your arm, pulling Anon closer. But this doesn’t fit well with the speedy skipping, and soon, the two of you take a dive.
	The hill is flattening out, but still retains a generous downward curve. Anon’s foot catches something, the unbalancing pull bringing his right foot to an odd place. Suddenly out of rhythm, his body tries to correct itself by placing the left foot as far to the right as possible. But mid-leap, this only serves to weaken the landing, and his weight tilts too far to the right, following with a crash. His hand tries to let go off yours, hoping not to drag you down. But while you aimed to do the same, your heart acted on its own accord; fingers tightened as yours loosened, the hated act of departure foiled at the most inopportune moment. Anon’s hand flew down, pulled by his grounded body, and yours soon followed. Memories of the raft trip and the tipped tube return to you, the same wounded perspective held now. In your rolling, you see the sun and sky clearly, then suddenly obscured by the ground. Then there it is again, rising from the river above it; wait that’s not right… The mistake fails to matter as the ground swallows up both again, then throws them back at you, each rotation slowing. 
	Your hand touches a particularly warm and soft portion of the ground, then more of your body falls on it. You feel part of it sink beneath your now-stopped body, having much more give than dirt normally does. The blue ground has the texture of denim, and –Good gracious it’s moving! The ground beneath you parts, and your head fall a bit lower, hitting normal earth. Trying to get a feel for your surroundings, your arm extend, hitting a pair of small, moist somethings and a significantly harder substance in the gap between. Immediately upon feeling the slight wetness, you pull back your hand and yelp.
	“Ah!” 
	“Ow!” Half the ground beneath you twitches, revealing itself to be the body of Anon. Oh yeah, that makes sense. You look over to the sound of hurt, but see only a bright sky above blue. Your vision adjusts a bit more, and you suddenly realize that your head is lodged firmly between his thighs. Meaning that bulge is… With your recovered spatial awareness, you’re able to sit up and skootch away at supersonic speeds. The embarrassment-fueled actions depart as the distance is created, and you glance back to your previous seat. He’s sitting up, legs closed now, and rubbing his upper lip. Oh geez, did you hurt him? You’re already close to the ground, so you get on your hands and knees to close the distance. Arriving, your hands are just to the left of his left legs, and your face only a foot or two from his.
	“Hey, are you alright?” He smiles on one side of his mouth and rubs the back of his head. 
	I’m a little banged-up, but I’ll be fine. Are you?” His happy groan turns to worry at the last sentence as he realizes you might be hurt. You immediately clear the air.
	“Ah’m fine, dear.” You mean Anon. “Ah mean Anon. Ah’m fine.” Geez, you didn’t mean to say that! The term of endearment, given to him on his second day here, had never actually been used out loud, and you sure as heck didn’t mean to let it out now. The verbalization brings a massive blush to your face, though if you were to stop and consider why it would be bad, or look at Anon, you wouldn’t be so embarrassed. Anon’s expression remains unseen for several seconds, but the nearly glowing grin of his finally makes its way through to your attention. Fearing the worst, you only stare at the silly happiness on his face before he leans in and surprises you with a kiss. You’re caught between feeling like you have to explain something and kissing him back. You go with the latter choice, which just seems way better.
	Too soon, the kiss stops, and Anon grunts as he lifts himself off the ground. He brushes the dirt off of him, making sure not to do so towards you. Then he extends his hand towards you, offering you help up. Slowly, you hand raises to meet his. You’re still a little bit behind him; he’s ready to continue the skipping, seemingly fine with the new name. It’s almost as if he didn’t notice it. A small pit forms in you as you wonder whether it meant something to him; you really hope it did. But at the same time, you’re just plain relieved. It was probably needless worry, but being vaguely aware of that didn’t make it go away. Whatever. You grab his hand, and enter once more into the moment. A short focus on his gleaming smile and capable arms forms, followed by a thin plan to call him “dear” at a more intimate moment forms, with the hope that it’ll still be found pleasing while being meaningful. After all, it was what your parents and grandparents referred to each other as. Ah! Bad Apple Bloom! It doesn’t happen often, but you can get lost in your head, and this is definitely not the time to do so. Blinking your eyes, you try to focus on what’s happening around you instead of worry and planning. It’s harder than it sounds.
	Looking around, you see that you’re actually at the bottom of the hill. The park’s still about half a mile away, but you’re kinda running low of skipping energy. The riverside path isn’t too far in front of you, lined with thick trees, sparsely scattered on either side. He seems to have an idea of your idea and pulls you closer to it. This time, he’s leading you; it’s a good feeling, you silently reflect. Stepping onto the concrete, mostly cool from the shade of the trees, he stops. He doesn’t know where to go now. His pleasant face turns down to you, a question upon it.
	“To the left.” He nods, then starts down that way, you at his side. His hand searches for yours, but once they meet, yours runs up and softly holds the lower part of his bicep. Understanding the cue, he brings up his arm making it perpendicular to the torso it crosses. Happily clinging to his arm, you sneak a few glances when you think he can’t see. That gentleman posture he’d inadvertently assumed when he’d made his arm perfect for holding is pretty dang fine, if you say so yourself. Visions of future proms and homecomings fill your mind, you in a princess-like dress and him in a handsome suit. It’s enough to threaten a swoon, but you fight it off. You’ve still got a ways to walk, especially at the comfortable pace set, so you try to draw some more stories out of him.
	“So, tell me more about the city.” Instead, he just shakes his head.
	“No no no no… I think I’ve told you enough.” You look at him confusedly, not expecting the sudden closure. But before you can say anything else, he grins and comes up with a counteroffer: “I wanna hear about you.” He pauses before saying ‘you,’ and gently boops your nose on as he does. After blinking in surprise at the unexpected boop, you hesitantly agree.
	“Alright, fine.” It isn’t as if you don’t like talking about yourself; you could go on for some time, as your besties had informed you. You’d just rather hear about him. Talking about yourself felt like a bit of a waste. Still, he wanted to hear about you, and that valuing was good enough for you. “So, what do ya wanna hear about?” He looks up, trying to find an answer.
	“Uh… I don’t know, anything. Just tell me about yourself.” About yourself, huh… 
	“Well, Ah was born right over in Ponyville Hospital. Ah don’t think you’ve seen it, it hasn’t been anywhere near where we’ve gone. But yeah, lived my whole life around these parts, in that same old house.” You stop, wishing you were a little more exotic. The way it sounded out loud was like you were just some plain country girl; who would want that? A quick peek over at Anon reveals an unanticipated interest. Uh, you guess if he’s enjoying it, you’ll keep going. As you do, you do keep glancing at him, watching for signs of boredom. “Went to Sunnyside Elementary, which was alright, Ah guess. Ah wasn’t the best student there was,” you confess, just a little bit ashamed of it. You quickly try to defend yourself:
	“It wasn’t that Ah was dumb or nothing, just, you know, there was always so many chores at home. And when- well, when my parents…left… things kinda got crazy. Granny and Grandad came back over, sold the little cabin they’d be living in. Always felt bad about making them come back. Um, anyway, they managed to help AJ and Big Mac kinda get back together. You know, into their whole routines and everything. Granny was more of a mentor for AJ than Grandad, an’ the same thing for Big Mac, but the other way.”
	“You mean your grandpa was a mentor for Big Mac?”
	“Yeah, they were pretty close. Ah mean, as close as Big Mac could get to anybody back then. Ah didn’t really need as much support as they did. Ah mean, Ah was just a kid.” These last words are pronounced with a bit of bitterness, that hatred of being overlooked surfacing for some reason. Not wanting to think about it, you push it back down, and finish up. “Anyway, that was that. Grades weren’t too great at that part, but got better. Took another dip when Grandad left, but yeah. Ah did pretty well besides that.” He looks hurt, an expression which you assume you share. You change the subject.
	“Uh, Ah was a pretty big tomboy back then.” Through the dwindling discomfort on his expression, curiosity is found in his raised eyes. “Oh yeah, Ah hated all those dresses and stuff that Ah had to wear on Sundays. Ah mean, Ah got a perfectly good pair a’ overalls and a T-shirt in my cabinet, why do Ah gotta put on that thing! And, later, when Ah met Sweetie, ooh!” She blows air of her mouth, an exasperated look on her face. “Alright, get this: we agreed to go to the school dance together, and she’s like: ‘Hey, lemme pick out the dresses,” you know, Ah just say ‘Ok.’ Ah mean, she’s way more into style and stuff than me, so Ah figure she’ll handle it just fine. Turns out she got us a pair of matching corsets! Corsets!” You hands fly up in the air at the thought of the ludicrous piece of clothing. “Ah didn’t really have a choice, so Ah had to do it. The dang thing felt like Ah was caught in a lasso! All evening!” You pull him close, eyes wide with the awful memory. “You know what that’s like!?”
	“-N-no”
	“It’s awful! Ah gotta take a look every time she wants me to wear something, just in case she tries to slip one a’ those in there!” 
	“Has she tried?”
	“You bet she has! Ah swear, girl’s in love with those.” You stop, hearing the soft laugh of Anon. “What’s so funny?” 
	“I’m just imagining Sweetie chasing you around your house waving a corset.” He’s not too far off, actually. You correct him: 
	“You’re almost right. You see, usually she’s chasing me an’ Scoots around one of our houses.” The mental imagery of not one, but two girls, fleeing from a crazy fashionista is a bit much for him. Letting go of your arm, he doubles over in laughter. Recalling the actual memory, in all its glory, you join in. A few moments later, both parties recover and return to their idle walking. After a short pause you continue your exposition.
	“Ah kinda got over it, though. Ah mean, Ah’m not gonna spend half the time knitting and planning outfits as Sweetie, sure, but Ah still like the occasional dress.” Anon nods his head.
	“I’m glad,” comes his voice, softer than usual. 
	“You’re glad?” He looks at you with a benevolent smile.
	“Well, yeah. I mean, if you didn’t like all that stuff, how would we have a ton of fancy dates?” Grinning, you pull him closer.
	“You like that? Like, what we did on Thursday?” He snorts, nodding a few times to emphasize his ‘yes.’
	“Well, yeah! That was one of the best nights of my life! No way is that only gonna happen once.” The certainty in his voice grants you a strength you didn’t know you needed, the illimitable encouragement of another believer when one thinks oneself the only one. You nod, your cheek pressing into his arm.
	“Well, Ah’ll be glad to keep that up.” Another small pause finds its way out of the moment, cued by Anon’s voice. 
	“So, you got any other good stories?” You think hard, trying to capture some. There was that time you put on a big show and got best comedy act… but you didn’t really wanna share that experience with him just yet. It was fun and all, but still a bit embarrassing. And that time you tried to keep Granny from speaking on Family Appreciation Day. You tried a whole buncha things, but the story was still kinda boring. Hmmmm… The next story that comes to mind is that time the homecoming queen picked a fight with that foreign exchange student. It was pretty crazy; she basically got the whole school to watch, and straight up lost. Kinda lost her ‘queen bee’ crown there. Anon didn’t know about it, and you might be able to substitute the foreigner for yourself, or give yourself a bigger role in bringing down her reign… Nah, you can’t do that. Gotta be honest, ‘specially around Anon. Ooh! You’ve got it! 
	“One time we drugged Big Mac and Cheerilee!” He stops walking, looking at you incredulously. For a moment you hesitate, wondering if this was the right story to tell. But as soon as a smile invades his wide-eyed face, you can tell you haven’t blown it. Good thing, too. 
	“What??” 
	“Alright, so we were still pretty young, and we were having this big ol’ Valentine’s Day party in class, with Ms. Cheerilee. Aw man, it was great. We got here this huge valentine, way bigger than anyone else’s. If it hadn’t kept falling over, she definitely would have liked it more.” 
	“Uh-huh.” He responds, nodding his head just fast enough to get his message across: ‘Hurry up and get to the good part!’
	“Anyway, Sweetie Belle asked her if she had a boyfriend, an’ she didn’t, so we figured: ‘Hey, we’re pretty great at this stuff; let’s go find her one!’” Then, under your breath: “Woulda found one too if this town wasn’t so dang tiny… Anyway! So after finding a whole lotta nothing, Sweetie and Scootaloo picked my brother. Ah accidently agreed to it…” At his questioning expression, you explain: “Ah got caught up in the moment! So we get this real romantic date set up, an you wouldn’t believe what happens!”
	“Noth-“
	“Nothin’! They just sat around like a couple a chickens! So We go back to the clubhouse, y’know, to figure out a plan. Me an’ Sweetie were gonna try again with the date, make it real romantic, way more than the first one, but Scootaloo was like: ‘Ah got something that’ll do it!’ She won’t tell us what it is, but we go over to her place, and she’s got a couple of pills that one of her neighbors gave her.” Now he’s looking really shocked. You quickly try to calm him down. “We didn’t know what they were, Ah swear! We figured it was like, Ah don’t know, mood enhancers. Like how some vitamins can make you feel good!” Ok, part of you did think it might have been drugs, but Scootaloo had asked you to trust her. Still, your youthful stupidity is seeming a lot less defensible right now, but what could you say? You had always tended towards tunnel vision, and were really focused on the goal. He still looks a bit worried, so you just press on with the story. 
	“Anyway, she called ‘em happy pills, said they’d really give ya a good time. Scootaloo tells us if we just slip em into their drinks, they’ll be so happy, they’ll think it was each other, and then date! Seemed kinda thin, if you ask me, but we thought it’d be better than another date by itself. Keep in mind, we were still pretty young at this point.”
	“Uh-huh.”
	“So we set up the date just like Sweetie and Ah planned, and gosh was it good we didn’t stay with that plan; they were crazy awkward. But then they drank the juice we gave them, an’ they started acting all funny. We watched them for a bit, but they never actually did anything besides lay on the ground an’ look up at the clouds.” Anon scoffs, shaking his head with only a trace of a smile left.
	“Well, I’m glad nothing too bad happened. Didja get in trouble?”
	“Oh, yeah. We went back to Scootaloo’s house, an’ a couple hours later Big Mac picked us up. He really chewed us out, too.” You shiver, not wanting to see your big brother angry again; it was pretty scary. Sensing your discomfort, Anon blankets your shoulders with his arm and pulls right up against his side, offering a comforting look. 
	“Well, we all do stupid things. I mean, I haven’t drugged my family members,” Anon consoles you, snickering at the above-average mistake, “but I’ve certainly done some dumb sh- stuff.” Your misgivings about the story are somewhat justified, the experience seeming much less light-hearted in retrospection. Definitely not something you plan to revisit anytime soon. You duck into Anon’s arm, hoping to separate yourself from the discomfort. His protective embrace is almost perfect, a warm feeling soaking up your full attention. 
	Under your foot, the gravel sports a pair of bright painted numbers: ‘0.5’. You and Anon had entered the path a little while before the starting marker, meaning you had about half a mile to go before you reached the park. Not too far in the distance, you can spy the sparse parking lot, sprinkled with a handful of sedans and trucks. There’s a large truck towing a boat behind it, getting ready to back into the boating area and drop off its cargo. Your family doesn’t have a boat–the rest of your family isn’t quite as into it as you are- but you borrow one from your neighbors every once in a while. Another plan, involving boats and Anon in a pair of trunks, fills your mind. Your future summer’s plan is rapidly filling up; maybe you should consult Anon before filling up his schedule. Turning your well-nestled head upwards, you ask him if he’d like to go boating.
	“I’m not sure we have time…” he responds with a hint of a smile. 
	“Well, not today. Silly goose.” You jab his side on the latter sentence.
	“Oh, well then yeah.” Sweet! Well, there’s one down. It crosses your mind to invite him to all thirteen activities planned, but you turn the inner proposal down. It’d probably be better to ask him about them every once in a while, so you don’t overwhelm him, or come on too strong. Maybe you could suggest something to him here and there, see if you can make him think it’s his idea. AJ told you that’s an important thing to know in life. For now though, you just keep on walking.
	The path is sloped ever so slightly, up until a division in the path, which marks the entrance of the park itself. The multicolored little stones that make up the path are imperfectly flattened, only noticeable to the shoeless, like you and your beau. You’ve gone so many places barefoot, and done it so many times that you barely notice the heat and rough texture, though you can’t say the same for Anon. Thankfully, it isn’t too hot today, and he seems to be making it along alright, except for the occasional ‘ow,’ and stagger as a sharper piece falls under his step. Maybe you’ll give him a massage when you get there; it’s only fair. There’s railing on the left side on the path, faded and cracked paint over the black metal, the olive coating broken in off in great chunks. On the other side is a short hill, no bigger than 8 or 9 feet tall, covered in rocks as big as your head. The jagged wall probably served as a levee before the nearby dam fixed the issue of flooding. 
	Thick trees had begun to spring up, hiding the river on the left side except in the occasional spaces where one had fallen towards the river. The depressed branches of one hang below the rest, the low ceiling of leaves forcing Anon to duck. You reach up and grab a branch as you pass by, a wide but firm grip dragging some of the leaves off as the branch pulls out of your receding motion. The bright green leaves, a dry mossy color on the bottom, flutter out of your open hand. The wind and your forward motion fail to escort one of them out, a lone leaf holding strong to the palm of your hand. You look at it with interest, wondering how it’d braved the pushy breeze, and what kind of tree it’d come from. But the thought is interrupted by a sudden motion of the boy on your arm. He’s bent over, trying to keep up his pace, then stood back up. Had he tripped? No, it didn’t seem lik-
	Before your thought can finish, his right hand moves in front of you, showing you a brilliant daisy. Every petal shines bright, each as pearly white and proud as the feathers of a swan. The lingering presentation ends along with the walking and his arm’s hold on you, as he fixes the flower in your hair. He puts it right over your right ear, needing a couple tries to keep it in place. You’d help him, but that determined look in his eye and the exaggerated dismay when it doesn’t keep are too good to ruin. When it finally sticks, patted twice to ensure its stability, he breaks out in a proud grin. A giggle breaks out, the show proving too funny to keep silent for. You go up on your toes and kiss your adorner’s cheek in thankfulness, then return to your original position. The walk continues with beauty intensified, and you hum contentedly into his side. Can he hear it? Can he feel it? 
	His right hand holds his shoes, forefinger and middle finger hooked on the back of the dangling loafers. Your own shoes are carried in the same way, though on your left hand, so your other is free to hold onto him. Both external arms swing softly in the sweet motion of the stroll. At first, the bobbing of your walking, the movements up and down as your legs carry you onward, is mismatched, but within a couple steps, you’ve synchronized with him. Your head leans slightly into his torso, and his hand, hanging just over your shoulder, softly caresses your left cheek. His body is warm from holding you and the warm sun resting on him. The division of the walkway into two separate paths, the herald of the park, is coming closer, but you’ve long forgotten the impulse that led you here. For now, all that exists is the boy and the stroll.
	Soon the split in the path is found, the wall of trees rapidly fall off to reveal the majestic sparkle of the sunlit river. The gleaming whiteness of the ragged waves are nearly blinding, though rare in the undulating blue. A boat or two comes roaring out of the tree line and into the limelight, before disappearing into the other side of your view. Trees still hug the side of the path, but to a much lower degree, only one every couple of yards. The leaf-coated branches still block out some view, but it’s still inconsequential. On the other side of the brilliantly shining water is a small island, one you’d trekked with your older siblings more than once. 
	Beyond that lied the other shore, golden brown dirt surrounding the few houses sprouted here and there. The island was fantastic, a rich oasis of plants and trees, devoid of almost any human involvement. Sure there was a bottle or two lying around, but for the most part, it was a small portion of the wilderness never broken by the advance of civilization. You’d definitely have to bring Anon there sometime. And so the schedules swells. 
	“Oh! Over there!” A pull on your hand invites you to follow the running Anon, and your glance reveals the source of his excitement. In a small field, fenced by a ring of loosely placed trees, is a small playground, the nearest attraction being a pair of swings. The excitement catches, and soon you’re booking it towards the metal structure alongside him. A race develops in the first couple steps:
	“Bet Ah can beat ya there!” 
	“Like heck you can!” He picks up his pace, moving to be just more than a head in front of you. His bounding body moves up and down over the emerald grass, turned dim under the tall canopy of trees. The trees themselves may be thin, but they rise far above the ground, the lush branches providing a surprisingly adequate cover for the park itself. >Under that cool shade, you double your speed, really going for broke. >His longer legs carry him further, but years of running in the fields grant you a strength his legs don’t know. >You speed ahead of him, landing in the mottled bark a step before he does. The tiny chunks of wood are no friend to bare feet, and you kill your momentum quickly, as does he. You pass by the first swing, allowing Anon to have it; it’s the little things you can do for people that mean the most, you know. 
	You hop into the black seat, the former line made into a ‘U’ at the sudden pressure. The chain lines, snaking their way to the sides of it jut inwards, a little more pressure on your sides than you prefer. Then again, it’s been quite a few years since you’d last gotten onto one of these, and you weren’t the same weight as a third grader. First, you stand on the ground, sticking your upper half backwards, at an angle. Then you tilt your body backwards and extend your feet forward, moving you forward just a bit. Though it’s at a very low speed, you can already feel the illusion of a slight breeze caused by your body cutting through the air. Once your momentum all but stops, you lean forward and contract your legs under your seat, rocking you back. Once the apex is reached again, you return to the former position, and begin to pick up speed. Only a few more iterations and you’re soaring through the low arc. Up, up, up you go, a good second of motionlessness –or a velocity close enough to it- in that highest position. It’s actually a little bit scary there: that second lasts way longer than it has any right to, your weight just hanging in the air like some old cartoon. You instinctively grip the chains to either side, the odd shape making odd impressions on your hands. Still, that rush as you speed from that first height to the second is awesome, and you can’t help but shout for joy as you swoop to the front of the swing set.	
	Anon’s over to your left, swinging with wild abandon. It’s surprising to see the older boy, usually so serious, swinging with that childlike glee on his face, but goodness is it there. Those positions, back lowered and legs extended forward, then quickly switching to torso leaned forward and legs curled almost seem silly on his larger frame. The motions of a happy kid are unusual to see, but the sheer happiness exuding from him as he grins at you is inspiring. You’re glad you came out here today. Suddenly, he slows down and turns around, facing the opposite direction as you are. Then, after picking up speed, he extends his hand for a power-high-five. Not one to deny him, you put yours out as well. Then, just before the midpoint on your arc, they meet. POW!Geezums, that hurt! You take your right hand off the chain line and rub your hand, the intensity of the awesomeness leaving a bit of pain behind. It fades momentarily, and you’re free to appreciate the five again. Looking over at Anon, you can see him rubbing his hand as well, but no injury done to his smile. Good; that’s something you wanna protect. 
	Ready to get off, you aren’t sure about the instinctive exit. The way you’ve always done it was to just leap off, see how far you could go. But you were going a bit faster and a bit higher this time around; maybe that kind of leap wasn’t the best. But the only other thing you could think of was to just jam your feet down and drag along the dirt until your momentum was killed. It probably wouldn’t hurt your slightly calloused feet too much, but no way in heck are you gonna take the lame way out. Compromising, you go through a couple iterations without any motions to hasten yourself, and the momentum and arc lowers slightly. Now at a more comfortable place, you leap off, throwing the chain supports behind you. That momentum of air is pure glory for you, absolute freedom. Soaring through the air without the sides jutting into you, your whole body free from all external touch;  you can see why’d you always leap off as a kid. The ground finally hits, more than half the pressure entering your left foot and leg. A sharp pain, noticeably sourced in the middle-right part of your foot shoots through you. You stumble, but catch yourself, the sting falling off momentarily. 
	Suddenly, you recall the impulse that had brought you here in the first place, and you rush over to him. It’s a slight hobble at first, your pained foot rebelling against the motion, but it comes to its senses soon enough. Grabbing his hand, you lead him over to the bare part of the grass. Arriving, you immediately turn around to face him, his expression bright and open. Too carefree to think consider the possibility that he doesn’t know square dancing, you go right ahead and start. The circle’s what you and your family usually start out with, where you just face each other and revolve around a point in the center. Pretty simple, and kinda like those scenes in the movies where a couple is spinning in circles in a field and one starts to lift off the ground. Wanting a reenactment, you speed up, and he soon joins in. But the pace gets to be a little too fast before any liftoff happens, and the fear of falling slows you down. 
	The next move’s just a simple forward and back: you face each other, get right up close, and then back to original positions. It’s a bit more fun when a lot of people are doing it, but it’s the dance you know, so you go for it. Your hands grasp each other’s’, elongated and pulling when you’re distant. But as you move in close, your chests touch, and his face is as wide and pleasant as the sun itself. You move backwards, then in, aiming to kiss him at your next convenience. Apparently the same plan is had by him, and both faces move forward a bit faster than usual. His mouth hits yours, each drawing a small pain in the lips.
	“Aw geez, are you okay?”
	“Ah’m fine, Ah’m fine. Are you?” 
	“Yeah, yeah.” He reassures you, then awkwardly begins the dance again. This time he’s leading, and you’re not exactly sure what’s going on over there. There’s a vague feeling of swing to it, but a lot more individual motions going on. At one point, he severs the connection and begins shuffling in place, swinging his arms as he does it. Another move, presumably a popular one in the clubs he’s told you about, comes about: a mess of arm sways and kicking graces your vision. Stepping back to watch the show, you’re unhappy to admit that the best part is the smile as he does it. He really looks like he’s enjoying it. But… you look at the moves again, to make sure you’re not missing any secret coolness. Eh… You don’t wanna say his dancing’s dumb. You really don’t wanna say it looks sillier than a cow in stilts. But he’s making it real hard on you. A hand ventures out, and you’re pulled into a flurry of wild gesticulations and wobbles. Trying desperately to keep up, you show off your skill at the Shopping Cart, and the Sprinkler. 
	Partway through, he slows down, looking at your ill-matching moves. It’s not a bad thing; a little funny maybe, but he’s certainly not unhappy about it. Your pace slows down, your eyes mostly on his goofy dancing as well. Slowing to a stop, the two of you continue looking at each other with repressed giggles. Eventually they do come out, the ludicrousness of the alien dances as well as the never-to-be-spoken-of attempt to mingle them a bit too much for each of you to remain serious-faced at. His eyes always close when he laughs that hard, a wandering mind notices. When he does open his eyes, they seem clear; his hand extends to you, and you grasp it, hoping the next stage of dancing will go a little better.
	It does. His first steps are slow, allowing you to understand what he’s doing and follow accordingly. Right off the bat you understand the motions: he’s swing-dancing. It’s the basic forms, and at a slow enough pace to sync up with each other. You count inside your head, being out-of-practice; 1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and, repeat. 1- Left foot forward, little weight on it; and- back to standing; 2- right foot forward, little weight on it; and- back to standing; 3- right foot out to the side, little weight on it; and- back to standing; 4- left foot back, full weight on it; and- place weight back on right foot, begin to move left foot forward. You continue this for a little while switching feet every once in a while, or going diagonally instead of straight forward. His foot does come down on yours a couple times, but his worried apology isn’t necessary; this isn’t the first time you’ve danced with boys. And if you could deal with them, you could certainly be okay with Anon here. 
	The pace has been slowly accelerating as you get into the groove of it, but he slows down to show you something new. Instead of the rock-step on 4, he thrusts his left arm out to your right, and takes a giant step that way, turning to face you at its completion. You follow suit, rotating about a quarter turn every measure of that unheard music. Here and there he pulls you into a spin, and you make sure to slap the ground as you do so. It was the way cool kids did it. 
	During your spinning, the flying colors of an unfocused background make their way into your sight, the kaleidoscope of hues more beautiful than ever. The perfect summer sky, blue as ever, against the brilliant greens of the trees and grass feel like some exaggerated painting. But his hand in yours, and the beautiful music, the kind for your ears and his only, tell you that this is all, incredibly and wonderfully real. The wind flows through your rosy locks, sending them flying in a mad attempt to keep up with your bobbing head. His fingers are cinched on the back of your hands, and your grip holds him in a similar manner. For a moment, it feels like you aren’t two people, just one, caught in this magic maelstrom. He twirls you once more, this time holding your back and letting you fall most of the way to the ground. But you don’t fear falling for a second, knowing he’ll keep you. And as the ground finally stops rising to meet you, his face descends, kissing you passionately on your own lips.
	Your arms extend, reaching up to snag him in a tight hug. Your lips respond to kiss, answering every inch of love he’s given you with your own. And your love for him ain’t something to scoff at, no sir. Somewhere along the line, your impassioned response makes him forget his balance, and the ground soon closes the distance. But he didn’t forget entirely, and he regains his mind just enough to spin and let you fall on him, instead of the other way around. Feeling the soft give of his chest under your, you lie your head down on his chest, listening for his heartbeat again. Thankful for the protection, your hand slowly rubs his chest, just an inch past where your head is located. You hope the love in your touch can make up for the skill you know you haven’t got. But the humming that comes a moment later tells you he’s content with it. And there you lay, for who knows how long, in the loving arms of your cousin, Anon Orange.


------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You are now Anon

	“And that’s how that happened,” Apple Bloom finishes her story from the back of the van, squeezed tightly between her two best friends. Not for lack of space, but because both of those girls were leaning in like there was a hobo outside the window. You nod, not particularly to anyone, and rest your arm on the open window. She’d left out a lot of the story; the deep coffee table talk –‘We talked about some stuff’- and all the kissing. It doesn’t bother you; AJ’s driving, and it’s probably best not to name what she already knows. You look outside the window, leaning your head just a bit out so the wind begins whipping at your cheeks. You actually kind of like it: both the wind and the omissions; it was a sweet date, but the best parts were kept private. It was like some tender, beautiful secret, not meant for the eyes of anyone else. You close your eyes and stick more of your head out of the window, feeling the full force of the wind blowing on your face and hair. Briefly, your eyes open, closing soon after in the pain of the wind’s assault. Returning your head to the car, you let your arm and hand have the full experience. 
	Your hand opens wide, fingers splayed out as the wind pushes against you. That cool feeling of the wind flying between your fingers, against your palm takes you away from the inside of the cab. That sharp coldness, not so cold as to be uncomfortable, borders your skin. The full feeling exists in the center on your skin, but on the edges of your arm the wind has begun to exit into other currents, and can be felt far less. Recalling the impulses of your youth, you grin and press your fingers together, tight as a salute. Your hand begins curving through the air, flowing up and down as you tilt the solid figure towards the sky or ground. It swims through the air like a fish, aided on its ascents and descents by the air. 
	There’s just something about this moment that makes you feel 10 years old again. Something about this town, these people that made all those years of cynicism fall off, like dust before the swipe of a house-cleaner. Brushed off, a weight had left you; it was like new eyes had been granted to you. There was this wonder in the things you saw: the people and stories they told had contained this importance you’d rarely given them before. You’d begun to have fun; it was almost weird, you were sorry to say. But when the seriousness of your typical mood was brushed off, the little things seemed to be both important and fun; this dumb playing in the wind was somehow enjoyable, though you’d have scoffed at it a week ago. Was this how she saw the world? 
	The girls continued chattering in the back seat, going over the details of your little coffee date. You looked over to AJ, who’d been glancing at you on occasion. She returns the gaze, a smile in her eyes.
	“So, Ah guess you had a good time this morning?”
	“Sure did.”
	“Good good.” A comfortable silence steals a moment; you’re happy for the lack of forbidding, and her happy for the healing and happiness in her kin. “Figure out that she don’t like coffee too much?” You chuckle softly, AJ following suit.
	“Yeah. Took me a bit, but that’s more me being unobservant than her hiding it well.” 
	“Yeah, she ain’t much of a liar. Reckon that’s a good thing, though.”
	“I feel ya.” A sudden question appears in the back of your mind, and you give a curious voice to it: “Hey, why’d didn’t you tell me? I mean, you knew, right?”
	“Ah did. But it was her deal, not mine.” Your brow furrows, something being lost in the phrasing.
	“I don’t get it.” Her eyes, green as the fields you frolicked in not 3 hours before, glance over to you.
	“Ah wanted the truth to come out from her. Besides, it wasn’t the biggest deal in the world, an’ Ah figured it’d come out soon enough.” Huh. You guess that makes sense. Sensing her eye still on you, flickering to the road and back, you remember to respond. Shaking her head, the smile of being understood crosses her face. You sit back in your seat, enjoying the lowering sun on your skin. You read the clock on the dash: 1:45; about ten minutes til you get to the grape farm. A flicker of dismay crosses your heart at the thought of the day’s uninhibited motion towards its own demise, but it fades soon enough. Just gotta tie up a couple loose ends, and you’ll get to stay here; AJ’s gotta break the question, you draw a yes out of your mom –probably the hardest part, but it’s not as if she actually wanted you, so you don’t foresee problems there- and you should be good. Heck, you’ve spent more time planning your retrieval of your possessions, those that you’d actually need, than you had the actual talk. Turning your mind to the trip at hand, you remember the temporary absence of Big Mac, but not the particulars.
	“So, Big Mac’s gonna meet us there, right?”
	“Yeah, he’s still talking to Apple Bloom’s teacher about something or other.” Wait, could that be?
	“Cheerilee?” Her eyebrows raise, then lower.
	“Nah, Mrs. Frizzle. Though Ah heard Ms. Cheerilee got herself a job up at Canterlot High, so she might be there.” Oh. “He’s gonna be half an hour late, or something like that.” 
	“What’s he doing?” AJ grimaces, glancing towards the backseat where the three girls are tittering. Looking back at you, she responds in a quieter tone.   
	“The girls got in a bit of trouble before the end of the year, an’ Ah asked him to clear it up.” 
	“Why him? I feel like he wouldn’t be the best at that.” 
	“You’d be surprised. Ah can reason with most teachers, but this one seem to be holding a grudge. Says she’s gonna put it on her permanent record.” A mean look appears on AJ’s face, a subtle anger towards the teacher working its way out. “But Big Mac… A lotta people respect Big Mac around here, and not many wanna make him mad. He’s uh… a little bit better at dealing with difficult people.” You can’t remember him getting mad, but he is a pretty big dude. Those muscles, the way he towers over you; you can see why he might be good at big-stick diplomacy. Soon, the unhappy thoughts of Big Mac are cast off by the squealing of the van’s tires.
	“We’re here!” You unbuckle your seatbelt and step out of the van, stretching a bit as you do so. The sun hits you hard, the heat greatly increasing since this morning. Good thing you were wearing light clothes; it wasn’t bad now, but you could tell you’d be cooking in no time. The screeching of other doors heralds the retreat of the female four, hopping into the scorching sun along with you. Purple and pink heads conceal Apple Bloom for a moment, then move forward, a rich ball of crimson hair greeting your eyes. The hair swirls as its owner turns, giving way to the shining face of your younger. She gives you a smile, that secretive sort that only close lovers can give. You respond with your own, though it’s more of a beaming grin than the quiet sort she’d granted you; it was your intention to mirror hers, but that look on her face was just too much. Your heart ignited, you absent-mindedly walk over to her, joining the trio of freshmen. They’re almost bouncing in their shoes, so excited for the upcoming event. Before you say anything, you remember the fifth member of the party, and look for her. AJ’s stopped in front of the car, and is waving to something behind you. All four heads turn towards the object of AJ’s greeting and see a girl hoping down the front steps of the magnificent house. Her hair is purple, not unlike Twilight’s, but she seems way less shy than AJ’s science friend. 
	“Bailey!”
	“Applejack!” As the two move closer, they shout each other’s names and embrace. The cheery stranger, once parted, turns toward your group and notices Apple Bloom first. “Is that little Apple Bloom I’m seein’? My goodness, you’ve grown since I’ve seen you last.” She’s bent over, her hands on her knees as she looks at your sweetest cousin. Apple Bloom fakes a pout, responding with a cute veneer of grumpiness:
	“Ya saw me a month ago, Bailey.” The girl stands up again and looks to the upper-right, stroking her chin Sherlock-style. She’s doing a pretty good job of pretending not to remember, but the thin smirk growing at the edge of her lips gives it away.
	“Oh? Well, you know how it is with you Apples; never do stop growing, huh? Like that mountain of a brother you’ve got.” Her eyes threaten to glaze over at the mention of his name, but instead search the van for signs of the man himself. “Speaking of which, where is he?” Her hand rises to her forehead, blocking the sun as she exaggeratedly looks in all directions.
	“Dealing with Mr. Doodle, but he should be here in a bit.” Your host’s face had fallen at the confirmation of his disappearance, but rose higher than before at the mention of his return. Boy, this girl really wore her heart on her sleeve.
	“Well, We’d best get started without him. Wish he was here,” she mumbles under her breath, “Oh, is that a new face I’m seeing?” Her attention turns to yours, a rosy grin spreading once more. AJ, standing next to her now, informs her of the connection between the cousin spoken of and the subject of the lady’s sight. The girl just nods her head, before continuing: “Ah, the famous Anon. Well, I’m glad to have another helper for today; ‘sides, all that city-walking’s probably got you a strong pair of legs, right?”
	“Um, sure.” You’re not really sure what you’re supposed to be saying here, the inner awkwardness beginning is seep out. But she doesn’t go on, instead speaking to the whole crowd. 
	“Well, we’re set up right this way if I could have y’all follow me.” She turns away and begins walking around to the back of the house, making a ‘follow-me’ gesture behind her as she does so. All four of you rush a bit to catch up with her, then slow down as you close the gap. Entering the backyard, you see four giant wine-barrel-looking things right in the middle of the freshly mowed yard. They look almost identical to actual wine barrels, in the context of their general shape and material: circular and made of wood with metal lines keeping the whole solid. But they’re much wider and squatter; you’d reckon they’re about two feet high –maybe less- and five or six wide. There’s a small chunk of wood in front of each, cut to resemble a very rural set of stairs. Each is filled about halfway with brilliantly purple grapes, matching Bailey’s hair exactly. Two out of the four are already filled with people standing there, in shorts or rolled up pants, apparently waiting for the order to begin. There’s three in each bin, and you’re guessing the same ratio’s gonna apply to the remaining two. They wave frantically to your group, shouting familiar names. Your group shouts unfamiliar names back, and the hellos are complete. Bailey puts her hands on her hips and declares proudly: 
	“Alright, let’s get stompin’!” Alright, guess this is it. As you take a step towards the grape-holder on the left, you hear Scootaloo murmur, just loud enough to hear:
	“I thought we were gonna be makin’ wine…” Hearing this, Bailey turns towards the group, then puts her hand to her face. 
	“Ah, geez. Sorry, forgot to tell you guys what’s up. I already gave the speech to the others,” she gestures to the six people ready to go, “and I guess I figured that was the end. Alright, so here’s the deal,” here she gets a more serious look, like that of a teacher. “We’re stompin grapes, an’ all we need is these four vats to be made; we did the rest already, an’ this is just the extra we got left over. Shouldn’t take more than an hour or so. Wine-making –heck, even making grape-juice- is a lot more complicated, and me an’ the fam are gonna take care of that. Can’t have y’all finding out the secret method.” She winks at the lot of you, nods of understanding coming from the two Apples beside you. “Three to a bin, an’ you can switch out if you’re ever looking for a new dance partner. Once you’re done, you can just go wash up with that hose over there,” she points to a hose by the back door, “and head on in. We’ll fix up the grape juice –that’ll be about a half an hour, maybe less if there ain’t a lot of pulp- and then y’all can get some of our fresh juice. Sound good?” 
	“YEAH!” The Cutie Mark Crusaders shout in unison, drowning out the quieter yeps of you and AJ. You walk to the bin, immediately followed by Apple Bloom. The hot suns beats down on your shoulders as you do so; you may need a temporary break before this is over. But maybe not. It’d been a while since you’d worked –other than fiddling with cars- and there was no telling if this would be hard or not. Still, you were already feeling a bit woozy. Hoping it would fade soon, you kneel down by the barrel-thing and unlace your shoes. Dragging your socks off afterwards, you tuck them inside your shoes. You take the nearby hose and spray down your feet; seems a bit on the unhygienic side, but you figure they know what they’re doing. Thankfully you’d brought some shorts; pants seemed like a pretty bad idea. Big Mac had lent you one of his work shirts; you hadn’t brought one, not having expected to get dirty on this vacation. You take a step up the makeshift stairs, at the front of the bin. Screw it. You hop forward, both feet slamming down hard on the squishy mess. Two words appear in your mind, each with equal gusto: ‘EW!’ and ‘COOL!’ It feels gross, but at the same time, kinda awesome. Your feet are sinking in it, the texture sorta like mud. But at the same time, not all the grapes are popped, so it’s like somebody dumped a bunch of mud into a ball pit; only with really small balls that explode with more mud. Yeah, you’re gonna let go of that mental image right now.
	Turning back, Apple Bloom is standing on the top step, gazing at the purple mush around your own feet. You take a step out of her way, thinking you’re probably in it, and offer your hand. She blushes, and you exaggerate the motion, bowing down and making a somber face; Alfred wished he could be this butlery. She takes your hand with the upturned nose and pomp of a noblewoman.
	“Why thank you dear sir. I don’t know what I would have done without- waaaah!” As she speaks, she puts her foot out with her eyes closed, still aping the upper class; when she steps down, she keeps the façade perfectly. “Oh, Ah do declare, this is the strangest ballroom floor Ah’ve ever set foot upon! Mr. St. Rumpterfrabble, what on earth were you thinking?”
	“Ah, my darling Ms. Stembleburgiss, I was only thinking of one thing: you.” She breaks character, snickering at you before returning your only partly kidding gaze. Still holding your hand, she takes on a much shyer, happier look. You find yourself gazing back, with the same speechlessness of an elementary-schooler with a crush. 
	“Alright, alright, break it up,” comes a tomboyish voice. Seems your arms had been in front of the entrance, blocking the path in. Scootaloo   moves forward, breaking the connection. “Geez, you two.” 
	“What? Are you feeling left out?” You ask with a smirk. Apple Bloom chimes in:
	“Yeah, you can be fancy too, y’know.” Upon hearing this, Scoots turns around, places her finger under her nose like a mustache and makes a monocle with her other hand.
	“Why, I should say… uh, dear chap… Yeah, I can’t do this.” Looking over, you see Sweetie, AJ and Bailey avidly speaking in the other bin. “Yeah, so apparently Sweetie’s pretty good friends with her younger brother, so she’s going with that group, I guess?” She seems kinda dismayed about it, but you take no notice. To be honest, you’re still a bit captivated with Apple Bloom. She’s wearing the same overalls as before, only with a dirty T-shirt instead of the clean white one from before. Her bow’s been taken out and left in the car, her luscious hair fluttering in the light wind. Already there’s grape juice on her feet and ankles, and splashes make it seem to reach up her legs. Now, more than ever, she’s looking like a farm girl; and it is surprisingly attractive. 
	“Alright, is everybody ready?” You hear the shouting of Bailey, her voice carrying like a megaphone. You add your voice to the eleven-part yes that pierces the air. “Good! Alright, so we’re gonna mix things up a bit; whoever finishes first is gonna get a prize!”
	“What prize?” you hear someone shout from the other bins before Bailey can begin the next syllable.
	“To be announced! Whenever you think you’re finished, just wave down my little brother, and he’ll make sure you’re good! Any questions?” 
	“Where is he?” 
	“Inside; unless you’re gonna finish in a minute, I wouldn’t worry about it. He’ll be out in a moment. Now! On your mark! Get set!” She drags it out, looking at all the tense stompers getting ready to pound the grapes. Then finally, after what feels like forever: “Go!” You start off at a slow pace, knowing that’s what actual athletes do. Over there, AJ and her crew are doing the same; and since that includes Bailey, you reckon that’s the best way. Over in the other bins, there’s a crew of women who are more busy talking than they are stompin; not much of a threat there. And the fourth, home of the shouting guy, is full of heavyset guys giving it all they got. They got a bad technique, but their muscles might win out in the end. And that’s about the end of your reasoning faculties; the summer heat was already making it kind of a drag to think analytically, and you needed to focus on stomping. And so you do; full attention is made to keep your legs moving. It’s already a lot harder than you’d think, the minor difficulty of stomping adding up with every step you take. And of course, that dang sun ain’t helping one bit. You look around to see if there’s any shade casted upon your bin. There’s that thin shade that comes from the sunrays shining on thin leaves, flickering in and out of existence as the wind blows the tree holding them around. Not gonna help. 
	There’s a ton of shade on the other side, the two bins not occupied by your friends. That’s probably why those groups picked ‘em. Seeing the group of women, probably the fourth bin’s wives, just laughing it up while they half your already easy pace. Some people have all the luck. But all you can do now is try the best you can. You experiment a bit, trying to find the best method. Quick hops don’t seem to be doing the trick: you’d thought that moving your feet out before the sludgy grapes had a chance to build up around your feet and lower shins might reduce the effort required to pull your foot up. And while it did, the frequency of your steps had by far compensated for the ease, making the whole more difficult. You wanted to stomp somewhat slowly, but keep yourself in motion, as stagnancy would make the buildup worse. Already quite a bit step to your foot as you pulled it up. But walking in place didn’t quite seem to do it; not only was it kinda boring, but you weren’t getting new grapes crushed. The path forward seems to be walking in circles concentric to the edges of the bin. But the plan required all three of you to be maximally efficient. The person on the outer edge could mostly stay in their circuit, then middle having slight deviation, and center one moving around a bit, just so that the maximum area could be covered equally. You look over to the other girls, preparing a plan. 
	Scootaloo is skipping around in her third, jumping every which way. She’s got a determined look in her eye, joining with a slight grin to create that odd vivacity that a person gets from victorious conquest. You almost expect her to laugh, like an evil robot crushing the citizens of Tokyo. Turning away from the teenage Godzilla, Apple Bloom captures the totality of your vision. She’s leaping around, the motions looking somewhat like Scootaloo’s: erratic. But as you continue looking, you start to see a pattern emerge. She’s jumping in triangles: to the right, down and to the left, up and to the left, and the all over again. Her arms are swaying side-to-side, fingers quietly snapping at the finishing of the rotation. These small motions are just barely enough to remind you of some of the slow-dancing you’d done earlier in the day. That’s what keys you off to the order of her dancing anyway. The awkwardness of the dance floor makes it a little hard to hit the same areas, so that’s probably why the triangles she’s making are sort of off-kilter. Another moment of watching and you realize that it’s on purpose. She’s trying to vary her landing spaces so she’s covers the greatest area. It’s that little detail, the combination of intelligence and that barebones dance within an activity that’s probably not too different from regular work for her, it’s that that makes you forget to stomp.
	“C’mon, Anon, you’re gonna make us lose!” Scootaloo complains from her section, still prancing about like a madman. Huh? Oh, you’ve stopped. Crap, you’re supposed to be doing the opposite! 
	“Hey guys, I think I got a way for us to do it best.” Both girls slow their stomping and turn to you as you explain your superior plan. Scootaloo is a bit unsure of it, commenting that it seems a little too complicated. But Apple Bloom votes in your favor, saying that
	“We oughta give it a try, see how it works.” Her encouraging eye is enough to sway Scootaloo, who agrees. She calls the outside, and rushes to your left. Apple Bloom’s basically on your right already, so she comes over and slips her left arm through your right, situating herself in the middle of the bin. Immediately you start walking the bin, and you feel good about it right away. The feeling of walking forward in addition to walking alongside others is a definite improvement: back in high school, you’d found it was easier to run with others and actually run (instead of that treadmill crap). You think it’s because others were able to set a pace, a standard for everyone to live up to, and the actual change in perspective of the forward motion gave the motion more purpose, or the appearance of it. Or at least, that’s how you explained it to yourself. Either way, the methodical plan is already feeling superior to your previous, random motions. 
	Plus, you got to hold Apple Bloom’s arm as you did so. And even though you’d been holding her, playing with her, dancing and being with her for almost every hour this week, it still had that magic. Gosh, she was intoxicating; what would normally be exhausting, what would normally make you avoid somebody for a few days, was soothing. It was good; heck, it was even refreshing after a fashion. Now, you didn’t become some extravert by any means of the imagination; you needed your time alone, your space, just as always. But there was some additional draw on your energy that others had placed upon you; you were always having to try to fit in if you ever wanted connection. There was always the struggle of developing a pretense, figuring out what people wanted to hear and trying to say it the best you can. And not only was that incredibly taxing, it wasn’t usually that successful. Maybe they saw through it, maybe you didn’t do it good enough; fuck, you don’t know. You look down to the sweet girl marching alongside you, then to the rebel on the left. You belonged here; not just with Apple Bloom, but in this world, with these people. Apple Bloom didn’t ask for anything but you, and somehow, these people didn’t either. It was kinda weird to admit, but Scootaloo felt like she was a friend to you; goodness knows, she’d probably be too tsundere to admit it, though. Still, you liked being around her, liked being around all these people. Unconsciously, you’d picked up the pace; the little effect went by Apple Bloom unnoticed, but the greater effect was perceived by Scootaloo.
	“What are you trying to do, kill me out here?”
	“What?”
	“You’re practically running over there!” She has been lagging a bit; she’d held onto your arm too, and you could feel it.
	“Sorry, I’ll slow down.”
	“Ha! Think I can’t keep up, huh?” Scootaloo does a 180 on you; you’re not sure what exactly she’s wanting right now. Her words surprise even her as they come out. The built up jealousy of Apple Bloom hasn’t exactly worked in favor of the poor girl, and the frustration eventually comes out. Scootaloo hadn’t had a lot of experience with boys; she’d watched her friends and sister with them, but never actually had a boyfriend of her own. But Rainbow Dash seemed to have her share of suitors, so she must be doing something right. Half out of wanting to imitate her for her success, and half just due to being a little sister, Scootaloo did the only thing she knew how to do: pretend she didn’t like Anon, and try to prove that she didn’t need him. The words, after leaving her mouth, don’t feel quite right, but she’s not sure what else to say. And by the time she figures she oughta take the outburst back, it’s too late. 
>Apple Bloom’s leaned forward, peeking past the front of your shoulder. 
>She doesn’t say anything, though, instead just watching the commotion.	“Um, yes? I mean, no?” 
	“Pah! I could beat you in your sleep!” Here, Apple Bloom interjects.
	“Scoots, Ah think Rainbow’s rubbing off on you a bit.” Instead of responding to the concern, Scootaloo answers what was apparently a challenge. She speeds up, power-walking pretty frigging hard over there. You hadn’t thought she’d had it in her, but you’re starting to slip behind her. You hadn’t thought she’d had it in her, but you’re starting to slip behind her. You call out from behind: 
	“Hey, I thought you didn’t want me to run!” Scootaloo laughs and retorts:
	“And I thought you wanted to! So come on, ya slowpoke!” She pulls her arm forward, grabbing yours with her hand and yanking you towards herself. You stumble, the forward motion not working with the grape sludge too well. Your knee hits the top layer, immediately sinking in; you thrust your hand forward, catching yourself before you get wholly purple. Your shin is now completely sunk, it’s counterpart trying desperately to avoid the surface. You can feel the future juice oozing around your right arm, just as Scootaloo let’s go of your other arm. As it plummets toward the goop, you freeze it in mid-air, hoping to protect the less grapey parts of your body. Unfortunately, in trying to counteract the downward motion, you overestimate your own strength. The right side of your body is anchored tentatively, but the left portion is moving upward, gravity now calling the whole of you home. As your left arm flies into the air, your body tipping past the point of no return, you’ve just enough time to formulate a value statement. 
	“Crap!” Your back hits the grapey goo, and you can just feel them crushing underneath it. Both forearms are now submerged as well as your shins. You try to lift your torso and legs, not wanting to completely sink into the delicious mudlike substance. It doesn’t really work; those sections are lifted, but not enough to get the back of them dry. You push off with your arms, moving into a squatting position. From there you stand up, wiping as much of the grape goo off your arms and upper body as you can. Apple Bloom and Scootaloo have both gasped and helped you out, though the latter immediately suppresses the concern.
	“Shoulda got going if ya didn’t wanna fall.” The challenge brings a rise to you; it probably would have went by unnoticed if you hadn’t just been dunked, but you weren’t exactly thinking straight. The harsh sun wasn’t really doing any favor either. You turn to her, squinting your eyes. 
	“Oh it is so on.” She smirks back, making you want to win even more. No way are you letting that slide. Not noticing the care your Apple nurse has been giving you, you link arms with Scootaloo and hold out the other one for Apple Bloom to grab ahold of. She hesitantly threads her arm through yours, asking:
	“Are you guys really gonna do this?” The calming presence of your beloved does calm you down a tad, the implied stupidty of the situation almost getting to you. You can feel the suppressed exhaustion crying against your choice. But you’d already accepted the challenge; no way are you backing out now. Besides, wasn’t this what friends did? You consider Scootaloo a friend of yours, and part of you thinks that she’s expecting something from you. Naturally, you’re wanting to prove yourself. You nod your head, almost apologetically, and answer.
	“Yeah.” Looking to Scootaloo, you set the terms: “Alright, first one to give up or stop to rest loses.” When she nods, you get closer and whisper loudly: “Oh, and if you wanna switch, so it’s easier on you, all ya gotta do is ask.” Taken aback, her voice breaks mid-response:
	“Yeah, right! I could do this all day.”
	“Guys?” Apple Bloom interjects, unheard.
	“Alright, you ready Scoots?”
	“Guys.”
	“You bet I am!”
	“Guys.” The two of you get in running positions, only for your arm to be pulled back at the last second. your balance falters, but thanks to some support from behind, it isn’t a major threat. Apple Bloom’s arm is across your back, her face just in front of your shoulder.
	“Uh, hey sweetie, I’m kinda in the middle of creaming Scootaloo here.”
	“No you aren’t!” comes a shrill cry from behind. Apple Bloom laughs slightly, then remembers what she was gonna say. 
	“We should still actually get this done, and both of you collapsing of exhaustion probably isn’t gonna help. So, here’s the deal; we’ll all move to the right after every coupla minutes.” She holds up her phone, which states the time and a five-minute alarm, then places it back into her pocket. She’s still got that are-you-serious look going on, but she gets that you’re still gonna do it. The three of you link arms, and she counts down: 
	“Alright, three… two… one, go!” Immediately you feel Scootaloo taking off. She doesn’t quite run, but she’s keeping a quick march going. You follow her lead, making sure to keep your shoulders together. You know, this isn’t actually that hard. Sure, the heat is beating you down pretty badly and you’re already a bit tired, but the exercise is much more manageable than you’d thought it’d be. Guess those theories of yours had some credence to them: the even pace and the keeping up with others makes the task much easier. The march continues, you and Apple Bloom holding passing conversations about the weather and chances of success. You can’t keep up the conversations too much, partly because you’re too tired and partly because you’re worried that it’ll make you even more tired than you are now. Gotta save that energy, y’know? Scootaloo keeps to herself, breathing heavily. Here and there apple Bloom leans forward and looks at her, presumably making sure she’s not getting too tired. 
	A sudden thought comes to you as your girl makes her fourth peep. The means to win was exhaustion; whoever gave up first was the loser. But with Apple Bloom’s change of plans, that wasn’t gonna work: if we all switched at the five minute mark, how could you tell who was the most tired? By how hard they breathed? Nah, that’s too weak. The best way was still to do it by exhaustion, but Apple Bloom’s concern did disqualify that; you wanted to win the overall competition, not just the personal one with Scootaloo. Apple Bloom peeks out at Scootaloo, inspiring the answer. Apple Bloom could be the judge, and if she saw one of you getting too tired, she’d pull you out. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best way to do it. You smile, happy at the second instance of coming up with a superior plan; had you been a little less tired and sunstroked, you may have considered why it was that you needed to perfect the plan. After all, it probably would be better to forget the competition and go with Apple Bloom’s safer solution. But you were set in your plan, and the mental weariness didn’t help you to escape your tunnel vision. Just then, you hear a faint beeping from your right.
	“Alright guys, time to switch,” says Apple Bloom.
	“Hold on a sec,” you respond as Scootaloo slows to a gasping stop. She does look pretty tired. “I’ve got a better idea.” You explain the issues of the five-minute rotation, and the benefits of the system based on the appearance of exhaustion. A slow gait brings you forward started by one of the other girls upon realization that what you saw won’t be brief. Your best cousin has a pretty sharp eye, so there’s reason enough to believe that even if a contestant tries to hide their exhaustion –and of course, both of you will- it’ll be found out soon enough. Scootaloo, having taken a few deep breaths during your discussion, responds positively.
	“Yeah, that sounds fair.” She angles her eyes Bloomwards, expecting her assent. The judge hesitates, then agrees. Part of you wonders if she intentionally did that, subverting the content without either participant realizing. Come to think of it, she could still do the same thing here, just under the pretense of seeing one of you two as exhausted. Nah, she wouldn’t do that; you love your Apple Bloom, but you don’t think she’s as crafty as that. 
	“Ok,” comes Apple Bloom’s answer after the delay. Immediately Scootaloo, having similar thoughts to your own, asks her to promise she’ll be fair. Too far into the gambit of her sister, Scootaloo’s mind is set on winning, though she’d like nothing more than to collapse on the couch inside. But the competition and technique might very well allow for the trio to do that as soon as possible, and the realization of that spurs her on. “Ok, I promise,” answers Bloom to the question of future fairness, slightly perplexed at the indication of mistrust. “So, uh, do we just keep going?” 
	“Yup.” Scootaloo confirms the plan, the forces herself forward. But though she’s determined, she’s too tuckered out to mask her weariness past another few laps. Her skills involve bursts of activity: the adventures in the woods, running from the various threats and unpleasant elements of her neighborhood and doing tricks on her skateboard don’t take much long-term strength. And contrary to what some say, being filled with determination won’t always bring you victory. Apple Bloom calls her out, and begins to switch to the furthest ring. 
	“Wait wait, hold on.” Both you and Scootaloo protest to this, Scootaloo following up. “Anon’s gotta take a turn on the outside now. Won’t be fair if he gets the two easy rings to rest before he takes the hard one.” Apple Bloom shakes her head, then walks slowly back to the inner circle while you take up the furthest one:
	“Whatever you guys say. Think this is getting too complicated…” She mumbles. Eh, she’s not wrong. You do have a bit of a tendency to overthink things. But there’s no time to continue the line of thought; as soon as you link your right arm with Scootaloo’s left, she moves forward, and you’re forced to follow suit. 
	Holy cow, were you going this fast before? You don’t actually do the math in your head, but you do realize that you’ve got a lot more ground to cover, and you gotta do it in the same timespan as Scoots does. The extra distance, which is about two yards, combined with the difficulty of stepping out of the future grape juice, is much more taxing than the middle ring. Luckily, the three of you have done a good job pulverizing the grapes, the constant mashing making them more liquid with every rotation. And the closer it gets to that point, the less sludgy it gets, meaning the less drag on your feet. Still, this is pretty friggin hard, and you pretty much shut down everything in your head except the will to walk. For the next few minutes, there’s nothing but the march.
	The exhausting walk goes on for who knows how long. Typically, whenever you’ve had to exercise or walk a long distance, you filled your mind with fantasies. Visions of how you’d be so charming and cool, groups of friends and loves flocking around you kept your mind of the dreariness of what you usually considered kinda pointless. But this time, you don’t even have that to help you out. The pain, like the cry of some awful baby on a plane, snaps your attention right back to it every couple of seconds. The second the burning in your legs seems to fade, a fresh jolt of some acidic burn refreshes your memory. Pretty soon, you find yourself stopped, panting as you lean over and place your hands on your legs for balance. You know it wasn’t long, but it certainly didn’t feel short. You’re gonna guess it was five minutes, give or take.
	“Wow, already?” The snarkier of your companions insults your time from above you. You’re still wheezing, but you manage to croak out a quiet
	 “Shut up.” 
	“What’s that?” Guess she couldn’t hear you. You lean up, the sudden heat on your face reminding you of the belligerent sun adding to your load. Apple Bloom looks at her phone, and announced your time:
	“4 minutes. Sorry Anon…” If anything, you’re embarrassed that you couldn’t last longer. You’re hoping you don’t lose any favor in her eyes. However, there is one small hope you have of reclaiming your manliness.
	“Hey, what’d Scootaloo get?”
	“About 7 minutes.” Willikers. Alright, you were a pansy, nothing to be said about that. You make your way to the inner center while Apple Bloom takes the outer circle. As she brushes by you, her hand touches your chest, sliding along it while she moves. And despite your already worn body, you feel a small rush of invigoration. Nothing too major, but enough to keep you on your feet for the next bit. Scootaloo, finding herself fin the middle center again, decries the situation: 
	“Wait, I’m taking the middle again? I just got that!” 
	“Yeah, but I’m fucking beat over here.” The curse slips out of your mouth, and you hope it passes by unnoticed. The twinge of irritation over the possibility of having to do another slog is enough to make you swear, just for a brief moment. A mildly worried look finds Apple Bloom unnoticing, her eyes on Scootaloo.
	“Don’t worry, we’re not going too fast this time.” Scootaloo grumbles a bit, but seeing your less fit body and the wear upon it, she allows you to have the easy task for this. And by the time that the march begins again, she finds the slow pace set by her bestie to be far easier than the previous one. After all, she was forcing Anon to go pretty fast. A small pang of regret comes over her at the realization that her time might not have been so much better than Anon’s if she’d gone at the same pace she did. But, she thinks to herself, it isn’t like she could do anything about it. As far as she’s concerned, saying anything now would just be weird. And so the third set goes, with Apple Bloom steadily marching ahead, Scootaloo trying to do the same amid the occasional worried looks at you, and your trudging along, trying to recover some lost energy. It doesn’t go on too far however, as a familiar face enters through the back gate. The outer girl’s head looks up to investigate the motion in the corner of her eye, and seeing her big brother, violently waves him over.
	“Big Mac! C’mon!” The big guy, whose eyes were previously on his older sister and her troupe, looks to yours. AJ, Bailey and Sweetie are gabbing happily with each other, whereas your team is showing off your expert strategy, not to mention having another male member. Preferring the latter to the former, as well as the beaming excitement of his younger sister, he lumbers over to your group.
	“Hey.” Apple Bloom speaks up and twists her head to look at him, trying to be heard over the odd acoustics developed from a girl walking in circles.
	“Hey Big Mac! You gonna join in?”
	“Yup.” He stands there awkwardly for a few moments before spotting the pile of shoes and the hose beside the bin. Making the connection, he takes his boots off and hoses down his feet real quick. Then, just as he’s about to jump in, he stops. The three of you have continued rotating, arms still inked together: he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to fit in. Your tired eyes take him and the situation in, and after a small delay, both you and Apple Bloom realize the unspoken issue.
	“Oh!”
	“Uh” Before you can say anything more, Apple Bloom’s unlinked herself with Scootaloo, and holds out an arm to her brother. Scootaloo scoots over towards you, both of you now having a pretty small range to walk on. You’re kinda wishing there weren’t this many people between you and your favorite cousin, but you’re a bit too tired to really enjoy it if it did happen. Once Big Mac is amalgamated, the four of you begin once more. Feeling a little rejuvenated by the lack of heavy work, you look up to check the status of the other teams. Looks like AJ’s team is still stomping pretty hard, with the exception of Sweetie. Ah, Sweetie; the common bond of not being as fit as the rest of your team would undoubtedly bring you closer. The women of the third group have kept up their pace, although that’s really not saying much, since they were barely moving in the first place. And the final group, the guys that were madly thrashing from before, are all doing perfect imitations of you and Sweetie. Their faces downcast, their backs slumped, a perfect picture of exhaustion. A small pull comes from your left arm, and you glance over to Scootaloo. Her eyes wide, she asks:
	“So, uh… you think you’re gonna stay?” Your first thought was that she was referring to your placement in the circle, and you were about to offer her your place if she was wanting it. Before the words can exit your lips, you realize she’s speaking about you staying in Ponyville. Your affirmative answer similarly freezes in your throat, being replaced with a question.
	“Wait, how’d you know?” She shrugs:
	“Apple Bloom told me yesterday. Said AJ was gonna ask you today.” Big Mac’s looking over at you and Scootaloo, his interest gained. Unsure of how to respond while under the heavy gaze of the eldest cousin, you stammer out a
	“Uh, I guess. I mean, I’m hoping to, but I still gotta see what my parents say.”
	“So, you can’t come if they say no?” Her eyes seem bigger as she tentatively asks this next question. Apple Bloom’s eyes had come over, resting on you along with the others’. 
	“Yeah, sort of. I turn 18 in a couple months, so I could come over then, if they’d still have me.” At the last part, your eyes look over to the Apples with more than a little fear in them. But the anxiety of rejection is cast away by the earnest nodding of your younger cousin, and the more meaningful assent of Big Mac’s nod. He was probably more involved with the planning than Apple Bloom was; if his clout was on your side, you could venture a little more hope. Then again, you don’t actually want the situation to ever come to that; a simple ‘yes’ would be perfect, and you can’t see why it won’t happen. You look back to the purple-haired girl at your side: “So yeah, eventually I’ll be here. Or at least, that’s the plan.” Somehow, you can’t find the strength to be certain; some part of it still seemed too good to be true. Meanwhile, the girl to your immediate left offers you a cheery smile, more appreciative than she wants to be. 
	“Good. I mean, cool.” You nod, too caught up in your emotions too really think. Again your mind enters sort of single-targeted focus, the object of your tunnel-vision being the impending question. You’re feeling more and more worried about the outcome. What would she say? It was probably gonna be mom, since dad’s always at work or busy doing whatever. And despite spending your life in the same house as her, you still didn’t have a huge grasp on how she thinks. She just does whatever people tell her to do, which, in addition to making her fucking awful, makes her kind of hard to pin down. She had the spontaneity of fashion, as well as its depth; new religions and parenting methods were donned and tossed like dresses. She’d wear one for a while and either throw it away or plumb forget about it when a new one came along. 
	Is it fashionable to send your son away to live with relatives? The question’s seriousness and importance to you is absurd, drawing a dry laugh from you. Other kids’ futures were decided based on personalities, wealth, race, etc.; yours may very well be based on the preferences of old biddies in drawing rooms. The joke seems less funny when you realize it probably won’t be popular; sending your kid away would probably seem like bad parenting. Heck, if she were a good parent, it probably would be. But who would look up to that? Unless… maybe you could play it off like you’re going to a boarding school; like, make the connections and hope she’ll get that feeling. That’s what old women on the Social Register do, right? Or you could pretend to be off getting work or life experience on a farm. Hey, you could even promise to come back! You’d turn 18 just in time to ‘change your mind and stay.’ Oh, the look on her face if you said that… Alright, that sounds like a good enough plan: you’ll ask her in your dutiful-and-polite-son voice, and if she says no, you can just say it’s only for the summer. If need be, you’ll say you’ll visit. Maybe you should start off saying it’s for the summer? Nah, let’s save the lies for later; fun as it sounds, that could lead into a mess of trouble. You begin fine-tuning the plan, picking the right words and phrases to say, when you feel a shuffling ripple through the stomping unit. 
	Looking to the left, you see Apple Bloom and Big Mac trading places, citing something about a long time going by. Remembering Scootaloo –and more importantly, feeling a bit less worn down from the easy walking- you offer her your place in the slightly easier spot. She accepts, then moves around to your right. After linking up with her, you turn to the other girl you’ve connected with: Apple Bloom. She said something about this being the final rotation to Big Mac. You think; you’re still a bit out of it from the heat. Still, you wanna have at least one more stay with Apple bloom. 
	Gosh, she’s pretty. Her hair’s tied up in a ponytail behind her, presumably to keep it as far from the grapes as possible, and out of her face while she jumps and stomps. Her bow was left behind at the house, for obvious reasons. Even with her height, some of the splash has still gotten in her hair and on her face. You can see little marks where some flew up, leaving little purple smudges on her face. The blots get more numerous and wider at the lower parts of her body. There’s some around her torso and arms, a bit at her hips and thighs, and a ton on her lower legs. Seeing the almost entirely purple lower legs and feet fly out of the matter, only to dip back in again, is somehow captivating. She kinda reminds you of how a kid might play around in mud puddles on a rare rainy day, knowing it might not come again soon. The simple, beautiful girl grins up at you when she notices you staring, wiping some stray hair out of her eyes. She blushes, the few freckles on her perfect face seeming to light up on her rosy cheeks. A little skip in her step develops, and you find yourself treating it like a cue. Your legs find some second wind for themselves, and bring themselves up in a sluggish skip. Scootaloo and Big Mac join you, no so much due to a shared enthusiasm, but more because the union would break apart if they didn’t. A small shout is heard from Bailey’s group:
	"Heeeey! We’re done!” The somewhat familiar voice of Bailey shocks the nearly sleeping boy on the porch. It wasn’t clear when he’d come out –you weren’t really in a position to observe or anything- but there he was, sitting on the porch. The kid leaps up, starts walking towards their bin. He’s got a striped shirt on him, and thick blonde hair flowing every which way. He comes closer, and you can make out the freckled cheeks under his thick glasses; he looks like the nerd from some family friendly kid’s movie with a group of spunky kids in it. Stepping up to their bin, he looks for a minute, then sticks his arm in, swirling it around. 
	“I dunno… feels like there’s still some in there that you haven’t got.” 
	“Oh c’mon, you know that’s good enough,” replies Bailey, putting her hands on her hips. The kid still looks unsure of himself, but changes his mind soon enough when he looks toward Sweetie Belle. If she said anything, you hear it, but she’s doing this little half-wave thing that seems to hypnotize the judge.
	“Uh, yeah, sure. Looks good to me.” Bailey nods, and takes a step out of her bin. You wonder if she had planned that; it wasn’t clear if he would have approved if Sweetie hadn’t done her flirty little pose. It was pretty cute, you had to admit. The last of your ability to focus is expelled upon this thought, the heat and exhaustion beginning to pile up on you again. This time it didn’t seem to matter that your arm was tied to that magical cousin of yours. You weren’t sure how much longer you could do this. Just when you think you’re gonna have to take a break, a squeaky voice calls out from beside you. 
	“Hey, Ah think we’re finished!” Huh? You lift your head and spy Bailey’s little brother meandering over to you. He gets there, the same unsureness on his voice, and an uncertainty in his tone that matches the previous question.
	“You sure you guys are done already?” You aren’t, and look downward. Holy cow, the whole things almost entirely smooth slush. You’re not sure how you got to that point, or where the time went, but this feels pretty much finished. Apple Bloom seems to agree, telling him
	“Well, if they’re finished, we reckon we’re probably there too.” The kid looks down, and pulls back in surprise. 
	“Wow, you did it a lot better than they did…” Apple Bloom cocks her head at this, looking for clarification.
	“Really? This was how it was s’posed to be last year.” 
	“Yeah, but we fixed it up so you didn’t have to get it that much; got a machine to finish it off in the shed. That way it’ll get done a little easier and quicker, not to mention cleaner.” He takes a look at the shirts and shorts of your group, all well splattered by the over-stomped grape pile.
	“So, we are done?”
	“I’ll say. Probably been done for a while now.” The good news turns into something a little worse, the past few minutes of your slog now invalidated. You’d ask him why the heck he hadn’t spoken up earlier, but you are way too tired for that. For now, the most you can do is lurch out of the bin and towards the hose. You twist the nearby valve, cold water shooting out of it. Your desire to be cool quenched, you point it away from the more sensitive spots of you, where’d it’d begun its spray. As accustomization sets in, you hose down your arms and legs, rubbing off some of the stickier goo. Looking at the nearby sweetheart, you sleepily ask if you’ve got it.
	“Nah, you still got a coupla spots left,” says Apple Bloom, who takes the liberty of helping you out. Her small hands rubbing against your chest, back, and other hard to reach areas is a bit too much for you, and you’re glad you’re not wearing tight shorts today. Adjusting yourself so as to not be too obvious with your… expression of affection, nervously check to see if it was noticed. But the girl just keeps on scrubbing the back of your shirt, determination cancelling observation. Eventually she finishes up, taking a step back and placing satisfied hands on her hips as she looks you over. Once she turns the hose on herself and starts wiping off the colorful goo, you know what you have to do.
	You set your hands on her, thankfully responding to her helping hand. There’s a bit more on her than there was on you, probably due to the wilder dancing she’d done right at the start. Your hands move to her right arm, sliding up and down the smooth skin, the light action dislodging most of the delicious residue. You add a little bit of turn to the motions, now tracing slight zigzags on the skin, further helping remove the grapes. Once it looks clean enough, the perfectly colored skin no longer smudged, you begin to work on the other arm in the same fashion. Caught up in your work, you don’t notice the brief reverie that captures Apple Bloom. For a good minute, she stops her own motions and simply stands there, breathing in and focusing on your hands. The memory of the two others snaps her into focus, and she launches a feverish assault on the sticky purpleness all over her legs. As you jopin her, she finds it a bit hard to concentrate as your hands slide up towards the limits of the short coverings. Your hands on the smooth skin of her thighs presents a pretty hard challenge for her, the ability to concentrate only barely grasped by a mighty will. Eventually, both legs are finished, and your touch departs. 
	She hands off the hose to the others, who’ve been waiting patiently with only a touch of discomfort. Their light conversation continues as they begin to wash themselves off with much more ease than the tired boy and girl now walking towards the house. 
	“Hey, where are we goin’ now?” You ask Apple Bloom, realizing that you probably shouldn’t go into the house soaking wet.
	“Usually we just lie on the porch in the sun, but Ah know they’ve got a hammock around her somewhere.” Making your way around to the front, you see two stragglers hanging out right in front of the door. There’s the hammock on the porch, and it’s totally unoccupied.It’s a dark white, but not quiet grey, with little black patterns going back and forth on it. The wind blows softly on it, the cooling air forgotten in the direct heat of the sun. Luckily, the hammock is perched right before the edge of the porch, and the time of the day doesn’t find the brutal light falling on it. The sweet shade over it is enticing, the slight rocking reminiscent of some rustic portrait of the farm. Your hand grasps onto Apple Bloom’s, and you walk forward quickly, eager to get into the sweet folds of the hammock. Quick steps bring the wooden stairs past, and you collapse onto the semi-soft bliss. Immediately the sides envelop you, your balance lost. It takes a moment to get to a place where you don’t immediately need to fear falling off, a faint chuckling there all the while. With your position secured, you look up to your sweet cousin standing over you, waiting to join. 
	You spread your arms out invitingly, and she sits down on the side. Before any tipping can occur, she falls back on you, keeping her legs on the ground to prevent the floppy bed from tilting both of you off. Finally, she swivels herself quickly, her body attached to yours, with her head right on your stomach. After skootching up just a tad, she lets her head rest right into your shoulder, never having said a word. Her right arm falls over your body, contracting when you shuffle about, as if to keep you from leaving. You shift a couple times, each time her grip on you tightening and a resolute grunt telling you that you aren’t going anywhere. After a few very low-key struggles, you manage to get yourself comfy; it isn’t too hard, considering how weary you are. And from there, your own arms holding onto your princess, you fall asleep in the sweet summer wind.
	The dream that comes is shifty, nearly incomprehensible to even your illogical sleeping self. Some vague threat, like great shadowy tentacles wave malignantly from some horizon, grim and awful as Mordor. Apple Bloom, here a brilliant princess, shining like some demigod with Ra as parentage, stood on the precipice of a glimmering white castle, the kind that sparkled like glass in the gentle sun. But clouds crept up from the filthy brimstone bordering the divine kingdom, hordes of unthinkable creatures braying in the distance. The sky was red, filled with black lines of sharp-looking clouds, like some demonic eye spying some new joy to spoil. On that high balcony, the sweet royalty looked as she did on purer days, as if the roiling maw before her either did not exist or did not matter. Around her, the air was somewhat clear, brilliant blues and greens flowing through some final piece of Eden were kept from the imminent corruption. Her hair was filled with white flowers, her eyes closed and crinkling with her dreamy smile.
And in that castle, somewhere more grounded, with traditional stone walls and straw bed, you awoke as if from a vision, desperate to save her. She did not know; she could not save herself. Fearful images on her collapse flashed before your peasant eyes, and you sprinted forward to find her. Your legs found themselves invulnerable, the speedy dashing from room to room, floor to floor lending no agony or tiredness to them. But the might could not be enjoyed, for every set of stairs eluded you, always on the last room you would look, and every minor ascent bringing windows with grimier exteriors. Would that the rotting film be some failure to clean them, and not a true report of the hellish sky bearing down on you. The heights found bring more glorious architecture, the grimy stone of your waking place giving way to rooms and halls of diamond and gold; but still no luck. Finally, as shadows of the abyssal assault begin to creep across the hallways, dimming their vision, you arrive on that noble balcony. It’s empty. Stepping out to the frail edge, the thrashing darkness of the army is found not only within the city walls, but clambering up the spire. The forms are too dim, their movements to jerky, their numbers too large to make out, but one thing is clear: the kingdom has fallen, and your princess is gone. You close your eyes, feeling the rumbling of the nearly complete onslaught. Your memories of a glorious castle are called forth, a happier time longed to hold until the final moments. But as your recall those happy memories of the dreamed past, a thought runs through your head, the verses of some long forgotten poem:

‘That what seemed fair in all the world, seemed now
Mean, or in her summed up, in her contained
And in her looks; which from that time infused
Sweetness into my heart, unfelt before,
And into all things from her air inspired
The spirit of love and amorous delight.
She disappeared, and left me dark; I waked
To find her, or for ever to deplore
Her loss, and other pleasures all abjure’

	And upon opening your eyes, you found the kingdom unscathed, the intruders unfelt, and peace restored. The sky shone, the kingdom bustled with cheery commerce, and the castle once more glowed with earthly splendor. And none of it mattered. It was as if some gray film had coated your eyes, the joy of a nation divorced from you, unable to rekindle your spirit. You retreat from the golden balcony, and sit down, your back against the entrance to the castle within. 
	A sudden motion stirs you, the vivid imagery of your dream torn away as you’re pulled back into the world. The glistening, pointless kingdom gives way to a dim room, a blue sky, and the face of Apple Bloom. She tugs your arm, a smile gleaming before you. On your way to consciousness, the remnants of that poem return to you:

‘When out of hope, behold her, not far off,
Such as I saw her in my dream, adorned
With what all Earth or Heaven could bestow
To make her amiable:  On she came,
Led by her heavenly Maker, though unseen,
And guided by his voice; nor uninformed
Of nuptial sanctity, and marriage rites:
Grace was in all her steps, Heaven in her eye,
In every gesture dignity and love.
I, overjoyed, could not forbear aloud.’

	The moment passes, and soon all poetry of the imaginary adventure are lost, the only thing left in your mind being the pretty face of Apple Bloom. She’s there. That’s the first thing you notice, and the most important. Her sunny face, the color of a peach, looks down on you from above. Her bright red hair moves down the short distance to your face, creating makeshift walls around your face. The border is darker than usual, the water from the hosing causing it to became a dark maroon, and cling to each other. Light flows in where her hair doesn’t fall, illuminating the semi-private space between your face and hers. 
>Some parts catch some reflected light, and practically shine, white lines and dots spontaneously arising and exiting at her small motions. Her smooth skin glistens, the sun’s job of drying her apparently incomplete. The shade of your small bed must have halted its progress. In the close perspective, her eyes seem huge, wide circles holding secrets you long for. Even crinkled by that constant grin, they hold you steadfastly, a willing prisoner. The amber irises are full of vivid patterns, seeming to shift with her expression and position, and draw your own eyes in a wonderful journey to chart them. A small nose lies between them, diminutive in stature, only adding to her profound cuteness. You wonder what it’d look like if she sniffled; you imagine she has an adorable sneeze, if only to match her button-ish nose. Her cheeks are well defined, swelling with the gleaming smile gracing you. Towards the top, her little freckles mottle the skin, the greatest testament to her pure, joyful youth. 
	Her cheek, round and jubilent with her perfect smile, begs to be touched. Your hand moves up to her, your fingers lightly brushing her skin. Your fingers place themselves under her jawline, facing up, while your thumb gently strokes her cheek in a small arc. She feels so incredible, the softness of her skin adding to that purity she seemed to exude. Your eyesight travels a bit lower and to the left, stopping to rest on her sweet pink lips. They weren't small, but they didn't have that overindulgent size that belonged to girls that tried to hard. There was no makeup, just that perfect natural look she held. The hypnotic power of that heavily desired part doesn't quite bring a kiss, but instead calls your had down to it. your hand moves to hte left, keeping the same position, but with your thumb placed over her lips. You feel it out, your thumb's arcs moving from corner to corner. Somewhere, your awe had infected her, and her smile gave way to a more intense look. Her mouth slowly opened, inviting your touch into the wetter part; but the moment you accept, and her mouth closes slowly around your thumb, she bolts back. Shocked at the spell she was under, and the fact that you were still in public, she keeps a spot about a foot away from you. And you, in your still dreamy mind, continued to look at her with loving awe.
	She’s gorgeous. Her whole form, lit from the sun behind her, looks to be angelic. Each new moment with her was like a fresh breath of air; the memory in those moments apart or in attention lost, was pleasing enough, but the actual watching was something of a far greater caliber. Her grace and tenderness, replete in every action, set to rest every rise that came within you. Each time some vicious memory of your parents ignited you with shivering wrath, she calmed you down without even knowing it. Her radiance alone was something nearly awe-inspiring, and the whole of that glowing beauty made you feel somewhat crude, a low observer of her high beauty. But the moment she touches you, looked at you, it was clear that she could never see you as such. And that appointment to a place beside her, not beneath, made it true: the momentary shades of guilt transformed into self-esteem. She was so amazing just to be with, but had made her friendship so much more dear by that mere effect, no doubt unintentional and accidental, of raising you up beside her. She loved you, and how could you argue with that lovely voice?
	She speaks to you, but the words themselves aren’t what you pay attention to. That cute little voice, like some new, intriguing music takes hold of you. Somewhere inside your head, you understand the tone or words, and nod along, not fully part of the conversation. Each note she speaks is lovely, the high pitched voice mixing just right with the accent, making a style of speech you’d never heard. It’s Southern, that’s for sure, but chipper, not a drawl. She doesn’t speak lazily either, the majority of the difference being in the unusual intonations. The natural fluctuations of tone, the rise and fall of speech, are more pronounced, each sentence like some musical adventure. 
	Somewhere along the line, motion was introduced, and you’re pulled out of your lull. Her hands reach out to yours, two grasping your left, and she yanks you forward. The slowly fading dizziness of sleep had been slowly departing, and the violence of her action brushes off the last of it. The fuzzy haze dissipates, and you remember your situation fully: waiting for grape juice. The anticipation gets you a bit excited, and you remove the need for pulling. You don’t know how long you were out, but it might have been long enough. Stepping faster, you arrive at the door side by side with the best Apple of them all. You start to reach for the knob, then stop yourself. Apple Bloom looks at you with curiosity, asking the reason why. You take a look around your surroundings before you answer her. It’s nice out here.
	The air is cool and fresh, the breeze blowing around you like it would in some fantasy of the beach. Trees and bushes lean with its quiet push, and the vague chill is just enough to keep you at that ideal temperature. The feel of it on your skin is refreshing without making a coat or something necessary. The sky is light and clear, only a few clouds spread through it. Evening has arrived, but the day isn’t quite in its final stages: a slight whisper of red above the horizon is all that prophesies the coming dark. Looking out into that immeasurable blue, you find yourself calm and contented, as if floating within it. The lazy mosey of the white puffs seems to reflect and emphasize your own tired pace. Your body feels as if it could belong to that rare kind of elder, the one who moves slowly, not for the brittleness of bodily decay, but because the victories of youth make additional racing unnecessary. You’re where you want to be, and as such, time feels as if it moves slower. The easy freeness of this moment, as opposed to the oppressive fear and defeat that would normally cause you to feel disinclined to move, seems to deserve a longer lifespan. Once you go in that door, you’re gonna have to socialize, speak to everyone, and try to be more energetic. Not that that’s necessarily bad, you just… you don’t want to do it just yet. 
	Apple Bloom’s hands are in yours, her face looking at yours with a gentle obedience within the usual benevolence. You feel as if you could lead her anywhere, speak any destination and have her go with you. But while you do feel a pleasure in this, like a merchant coming to own some priceless treasure, the simplicity of ownership doesn’t quite apply here. You’re tied to her in a similar way: the responsibility to both keep her from harm and bring her to joy lies on your shoulders, leaving the victorious thrill of ownership oddly combined with the grim joy of duty, of purpose. The tender strings of your heart resonate, filling you with the increasingly common swelling of love. Your hand reaches over to her face, caressing her lovely cheeks again. Answering, you tell her the best you can that you don’t quite want the moment to end so soon. 
	Her hand rises to the hand on her cheek, softly holding it and pressing it into her soft skin. Her eyes close as she focuses on that simple sensation of your hand on her body. A moment passes, and she answers, wanting to stay in the moment too. But not too long, as her afterthought corrects, knowing that you might very well want to spend the rest of your time her on this porch. She’s not wrong. You turn around, leaving your back to the door. Apple Bloom follows your cue, facing the outside along with you, leaning into your side. The sensation of falling hair, then a lowered head meets your shoulder as she comes to rest on you. With your arm reaching over and lying over her own shoulder, the connection complete, you look out on the beautiful world in front of you.
	Apart from the chattering of a house-bound community, there’s not much noise out. Being so far from town, not many cars come along to roar into the atmosphere. It’s a little strange for you, never being too far from some frantic civilization. And the only escape you’d ever gotten was the furious blasting of earphones or a club, which provided no relief from the heart of the matter. Here was, as best you could figure, peace. A bird chirped here and there, the wind chimes struck low keys, like far away silver bells, and that was it. Apple Bloom would speak occasionally, pointing out a close-by bird, or an odd pattern in the roof, the music of her voice completing the absolute beauty of the sound. 
	Below the sky, with its unfathomable blue and the low key red underlining it, was a horizon of trees of some sort. Grapes were grown on vines, you think, as a childhood book had told you. So this must be some other part of the orchard, or a different house altogether. Well, whatever the case was, you could see the thick green forestry spreading out from side to side, to farther than the eye could see. They were spaced somewhat apart, but the sheer multitude caused by the distance made the grove look thick nonetheless. The vast acres, filled with some mysterious fruit, couldn’t help but impress you. The size of it was one thing, but this was a farm, right up close. Your mother had tried her hand at a garden once, struck by that desire to own nature that comes to so many. But even transplanting dozens of partially and fully grown plants to her expensive backyard greenhouse, she couldn’t bring out more than a few deformed carrots. Of course, never attending to it was bound to yield few results. But here were actual farmers, people that coaxed produce out of the very dirt. The honesty of the work, the actual production of something, was something you couldn’t help but value. They worked, unlike your mother, and the produced something, unlike your father, who did little more than put his name on papers in order to amass wealth. 
	Out in those distance fields, tall structures could be seen. One was undoubtedly a silo, the great height of the silver monolith resembling nothing else from your understanding of farms. But beyond such, and the odd speck, probably a neighbor’s house, the vision was almost uniform in the sharp cuts of green and blue. The trees ended not too far away, a shimmering green lawn bridging the distance between you and it. Here and there some neon toy laid, tossed aside by the short attention span of a child. Truthfully, the yard didn’t strike you as that interesting. And as you glanced back to the fields and sky, you found your astonishment of them a little strange. It wasn’t that impressive, and you’d certainly seen similar things before. A cold, scoffing cynicism grew in your mind, mocking you for those long moments transfixed by what was clearly nothing. It may have succeeded in wholly overcoming your joy if not for one thing: that sweet breeze blowing against your arms and face.
	Like a splash of cold water, you felt woken up. Only rather than some cold reality facing you, the warm, dreamlike enjoyment came back in fuller force than before. Clasping the dear girl to your right, it was so clear that these things, this world, was so much more than it appeared. It was the honesty, the clear simplicity of this whole life that appealed to you, like a Londoner visiting the smog-less countryside of France. You could breathe here; you could live here. And looking down at your Apple Bloom, the meaningfulness of her status as a country girl wasn’t lost on you. She wasn’t constructed from this world alone, but it was probable that the frigid pressure of the city wouldn’t have let her optimistic cheer last too long; even the preppy girls back home would always break down when they thought nobody was looking, the glow obviously little more than pretense. But here, this perfect girl was free to be herself, even under all the tragedy of her parents’ deaths; it made you wonder if you could be you, and who you really were under everything.
	You breathe out, having held your breath somewhere along the line. It comes out in a whoosh, then clean new air comes in. Yeah, this was the place for you. Nodding your head in silent assent, almost a salute to this place, you turn around. Society awaiting, you and her had to break off your comfortable connection, to neither’s pleasure. A kiss of condolence and promise meets her forehead, then you reach for the doorknob. Before you can open it, she stands up on her tiptoes and kisses your cheek, falling back right as the door swings open. She enters before you, missing the slight blush on your cheeks.
	You’re immediately greeted by a great shock of blue, the walls loudly painted a deep cobalt. There’s a mess of doors and mini-hallways, all leading to the different parts of the house. To your right, there’s some loud conversation, and Apple Bloom has already departed for the source of it. You follow her out of that central station, and find yourself in a living room type deal. There’s a light blue sofa, with two matching chairs by either side of it, and a clear glass table in the center.  The material is a soft fabric, and the cushioning is all sorts of cushy. AJ and Bailey sit on the chairs, with the two members of the CMC on the roomy couch. Jutting out from underneath the table is a thick, dark blue rug, with concentric orange circles spreading from the middle to the outer lining. There’s a fireplace on the side opposite to the couch, a good ten feet away, with two wicker chairs in front of it. Big Mac sits in one of these, looking thoughtfully out the window.
	There’s an esteemed looking family in a portrait, dressed in fancy attire and frowns, and on the wall adjacent, there’s a large, beautiful picture of a ship sailing on a calm ocean. Beyond you, there’s another picture of a lush forest, with yellow-leafed trees, and pink and lime shrubbery covering the ground, a pale blue sky behind it and a light brown path moving to places unknown. On the final wall is a small picture of a girl in a deep sea diver’s helmet, a ponytail jutting out the back. There’s a small yellow bird in your hand, and a pale pink heart painting above her head on an indistinguishable background. Beside this final, mesmerizing picture is the white door you had entered through, with orange divets. The girls are talking avidly, Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo having their hands holding up their cheeks in intrigue. Noise can be heard from the other room, the other guests obviously continuing the party in other parts of the house.
	Immediately, the two youngest girls call to their third, wide open arms imploring her to join them on the couch. You make a motion to join your Apple Bloom, but the couch looks a little too full, and a little too full for you. The animated speaking and nearly palpable estrogen makes you look for another option, and seeing Big Mac, you head over to the empty wicker chair beside him. You’re still a little tired from the nap and the serene enjoyment of this ludicrously rustic home, and right now, the quiet mammoth feels like a better companion than five very energetic girls. A small eyebrow raise asks his permission to join, and an almost imperceptible nod opens the chair to you. Entering it, you don’t immediately begin speaking to him, not feeling the necessity of such.
	Seconds turn to minutes, just laying in the oddly comfortable wicker chair. For now, you just take a minute to be alone with somebody else, just a minute to relax. Granted, it isn’t really necessary: the nap had removed most of your exhaustion. But you were feeling slow, and Big Mac was somebody who you could just chill with, without feeling like you gotta be more energetic. Truthfully, the moment you’d left the outdoors, your mind had swelled with thoughts of home. The scenic moments spent with Apple Bloom had slowly faded, and the terrors of loss had returned. Despite how calm she could make you, and how hard you’d worked on overcoming those fears, the uncertainty of the situation could still overpower you. You didn’t know what would happen, despite all the plans you could muster. And the fact that the question would come so soon, the discussion with your parents -which you hoped would be the last- was too close to ignore. And what if she said no? This was your last night here, and this was the last activity you could do with them. How much longer before you left, how much longer til you went to bed, and how much longer til you had to leave? You cross your arms, folding and unfolding them several times, trying to dispel a nonphysical discomfort. 
	Apple Bloom was having fun. The girls had told her that the drinks would be ready pretty soon, pasteurized and chilled. I)t wasn’t the first time she’d tasted this, and she’d be darned if she was gonna let it be the last. This stuff was almost as good as that cider you’d be making soon enough; almost. Not to mention it was made by herself, and that extra bit made it all the more meaningful. She had slipped in between her two friends, each of which was carrying on their own conversation with one of the older girls. Sweetie spoke with Bailey about the latter’s younger brother, stars in her eyes. Scootaloo and AJ were speaking of the upcoming harvest, which she usually helped out with for a good bit of money. Apple Bloom was more involved with this conversation than the first, but part of her kept glancing over to Anon. Didn’t seem like he was doing much, just sitting with Big Mac. She wanted to join him, but she knew that guys needed their space sometimes, and that was something she’d give.
	After a couple mildly uncomfortable minutes, Bailey gets up to exit the room, mentioning something you don’t hear to the group of girls. Before she gets to far, she pauses to look at the girls, then at you and Big Mac, nodding. Moments later, she returns with a man and a woman from the stomp session. She and the woman hold six glasses, the man holds three. The ladies go over to their side of the room, serving grape juice to their party, while the man hands you and Big Mac a glass each. He strikes a conversation with a jovial howdy, to which your duo responds with a grunt. His name is Johnny, and he and his wife Justine are close friends of Bailey’s family, and do this every year. Still, he’s never seen the trick your group pulled; he was gonna come up and talk to you about it, but he couldn’t find you. Big Mac mentions your need for a nap, and the two of them share a laugh. Still, he’s impressed with your speed, and reckons that he oughta try that next time. You thank him, feeling genuinely appreciated by the Southerner. His elbow finds the top of your chair, and he stays for a while, just shooting the breeze with the fruit-based team about farm work, life in the Ponyville area, and how it relates to city life.
	Apple Bloom’s happy to see Justine here: she wasn’t as close to the Apple family, so they didn’t see each other too often, but it was always a pleasure when they did. Justine congratulates Apple Bloom on winning -apparently your group had finished first without calling it- and a rousing cry of victory, coupled with a fist pump, gains the boys’ attentions. She gives a big thumbs up to you, then sits back down. Justine notices the slight flush, and ask her about that young man, the only person here she hasn’t met. Apple Bloom excitedly informs her of the captivating city boy who’d appeared suddenly, and might stay forever. The whole time, the other girls nod with suppressed smiles, seeing what’s going on here. After the torrent of explanation finishes, Justine turns to you and nods, stating that he looked like he was having fun today, and she hoped he’d be able to stick around. And with that, she bids everyone a goodbye, walking over to her husband and bringing him back to the friends they’d left in the other room. 
	The conversation doesn’t end after Johnny’s departure, Big Mac quickly filling the gap. He continues asking questions about your life, using as few words as possible. It’s kind of stilted, the whole back-and-forth not flowing well at all. But he’s clearly trying, and he didn’t seem like the kind to fake care. You enjoyed it, trying to spread out your answers as much as possible, so as to not burden him with too much responsibility to speak. He nods, and even lets out a small chuckle at some of the trouble you’ve gotten into. Suddenly, he interrupts you, asking if you’re wanting to stay. You respond in the affirmative, bust didn’t he already know that from the conversation in the bin? He nods, then clarifies: he wants to know straight from you, if you’re going to say yes. You are. That’s good, he’ll be glad to have ya. Unable to resist the curiosity, you put the question of why to him. All he says is that you seem solid enough, but the respectful acceptance in his eyes is all the affirmation you need.
	AJ turns to Apple Bloom and the other girls, changing the subject by asking if they think you’ve enjoyed your stay. All three of them nod vigorously, each interrupting each other with confirming stories of your evident happiness. Sweetie Belle speaks of the fun she’d had just hanging out with you at Sonic’s, right after the tubing trip. Apple Bloom cites, among others, the tubing trip itself as evidence of the good times you’d had. Scootaloo, wanting her own tale, speaks of the skateboarding on that first full day, before he messed up. Putting the blame on you for your injuries is enough to get her a thump on the head from the other girls, who say that whole issue was her fault, not yours. The ensuing conflict is sorted out by a chuckling Bailey and AJ, the latter of whom is visibly glad. She explains the situation fully to Bailey, who’d only heard the barebones of it. Bailey thinks it’s great, telling her so. She goes on to say that it’s always good to have some friendly help around, especially a cute cousin; at this last part, she nudges AJ, winking multiple times. AJ, flustered, slaps her hand away, then avoids the snickering looks of the others by turning to Anon. AJ walks over to you, a serious look on her face. 
	“Hey Big Mac. Can I talk to Anon for a second?” 
	“Eeyup.” Your oldest cousin stands up and trades places with her, finding himself in the midst of a cloud of girls. Apple Bloom looks straight at you with a hopeful smile, where all the others immediately begin drawing Big Mac into their conversation. You give her a similar smile, then turn back to the girl in front of you.
	“What’s up?” She looks off to the side, as if steeling herself, then focuses on you.
	“Anon, I want to ask you something.” You know what she was gonna say, but the very clear seriousness, made evident by her careful, accent-suppressed speech, tells you that you should assume the same. 
	“Uh, ok.” Her green eyes, bigger than you remember, pour into you as she speaks:
	“Do you want to go home?” 
	“No.” The answer is solid and firm, all alternatives unthinkable.
	“Do you want to stay?”
	“Yes.” She nods, the relief in her eyes visible. 
	“Ok, I was hoping you’d say so. We’ve been talking it through, and we’d like to invite you to stay with us.” The offer, though already foreseen, somehow feels entirely new when it’s given by the official spokesperson of the family. She proceeds to give you a rundown of the work you’d be doing this summer and during the coming school year, as well as basic information about the town and what it’d be like to live there. You can’t help but grin, bobbing your head as she explains, no promise of hard work or worry of fitting in able to dispel that brilliant happiness of a the brightest future opening up before you.
	“Ya think you can handle all that? We’ll try not to make it too hard on you, but we still gotta a lotta work to do here.” Instantly you assure her that you can.
	“Absolutely, you can count on me.” She gives you a little smile, then methodically moves on to the next portion of the plan:
	“Perfect.” There’s a small moment between now and the next stage of her plan, a moment of relief and satisfaction for the first success. “So, now we gotta figure out how to get your parents to say yes. Ah know they’re not exactly on your side, so Ah’m not real sure on how we oughta bring this to them. You got any ideas?” Immediately you jump on the opportunity to explain the multiple of plans that have been coursing throughout your mind during the day. You explain the initial circumstances of you being only a little way away from adult age, and the eventual freedom you’ll have. Following that minor bit of stage-setting, you expound upon the central plans, involving a politeness, a pretense of coming back, and likening to a popular boarding school where you’d learn real world skills. She raises her hand to the back of her neck and scratches lightly:
	“That all sounds fine and good, but Ah’m a little against bein’ dishonest with her. Promising to come back and planning otherwise… seems a bit wrong.”
	“True, true. But remember who these people are, AJ.” You almost grit your teeth as you try to defend your plan. “These aren’t caretakers, and they’re only parents because they banged, not because they raised a kid. They lost their right to any power over me a long time ago, and the way I see, the power they currently have might as well be stolen, seeing as it certainly doesn’t belong to them. This isn’t a peaceful attempt to transfer rights; this is reclamation. And I’ll take that power from them any way I can.” Your fists clench as your impassioned account of the injustice done to you pours out. AJ only looks sorrowful, and places one of her hands on your right fist. The tender appeal, the familial touch reaches you, calmness beginning to work its way through fiery veins.
	“Anon, you don’t have to convince me that they’re bad parents. But they’re still people, and Ah don’t want you to ruin any relationship you might with them in the future.” She shakes her head, the confusion on your face telling her that her point isn’t being made. “What Ah mean is that… Ah don’t know. They’re still your parents, even if they’re bad ones. Ah don’t think you should burn that bridge if you don’t have to.” Another fire rises in you, a louder retort of the lack of parenthood in your mother and father prepared, but then you figure it out. She lost her parents for good, and was trying to protect you from that. You breathe in heavily, not sure of what to say. No way are your parents and you ever going to be fine, but maybe you could at least meet her halfway.
	“How about this: I’ll use it as a last resort.” She looks up, the sad look on her face slightly brightening at the partial success. “I still have to get out of there, no question about it. But I’ll do my best to be diplomatic, and be honest until there’s no other option.” She still looks hesitant, but understands your position. 
	“Ok,” she says, accepting your compromise. The two of you sit still for a while, the weight of the moment falling heavily on both shoulders. You and her glance at each other every once in a while, you seeking strength and she seeking to provide. Closing your eyes, you just breath in the warm air, the happy sounds of a fading party. AJ’s voice comes through the sweet darkness, still sounding somber.
	“So, when are you gonna ask?” Before, the call was just a plan, hanging harmlessly in abstraction. But AJ brings it into the plan, giving it a repulsive reality. The hideous importance of it is only matched by the dread of it: so much hangs on that conversation, and every moment between you and it threatens the precarious hope placed upon it. You have to get rid of it as soon as possible; concerns over timing are too far from you, the need to do it soon and to avoid that train tomorrow forces your answer.
	“Soon as I can. Left my phone at home, so I’ll do it when we go back.” You pause, not sure of the intended timeline. “Uh, when are we going?” The seriousness of the situation is not lost on AJ, as well as the understanding that if you wait for too long, courage might fail or the parent called might be bothered by the lateness.
	“We can go now. It’s kind of wrapping up anyway.” You nod.
	“Yeah, I’d appreciate that.” She stands up, a slight smile on her face from her happiness at being able to give you this small blessing. She motions over to her family, but only Big Mac sees and responds. He gets up slowly, like a lumbering giant waking from a mythical slumber. Apple Bloom, so engrossed in the conversation with her fellows and Bailey, doesn’t notice the motion or Big Mac. You head over, both to deliver the message and to say your goodbyes to the CMC. 
	“C’mon, Apple Bloom, we’re heading out.” 
	“Awww, already?” The partially suppressed tragedy in your face is all the answer she needs. Sensing something important’s up, she gets up and walks over to you, her side touching yours. She brings a cheerful goodbye to her friends, which you follow up:
	“Alright, it was great meeting you guys.” Scootaloo pipes up with visible concern.
	“Wait, are you leaving-leaving?” she asks, doubling the word, like when kids define love as ‘like-like.’ 
	“Yeah, this is my last day. I’m heading out tomorrow morning.” You didn’t intend to say this, knowing that you might not have to, but some part of you can’t bring yourself to accept the reality you so desperately long for. Here, Sweetie Belle includes herself in Scootaloo’s concern. Weird; you didn’t really think that she had liked you that much. But the worry can be seen in her eyes as she asks:
	“But I thought you were staying? You’re gonna come back, right?” You drop a heavy sigh, trying to cling to your hope.
	“That’s what I’m hoping to do. Still, it might not happen. So, uh-“ your rhetoric is rapidly failing, the smoothness you try to present falling apart. You take a second to make sure your voice doesn’t crack, then continue: “Uh, if I don’t, it was great meeting you guys.” Both of them rocket off the couch, wrapping you in tight hugs. Sweetie Belle says nothing, letting the hug speak for itself. Scootaloo augments the message with a caring insult:
	“You’d better come back, you big dweeb.” There’s a pause between the two clauses, the insult obviously tacked on to avoid appearing too mushy. You’ve actually come to feel sort of close with Scootaloo. She wasn’t your best friend, and you still didn’t know a whole lot about her, but you’d had quite a bit of fun on account of her. She was pretty cool to hang out with, and was actually pretty sweet if you could see through her front, which was usually pretty easy. Hugging both girls you promise an eventual return and future adventures. The four of you walk to the front door, but you can’t quite bring yourself to exit. 
	Turning back, you see the two younger girls staring at you, their heads popping over a deep blue couch. Scootaloo’s hands are on the edge of it, her mouth resting somewhere between where her thumbs are. Bright lavender eyes stare at you, wide as ever. Her gaze, even under you catching her is constant; she attempts to hide a little bit, but only ducks down an inch or so, wanting to keep you in view. Her hair is messy, the rampant exercise unsettling an already casual style. The little crinkle in her eyes tells you that she’s smiling, though she’d never admit it. Your perfect cousin aside, you really hope you’d get to come back, just for a good friend like her.
	More overtly sweet, the well-named other girl is simultaneously less embarrassed and less cutely affectionate. Sweetie Belle wasn’t as fun to be around as Scootaloo was, but she was still pretty cool. The few moments you’d gotten to spend just hanging with her, she’d been pretty chill. And it was apparent that she was a nice girl, definitely somebody who could be counted on. Her left arm lies horizontally on the top of the couch, the hand touching her right elbow; her right arm extends upwards, the hand holding her chin. She doesn’t look bored, just a little sleepy; the smile, below cool green eyes, is a friendly one. Raising her head, she frees her hand, allowing it to wave goodbye to you. Scootaloo imitates Sweetie, proudly lifting her head up; but instead of waving, she merely nods and smirks at you. Yeah, that was more or less the goodbye you expected. You raise your own hand in goodbye, an earnest thankfulness in your smile. Then you turn, and exit the house.
	Somewhere between the easy relaxation after your nap and now, the air had become heavier, weighing on your shoulders like some thick mantle. You don’t say much on the car ride home, only looking out into the evening sky. It’s not dark, though you feel it ought to be; a brilliant sunset, a little early, goes unappreciated into your sight. In the backseat with Apple Bloom, her hand finds yours, squeezing gently. The stress of the situation, the inevitable confrontation is tearing you apart, such that even these beautiful things can only seem tragically temporary. The soft warmth in her hand keeps you from really falling apart, but the ravaging torrent within you remains untamed. The bumps in the road toss you up and down. Just a little bit longer. You squeeze Apple Bloom’s hand back, tightly. Just a little bit longer.
	The crunch of gravel welcomes you home, and you hop out. The tension, the coursing adrenaline within you, blinds you to everything but the plan, and you leap out of the car. Arriving at the door, you impatiently tap your foot, waiting for the key-bearer to allow entrance. AJ walks up and opens the door without the key, having kept it unlocked. You don’t pause to thank her or wonder why: there’s only the need for your phone, and the need to get past any of the obstacles. Some part of you wonders if you’re being rude, grieves over the probability that you are. But every moment that passes is a moment where your world is hanging by a thread, able to fall at every second. Bad news is better than the wait; and so you rocket to your room, and fish your phone out. Dialing the first four numbers, Apple Bloom enters your room.
	You ask her if she’s gonna be there for the call, hoping she will be. 
	“Yes,” she replies, bringing a warmth to you. You dial the fifth number, then stop, distracted by your cousin. “Hold on.” You complete the stoppage, setting the phone down at your side. “I don’t think you should call your mom just yet.” Right now, you feel like an old man, beaten down before you’ve even begun. Exhaustion sets upon you, the phone an unliftable weight right now. Meanwhile, the sad eyes of Apple Bloom seem older, but in a different sense. Heavy with wisdom, she sits down beside you, and takes both of your hands in hers. She seats herself more fully on your bed, crossing her legs in front of her. She asks you to do the same, and you mirror her position. Both arms rest on knees, hands meeting in the center to connect the two of you. Her head leans forward, not for a kiss, but to press her forward into yours. For a while, neither of you speaks. You just sit there, holding your Apple Bloom, breathing heavily. 
	You try to follow her relaxed breathing, but find yourself hyperventilating. Her hand moves up to your face, caressing it, not unlike the way you touched her earlier. She whispers to you:
	“sh sh sh sh sh…” her voice fading off, the tone calming you down. You try again to breathe in as deeply and even as her, and eventually succeed. She opens her eyes and lifts up your chin, and you open your eyes in response. “Anon, I love you. It’s gonna be ok.” You hold onto that embrace, just trying to relax. Your breaths slow, matching the cadence she’s set. Her warms breaths fall, partly dissipated, on your chin and upper neck. It’s shocking how that feeling, so small and hard to be noticed, can feel so intimate. The small warmth of her breathe somehow cuts through all the other sensations, cutting through the thick haze so steadily renewed in you. You look into her eyes sadly, letting her calming gaze capture you.
	“This is something my sister taught me,” she informs you, the corner of her mouth lifted up in a small smile, proud of her knowledge. “Just breathe slowly for a minute.” You protest, not yet giving her your full trust.
	“But, I gotta…” She puts her finger to your lips, this time with a big smile. 
	“No no no no no, ya gotta do what Ah say.” The playful way she goes about it ends up being the right thing to do. She’s glad to see your returning smile, knowing that she was gambling on it being welcomed, instead of an annoyance. This isn’t a moment you thought you’d welcome fun, even in such a small portion, but somehow, it’s just the right thing to distract you from the crushing pressure of the moment. Your smile is a weak one, but genuine.
	“Alright, Apple Bloom. What do I do?”
	“I want you to feel your feet.” She says, moving to a Buddha-like position, with her legs crossed. Her eyes are closed, so she misses your confused expression as you grab your feet with your hands. Awkwardly, you stay there and hold them for a few seconds. Having no verbal confirmation, she opens her eyes to see you, with crossed legs and feet grabbed. The sight is a little silly to her, as her snickering suggests. 
	“Sorry, Ah didn’t mean –“ she chuckles, trying hard to stop and continue the serious teaching “-Ah didn’t mean that. Ummmm…” She closes her eyes and touches her lip with her forefinger, trying to remember. Then, eyes opening wide: “Ah mean, just try to describe the feeling of your feet. Like, are they hot or cold, comfy or uncomfortable, stuff like that.” Her head nods, the excitement of teaching crossed with the attempt to be coldly didactic, resulting in a very unconventional teaching style. “Try curling your toes and uncurling your toes.” You think real hard about the sensations of your feet, trying to come up with the words to describe it.
	“Um, I guess they’re a bit cold. Not cold enough for socks, just a bit chilly. Big toe kinda hurts, probably from my shoe. It doesn’t fit super well.” You say whatever you can think of, not entirely sure what you’re supposed to be doing in the first place. She, however, is fully aware of her success: you aren’t thinking of your family at all. Adrenaline decreasing, your mind is now focused on both your feet and coming up with mundane observations of such. Seeing her nod happily, you feel encouraged, and keep up the odd assignment. 
	“Alright, good. Now, um…” She can’t remember the step after this. Going along with the general theme, she improvises: “Tell me about the room. What’s it like?” It’s slowly dawning on you that she’s trying to distract you. Again, you attempt to go along with her, partly due to its success, partly because it’s her.
	“Well, the air is nice and cool. It smells like… apples, I guess. We’re both sitting on the bed, which has a comforter on it. The comforter’s, um, got little pictures or drawings or whatever of apples on it… My cell phone’s in my hand.” You take a moment, shaking your head to get away from the subject that pulls you closer to the edge. “The walls still have those apples on it, that weird papery wallpaper. The floor’s red and green, with a maroon rug over there. The lights evening, I mean it’s coming from the evening, I mean-“ you stop yourself, the stress reducing your words to a jumble. “The evening light’s coming through the drapes, giving a soft amber glow to the room. Kinda like your eyes.” She lights up, grinning at the attention; your face flushes at the same moment, like an embarrassed kid after having revealed a crush. “Uh, my phone is vibrating,” you say, partly out of observation, partly in response to the sudden resurgence of the phone’s importance. 
	You hold it up to your face, checking the words on the bright white screen. It’s just one of your acquaintances, hitting you up for a night out. One small “no” texted back, you looked at your Apple Bloom, more grim than before. 
	“I think I oughta make the call now. Don’t worry, I’m feeling better.” At the mention of the inevitable call, her face falls slightly, but she maintains a hopeful visage for your sake. A hand reaches out and softly grabs your hand, the one with the phone in it. Her earnest eyes are the precursor to one final request.
	“Can we pray about it first?” Your heart heavy with doubt over the success that once seemed unstoppable, the notion doesn’t seem like the worst. It’s not like it could hurt. You nod your head, and allow her hands to grasp both of your own. The phone falls to the bed, the soft *pomf* initiating her compassionate words:
	“Father God, please bless the request of my cousin. Please give us success, please let him stay with us, please let him stay with me.” The words are earnest and clear, the heartfelt plea clear in what you usually thought was an emotionless, mechanical ritual. “Please let him stay with us, God.” Bluster and pomp are left behind, only the simple need of a young girl remaining in the words. The heartbreak hidden in each syllable suddenly takes a change for the brighter, the hope in the next portion surprising you. “And if you don’t allow him to stay, thank you for letting him be here at all, God. Thank you so much for introducing me and the rest of us to him, and for giving me this awesome, amazing, perfect week.” At each adjective, she squeezes your hand, the sound of the words noticeable altered by the smile of the grateful Apple. “And if he goes, please let him come back as soon as possible. In Jesus’ name, Amen.” She opens her eyes at the same time as you, nodding her head and gulping. Tentatively, you pick up your phone, and dial your mother’s number. You hit ‘Call,’ and the phone begins ringing. The phone rings, the chiming sound echoing inside your head. It rings again, the tension increasing tenfold. Knowing you’d need some stability in the coming moments, you reach out your left hand to grab the delicate hand of your cousin. Another ring, this one feeling as though it vibrated through the very center of you, the gentle calmness of Apple Bloom nearly obstructed by the violent tension. The fourth ring cuts short, a snappy 
	“Hello?” greeting you. The voice sounds rude, like the mouth releasing it was unalterably contorted into a sneer. It’s the usual tone she uses, the sharp sound present both in giving Christmas gifts and passive-aggressively putting down waiters. This time it’s seems real, however; the dreamlike joy of the Apple family and their simple kindness providing a new juxtaposition for the poisonous voice. Those years of hopeless permeation in their family had numbed you to the sound, but spending a week with a girl who spoke like a chorus of angels no longer permitted the dull accustomization. The seemingly small detail puts you off enough that you fail to answer, spurring a very unwelcome repetition, this time with confusion spliced with the impatience. “Hello?”
	“Uh, yeah, hi mom.” You sputter out, the words less a greeting and more a plea for the tonal offence to stop. Unfortunately, as you should have remembered, the attempt to gain control of the conversation and lessen her role only results in the opposite. 
	“Now sweetie, what did I tell you about proper English? If you’re going to call me so late -you know I’m very busy this time of day- then you can at least start your sentences with actual words. If you don’t mind.” The offense at the critique, so absurdly placed in this pivotal conversation, almost matches your childlike fury at her hypocrisy. Lecturing you on proper English while her sentences overlap each other, and the miniature lecture ends in a fragment!? Unconsciously you squeeze Apple Bloom’s hand, but her returning squeeze helps bring you to a calmer place. You speak your part, hoping the obedient son shtick can help you out here.
	“Yes, mother. I’m sorry.”
	“Very good. Some people’s-“ the voice trails off into some story about somebody’s kid speaking poorly, or ostensively so, and an unsubtle implication that you’re lucky to have her as a mother. Assuming this role of listener feels as though you’d stuck your head in some cloud of poison, with the consciousness not oppressed by dizzy faintness consumed with the wish for clean air. Oh goodness, to be off this phone! Your response comes a moment late, but the imperfect timing is granted mercy by your mother’s self-involvement.
	“I’m lucky to have you as a mother, Mom.” Never have your words felt so fake. Before, you were a prisoner, inspired to rebellion solely by hatred of the prison; now, you had experienced freedom, and with it, a deeper hatred for the jailer that now held it hostage. It isn’t clear if she’s noticed it or not, the continuation of her role also feeling ludicrous.
	“Why, I’m so happy to hear you say that. You know, I try very hard to help you out whenever I can -and goodness knows what a thankless job mothering is- so it’s nice to have some recognition every once in a while.” She stresses the final clause, especially the word ‘once,’ the appreciation a blunt ruse to hide her accusation of your failure to provide sufficient praise. Blood boiling, your hand tightens on Apple Bloom. Never before has an uninjured appendage commanded your attention with such strength. It’s as if your whole being has been consolidated in two places: your ears and mouth, stuck in the most horrifying struggle, and in your hand, holding on for dear life. All else has disappeared, the tense acting of your conversation and your hand, drawing the lion’s share of your strength from that of Apple Bloom, holding the entirety of your attention. You murmur out another attempt at honeyed persuasion:
	“I’ll try to remember to thank you more often. I really do appreciate it, Mom.” Years of experience have taught you that you have to work for it: it’s as if upon hearing that she was loved, she asked you to convince her. A proper-sounding
	“Mm-hmm” comes as a response, signaling her acceptance without granting you grace for the implied failure. A small silence follows before she permits the conversation to return to you: “So what did you call for? I’m really very busy.” The words came slowly to you, the careful practice of today’s planning hard to reach from within the real situation.
	“I-I was hoping to extend my stay a little longer.” You abandon the thought of asking to stay, having realized that this woman would never willingly allow you to leave. The whole dramatic tale of unlucky sons and her woes as an underappreciated mother remind you: she needs somebody to make her feel important. Beyond the compliments of the social elite, a more personal support system was necessary, and you had been designated the author of her prominence and goodness. You’re cursing yourself, wishing you could have spoken with your father instead. Absolute negligence might be a better hope for release than a relationship where negligence was only dropped for the occasional parasitic refreshment. 
	“Whatever for?” She asks, a note of honest curiosity in her query, revealing a total innocence to your situation. It doesn’t quite dawn on you, the truth too horrible for your weary mind to grasp, but she might actually think your home is a decent place to live. You default to what was going to be a last ditch effort, trying to play it off as a learning opportunity.
	“Oh, I just want to stay for the summer.” In your feverish revulsion, grasping for anything that could offer escape, you’d picked the dishonest defense before testing out any of the other arguments. “You know, to learn a little bit more about the country and whatnot. There’s a lot of interesting stuff around here, and I…” You don’t know how to continue. Normally, you just let conversation go whichever way felt best, with a minor order enforced to it. But here, with all the stress, you were losing control of the thoughtful plan you’d hoped to simply recite to her.
	For a few moments, only silence comes from the receiver. Unbearable seconds, feeling as though each stretched into a minute or an hour, slumped past as you anxiously waited. Your appeal had been awful, just horrendous. Already your mind was exploding with things you could have said better, practice you could have done. All self-judgments stop when you hear her voice again, the fake hesitancy in her tone telling you the answer before the words did.
	“Well, that sounds… interesting, I suppose. But I still need you for that family outing we have with the Rogers’, remember?” Fuck! The failure reverberates in your ears, showing itself to Apple bloom through your stricken expression. There is some hope though; maybe you could come back afterwards? Quickly, you jump on that chance, unable to keep your plea in for one second.
	“Ok, but could I come back after that?” Another agonizing second, then a short chortle. It retained that haughty crackly sound of an older woman while trying to mimic the happy sound of a younger girl. The titter was something Apple Bloom would have done at something silly; but coming from your mother’s awful voice, it gave ripples of cringing disgust instead of life. 
	“Oh, ha ha ha,-“ She starts again, so thorough in her imitation that she includes the inability to piece together a sentence due to it’s hilarity. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, wanting to stay down there.” The haughtiness that typically stayed in the subtler regions of her tone had now come to the forefront, the emphasis on ‘down there’ rife with disdain. “But I’m afraid I have to say no. There’s plenty for you to do up here, and frankly, I think it’s a bit selfish trying to distance yourself from your family like that. Think about it, Anon, you’re nearly an adult; are you really going to take away the precious little time your father and I get to be in your life? Soon you’ll grow up and go off into the world, provided you don’t go to work for you father -which I still wish you’d do- and where will we be then?” Her sorrowful tone, rich with disgusting pretensions of tragedy, turn back to jocularity with offensive dishonesty. “No no,” she says with the same laugh in her words, “you’ll come up tomorrow and stay for the rest of the summer.”
	You press the disconnect button on your phone at the end of this sentence, despite the intonation clearly showing that she wasn’t done. You were done with that, with that phone call. Who the fuck cared if you got chewed out tomorrow? Your hand trembles as you raise the phone up and hurl it at the wall. It strikes the edge of the wooden clothes cabinet, spidery lines suddenly present on the screen. The thunk of the impact was loud, but not loud enough for you. You wanted to crush something, to break something til nothing but dust was left. Fuck! Your hand rips itself away from Apple Bloom, the situation completely nullifying her once-helpful touch. There was no connection now, the connection was fucking gone for the fucking summer! Fucking shit! You stomp over to the cabinet with the intent of picking up the phone. But another stroke of rage pulses from within, and you kick the cabinet as hard as you can. Apple Bloom calls out, her voice failing to completely reach you. 
	Her right hand finds your shoulder, stopping the heaving for a moment. Your stomach is churning, the pit you’d felt all day increasing until the pain became physical. Your shoulders and muscles felt solid, as if they were locked in place. Desperately trying to pay attention to Apple Bloom, you forced your rigid limbs to a halt. The raw energy coursing through you strove to make you move again, pleading with you to keep letting your anger out. But your cousin’s hand was on your shoulder, and though it took all your might, you kept steady. The result was a constant twitch in more than one muscle, fresh spasms of anguish bringing you to quickly locked down motions. Her hand rubs you softly, as if she hoped to massage the tension away. 
	“Anon.” The voice is bittersweet, the name you once loved to hear her speak has a greatly lessened effect. Every perfect connection with her was now tainted by tragedy, the noxious reminder that she would be gone soon. “Anon.” She still sounded so pretty, and you were still so honored to hear her speak your name in the gentle, breezy way; but there was a clock now. “It’ll be ok, Anon. Can you look at me?” She still stands behind you, slightly to the left of your back. You hadn’t turned to face her, and the cabinet prevented her from moving in front of you. She tugs on your shoulder, trying to get you to turn around. You oblige her, but keep your face down, not looking at her. When she places her hand on your chin, hoping to bring your chin up so your eyes can meet her, you stop her with a small shake of your head. Fists clenched, arms tight at your sides. Several times you open your mouth, wanting to say something comforting to her, but nothing comes out. She places both hands on your chest, leaning into you. “Anon, it’s ok. There wasn’t anything you could’ve done. Your phone had been turned up loud enough for her to hear, and she could tell that no argument would’ve been useful against her. Your mom was too caught up in her own world to even listen to your request. 
	But Apple Bloom, still an amateur at resolving situations of this magnitude, couldn’t have said anything worse. Because she was right: there was nothing you could have done. The phrase runs in a loop in your mind, stinging like the spurs of cowboy boots. It whips you into a frenzy, the absolute indomitability of your parents, the inescapable vanity of trying to fight against them. Your body, which had begun to calm down under the touch of Apple Bloom, began to shudder and shake once more. It didn’t matter. You clench your fists. It didn’t fucking matter. Realizing the worsening situation, Apple Bloom places both of her hands on your cheeks, lifting up your eyes to hers. You can see the pain in them, partly for the failed hope, but more for her agonized cousin. 
The shock of seeing those tormented sad eyes brings you to a similar that you’d been last night. There’s two paths set before you: you could calm down, gently surrender to the moment and do what you can, or fall off the edge. It isn’t so much a choice between the two as it is the choice to engage in the former, with failure to do so resulting in the latter. Grimacing, you try to reach out to her, to calm yourself and take the situation with her by your side. You unclench your hand, trying to bring it up to hers. If you could just hold her hand, you could be saved. But before the staggering motion can come to completion, that mantra runs through your mind like a flash of lightning: It’s no use. It's no use, you couldn’t keep yourself here, you never had a chance. The injustice of your powerlessness overwhelms you, two fists appearing once more as your face takes on a spiteful sneer. Your hand reaches hers, but only to brush it off, separating the two of you. Looking away, you missed the flash of hope that you’d come around and the crestfallen expression that replaced it when she realized the opposite had occurred. 
	In your haste to leave the room, your head hits a high shelf, the wooden edge solidly colliding with the upper right portion of your forehead. A stream of curses follows the shower of bright colors that fills your vision. You slam your fist into the underside of the shelf, knocking it upwards a good half inch. Above the clutter of the objects on top of it, you hear the frightened squeak of Apple Bloom. Right now, the only message that penetrates is that you’re upsetting her. Awake enough to wish otherwise, you storm out the door. It sounds like she said something as you closed it behind you, but you don’t hear. The only thing on your mind is the desire to get out, to keep yourself away from the Apples for the time being. The rage has removed itself just enough for you to know that you can’t be unpleasant to these people, but at the same time, you’re not gonna be able to completely curb your hate. It’s coming out one way or another, and if you keep cool til you’re alone, then you’ll count it a success. AJ steps past the top step of the stairs, the already present concern on her face magnified when she spots the fury on yours. She says something to you, but you push by her, an outreached hand falling off as you bustle by. Your pace increases as you spot the back door, and you’re nearly in a sprint as you push it open.
	There’s no destination besides the absence of that house, the escape from something too good to last, and thus the escape from the loss of it. The lights of the sky even seem dimmer, as if dulled by the failed attempt to cling onto this one good thing. The sky is a darkened red, like the rusted remnants of some discarded piece of metal. Parts of it even seem to flake of, spots of brown and red still visible within the portions of black that mostly hold the eastern part of the sky. As you look onto the swelling blackness, an unthinkable maw enclosing the flickering light of an ending day, a chill sets itself in your bones. Without a jacket or coat, the rising coldness of the night threatens to place one more agony upon you. Still, the heat remains in you, and you cross your arms and continue walking briskly on this dusty road.
	The stores of energy carrying you forward are running out, the options of sprinting and running soon coming to be out of order. Absent-mindedly, you rub your arms up and down, trying to keep the creeping iciness off. The burdens of heat loss and exhaustion soon set in, the high emotions and energy not meant to last too long. Your pace slows to a walk, the pace almost a crawl. The sunset presses on without your consent, the explosion of colors oblivious to you. It’s a small thing, the continuance of nature’s paths without regard to your plight, but for some reason it bothers you even more. It’s like a reminder that things aren’t going to change: your parent’s lives, the Apple’s lives, the CMC’s lives were all gonna keep going the way they were going. Without you. You clench your fists again, a fresh burst of anger rising up, only to sputter out a moment later. 
	It’s getting colder, and you’ve already walked pretty far. You should probably go back. The order to turn around comes, but to no avail. Instead, your body stops, slumping slightly. You just… A sigh makes its way across the otherwise silent scene. You just don’t want to go back there. Another small gust of wind blows past you, not unbearably cold, but warning of future bursts that may very well be. Sharp necessity grants your order the strength it needs, and your body responds to the reiteration, turning around and beginning to move home. Aching legs carry you slowly forward, trying to conserve the little energy the scant motivation provides them with. You don’t really think anything; you just keep walking. 
	The yielding dirt road compresses under your feet, the solid smoothness giving a lighter feel than that of stone walkways. To your right and left are vast fields of ominous trees, twisted into nightmare shapes by the low light and strong wind. They shudder and twitch, just enough to remind you of those horror films where monsters lurked in dark groves, shaking the plants within. The redness of the sky dwindles with the fallen sun, only a sliver of it left above the yellow hills. Purples and blues now surround the deadened red, like massive bruises on the sky itself. Now and then some dust will blow in your face, the old road still subject to decaying, leaving its constituents flying around. But most of this goes unnoticed. Your arms grip yourself tightly, fending off the rapidly increasing cold, and your eyes are fixed on the ground. There’s no room in your mind for the strangely beautiful scenery now, the odd art passing you by completely. 
	The house, growing steadily in front of you the whole time, comes within a couple dozen yards. The main section of the property arrives with its large hedges and recently cut lawn. The warm house is filled with lights, beckoning from the glass sliding door. You recall the failure to calm down, and when you pushed past AJ. The situation was bad enough, but you’d gone and made it worse. It wasn’t a big deal, but your tired mind didn’t have the strength to reason its way out of the shame. With a deep sigh, you open the door and step inside. It’s warm, and has that inviting smell you’d noticed the very first time you’d set foot in this house. Bitterly enjoying it, you trudge over to the stairs, passing the dining room as you do so. Apple Bloom, just finishing setting the table, spots you. She immediately sets the dishes she’s holding down, and runs over to you. Grasped in a big hug, you still can’t bring yourself to fully enjoy it, and you halfheartedly return the motion. She doesn’t say anything, instead just silently hugging you, squeezing your torso for all she’s worth.
	From the clamor in the other room, you can tell that the other Apples are still getting ready. AJ steps out, asking why Apple Bloom didn’t finish setting out the plates. She stops when she sees you, the concerned look in her eye breaking your heart. Even if you hadn’t come to care for her as much as you had your youngest cousin, AJ still felt like a sister to you, a good one. Morosely, she tells you that dinner’s gonna be in just a few minutes now if you wanna get washed up. You want to, really badly. But something in you, some dumb part of your mind keeps you from accepting.
	“Uh, Ah- I’m not really hungry.” You say, wishing you could take it back even before you’ve finished speaking. You hope she’ll ask you again; next time you’ll say ‘yes.’ But instead of reoffering the choice, AJ decides to respect your decision, nodding her head.
	“Ok, then.” She heads back into the kitchen to finish up preparations, thinking that you just need some space right now. It’s not unreasonable for her to think that’s what you could use, even if you need the exact opposite. Looking down, you see the wide eyes of Apple Bloom staring into yours. Feeling broken, completely off balance, you don’t what else to do but kiss her forehead lightly, then return to your room. She wants you to stay, and you want to stay. Why won’t you stay? Every step you take away from the room you argue with yourself, with nothing but the fact of your departure to rebut. Nothing compels you to leave beyond the already present motion in your legs towards such, and a growing fear of the embarrassment if you were to turn around now. You’re already chosen, even if you regret it, and you’re finding it impossible to stop. Besides, showing up now, after you’d already said no would be… too much for today. It isn’t a good argument and you know it. So why can’t you turn around and go back? At the door to your guest room, you pause. You can still go back. Your gut clenches and you grimace at what you’d imagine their reactions to be, and you twist the handle and go inside. Every step forward had felt like it was too late, and the previous step your last chance; but the closed door behind you held a finality that none of those steps had held. 
	In stomach-churning discomfort, you sit on your bed and get out your DS, both actions further cementing that hateful resolve to not go down to them. Were they waiting for you? Probably not. Still, it is possible. You shake your head, hoping to ignore the tiresome questions; maybe if you stopped thinking about them, you’d stop feeling this regret. Mindless thumbs pressed buttons, making some numbers go up and others go down. A minion defeated here, a hastily fought boss beating you a moment later. You weren’t thinking straight; but that was kinda the point. Another round with him nets you a victory; some confetti pops out of the corners, and smiling NPCs congratulate you. And you could not give less of a fuck. The absolute meaningless of this victory, which had taken a good hour to achieve (counting previous attempts from earlier this week) sets your mind straight for the first time since you’d disconnected tonight’s call. This was your last fucking night, and you were spending it with fucking Mario. Immediately you close the DS and throw it to the bed stand, rushing downstairs. Didn’t matter if you were late, didn’t matter if you were embarrassed: you couldn’t spend these last few hours alone. 
	You fly downstairs, the loud thumping heralding your imminent entrance. Arriving at the dining room, you find it empty, only a couple dishes of food remaining. Walking over to the kitchen, the only person that greets your eyes is a lone Apple Bloom. She turns slightly, wondering if her sister had come back. Seeing you, a smile little smile appears under sad eyes, as if she wasn’t sure if she should be happy or sad at the moment. The previous hope at regaining a connection, which had lifted your spirits somewhat, was dashed upon realizing that you’d deserted her twice tonight. Striding up to her, you begin to hug her, stopping when you notice the dish that occupies both hands. Making a small noise of displeasure, you awkwardly take it out of her hands and complete the hug. The silly fumble and the expression you’d made must have been funny, because Apple Bloom begins giggling into your chest. Comforted by the small shaking and that perfect laugh of hers, you begin to smile, just a little bit.
	“Sorry about leaving.” She doesn’t say anything, instead answering with motions: you feel her head move again, nodding into your chest, while her arms squeeze you all the tighter. You squeeze back, needing this connection more than you realized. It still seems strange how soon she could heal you, how the singular act of acceptance of her light could bring you out of the depths. Of course, you still weren’t fine; but you were a lot better than where you were. Loosening your arms, you allow the hug to come to a halt. It doesn’t, the sweet girl still holding onto you as tightly as ever. She shakes her heads as much as she can while remaining on your chest, and murmurs a cute little “Uh-uh,” like an adorably petulant child refusing to let go of a teddy bear. A soft chuckle exits your lips, and you bring your arms around her one more time, just taking in the feel of the girl. Letting your head sink down a bit, her hair nearing your face, you notice how good it smells. You hadn’t noticed it before, but every hug had brought along that sweet scent.
	She finishes hugging you before you’re done breathing it that heavenly smell, but you let her go this time. There’s plenty of time for hugs later tonight, and hopefully a cuddle or two. Smiling at her, your broken heart mended for the time being, you offer to help.
	“You, uh, need some help with the dishes?” She grins and nods, handing you the dish you’d fumbled out of her hands. 
	“Yeah, could you get this? You can wash, and Ah’ll dry. Or we can do it the other way if you want.” You think about it: the few times you’d had to do it, you found drying easier than washing. Which means you’d let her take it.
	“I can wash.” She nods her assent and the two of you begin the conveyer belt. Partly through the comfortably silent work, you ask her: “Hey, why is it just you tonight?”
	“Well, Ah didn’t help with cookin’ it, and we got a rule: everyone’s gotta help. So since I missed out on the first part, Ah get the second.” You nod, continuing to clean a plate. Made sense; these people were pretty fair about how they did their work, from what you’ve heard. Without noticing, you’d begun to think of the Apples as different people than you, family more distant than immediate. Of course, the dedication to the simple task and cheerful girl, as well as the weariness that dwelt deep within you, kept you from fully realizing the distance you’d begun creating. It was just another defense mechanism, something to make the departure less painful. But that wouldn’t happen for a bit; right now, you were busy hanging out with Apple Bloom. You didn’t talk much, and neither did she. The simple connection over cleaning was enough. After all, it’d been a long day for both of you. 
	Your face is a mix of glum and hopeful, mouth falling downwards in a depressive slump, but your eyes opened wider than befits the sleepy gaze of a fully crushed person. When your hand caught a touch of Apple Bloom, or when she entered your sight, the corners of your mouth turned up in a desperate attempt at your earlier, carefree joy. The work wasn’t done quickly, an ever-present feeling of age fiercely cutting down your maximum speed. Apple Bloom moved at the same rate, though this could have been due to her mimicking you instead of a personal exhaustion. One by one the ceramic plates and glasses passed into her hands, followed by a load of utensils. Both you and her double-teamed the pots and pans used to cook the spaghetti they’d had tonight. Gosh, you wish you’d had some. Finishing up, you take a look around the kitchen, asking if there’s anything left to do. She says there isn’t.
	She informs you about the imminent prayers going on, and waits by the door for you to finish drying your hands. You do, and gingerly place the towel on the protruding bar of the oven. Apple Bloom’s leaned up on the side of the wall, a soft look on her face. Her mouth is curved in a closed-lipped smile, smaller than usual, but somehow more endearing and serious for it. The mild freckles on her cheeks still stand out from the mild puffiness that comes from her smiling. Were you only to look at the bottom half of her face, you might conclude that the visage is that of a content girl. But her eyes alter the whole. The look she gives is some odd combination of that blank, thousand-yard stare and the piercing kind of look used when somebody sees the very center of you. It’s distant and present all at the same time, as if she were looking at a trophy from some long-past competition that she hadn’t won. Her eyebrows are raised in the center, the watery eyes below fixed on yours. She always looked into your eyes. Like the smell of her hair, this was something you’d only realized once she’d become a rarity, made exclusive by the inevitable departure.
	You don’t like that look. It’s old, like you; the expression of a hurt woman doesn’t belong on this poor girl’s face. She was supposed to smile, to dance around and sing with eyes happily crinkled by a gigantic smile. For a moment, a cold hatred for your mother appears, not on account of her pulling the Apples away from you, but for pulling you away from Apple Bloom. Instead of igniting you, the selfless fury cooled into a quiet bitterness, a more serious antipathy than you’d ever felt before. But before you can dwell in the dark feelings a moment longer, the continuous gaze of the frozen Apple Bloom draws your thoughts away from the villain in the city. You have got to do something about that expression. On your way to initiate a hug, her eyes widen, having being broken out of her train of thought. Her arms raised partially along with yours, both of you stop moving upon hearing a loud call from upstairs.
	“Are y’all almost finished down there?” Apple Bloom opens her mouth, about to say ‘yes.’ But you’ve got an idea. Covering her mouth, you shout your own answer. 
	“Just got a few more, give us a minute!”
	“Ok!” Apple Bloom looks confusedly at you, but then you give her a big hug. She thinks this is what you made time for, and is thankful for the moment alone. Pulling away a moment later, she places her hands on your chest, a gratefulness changing her smile for the better. About to say something else, you interrupt her by laying a kiss right on her lips. The sight of her, standing so sadly in the doorway had rekindled a bit of the fire in you, a dire urgency in your desire to make her feel better. But when your lips meet hers, what was supposed to be a light, chaste little kiss turns into something far bigger. The desire for her happiness is augmented by your need for her right now, a deep need echoed by her. The two of you, connected by this spire of dependency, find the answer to the invading loneliness in each other’s passionate embrace. Your tongue slips into her mouth, her own dancing along with it. Braver than before, she pushes her tongue into your mouth, eager to know every surface and contour. The make-out session, somewhat sloppy from her inexperience and your rustiness, is still exactly what both of you needed. 
	A bump into a shelf sends some plates rattling, the loud clanging reminding both of you that you gotta get upstairs. Not wanting to get caught, she starts to hustle towards the door. You’ve still got her arm in your hand, and you hold her back, just long enough for a smaller, goodbye kiss. She grins, looking somewhat happy for the moment, and returns the kiss. Then she dashes upstairs, with you slowly following. Despite how much she’d just filled your heart, you couldn’t really keep it beyond the end. With the disappearance of her lips, the feeling of her body pressing into yours, that heaven had faded quickly. A small residue was left, a small yellow feeling resting in your gut, preventing the coming waves of sorrow from pulling you too deep. Thankful for this, you lurch up the stairs and into a room filled with Apples.
	Apple Bloom and AJ sit on one side of the bed, Big Mac and Granny on the other. Granny sits on her older rocking chair, the only one not on the floor. A chubby, sleeping dog is by her side, snoring softly. You’d forgotten her name. Finding your place between AJ and Apple Bloom, both girls sidle up to you. Apple Bloom holds close to your side, catching you in a half-hug. AJ reaches out and grabs your hand, which lied on the floor. The smooth, warm skin is a wide contrast to the scratchy carpet, and surprising; you hadn’t expected this familiar a form of affection from the bold, strong girl. She looks to you with traces of both sadness and hope in her eyes.
	“You alright?” She asks, her quiet voice oddly comforting alongside the full-bodied care of your younger cousin. Sandwiched between the reckless care from the girl who’d grasped half your body and the smaller, more mature affection of a long-suffering older girl, you feel strangely cared for. It warms your dull heart, but not enough to bring out tears. Nodding, you whisper a faint yes, as if you needed both to convince her. She gives your hand a small squeeze, then lets go, the small gesture exactly what you’d imagine an actual sister to give in your time of need. Looking at you, then to everybody, AJ speaks to the latter:
	“Ah think everyone’s got the same low today, so let’s just go over our highs.” She’d thought about having two good things be reported, but figured it might be a little much. “I’ll go first. My high was getting to see Bailey again today. Been a long time since we got to spend some time together, and it was real nice having that.” She wished she’d done more with Anon that day so she could paint him as her high. But the only thing they did was have some pancakes together and share a van; it’d be way too see-through if she’d said that. She nods to Big Mac, who seems to understand the silent message. She really was gonna miss you; a stream of memories flew past her as she waited for Big Mac to compose his thoughts. It was pretty obvious that you’d bonded with her younger sister more than her, but she didn’t mind too much. You treated Apple Bloom well, and that was enough to make AJ like you. You’d been fun to hang around, that is, when she could actually find the time to spend with you. And from what she’d seen, you were a good worker, which was more important than she’d wanted to admit. Despite her accustomization to loss and your short stay, the news of your departure still resulted in a sharp pain.
	“Mine was getting to see Anon’s grape-stomping plan.” You look up, confused at his choice. In an unexpected display of loquaciousness, the man actually explains himself. “Was a pretty long day today, had way tu- too many chores.” He gets caught up in his words, and his cadence is all wrong. ‘This is why I don’t go off like they do,’ he thinks to himself. But he did like you; you were a nice enough guy, and he was hoping to get to play some cards with you. He was pretty disappointed when you declined to play cards with him and AJ last night, but there was so way he could say that. Mustering his resolve, he continues speaking: “Kinda thought it was gonna be another huge load of work, but you guys-“ he points to you and Apple Bloom- “had it figured out, and did a lot of it. Pretty clever,” he adds, wanting to turn the blessing towards himself into a compliment for Anon. You’re kind of taken aback by the amount of words you’d just heard him speak, but you take the compliment.
	“Thanks, man.” You’d imagine, correctly so, that Big Mac didn’t hand out compliments a whole lot. Granny passes, waving her hand to the right as a sign. She hadn’t done much today, beyond a little sowing and so forth. And as it was, she was pretty upset when she’d heard the news. All week long, she’d been watching you, especially upon hearing that you might want to stay. An old-school shipper, she’d been planning on making you a brother of her grandchildren, having come to believe you were a respectful, kind, young man. Though part of it was wish-fulfillment, she did see the good in you, and how it was brought about by her youngest. The news was still upsetting to her, and unlike the other Apples in the room, she hadn’t laid it to rest. It’d been a long time since she’d spoken with the Orange side of the family, especially her nephew. But if there was one thing Granny had prided herself on, it was that she didn’t give up. If you were to ask her, she’d tell you that that attribute was why she was still here today. Seeing that familiar hand wave, showing that her grandmother was deep in thought, Apple Bloom took her turn. 
	“Um…” She was expecting some more time, not having settled on one. She thinks of a number of events, each one feeling like it’d be better. Finally picking one, she speaks up.
	“My favorite part of the week was Anon,” she begins, changing the game to encompass your whole stay. I loved that first day, when he was all awkward around me and Big Mac. I loved when we went on the woods adventure, even though he ended up getting hurt at the end. I didn’t really expect you to come hang out with me and my friends, but I was so happy that you did.” At this point, she detaches from you, and begins standing. As she tells the stories, and all the things she loved about them, her hands become a flurry of Jim Carrey-esque gesticulations. The rest of the family, you included, had begun to smile at new stories and the parts remembered. As she wildly expounded upon the week’s events, the three listeners had forgotten, just for a moment, that you were leaving. And right before you crashed, you looked so cool! And when I almost fell, and you came running over to me…” You’d forgotten about that. “I know it was just a little thing, but it really meant something to me. I loved hanging out with you Wednesday morning, and being pirates and zombies at the pool. I loved just hanging out with you then on the towels. And I loved when you opened up to me and AJ when we took that walk later.” She looks over to AJ, who nods with a grim smile. “I loved playing all those games with you on Thursday, and I wish I’d been able to hang with Scootaloo later so I wouldn’t have had to leave. I wish I could have been there for your cooking.” She says forlornly, forgetting the game she was currently playing. “But I loved our date! It was so romantic and so amazing, and we shouldn’t ever let that be the only one!” She’s tempted to go into the details of the date, and that one part she was especially fond of, but nobody knew but AJ, and she only had a vague idea. “I loved making you breakfast these last two days, and our awesome tubing adventure! And then afterwards, when we got to hang out at Sonic’s, then watching Aladdin with you…” Her eyes are partially glazed over, overflowing with the pleasure of revisiting this beautiful week. “And I loved our coffee date this morning, and stomping grapes!” Out of particulars, she switches to more general highs: “I loved hanging out with you, and getting to know you! I love that you love us Apples, and that you love my friends. I love that they love you too! I love that you love me, and I hate that you’re going!” 
	Her voice had been rising on these last few lines, finally breaking on that last hateful fact. She sits down, the descending motion looking like a fall, and leans heavily on you. A cold, bitter feeling had begun to creep into her, a more comfortable option than the pain the presented itself. Her feelings mirrored yours more closely than you knew: both you and her were filled with a turbulent sea of feelings, the crashing pandemonium beginning at that phone call. Above the rapidly shifting emotions, three were the strongest, and had been rotating through the night: there was that empty, cold feeling of loss; the excited, trembling feeling of fear and anger, and a peculiar feeling of enjoyment and gratitude for the time you’d spent here and continued to have. They teetered back and forth, the feelings of both you and her never being far from despair, and never far from happiness. But right now, as she clung to you tightly, nothing predominated; there was only the static-like blur of unformed, unidentified emotions all clashing in some uproarious battle. The only thing that was clear was that the holding was good, maybe even necessary to avoid completely breaking down. Never having been in such a piercing situation, there’s the odd feeling of innocent confusion, a childlike voice in the clamor asking ‘What’s going on?’ After a minute of just holding her, you look up to see the pitying face of AJ, and the closed eyes of the other two Apples in earnest prayer for your protection. An odd thought strikes you, though somewhat fitting in the situation. You look around the room and clear your throat, drawing the attention of the diligent, older Apples.
	“My high, is all of you.” AJ and Big Mac let out small laughs, the introduction to your turn absurd in the face of the distressing emotional baggage of the previous minutes. But you press on, hoping to turn this situation into one with a lighter spirit. “When I got here, I was in pretty bad shape, even if I didn’t really know it. Although,” you laugh, though it sounds more like a scoff, “I guess I’m kinda in bad shape now.” AJ and Big Mac repeat their sad smiles. “But still, even if I have to go, coming here was the best thing that could have happened to me. I’ve never felt so loved. I never felt like I was actually part of a family.” You start to tear up a bit, your emotions settling on a combination of sorrow and deep gratitude for the time being. “You guys are so important to me. I wish I could thank you for everything you’ve done, but fact is, I don’t even know how much that is. It’s like this feeling deep in my bones, like something I never knew I’d lost had been found.” You look from face to face, eventually stopping on the one person that meant most to you: “All I can do is say thank you for everything you’ve given me. Thank you.” You want to go in for a kiss, but you manage to only give her a hug.” The connection between you and Apple Bloom only lasts a second before the rest of the family, even Granny, converge on you. They wrap you in their arms, and your heart nearly explodes. Failing to keep your tears back, you say in a broken voice. “I love you guys. I love you.” And they feel the same.
	Soon the family hug comes to a close, everybody moving back to their original positions. But the warmth you’d received stayed with you, like a single candle lit by the presence of another. The only body left holding yours is Apple Bloom, for whom your touch had just become a precious commodity, much more so than before. Her crimson hair spills over your shoulder, curtained over her face. The wavy locks tickle just a bit, but you don’t mind. You don’t mind at all. You smile gently at your family, knowing that when it really came down to it, that’s exactly what they were. The care and comfort they’d just given you mingles with all the pain, both disappearing in the somewhat pleasant synthesis. All that’s left is this weird, sort of nostalgic feeling. Good, but sort of hollow. You shake your head, trying to clear it: you don’t need to psychoanalyze yourself right now. Holding onto to Apple Bloom, you watch as her brother and sister file out, offering you quiet goodbyes, and promises to see you in the morning. Wanting to both get up and stay attached, the two of you simultaneously choose to go with both options. You hold her tightly and begin to rise, and she immediately goes along with it, trying to keep your bodies as close as possible while standing. The motion itself is a bit awkward, the odd motion reminiscent of three legged-races, but you do manage to do so. Walking side by side is similarly a challenge, ending up pretty close to that race, with outer feet stepping, then both middle feet. You don’t want to let go though, so you keep it up. As you pass the stairway, a harsh grumbling in your stomach reminds you that you still need to get some food in you. Turning to her, you start to tell her of your new plan, stopping at the first word. 
	“Hey-“ She reads your phrase like it was supposed to stand alone, only being tipped off when she sees your awestruck, gentle stare, directed at her gorgeous face. She looks so beautiful, so divine standing next to you in the dark. It’s almost more than you can bear, this odd burning for a girl you’ve been looking at for a week. But the passion’s there, like a slowly moving river of magma from deep within. Your gaze is as soft as your feelings, your body still, wanting nothing more than to give the young beauty the appreciation she deserves. “Gosh, you’re pretty,” you say, stumbling over words you mistakenly think are necessary. She knows what you’re feeling, having experienced the same several times over this week. She stands up a little straighter, and greets your mouth with her own. The kiss is short and light, and she pulls back very little, her mouth nearly touching yours as she whispers:
	“Ah love you.” You’re overcome again, but this time it doesn’t last as long. The hunger pang rouses you out of the sleepy awe, and you manage to finish your sentence:
	“Hey, I’m gonna go get a little something to eat.” You’re kinda afraid to ask her to come with, knowing that she was probably full. Instead, the offer remains implicit. She just smiles, and says:
	“Ah’ll join you. Didn’t eat much at dinnertime anyway.” You feel cared for and guilty at the same time, realizing that you were probably responsible for that. Having that kind of influence over someone so amazing is definitely pleasant, but you’re reminded by the guilt of your duty to make sure her smile is protected. Grinning, you pull her gently, and the two of you walk down the stairs and into the kitchen, hand in hand. She hums quietly as you walk, and you strain your gears to catch the tune. But by the time you reach the refrigerator and she stops, you still haven’t gotten it. You go to turn on the lights while she bathes in that yellow light of the fridge. She pulls out a massive dish, the kind of thing you’d bake a pie in. You briefly wonder if you’ve guessed right, and a brief look under the wrap on it tells you that you’re almost right. What lies within is a huge, deep dish pizza. Your face lights up in pure glee when you see it, almost having had an affinity for Chicago style pizza. Apple Bloom cuts out two slices, one more generous than the other, then pops them in the toaster oven at a low heat.
	“Why not the microwave?” you ask, confused at her choice of appliance. She answers casually: 
	“That’s make it all mushy; the toaster oven can heat it up without doing that, just takes a bit longer. Haven’t you ever microwaved pizza before?” You have, but you weren’t sure that the rule would apply to deep dish pizza. But there’s rarely any reason not to trust Apple Bloom, so you just nod and accept her rationale. You notice the lack of contact, and your hand reaches over, coming to rest on top of hers. She turns her hand over, then laces her fingers with yours, afterwards giving you that nourishing smile of hers. You pull her into a hug, wanting to have and give a little more affection than what hands are capable of. She sighs contentedly and rests her head on your chest. You can just feel the weight of the day on her, and her a little kiss on her exposed forehead, just to make her stay a little better. There you stay for a little while, waiting for your food to heat up. A small beep wakes both of you from your standing half-slumber, and she serves both of you right up. The two of you sit down at the dining table, her at the end and you at the seat next to her, and dig in.
	You eat voraciously at first, a deep hunger calling you to ignore everything but this one task. But as you move along, you find that this kind of pizza fills you up pretty dang fast. It was a big slice, sure, but you’re slowing down with a quarter to go! Apple Bloom finds herself in a similar predicament, the meal clearly deceptive about it’s quantity. As your pace slows, she and you start to talk. Not about anything important, just little recounts of the week past, both shared memories and those from the rare separations. 
	“Hey, remember when-?”
	“Okay, so while you were out-“ The stories aren’t much, ranging from slightly humorous to flat out lame, but the encroaching lateness and good company makes them shine. The time stretches on, eventually leading to stories of your lives before now. You laugh at her stories of trying on dresses with Scootaloo, so tomboyish she had once sworn only to wear denim dresses, since they were, according to her, ‘basically jeans.’ She enjoys your stories of your dumb friends, mostly out of relief that you didn’t do all the probably illegal crap they pulled. There’s moments where she closes her eyes and laughs, and the room just lights up with her. There’s one particular moment where this happens, and you see her with her head thrown back, letting out that adorable, cracking laugh of hers, and it feels like time’s stood still. You don’t remember the joke you told, or the joke she responded with afterward, but that moment... it’s one of those few that you know you’ll never forget. 
	The two of you go on like this for an unknown amount of time, the passage of which too far from your mind to notice. It could have been 15 minutes or hours. But eventually, you notice the pitch blackness outside, and come to understand that its descent hasn’t been recent. The only thing you know about the time is that it’s too late. You’ve got an early train in the morning. Breathing a deep sigh, signaling that the moment is over, you stand up with a groan. You’re not feeling as weak as you did before, thanks to that divine support of the Apple family. That doesn’t mean you’re in good shape -not by any means- but you’re ok. Ok enough to get to bed, at least. Apple Bloom gets up in silence, moving close to you. She knows you’ve gotta go, but won’t do you the disservice of sending you to bed with an empty hand.
	The feel of her little hand in yours, so soft and small, yet with surprising strength, means the world to you. Life feels like it could just flow into you through that hand. You squeeze it three times, and she returns the secret message, and you walk up the stairs. The house is dark, and neither of you bother turning on any of the lights. Both of you know the way back, and you don’t want any screaming bulbs to rip you out of this comfy darkness. At the beginning of your stay, you probably would’ve been scared of moving through a huge house without only small moonlight to guide you, but any fear it could have imposed is long gone. This feels like your home, a house filled with love, thankfully including you. You had the silly feeling that, like its tenants, the house loved you; you belonged here, right inside it. And as the warm air gently wafted through, giving you a sensation similar to being under warm covers, and the fuzzy carpet kept your bare feet from getting the chills, you realize you’ve never been quite so cozy as you are now. The feeling is so strong that you find yourself forced to stop, pulling Apple Bloom into a tight hug. Everything is so perfect here at the end of your world, and you’ll be damned if you don’t enjoy every last moment you’ve got. you realize you’ve never been quite so cozy as you are now. The feeling is so strong that you find yourself forced to stop, pulling Apple Bloom into a tight hug. Everything is so perfect here at the end of your world, and you’ll be damned if you don’t enjoy every last moment you’ve got in this heaven, with your angel. She holds you close, hugging you so tightly. 
	But everything has to come to an end, you suppose. You stop the hug, and continue moving towards your rooms. Reaching them, she bids you a small farewell, almost too quiet to hear. Seeing her slumped shoulders as she turns to go to her own room, you realize how much this has affected her. It wasn’t like you to notice when others cared for you, and any confessions of liking or needing you were always met with surprise. You just didn’t know your own value. But seeing her now, you realized that you weren’t the only person losing a loved one. In that instant, seeing her unsteady hand grasp her doorknob, your heart was torn in two. No previous relationship’s end, no rebuffed love had ever hurt you like this. You wanted to rush over there, to grab her, kiss her passionately, and stay together for the night. But before your leg can even twitch, your mind stops it with that awful question: why? Isn’t it over? What would even be the point? She turns the knob and opens the door. Say something! Help her! Touch her! Your mind is ablaze with impassioned cries, all doused with hateful doubt. She enters the darkness, closes the door behind her. And all at once, the doubt vanishes, the poisonous voice switching its sabotaging argument to another: it’s too late. 
	After all this time, after all that help, you hadn’t been fixed. Those jolts of success, bringing you to proud pedestals, after you had succeeded in leaving your room to go be with your family, had deceived you. The conqueror of fears was only a little excursion: you couldn’t overcome that social anxiety without an hour in your room, or without waiting until dinner was over. How could you have thought you could reach out now, when you needed to more than any other time? Even if you wanted to help now, her door was shut. That small hopeful part of you tried to tell you it wasn’t too late, that you could still go in; but the bitter weight upon you overpowered it, the voice becoming no more than a small squeak, serving only to testify to your cowardice. 
	Heavy with failure, you turn towards your room. Alienated from the house, you suddenly feel a dark chill rushing into you. It might have forced you to fly under your covers, but the oppressive despair forbids any kind of major exertion, and you merely slump towards the bed. You crawl in, the slow motions are dark reflection of the happy, lazy boy you’d felt like during the trip. And there you stay, trying not to cry. When sleep finally finds you, only a small drop of liquid rests on your cheek.


Sunday
Then, away from there, 
	You no longer laid 
In oppressed, dead air.
	In sunlight’s golden care,
With nearby flowers springing,
	Resting in sunny beam,
The cheerful cry of young birds singing,
	Beside a peaceful crystal stream.
But soon the sky grew black and charred,
	Through ghastly wood a hurricane raved,
Your limbs from motion barred,
	 As the Earth beneath you gave.
Thus was life’s murderous morning
	The reprieve you had enjoyed
But on small pull, loud tempests storming
	And Ephesian bliss destroyed.
Reality, worse than he who’d deceive me,
	Who promised good and gave but ill,
Of many joys and cheers bereaved me-
	But there is a heart that supports me still.

	“Uh, fuck…”

	“C’mon, wake up,” comes the quiet voice above you, almost unintelligible through the haze of sleep. A pull of your arm sends a sharp discomfort in your arm, the limb unaccustomed to being drawn that way. The pain pierces through the leaden smog of your weariness, popping it like a balloon. You groan again, upon feeling the earnest pull give you another unnecessary jolt. Wrenching your arm away, both to avoid further attacks and to reveal your semi-wakefulness, you struggle to sit up. It takes you a minute, but eventually success finds you. You open your eyes to the pitch black room, struggling to see anything, even with your eyes used to the blackness. Looks like there’s a shape in front of you, but it’s still nearly invisible. For a moment, your experience with survival horror games becomes training, and you scoot away from the suddenly terrifying shape. But the fear is dashed in a moment, when the voice comes again, this time fully understandable. 
	“Anon? It’s me, Apple Bloom.” The adrenaline gives the words secure transit into your alert mind, sealing its own doom. Your parasympathetic nervous system works on calming you down, not immediately succeeding. You’re left with that anxious energy that is left when a threat is gone but the response hasn’t disappeared, as well as the annoyance of becoming stolen from a perfect dream. Her hands rest on the bed, noticeable by their sinking of those portions via the weight placed on them. You reach out to grab her hands, both to feel her again and in hopes of defusing the very irritated reaction. She closes her own hands on you, successfully soothing you for the most part. For a minute all you do is hold her hands, drinking in the life that seems to flow from her. She does the same, the words in her throat given pause while she draws strength from you. Unknown demons depart from you, sunder by the hope that grows from the simple touch. And while the oppressors where not seen, the freedom from their departure is noticed, and Apple Bloom releases her held words. “C’mon, get up.”
	You draw one hand back to free your eyes from the dust caught in them, absent-mindedly preparing yourself for the day. Upon the cleansing of both, you take a look outside the window, the thick blanket of night still spread fully over the sky. The blackness had been traded for a slightly more visible dark blue, shapes somehow able to be made out in the night. Probably due to the moon and your eyes. Still, your train was at 7:30, definitely past the sunrise, and the ride to the station negligible. So why were you up before the sun? 
	“Wait, what time is it?”
	“It’s 4:30, c’mon, hurry.” She says with increased fervor, remembering her task. The hand still connected to yours pulls, her whole body wrenching you forward. Clad only in pajamas bottoms, bare chest exposed to the world, you’re glad this wasn’t a hot night. She continues dragging you, the strength of a farmer hidden within the slender limbs of a young girl. You stop her momentarily, pulling back on the hurried girl. 
	“Ok, ok, just give me a second.” You draw a shirt out of your dresser and quickly put it on, knowing that you’re probably gonna need it for whatever’s going on. As you open the sock drawer, her hand insistently steals your from it.
	“You don’t need that, it’ll take too long,” she says, eager to bring you to some destination. You accept her parameters, unsure that you ever really had a choice in the matter. She wasn’t an easy girl to deny. As you’re brought through darkened hallways, the memories of the previous night return to you. How you wanted to help, and didn’t. You face contorts in shame, thankfully unseen by the forward-looking Apple Bloom. In your silent agony, you do hold her hand a little tighter, the act of falling on her support becoming an almost instinctual reaction to you. Her hand squeezes back three times, and she finds time to turn back and smile in your mad dash. It looks like she’s not doing too bad, and that helps to alleviate some of the pain. Your mind tries to cling to the awful moment that you stood still, but the current stomping around the house prevents you from wholly sinking into the memory. She’s too present, the motion too real for you to replace the moment with the memory. 
	The depressed force within you is kept off balance, that particular demon unable to sit upon your shoulder and whisper hateful criminations while you bounce down the stairs. The rise soon ends at the glass window of the kitchen, whose usually clear exterior has been completely marred. It looks like hundreds of small lines, the short etchings of an artist, have covered the whole, each retaining some warped reflection of the indigo world. After a moment standing in the quiet, you hear a small tingling, like dozens of small folklore-esque creatures dancing on the roof. And then it hits you: it’s raining.
	Apple Bloom opens the sliding glass door, the light pounding of rain growing slightly louder. You can feel a slight chill when the night air comes into the house, but it’s surprisingly mild. It was still summer, the beginning of the hotter portion of it, and so even the edges of the day didn’t get too cold. Out back, there’s two wooden tables with a umbrellas above them, unused before now. There’s a small gauntlet between here and there, an area where the small overhang of the roof nor the umbrella covers. Furthermore, the umbrellas are closed, leaving the table and chairs soaked; so much for your plan. You close your eyes, the warm rain still slightly colder than the heated house, but nonetheless pleasant. Your left hand reaches out to the girl standing beside you, but her requitement only lasts a moment. She turns to you, hand still in yours, but moving around in her gesticulations.
	“Alright, so Ah’m gonna bring out some blankets, an’ we can throw those over the chairs, make em nice and comfy for us. You go run out and bring that umbrella up, and Ah’ll be out in a moment with those blankets.” Her orders are firm without being sharp, like a leader that knows what needs to get down, but still takes her workers into consideration. The smile she beams at you at the end, in anticipation of this last moment together, grows some small excitement in you as well. It’d be just like Apple Bloom to salvage this day, even just a little bit. Before you can set out to bring that umbrella up, she stops you: “Oh, hold on.” She takes off, scampering into some distant area. You stand there for a moment, and yawn. The incomplete sleep starts to creep back in, your body calling for a return to bed. You wipe your eyes, yawning again. There’s no way you’re going back to bed, but there’s still the concern over whether you’re gonna be able to fully enjoy this. Shaking your head to clear it from sleep, you find Apple Bloom looking at you, a certain clarity in her eyes and towels in her hands. “Here, after you get those umbrellas up, wipe off the table and chairs best you can. That way, the water won’t soak through the blankets.” 
	You accept the towels and head out to the first table, the brisk air meeting you fully from your first step. Inside, it’d just blown on you from beyond the door, but now it surrounded you. It still wasn’t too cold, although you are regretting not having a heavier shirt or a coat. Every footstep results in a mild splash flying up around your feet, the sound noticeable even when submerged under thousands of raindrops exploding like mortar fire. Water from each step reaches high, leaving your legs under a watery assault from both sky and earth. Soon you reach the umbrella and drop the towels on the wet surface, then turning the small mechanism that slowly extends it. It blooms slowly but surely, and in no time you’ve found protection from the liquid artillery. Taking the towels, you start wiping off the surface of the stained wood table and two of the four chairs. The two towels don’t absorb all of it, leaving behind a slight dampness you wouldn’t sit on.
	You stand under the wide umbrella, trying to find a good position to wait for Apple Bloom in. Luckily, you don’t actually have to wait for long. Not ten seconds after you’ve finished, she comes soaring through the door, wrapped in a cocoon of red and yellow. Looking like some dragon from  a Chinese festival, the intricate patterns of the blankets fly up and down as she bounds over to you. They cover her whole body, including her face, with a little tail at the end dragged along the ground. Realizing she might not see where the table is, you position yourself to catch her. Her stride not slowing down, you realize she might have misjudged the distance. Before she hits the table, you bend down a tad and grab onto her waist. Transferring the speed in a spinning motion, you lift her up and twirl in place. It might have been like one of those romantic movies where couples spin in a field or at some station after not seeing each other forever if she hadn’t been completely cloaked in apple-patterned blankets. Still, while the romance might have been injured by the vibrant coverings, it’s still quite a bit of fun, and you can hear the functionally blind girl shout ‘wheee!’ in delight at the sudden spinning.
	You find yourself laughing a bit, partly due to the fact that you’re spinning a red and yellow blob in the middle of a rainy day, and partly because she’s laughing too. You set her down, and start unwrapping the best present you could have ever gotten. She stands absolutely straight, appearing to have the same idea of a summer Christmas: when the parts that cover her head are removed, the unveiled girl is smiling brightly at you, her eyes wide and her lip lightly bit by sparkling teeth. It feels so silly, so much in contrast to how you’ve been feeling, that you can’t help but grin at the sight of the pretty girl partially unwrapped. She helps you remove the rest of the blankets, both of you sharing in a happiness blind to everything but this moment. Both of you lay down your respective blankets, the primarily red one for you and the primarily yellow one for her. You sit down in yours, and after a moment of decision-making, she chooses your lap over her own seat. Without being asked, she informs you:
	“This way, we can get under the blanket, since it’s a bit cold.” A needless question surfaces in your mind, and you voice it without thinking.
	“Why didn’t you just get more blankets?” 
	“Oops,” she says after a brief pause, the words sounding completely insincere. Then she curls up into you, humming quietly. Your arms wrap around her, feeling the soft rise and fall of her breaths. The light yellow shirt she’d be wearing is thin, the warmth of her skin able to be felt through it. Her arms are pulled into her chest, them and the left side of her torso pressed into your chest. Her legs are pulled up, resting on your lap and thighs. Her right leg slips through the gap in yours, repeatedly being repositioned so as to avoid this, but to no avail. Your arms slacken as the peaceful moment invites sleep into you once more. Apple Bloom looks at you curiously, tilting her head back to do so. She sees your closed eyes and soft smile, then kisses your cheek.
	“I’ll be right back,” she says, then unfolds the blanket. The sudden gust of outside air and absence of your cousin is shocking, the temperature rapidly decreasing. You pull the blanket back over yourself , recovering some of that warmth, but still missing the body on yours. It’s quiet out here. The rain still falls, but it sounds as if it’s getting more faint. You hope it doesn’t go away: that sound, that smell, the way it takes up your sight past a certain area… there’s just something special about rain. Granted, you couldn’t care less about these things if you were unequipped for it, and were getting drenched on the way to something. But right here, under this umbrella, with the warm air: it was pretty nice. You close your eyes and breathe in that sweet, almost indescribable smell, a small smile crawling up your face. A moment later, a different smell penetrates that previously omnipresent cloud of rain, but you can’t put your finger on the intruder. The sound of the sliding glass door shutting reaches your ears, and you smile again in anticipation of your reunion. As the pitter-patter of little feet grow louder, so too does the smell grow stronger. It isn’t long before you recognize the smell of coffee.
	The mere smell has some strength of invigoration, opening up your eyes by its nearness. She puts the steaming cup on the table, then opens up your blanket cocoon to crawl back in. As she does so, sapping the heat you’ve built up, you reach over for the coffee. Wanting to make the most of this moment, you bring it up to your nose and breath in deeply. It smells fresh, which it probably is, seeing that you didn’t smell anything when you were near the kitchen just a minute ago. But there’s also another smell, something like chocolate complimenting the aroma. You blow on it a few times to cool it off, then take a sip: the taste is like regular black coffee, only with a very noticeable addition of chocolate. It’s a strange taste, similar without being identical to a mocha, but still a darn good one. Setting the cup back down, you notice two stunning amber eyes looking up at you.
	“Didja like it?” You nod and answer in the affirmative:
	“Yeah, that was really good. What’d you put in it?” 
	“Hot cocoa. I figured you were probably pretty tired, so Ah turned on the coffee-making thing when I went to get the blankets. But Ah know that most people don’t like black coffee, -an’ Ah can get why; that stuff’s plain awful-“ she interjects, referencing the terrible coffee she had yesterday. “an’ Ah didn’t know how much cream, sugar, or whatever you want in it -you know how people always got really complicated orders- so Ah just dumped some hot cocoa in there.” You can’t help but chuckle at her plan, thankful at having a successful result. You really do need some coffee, and you were never a huge fan of the home-made stuff. But this was just fine by you, the cocoa helping to balance out the natural bitterness. Taking another sip, the burning liquid warming your insides. The heat of the drink, the smell and sound of the rain, the gentle breathing of the girl under your arms are all too perfect to handle, and you find yourself humming along with Apple Bloom, completely content.
	You lean your head back, closing your eyes, not because of drowsiness, but the desire to sit back and enjoy the experience. It was as if nothing behind it existed, nothing to break your happiness. You were dimly aware of a future tragedy, which did send a sinking feeling to your stomach, but you didn’t welcome it in. Rather than try to suppress it, to push it out of your mind with no force beyond the effort not to think about it or related objects, you accepted it. This moment would end, yes. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t good, and that was the part of it that you chose to feel, to experience. The future will come when it comes; you’d heard that and similar bromides through the years, but right now was the only time you really felt it. But that was enough thinking: if you stayed in your head any longer, you’d miss what was right in front of you.
	Squeezing Apple Bloom a few times, you see her head pop out of the blankets again. You hadn’t really meant to get her attention, only wanting to feel her under your arms in a slightly different way. But now that she was looking at you, her mouth having cleared the border, you can lean down and give her a big kiss. Doing so, she closes her eyes and lets you, eager to have your mouth covering hers. She pushes her head up, and is the first to involve tongues in what you meant to be a smaller kiss. The passionate kiss is lovely, stirring your heart, but neither of you continues it for too long. It’s a gentle, quiet morning, fit more for deep intimacy than excited passion. She tries to move back down into the blanketed haven, but you insist that she stays, and rises a bit. Adjusting both you and her, the girl surrendering to your guidance, she now sits on your lap with her head tilted back onto your shoulder.The cool air on your face and the warmth under the blanket reminds you of something, but it’s hard to place. You hold onto your Apple Bloom, your hands resting on her stomach, and just think for a moment. A couple stray drops are blown in from the side, leaving tiny splashes on your face. Then it comes to you.
	“You know, this kinda reminds me of camping,” you say out loud, wanting to share the story with Apple Bloom. She turns toward you, looking interested already. “Me and my dad went camping once, in some park on the outskirts of New York. It was really quiet and peaceful; there couldn’t have been more than five or six people on the campground. I remember being really surprised that we were still in New York, since everywhere in the city always has like, a dozen people in it.” You chuckle at your youthful confusion of the city and the state, having used to think that the whole state was buildings from border to border. “Anyway, it was really nice. There was this little stream where we tried catching fish, but we never did. Just kinda sat there.” Apple Bloom’s curious eyes follow you, except when your small motions over her stomach distract her.
	“When’d you go?”
	“Oh, I think I was like six or seven. Um…” you put your finger on your lip, trying to draw the memory out. “It was the summer, right after first grade. Or maybe before? No, after. So yeah, I was seven.” Apple Bloom nods, trying to gauge how old she was and where she was in the world at that time. 
	“What made you think of that?” 
	“I don’t know… But it was just really nice. Waking up to nature, almost completely away from civilization -you know, cause the truck and our gear was there- was phenomenal.” It was the fresh feeling of getting out of your sleeping bag for the first time. Your dad had insisted on a true camping trip, with a tent instead of a camper, which was why your mother hadn’t come along. Of course, this was part of your dad’s plan, who actually wanted to spend time with his son. He knew he’d be chastised by his wife later, have to stand with her at parties while she discussed the apelike nature of men to her nodding, insufferable friends. Still, it was a humiliation he had accepted at that point at his life, before his company became so busy, and so important. You’d left your sleeping bag at his behest, who poked his head in at some awful hour of the morning with a goofy grin, saying ‘Let’s catch some fish!’ You bundled up the best you can from within the cold tent, but when you stepped out, it was still pretty cold. Your body bundled up and kept somewhat warm, but your face subject to the breeze, and a comfy intimacy with a loved one, the sensation you’d had then was similar to now. Of course, you weren’t entirely aware of that: only that something on that trip felt like this moment with Apple Bloom.
	“That sounds really nice.” She says sweetly, her open eyes conveying absolute authenticity. Staring at her now, you feel the fire in your heart burning brighter, as it often did when you held a fresh image of her before your eyes. Here, with her warm body in your arms and her wonderful face so close, your heart beats faster. Her eyes turn away from you, looking into the clouds as she tries to remember the details of some camping story of her own. Her eyes dart here and there, the golden irises restless in their pursuit of the events. Meanwhile, you’re satisfied with merely looking at her, giving her your full attention. Suddenly, as her eyes and smile widen in successful reclamation of the nearly lost memory, a thought strikes you, an impassioned inspiration you’d given into once and suppressed ever since. You need to give this girl a poem. Before you can start making it up, she begins to speak, recounting her own story.
	“Ah know what you mean. Not too long ago, Me, AJ, and Big Mac all went out to this place downstate, with this big old lake a little ways away. The campgrounds were really dry; like, really dry. All the grass was dead, and the trees weren’t looking too good either.”
	“What, where they dropping?” She thinks for a second, then shakes her head.
	“It’s kinda hard to explain. But growing up around this many apple trees kinda lets you know what a bad tree looks like. And Ah can tell ya, these trees weren’t doing so great. Anyway, it was pretty bad, but Big Mac wanted to stick it out, so we stayed. On our second day there, he made both of us wake up early so we could go swimming before any a’ the boats got out there. AJ was always kinda worried about them an’ scaring away the fish they were trying to catch. Anyway, that morning was way cold: Ah had to put on two coats to keep warm! But as we were walking there, things started to get greener. Ah don’t know what they camping place was doing, but the further we got from the site, the more grass and good trees we saw. We had to take this little path on the side of a hill, and the whole thing just looked so beautiful.” Her eyes seem to sparkle as she tells her story, revisiting that vivid, life-filled walk through nature. “There were birds chirping, all these vines covering the path, and oh, so much!” She speaks about the flora for a little while, the only one in her group who had loved the forest enough to remember it. You stare back into her eyes, smiling as you do so. Forestry isn’t your favorite subject, but the way she speaks about it makes you care, her infectious enthusiasm doing its work. “Anyhow, it was a bit further away than we thought, and by the time we got there, all the boats were out, so we couldn’t go swimming. So we walked around in the nearby town for a while, and went back near the afternoon, when most of the boats had gone. It was nice, but nothing compared to that walk in nature.”
	You listen, eager to take in as much about her as you can. Her story interests you, that’s for sure, but it’s the person behind it that gives it life. So often in these past days, the girl had seemed to live on a pedestal, too grand to be like any human being. But time and time again she showed you the particulars of her life: the stories, the hurts, the successes, and the imperfections. She was so gorgeous, so kind and wonderful in every kind of way that you finally had begun to understand all those mushy poets and their deific painting of women who didn’t matter to you. You’d heard famous names, been pushed by teachers to read their works, centering on some female name and vast longings and worship for and of them: it bounced off you like rain on an umbrella. The flames of your previous crushes had never burnt that brightly: there was always that frantic part of you that sought never to see the normal parts, lest the shine be tarnished, but you always knew that they were just people. But this girl threatened to make you swoon, filling you with some appreciation for everything that she was, the verb itself could never quite describe your affection, even from a distant standpoint. You were so full of love for this girl who was so much, love both immensely selfish -your desire for her touch was generous, to say the least- but also objective: even in the cold reality of a lonely future, you were still awash with joy just over the fact that she was. That she existed, that she lived, and touched the lives of people, yours included: that alone was so amazing. 
	But she was human. You saw her with mud on her feet, a pimple on her forehead, and chipped nails from some adventure. When the voice from within threatened to ruin your care for her with claims of low humanity, it didn’t stand a chance. For all these things only increased her value: she was flawed, but she was majestic nonetheless. She had feelings, had imperfect skin, and lived in a real world, not on some divine cloud, but she was still kinder than any story-bound goddess could be, simply because she existed. All the saints and divines, despite the good they’ve done, still belong with their actions in the voice of a speaker or the pages of a book. Some were real, some were not, but they shared the common fate of being swallowed up by history and paper. This girl before you spoke, instead of being spoken of; her actions were seen, instead of reported; she is, and is not consigned wholly to having been. And all those good things about her, even the smallest, took on an immensity by their merging with reality, an immensity that dwarfed anything you could read or hear. Captured in all the gritty lowness of the real world, her beauty was only increased by the juxtaposition. You looked down on her, saw that sweet smile: she was human, but she was not low.
	You give her another squeeze, so happy to be around and near her. It’d taken you a rough time, going back and forth between highs and lows you’d never before came near. And though one nourishing week and one rough night wasn’t going to make you a master, you had gained some ability to live in the moment. The future was there, chilling the edges of your heart like the tips of fingers left uncovered in the winter, but you didn’t let it in. There was a girl in your arms, a love that had rekindled life within you, and now was no time to forget about her. Another squeeze elicits a small squeak from her, melting your heart again. She has your full attention, and you don’t plan on giving it to anything else right now. The perfect girl looks at you with her wide eyes, and with a loosening of her lips, speaks with that heavenly voice:
	“Hey, let’s go get something to eat.” You nod and smile, not fully understanding what she said. Being more than a little preoccupied with that source of your bursting heart, you can only spare a little attention to the actual content. It was a question, you knew that, and since you could never deny anything to the angel of Sweet Apple Acres, the only course of action was assent. Her teeth show in a bigger smile, the ends of your inattentive response met, and she starts to get up. Wait! No! Where’s she going? Before your inquisitive feelings emerge in an expression, her hand grabs yours and begins to pull you along. Ah, it looked like you were being brought somewhere. Similar to her pursuit of an answer, her pursuit of some destination could only end somewhere pleasant, and you were happy to give her the lead. The rain reemerges as you come out from under the umbrella, the blankets and hair on top of you blocking the moisture, but not the sound. Bare feet slosh through the distance between table and your home, any dryness achieved in your haven undone. 
	Entering the house, she brings you to the kitchen. It’s clear to both you and her that your hand doesn’t need to be held in order for you to follow: you could and would do it even with lonely hands. No, she holds you for a separate reason, under the guise of wanting to ensure your following. Your touch, the connection between the two of you is just as important and loved by her as it is by you, and she was always taught to make the most of what she had. She had you, and she was gonna make the most of it for as long as you were near. You realize that breakfast lies on her mind as she opens up the fridge and rifles through it. More than a little in sync with her, you realize that hunger had crept up while you were admiring Apple Bloom, and begin searching as well. 
	Your mind is split between the equally important tasks of finding some food and making a poem. You’re not very good at it: appreciation is one thing, but actually figuring out what to say was something completely different. Coming up with compliments without it sounding like some bland shopping list was turning out to be harder than you think. Did you need to make it rhyme, or was a lot of big words sufficient? The former sounds better, but every rough sketch you make seems to fall flat. Like trying to paint lightning with charcoal, the poems you make acceptably report the gist without staying true to the full beauty. But you don’t sweat it: you’ve got plenty of time to come up with something. The notion lies on the backburner while you check out the glowing trays of good. Some of it looks good, but Apple Bloom decries it with a steady
	“Nah.” Alright, guess this stuff’s off the table. She opens the freezer next to it, and scans the contents. She holds her gaze on a tub of ice cream for a minute, then looks up at you? Your answer is yes, and you nod quickly to let her know how strongly you feel. This is probably an awful idea, but whatever. She hands you the gallon of ice cream, the chill of it immediately dropping the temperature of your hands. You speed over to the counter and set it down, the icy grasp immediately receding from partially numbed hands. The label reads: ‘Chocolate Peanut-Butter.’ Oh, heck yeah. Apple Bloom shuts the door and joins your side, lifting two bowls from the shelf in front of you. 
	“Good thing we woke up early,” she whispers, trying to be quiet even though she could have cared less a moment ago. “AJ definitely wouldn’t have let us do this.” She had a point: the responsible girl, as much as you loved her, probably wouldn’t have been a huge fan of ice cream for breakfast. 
	“Yeah.” You agree, also in a quieter voice than before. After all, there were stakes now. Opening the silverware drawer, the suddenly clanging makes both of you wince. Guess you could have done that a bit slower. She lightly picks up two spoons and a hefty ice cream scoop, then shuts it herself. It makes less noise on the way in. A handful of fat scoops rises out of the container, the rising silver scoop shining in the low light. The sky’s grown slightly lighter, but you still keep one lamp on inside to brighten the room without it being too bright. The dark of the morning had become a part of it, a kind of visual quietness that only expanded the comfy pleasure. Soft clinks deposit the thick blots of ice cream into your bowls, and after finishing filling both to the brim, she delicately puts it in the sink. The small ting can barely be heard. 
	She exaggerates her secretive pretense, moving in slow motion as she slowly takes her hand out of her sink. Her eyes bug out and she bites her lip as she slowly replaces the lid of the ice cream. Long, slow strides take her over the fridge. The gallon of ice cream returns to its home silently, though there was the very real danger of so frozen peas clattering on the floor. Her slo-mo is compromised as her arm whips forward to catch the teetering bag, but resumes immediately after the success. Making up for the momentary lack is her quiet, drawn out ‘Noooooooo,’ that she utters after the fact. You wipe your forehead in the same slow motion, trying to look as cartoonishly relieved as you can. You and her lurch toward the glass sliding door with your awesome breakfast, looking like action heroes, only without the explosion behind you. 
	As soon as the rain touches the two of you, the act is dropped, and you dart to your chairs and blankets. No need to get too wet. She sits in her own chair this time, which is a little sad for you, but definitely better for eating. Part of you wonders if it’s weird to hope that she returns to your lap after she’s finished. The other part continues working on rhymes while you eat. The delicious, creamy taste of what is undoubtedly the best ice cream in the world distracts you, and the words remain in unfinished shambles in the back of your mind. The hunger from your nightly fast urges you to devour the food, the contents of your bowl quickly disappearing in your voracity.
	“Y’know, our family calls this Charlie Brown ice cream.” Apple Bloom’s voice pierces through the steady pounding of rain, an adorable bit of color in what was an otherwise dull auditory background. You look at her with a slight tilt of your head, and ask her:
	“Why?” As far as you can tell, there’s no correlation. Her finger finds her lip as she thinks for just a moment, then responds with a shrug.
	“Ah don’t know. Just always called it that.” You nod your head. In any other situation, it might have been weird, but you appreciate knowing these little things about her and her family. If anything, it might be good practice for when you join them. A dark pain races through you, the wish reminding you of your departure. But a quick smile at her, which elicits a bigger one back, chases the cloudy thoughts away. Pretty soon both breakfasts are finished, and set on the table with heavy sighs of contentment. You look up to the umbrella, vibrating softly under the onslaught of rain, and try to think of the perfect poem to give the perfect girl. As you do so, she grants your forgotten wish by coming over and seating herself right in your lap.
	The resulting burst of warmth only adds to your desire to finish up the poem you’ve been trying to make. There might not be a lot of time left. Wrapping your arms around her, feeling that heat add to yours once more, you shut your eyes and breathe in. Then out. Then in. Gosh, this girl makes it hard to concentrate. She wraps the two of you up in blankets, shielding you from the chilly wind. Her own eyes close, and she slouches back into your chest, breathing softly. Having gotten up so early, she was still pretty tired. The movements had enticed you to open your eyes, and the moment you did, you were subject to that perfect view of a sleeping angel. Granted, she was still awake, but her peaceful face could have fooled anyone. That’s it, that’s where you’ll start 
	Ok, sleeping angel. What rhymes with angel? You toss a couple of words around in your head: gangel, mangel, tangel, angel -no, that’s already used. Hmmm. Furrowing your brow, you think harder. Ok, what’s beautiful and peaceful? A cloud, a wave, a dove… That’s it! A dove, yeah, that sounds rhymeable. Let’s see, sove, ove, cove -no, that’s pronounced differently-, love. You almost feel like slapping your forehead for not thinking of that right away. Ok, dove and love. You stare into empty space for a moment: what do you do with this? Not necessarily being a poet, the notion of what to do escapes you. Come on, think Anon, how did you pass the poetry portion of English class… Thinking back on those two awful weeks where you were forced to write a couple dozen poems, the answer hits you: cheat! Er, receive influence. That’s how you’d pitched it to your teacher: you wrote in the style of… well, you can’t remember of any names, but you told her you borrowed styles. Ok, now you just gotta do the same.
	Only you can’t think of any poems. The moment that class had ended, you’d shrugged off everything you learned. After all, you never thought you’d need it. Unfortunately, you thought as you kicked yourself, you did need it, and definitely soon. You furrow your brow some more, hoping to summon some of the wisdom that always seemed to dwell in furrowed brows. Nothing happened. Okay, what was the last poem you read? Well, what’s a poem? You almost sidetrack yourself, but are saved by the sudden remembrance of a very recently read poem. One of your friends had posted it on her Tumblr or whatever. She was kinda cute, so you went about your routine of reading the mushy stuff she posted and mildly hoped it could be about you. Ahem. You cough, and try to forget the embarrassing habit. Back to the poem. Alright, it went something like this:
	“Peggy Blooms our prettiest lass, her blush is like morning, rosy dawn, something grass, something gems adorning –‘with rosy gems?’ No, that’s not it. ‘With shiny gems?’ Huh. Well, you’d come up with something-. Her eyes outshine the shiny beams, that something the something shower, something streams, something something flower.” You mumble the words to help yourself recall what it was, barely even able to hear yourself. Only the faint melody can be heard by Apple Bloom, who thinks you’re whispering some soft song. She smiles and curls into you further, pressing her body into yours. You frown slightly, unsatisfied with the low success of your memory. Still, it’s something to work with. 
	Ok, time to start crafting. The first line’s easy enough: Apple Bloom is the prettiest lass. Her blush is like the morning; you could keep it, but you aren’t that enamored with her blush. It’s cute, yeah, and her rosy cheeks are beautiful, but you could do better. Looking down at the pretty girl, you’re struck with inspiration: her smile and hair are both as gorgeous as the waking morning. Seeing the sky begin to sear, pinks and reds setting the stage for the coming yellow, you take in a deep breath. How could this be so beautiful? You look down at your muse, whose beauty matches the newly born day. How could she be this beautiful? Your hand repositions itself so you can stroke her hair, feeling the soft reds flow through it. There was a lightness in her hair that seemed to match the crimson sky, and you choose to name her hair in this line. What after this, something grass and then gems adorning? How about ‘soft as grass -leaning on the last line- and then staying stars adorning, since the faints bodies of stars still remained above you.
	Apple Bloom’s the prettiest lass,/ her hair is like the morning;/ a rosy dawn, soft as grass,/ with staying stars adorning. Okay, not bad so far. Her eyes outshine; what? The stars? No, you said that. The sun? Nah, that’s not great. How about ‘the golden beams?’ The next lines about the shower, or a shower or something; you can scrap that. Her eyes outshine the golden beams, and... ok, put in the dove-love thing. It’s your poem; or at least, it could be if you change it enough. Her eyes outshine the golden beams, her gaze a restful dove. Nope, that’s super dumb-sounding. Outshine the golden beams, as peaceful as a dove. Yeah, that’ll work: just two lines to go. Something about streams, then a flower. Except flower’s gotta be dove, since you took out ‘shower.’ Man, who takes about a shower in a poem?
	The morning’s beginning to dissolve, you better hurry this up. Ok, ok, something about streams. You still want to talk about lips, so maybe that? Her hips- ahem, her lips- are like crimson streams. Like small crimson streams? Doesn’t feel right. Ok, what do streams do? Flow, rush. Ok, flow always means things work together, or something like that. Maybe ‘her face flowed like a perfect stream?’ Fuck, this was feeling weird as heck. Was there another word? Dream! Um, her lips from a dream. From a wild dream. From my wildest dream! From beyond- nah, it’s good like it is. Ok, only thing left’s love. Thus’ the vision of my dearest love. The girl that I so dearly love. Who could give her anything but love? You think on it, then decide on the second. 
	Alright, feels like you got it. You repeat it a couple times to yourself, making sure you’ve got it right. It doesn’t perfect, and you grow more worried by the second, but you’ve already made the choice. With the mounting excitement of coming up to a performance, you steel yourself and tap her cheek. Her warm eyes open in response, helping to calm your fears.
	“Hey.”
	“Hey,” she whispers back, cute as can be.
	“I wrote you a poem.” A small smile grows on her face, her eyes widening with surprise. She blinks away the last bits of sleep, setting all her attention on you. Your cheeks start to redden, the actuality of the situation making you begin to doubt yourself. If that mild look of wonder on her face wasn’t so endearing, you’d be tempted to tell her you were kidding. As it was, you still felt like you oughta go through with it: partly because you’d started, and partly because you wanted so badly to tell her how you felt. All the words and motions you’d spoken gave some indication, but you still felt as if this massive love within you wasn’t communicating. And a girl like this deserved to know how much she was loved. You cough, about to dive in abruptly, but Apple Bloom speaks before you can.
	“Really?” Her voice sounds unbelieving, with an undercurrent of giddiness. You scratch the back of your head, giving her a smile in response.
	“Uh, yeah.” Her smile seems to explode, the open-mouthed wonder turning to outright ecstasy. Her wide grin stretches from side to side, each shiny white tooth gleaming in the rising morning. Suppressing her squee, just barely, she manages to make a more or less neutral expression. She bounces in her seat, just barely, but otherwise imitates the patient audience member perfectly. You gulp. Can’t stop now. Clearing your throat, you take a moment to run through it one more time, then say it.

“Apple Bloom’s the prettiest lass,
	Her hair is like the morning:
A rosy dawn, soft as grass,
	With staying stars adorning.
Her eyes outshine these golden beams
	As peaceful as a dove.
Her lips are from my wildest dreams,
	This girl that I so dearly love.”

	Oog. Your face burns as bright as her hair as you finish off your makeshift poem. Ok, that sounded a lot better in your head than it did aloud. Your expression, stricken with worry, sets on the girl before you. Her smile had once again surfaced halfway through the poem, shocking you with its sheer exuberance. And though it’d given you the strength to continue, you still weren’t a performer. You were glad you’d done it, but it was still a bit uncomfortable for you. Luckily, your part was over; Apple Bloom takes up the natural role of a well-pleased audience by launching herself forward and hugging you tight. Beyond the most adorable squee you’ve ever heard, she doesn’t say anything for a minute, content to bounce up and down in your lap. And that’s fine by you. Eventually she eases up on her grip, moving back so she can be face to face with you. Inches form yours her eyes sparkle in front of you, full of all kinds of happiness. And when she speaks, her voice is filled to the brim with joy, like that pure kind of happiness you see in young children playing:
	“That was amazing! When did you come up with that?”
	“Um, now.” You look down, but keep your eyes on her. Your smile is almost apologetic, though you know you oughtn’t feel that way.
	“Really? Like, just now?” Is there another now?
	“Yeah.,” you respond, the positive reaction bolstering your confidence. To this she moves forward in a flash, trying to kiss you. Not being ready for it, you respond a moment late. Her teeth lightly clack on yours and lips meeting harshly, the poor girl having moved with too much enthusiasm. She pulls back a moment with a small cry, and rubs her lip. Concern dripping from her voice, you ask her:
	“Hey, are you okay?” She takes another minute to massage her lip, then smiles at you. Just a little mistake from a girl new to kissing, you think to yourself. This time she moves in slower, being more cautious than necessary. Your lips meet, and immediately her tongue requests entrance. You’re a bit confused, not sure why she liked it so much, but returning the kiss nonetheless. As if you could ever deny this. She holds you tight, grabbing your shoulders to pull you in as much as she can. After several uncountable minutes, she lets off, still having that excited, buoyant look. She bites her lip as she looks up at you, her hands still on your shoulders:
	“Thanks.” By now, you’re grinning widely, never having expected that passionate a reaction. She sighs contentedly, then looks away, as if she didn’t have a care in the world. You feel the same: there were a lot of perfect moments in this past week, but this was definitely one of your favorites. Apple Bloom notices the bowls, then brings them to your attention. “Hey, we should probably get these in the dishwasher before AJ comes down,” she remarks with a sly smile.
	“Yeah, probably.” You’re still a little dazed from the previous outpouring, but get her drift. She stands, picking up both of the bowls. As you rise, you note the sudden absence of rain and darkness from the sky. It’s quiet, the dull pounding stopped long ago. The sky’s turned mostly red and yellow, the sun almost finishing its rise. When did that happen? There’s a little bit of disappointment over not having watched the sun rise, but upon realizing what you were doing instead, you don’t pay it any mind. After all, you’d just compared your love to the morning, as something even better; why wouldn’t her kiss take priority over the sunrise? The two of you stroll back into the house, the remaining water still sloshing under your feet. She opens the sliding glass door, letting you enter first. 
	“You know, Ah’ve never been given a poem before.” Both of you arrive at the dishwasher, and open it up.
	“No way.” She tosses her head back, thinking carefully.
	“Well, I guess if you count all the little cards Ah got for valentine’s day, way back in elementary school, Ah guess there’s been a couple dozen before you. Not a proper poem, though.” A spark of cheer and understanding appear simultaneously; you get why she was so appreciative just now, as well as feel kind of happy to be the first one to give that to her. There was something special about being her first boyfriend, giving her her first French kiss, and all those other little things she’d never done with anyone else. It made you feel special. Of course, it was nice that you still had some part in what she was feeling: you’d never really given any girl a poem before. Realizing that she might like hearing that, you tell her:
	“That’s the first time I’ve given a girl a poem.” This time, the surprise is on her end, and she whirls toward you.
	“Are you serious?” She seems almost incredulous, as if she expected you to do this regularly. 
	“Um, yeah? In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not exactly a pro at this.” She turns back to the dishwasher, putting her bowl in.
	“Sounded pretty good to me,” she says with a nodding smile. Turning around to grab your bowl and place it next to hers, she continues her thought. “You seem like the kinda guy that can get pretty romantic. And Ah’m guessing you were pretty popular with the ladies back in the city.” There’s a twinge of jealousy and sadness in her voice, but the ridiculousness of the assumption blinds you to it. You burst into chuckles, covering your mouth with your hand. When she looks at you, her expression is once more filled with perplexity. “Ah don’t get it.” After laughing a moment longer, you stare at her in wonder:
	“What on earth makes you think I’m popular with the ladies?” Her head moves back in astonishment, then she proceeds to map out the attractive aspects of you as if it were evident to everybody around.
	“Um, you’re kind, you’re funny, you’re dependable, you’re pretty strong, you’re really handsome” -her eyes rise to your face at this one, and linger for a moment before continuing- “you’re smart, you do cool stuff, oh, and Ah don’t know, YA WROTE AND READ A POEM TO YOUR GIRLFRIEND.” Her voice sounds a like a kindergarten teacher pointing out the obvious, rising in vigor. At the end, her eyes bug out and she claps her hand over her mouth, not quite realizing what she’d said until after she’d said it. Your heart, softened by the list of compliments, swells at this last one. It was kind of a complicated term, and you weren’t 100% sure how to respond to it, but hearing her call herself that was undoubtedly a heartwarming moment. She closes up the dishwasher, muttering something about ‘girls liking guys that make and read poems. Unsure of what to say, you take a step forward and hug her from behind. You brush her hair out of the way and gently kiss the side of her neck. Before either of you can say anything, heavy thumps announce someone coming down the stairs. Another set of thumps join the first as you and Apple Bloom make some distance between the two of you. Don’t wanna get caught being that familiar with each other. 
	“Good morning, guys,” the melodious sound of AJ’s voice comes, still thick with sleep. “What are y’all doing up so late?”
	“Early,” corrects the blonde giant beside her.
	“Fine, what’re you doing up so EARLY,” AJ stresses the final word while looking hard at Big Mac, who is unfazed. Her attention returns to you and Apple Bloom: “Ah thought Ah heard one a you shouting about something or other.” Ok, she didn’t hear it. Guess you’re off the hook. Apple Bloom covers with a redirection, hoping to lead the conversation away from the shout.
	“Yeah, we were just hanging outside, watchin’ the sun come up. Ah mean, the rain. Um, did you know it rained this morning? Heh heh,” she laughs awkwardly, with almost a pleading look in her eye. You gotta face it, she’s not a very good liar. Luckily, AJ’s still plenty tired, and either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care about the mystery in plain sight. 
	“Alright. Uh, did you two have breakfast yet?”
	“Sure did!” cries out Apple Bloom, happy to see that the question’s been overlooked. 
	“Huh. Musta come gotten up pretty early to already be finished. Ah hope ya didn’t take the rest of a cereal.” AJ speaks, almost to herself, as she meanders over to the pantry. She brings out a big box of something healthy-looking, then takes the milk out of the fridge. Big Mac follows her lead, getting a pair of bowls and spoons out of the cabinets, then setting it up near his sister’s ingredients. Moments later, the scene transitions over the dining room, the four of you sitting at the table together. Idle chatter develops as the party members speak offhandedly about how well they slept, the weather, and so forth. It isn’t exactly natural, nor is it awkward. Apple Bloom, more able to speak due to her not eating, goes on about the beautiful warmth of the morning rain and all the colors you’d just seen in the sky. You add to her story, but for the most part let her lead. At one point AJ, who sits just next to you, asks you quietly:
	“Are you ok?” You think about it for a moment. Apart from a vague feeling of unease, you’re actually doing alright. So long as you remain focused on the family at hand, and don’t drift off into worries about the future, you think you’ll be fine. Nodding, your calm eyes tell her that you are. She nods, giving you a gentle smile in return. She’s not completely sure that you’re alright; after all, you’ve got more than enough reason to be freaking out right now. However, as far as she can tell, you’re not freaking out right now. And she figures that as long as she can keep you from slipping into that, things oughta be fine. Big Mac shares a similar train of thought, but remains silent. In typical circumstances, he’s rarely sure of what to say and awful at saying it coherently; there’s no way he’d know what to say now. Nodding at nothing in particular, he finishes his breakfast and goes to put his bowl in the dishwasher. AJ looks up at the clock:
	“6:14…” She mumbles to herself, before speaking louder to you and Apple Bloom. “So we got about half an hour left before we need to leave.” Her eyes bore into you, searching for any trace of panic. But you remain calm, or at least retain the appearance of such; a bolt of terror arced through you at the notion. You were able to keep your expression still for the moment, and somewhat calm yourself down. You don’t want to realize that you’re hanging by a thread. It’s unclear to you if you grabbed Apple Bloom’s hand without thinking or if she reached over to grab yours, but suddenly you can feel her delicate hand holding yours. Squeezing back, a bit of that pent-up stress dissipates, and you return to a calmer place. The sides of your mouth slowly turns up in an almost weary smile, and the other two girls relax. They’re not unused to that stricken look, the way a person freezes their expression in order to hide another, more tragic expression. Suddenly surprise cuts through your features, and you stand up hurriedly.
	“Geez, Ah still need to pack.” As the days had gone on, the subtler mannerisms of the Apples had worked their way into you. You found yourself swearing less, and pronouncing words with just a vague accent. Upon deciding this was your home, the assumption of their traits grew quicker in accordance with your welcoming of that family into your heart. With your previously relaxed state and without the time to think your soon-to-be-vocalized sentences through, you fall fully into their accent without noticing. And as you rocket upstairs to your room, the two girls fail to suppress a grin at the noticed pronunciation. Apple Bloom gets out of her chair and runs up to help you, and AJ stands up and follows her, albeit slower. 
	You burst into your room and grab a bundle of clothes from your dresser. Turning around, you find your bed is bereft of a suitcase to devour your ball of shirts. Oh yeah, you didn’t put it out. The bed serves as a placeholder for the splatter of clothes while you conduct a brief search for the forgotten container. The closest fails to produce your prey, but the next location is found the shelter of the leather fugitive. You draw your quarry up from underneath the bed and smack the bed with it. Opening it, you gather up the cloth mess from your bed and throw it in, revealing the temporarily hidden apple blanket it had covered. The burst of speed is covered by the minute sorrow you feel looking at it, the odd wish to keep it crossing your mind. But there’s no way that blanket would fit in. Apple Bloom pops into your room, looking as happy as ever, though plenty of that is the product of her efforts.
	“Need any help?” You stop your search for a keepsake, thinking that Apple Bloom might be able to get you something. Then it wouldn’t be theft, and you’d still have time to pack. You open your mouth to make the request, but the awkwardness of it is realized at the last moment, and the words came haltingly. 
	“Yeah, um… Uh. Hey, would it be cool, I mean, could I like, have something? Like a keepsake?” She follows you through your sentence, piecing together the meaning from the fragments. At the point of understanding, she nods her head vigorously:
	Her eyes light up, the object requested identical to a present she’d been preparing for. Without a word, she heads out of the room to find it. It’s pretty clear she’s got something for you, so you get back to your packing. Part of you wonders, with more than a little bit of hope, that she’ll give you the swimsuit she wore on the rafting trip. You shake the thought of your head, realizing there’s no way that’ll happen. Making another trip to your dresser, you grab the underwear and socks before the rest, not wanting any intruding girls to see that. You take out the clothes already in the suitcase, then pack the smaller closes in. Afterward, you replace the clothes, covering up all the stuff you probably shouldn’t show your female cousins. The moment this portion of packing is done, she comes back into your room. 
	“Alright, so Ah thought it was finished, but when Ah looked it over, there was a couple… uh, problems. So Ah’m gonna fix them, and mail it to you later.” She turns her head slightly down, then looks at you from the top corner of her eye: “Is that okay?” Yeah, that’s more than ok. If anything, you’re actually pretty ecstatic that you’re apparently getting something she worked on, instead of something lying around. 
	“Yeah, absolutely,” you say, nodding your head and smiling.
	“Ok, great.” Her smile shows her relief, having felt a little worried that you’d be wanting something immediately. Then, without asking, she heads over to your dresser and begins pulling out the rest of your shirts and pants. She tosses them to you, and you seamlessly slam them into the already overcrowded suitcase. The mess you’d made takes up a bit more space than the clothes had made when they were all folded and properly put in there. Well, you guess it’s closer to them having more surface area or not being as easily condensed; whatever. Apple Bloom tosses the last article of clothing to you right as AJ comes in. She’d turned around to go deal with her dishes -though she found out that Big Mac had taken care of them- and so had been too late to help. As you stuff the last thing in your suitcase, she speaks:
	“Guess Ah’m too late to help, huh?” You try closing your suitcase and fail. Repeating the process, you give her an opportunity:
	“I could use some help getting this dang thing closed.” She chuckles softly, then comes over to help you out. You count to three, and then both of you jump up and push down on the overburdened case at the same time. It looks shut enough to zip up, so you keep your weight on it and ask her to zip it up. Only half of it gets done before your inadequate weight fails to keep it shut. After jumping up on it again, the bulging briefcase gets zipped all the way shut, though it strains against the zipper. You inspect it, and decide it’ll hold. Luggage doesn’t really burst open, even when its strength is taxed like this; not in your experience, anyway.
	“Ok, I guess that’s it,” you say, looking around for any remaining articles and finding none. “Took less time than I thought it would.” AJ nods in agreement, and you sit down on your bed. Apple Bloom comes and joins you, kicking her feet as against the tall bed. She smiles, and something in that simple motion entices you to do the same. Finding contentment in the simple motion, the quiet community between you and your red-haired cousin, you pat the place beside you in an invitation for AJ to come. She gives a halfhearted smile, then comes and joins her family, kicking her legs as if they were dipping into water. The three of you sit there for a while, moving your feet to some inaudible song, one that connects all of you. The room is bright with the morning light and the lamp by the side of your bed, which AJ reached over to light. The main light is off, but it doesn’t need to be on. The amber light spilling into the room is enough, preserving the sleepy warmth, the kind you find when bundled in tons of blankets in the winter. Except for some muffled thuds and the occasional creaking, the typical sounds of a house waking up, the air is silent. Minutes go by in the easy comfort of your family, the cozy room filled with silent comradery your primary defense against the cold at the door. A knocking interrupts the hypnotic quiet, and a low voice asks:
	“Can we come in?” 
	“’Course,” you answer without hesitation. These rooms had an odd feel to them, something different from those at home. Back there, the borders were definite, hard: if somebody was in one, you’d make sure never to enter into that one. Your own room back home was, by your attempts, made of iron: nobody was ever let in if you could keep them out. Same went for your parents: not that you’d ever go in there, but they wouldn’t ever permit you into their bedroom or your dad’s office. It was as if they were different house in one neighborhood instead of rooms linked within a house. But here, those vicious property rights were lax, barely present: Granny let you all into her room for prayers and that game, and you felt no need to block anybody from coming into your room. It was yours, but you felt like you could still share it freely without giving up any of your rights to it. Sure, Apple Bloom had barged in more than once, but you’d kind of given her permission to do so. And everyone else knocked, and you had the feeling that they wouldn’t enter if you didn’t permit them entry, they wouldn’t enter. That was really something to you, in light of your parents habit of just walking in whenever they damn well felt like it. It was a guest room, but still you had more of a right to it, a greater ownership over it than you did your own room. 
	Big Mac and Granny come in, the latter holding the arm of the former. She walks along with him, pretty slow, in a rough imitation of the way you and Apple Bloom walked on your date. The slow pace strikes you: you never really thought of Granny as old until you saw her like this. Like, there was the white hair and wrinkles, but she still has as much pep as her youngest granddaughter. It wasn’t clear if it was just an act, a rebellion against the gravity of aging, or if she just needed a little time to be awake before it could kick in. She comes over to the front of the bed, facing you and your cousins on the bed. Big Mac brings in a tiny white chair from Apple Bloom’s room, which the oldest Apple sits on.
	“Didn’t think you were gonna get away without sayin’ goodbye to me, Didja?” You open your eyes wide, thinking her accusation serious.
	“No way. I was gonna-“ The elderly lady sit back and chuckles to herself before assuring you she was joking:
	“I’m kidding, mister Anon. Give it some time, you’ll pick up.” You nod, unsure of what she meant. Then her face grows serious, and she speaks slowly and carefully, losing her accent. “Anon, I want you to know that it’s going to be alright. Things might be scary, but you are a lot stronger than you think. I can’t say what’s gonna happen. If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that you can’t predict the things life will do to you. But if you can tough it out, there will always be a light at the end. You’re a tough kid; I think you’ve proved that well enough. And so I need you to know that you’ll make it through. It isn’t hopeless. Do you know that?” The sudden change of tone takes you off guard; suddenly you feel brittle, as if you could break with the slightest change. You look over to Apple Bloom for strength, as has become your custom, and you find it. Another introspective glance, and you find yourself feeling the taut energy of stress, but without the weakness it causes. Like she said, it isn’t clear what’s gonna happen, but you find your reason to push through.
	“Yes.”
	“Good. Now, another thing I’ve learned is that you need people. I don’t know what you’ve got going on up there, but I want you to know that you’ve got us four behind you. Whenever you need help, whether it’s advice or just to talk, we’re all available. We’re here for you. As far as we’re concerned, you’re as much an Apple as the rest of us.” The rest of the Apples nod in assent, and you hear whispers of ‘yeah.’ Apple Bloom hugs you tightly from the side. Fighting back tears, you nod. Granny smiles, happy to know that you’ve accepted the closest thing to adoption she can offer. AJ speaks from the side, obviously uncomfortable with interrupting:
	“Hey, um, we should probably get going.” You look at the clock on your phone, and see 6:40 in bright lights. Somehow, the time had just disappeared from you. Still, with the strength of your family surrounding you, you feel confident enough to brave the cold outside. At the very least, you don’t think you’ll shatter the moment you leave their presence. All five of you, five Apples, stand up and head out of you room. Big Mac, suddenly finding a means to express the care he has for you, picks up your suitcase. You offer to take it, but a solid grunt tells you he doesn’t intend to give it up. Again, you feel a quiet appreciation for him. He’s not the smoothest guy, but he’s a solid dude nonetheless. Granny goes back to her room, and the four of you head down the stairs and to the front door. You’re prepared, as much as you can be, but there’s something awful about that door. Passing through with the others, you offer a silent prayer, hoping that you’d get to enter it again sometime soon. Applejack turns to you, a little worry in her eyes as she asks:
	“You got your ticket, right?” A little shock of fear runs through you as you rifle through your pockets. Gosh, you hoped you didn’t lose the ticket. Although, that would mean you got to spend more time with the Apples. Right as you start ruminating on the extra time you could spend with them, your hand finds the familiar piece of paper. Pulling it out puts those dreams in the ground, the sight of it confirming that it is in fact the ticket. You show AJ the ticket:
	“Yeah, it’s right here.” She nods, then continues walking forward. The four of you march over to the van, Apple Bloom opening the back door from you. The chipping paint of the old vehicle falls off at the touch of your hand, and you wipe it off on your jeans. Grabbing the inside on your second go, you hoist yourself into the seat directly behind the driver’s seat. Apple Bloom follows you, taking the middle seat, directly to your right. AJ takes the front, and Big Mac sits in shotgun. You lean on the side of the van, a weariness only partially caused by your incomplete sleep and fading coffee begging for some form of lying down. It isn’t as if you’re going to freak out or anything -you’re feeling strong enough to take on the coming challenges- but you’re still not happy about facing them. Your hand reaches out to touch Apple Bloom’s and your fingers immediately intertwine upon meeting each other. The ginger beauty besides you catches your eye, and smiles at you. 
	“You can lay down in my lap if you want,” she whispers to you, know how uncomfortable the side of a car can be. You can’t help but smile back, and nod in acceptance. A sigh passes from your lips as you lean down to your left, feeling the side of your head connected with the tops of her legs. You scoot around a bit, trying to get comfortable, until you’re lying face up. Your legs are at a bit of an awkward position, but it doesn’t feel too bad. And besides, when you lie like this, you can look at her. The pretty girl looks back down at you with a sweet benevolence, the kind that can make your heart soar even at a time like this. Her hands move to your face and hair, the left resting on your cheek and the right gently stroking your hair. The hand on your cheek is a little cold, but you like it there anyway. Closing your eyes at this oddly placed bliss, the drive by seems short, punctuated only by the light bumps of the road. You don’t quite fall asleep, but that soft brushing off your hair and the feeling of Apple Bloom’s hand on you is enough to lull you into something similar. Feeling the car slow down, you sit up for a moment to look out the window. Your heart drops as you recognize the neighborhood you’re driving through as the same one that lies just outside the bus station. You close your eyes and drop back down onto your cousin’s lap, upon which she immediately resumes caressing you, 
	The car slows to a crawl as you enter into the parking lot. The car sputters to an awful stop, and the two in the front get out. Like entering through their front door, you feel an odd nostalgia for the sounds of this jalopy, hoping it isn’t the last time you can hear its aching sounds again. Apple Bloom’s eyes loom tragically over you as she tells you:
	“We gotta go.” You grimace and nod, knowing that she’s right. With a deep sigh and more effort than it should have taken, you manage to lift yourself off her lap, sitting up straight. The blood rushes to your head, obscuring your vision for a moment. The fuzzy darkness fades after an awkward moment of stillness, and you see Apple Bloom similarly unmoved. Once she notices your confused look, she forces a smile, then scoots out of the van. You follow her out into the brisk air, the slight chill no longer welcoming, as it was at the start of your day. Crossing your arms to retain as much heat as you can, you follow the older cousins across the street. Entering the building, which contains a train station as well as the Greyhound stop, you immediately appreciate the heating present. 
	Apple Bloom clings to you, grabbing your arm and not letting go. You extend it a little bit so she can slip her hand around your elbow; that way she doesn’t have to just grab your sleeve. Her hands are warm, somehow. The station is mostly bare, only a dozen or so people hanging around. It makes sense: not a lot of people visit towns like these. For a moment, the minuteness of the town seems shockingly important. This is just one tiny dot on the map, the kind you pass over when tracing routes to your destination. That was one of the reasons you didn’t want to come here. But this tiny little town, the kind of place you’d call ‘nowhere,’ was where your life got turned around. You give Apple Bloom a small smile, just another gesture of gratitude for everything she’s done for you. AJ continues to lead the way to the Greyhound portion of this little hub.
	“What number were you, Anon?” she asks, checking at the small list of incoming and outgoing buses. You fingered your ticket and read the black and blue ink printed on thin cardboard.  Passenger.  Standard.  Bus Number C22-105.  Departure Time: 7:00 A.M.  Destination: some place you didn't really care about.
	“I’m C22-105.” AJ nods, then points to the board. It says the same thing as your ticket, though with a more formal title of the city. She just wanted to confirm it, you figure. She checks her watch, and announces the time as being five minutes until the bus arrives. Everybody nods, not exactly welcoming these facts.
	“Guess we oughta find a place to sit down,” mumbles Big Mac. Your troupe moves over to an empty bench, sitting down according to age. Tucking your luggage underneath the bench, you recline as best you can. The coffee’s effect had fully departed, leaving you very sleepy. You yawn, stretching your hands to the heavens as you do so. While your arms are in the air, your youngest cousin takes the opportunity to dart underneath them, wrapping you in a tight hug. As your left arm comes down on her back, AJ follows her sister’s lead and comes in from the right. Big Mac looks on with the hint of a smile, content to watch from the sidelines. With your right arm pined against you by the body of AJ, there’s not much you can do besides give him a little smile in return. It wasn’t too surprising that Big Mac didn’t join in: he was a guy, after all. But it did strike you as odd that AJ did. You knew she cared about you, and she wasn’t quite like Big Mac was, but she certainly wasn’t touchy-feely. She looked out for you, talked with you, but still managed to be reserved even through that. 
	Eventually the hug comes to an end, both girls revealing their faces after having hid them in your side. Surprisingly, they don’t seem somber and distant, as you’d expect. Rather, they’re looking directly at you, with a happy expression, holding only the slightest trace of sadness. It makes you happy, seeing these two smiling girls, and Big Mac being as happy as you think he can be. Your trip’s end could have ended in tears and in quietness, but these smiling girls and the cheer they were intent on cultivating made it just a little bit better. A laugh escapes your lips, the kind that comes from surprised joy, like when you saw an ocelot sing happy birthday to a snake when you didn’t expect it. The two girls, though not unhappy with your happy reaction, are about to ask you about it when a tinny voice comes from a nearby booth:
	“Attention all passengers of bus C22-105. There were some weather conditions that did not permit the bus to arrive on time. It should arrive at 7:30 A.M. We apologize for the inconvenience.” Your smile grows even wider at the thought of having more time with your family, even if it’s only a short time. The half an hour might have been torture, another thirty minutes of waiting and agonizing, but you’re determined not to let that happen to you. You got some time with the most incredible people in the world, and the most incredible girl in the world, and that wasn’t a commodity to be squandered. The pep talk, though feeling a little repetitive at this point, still serves to give you the determination you need to overcome the rising tide of worry. Feeling confident enough to direct the conversation, you try to set a course of action:
	“Alright, so what should we do?” Big Mac and Apple Bloom seem to get it, but AJ just looks at you with a question on her face. You explain: “Well, let’s not just sit around here. Do any of you guys know a short game or something?” At this her, eyes light up with an answer; it’s funny, she looked exactly like Apple Bloom for a moment. She turns to Big Mac, who nods with understanding, then looks back to you:
	“Yeah, we got one in the car. Let me go get it real quick. Big Mac, can you, uh explain it?” Her voice grows fainter as she runs to the car, and you can’t quite make out the last words. Big Mac, on the other hand, could, and grants her request:
	“She’s gonna go get Catchphrase. It’s kinda like… Uh…” He looks off into the distance, trying to remember. Then, a glimmer in his eye brings it back. “Charades. Cause, um…” He loses his words once more, only this time it’s due to him not knowing how to explain. Luckily for him, Apple Bloom’s got it covered:
	“The thing gives ya a word and you gotta make everyone else guess it! You can talk, or act it out, but ya can’t say that word, or spell it, or something like that. You can skip a word if you want, too.” Her face is radiant as she explains, eyes wide with anticipation. AJ returns with a small disc-like thing, silver with two blue swirls on the front of it, and Apple Bloom continues. It’s got two buttons on it: a clock button, which starts the timer -and if pressed during a round, will cancel it- and an arrow button, which can choose the category for the round, and during the round, switches words. There’s a small screen where the categories appear, or the word, if it’s during a round. Once the round starts, a beeping sound happens, and it gets faster and faster until it makes the sound of a buzzer. Apparently there’s a point system, but they don’t use it. Hmmm. Sounds simple enough.
	“Alright, we ready?” Apple Bloom nods vigorously, while Big Mac puts one finger in the air in a ‘hold on’ gesture. 
	“Hang on, we should move to some place in the back. So we don’t bother these other folks.” You look around and find multiple people in the immediate vicinity. Not much, sure, but you still don’t want to be a pest or nothing. You stand up, followed by everyone else, and take the bench in the back. Apple Bloom asks you cheerfully:
	“Ya wanna start us off?”
	“Uh, how about someone else does, just so I know what I’m supposed to do.” The rules seem plain enough, but you learn better by demonstration.
	“Ok, Ah can do it.” AJ hands her the game, and she presses the clock button. 
	“Oh, that thing with the cowboys and the Indians, where the cowboys all died!” Big Mac furrows his brow, and AJ immediately starts calling out guesses.
	“The American Revolution! American Invasion. Um, The Louisiana Purchase?”
	“No, no, it was a guy, and he got killed!” Apple Bloom touches her finger to her bottom lip in thought. “Ah think it’s like a pie, or something too?” AJ wears a mask of perfect perplexity, but Big Mac suddenly says:
	“Custer’s Last Stand!”
	“Righto! Ok, next one’s a fish, and it lies flat on the ocean, and it ki-
	“Manta!”
	“Close, but it’s two words!”
	“Manta Ray!”
	“Yeah! Ok, uh.” Apple Bloom hits the button, then stares at the tiny screen for a moment looking like AJ a second ago. “Ah don’t know this one.” She hits the arrow button and continues: “Ooh! Who lives in a pineapple under the sea!?” You’re already picking this up fast enough -it was pretty much what you figured it’d be- and you shout out:
	“Spongebob Squarepants!”
	“Yeah!” The best redhead sacrifices some precious time to give you a high-five, which you mirror with gusto. The timer’s beeping faster than before, and Apple Bloom’s eyes return back to the screen.
	“A thing under the dress, and it’s all poofy!” The three listeners all draw blanks. “You know, it’s like mean in a small way, and another word for jacket?” More blanks, but the buzzer sounds before she can go any further. “Dang it,” she curses, then passes it over to AJ. Before the older girl can start, you interrupt:
	“Hold on, what was that last one?” Big Mac echoes your desire to know:
	“Yeah, what?”
	“It was a petticoat.” You’ve heard the word before, but you never really knew what it means. And judging by the shrug Big Mac’s giving you, he doesn’t either. Still, that was a pretty clever way to make us say the word; if she’d had more time, she might have made it. 
	“Alright, Ah’m goin’,” announces AJ, who hits the clock button. The timer’s set off, shown with a slow beeping, and she immediately starts throwing out hints.
	“What’s black and white and read all over?”
	“A penguin!” shouts Apple Bloom.
	“A newspaper.” 
	“That second one!” affirms AJ, who points to you, but doesn’t press the arrow button. “And what’s the really important one, from that big c- town?” 
	“New York Times!” 
	“Yes! Ok, another name for porpoise!”
	“Dolphin!” 
	“Yes!” Apple Bloom gives you an impressed look. You’;re not sure if getting two of these right in quick succession is any huge point of pride, but you’re not gonna argue with that cute look of hers. Meanwhile, AJ’s plowing right through: “six plus one, then ten plus one!”
	“Seven-
	“Eleven!” Big Mac finishes Apple Bloom’s answer, prompting another victorious grin from their sister.
	“Yes! You guys are on a roll! Um, the thing the Jensens’ put their wheat in! Big, metal cylinder!”
	“Grain silo,” cries the youngest of the group.
	“Yes!” The timer starts beeping faster. “Ooh! Um, ok!” AJ stares at the screen for a moment, coming up with a plan of action. “It’s the college that isn’t Yale!”
	“Um… Harvard!” Just as you call it out, the buzzer sounds, and AJ takes a deep breath. 
	“Woo, we did good that time! Good job, Anon. You want a go?” This game’s getting you amped up; the mild fun you’d had at those parties where you’d played charades is tremendously multiplied by doing it with your family, instead of mediocre friends. You nod your head, then reach out and receive it from her:
	“Yeah, I’ll take a turn.” You press the button, and start calling out hints and clues for them to guess. ‘Swordfish’ seems like it should be pretty simple: “A long blade or knife, and it swims in the sea!” They take a moment and a few off-guesses to get it, but they do. Next one’s ‘Harriet Tubman.’ Um, who was she? Yeah, you don’t know how to convey that. Clicking the arrow, ‘grape soda’ comes up. “Oooh! What we drank last night, but carbonated!”
	“Grape juice!”
	“Yeah, but carbonated. Like a soft drink!”
	“Grape… soda?” Big Mac says, unsure of his answer. 
	“Yeah, that’s it!” Next up is ‘Hook, line, and sinker,’ which you unwisely decide to pursue. A couple of fish references and hook motions later, and the buzzer goes off without a fourth victory. “Three’s not bad, right?”
	“Three’s fine.” Big Mac says solemnly, and Apple Bloom adds to it:
	“Yeah, that’s great for your first time!” You offer it to Big Mac, knowing he’s next in line, but unsure if he’s gonna participate. He does, without hesitation, taking it out of you hands, moving it to a different category -oh yeah, you forgot about that- and hitting the clock button.
	The game continues like this, with all members shouting out the first words that come to their minds. Big Mac turns out to be pretty articulate within the confines of this game. They draw on previous shared experiences they have with each other -although Apple Bloom did make you guess whitewater rafting by referencing this trip- and other clever ways of acting out particular words. Most of the other people end up looking over to your group multiple times, if not outright staring at your loud show. You notice it, but don’t think to change anything; it isn’t as if you’re hurting anyone. For the next twenty minutes the only object in focus is the word to guess. The end of your stay with your family goes unnoticed, even in the terminal where it’ll occur. Anxious eyes dart to the clock and back now and then before falling into that mysterious gravity of a party game. 7:30 comes and goes, and the game slows down after that, though not too much. Eventually, at a little past eight, the squeaking of loud tires signals the arrival of the earthly Charon, come to collect. A pit forms in your stomach as you’re wrenched out of the bliss, out of the simple fun and back into the forgotten reality. With a horrifying finality, you pick up your suitcase and start to walk towards the entryway. Your three cousins, feeling more like a brother and two sisters, walk alongside you. Two people stand in front of you: some lanky looking kid and an older lady with a poofy hat. Time slows down, each step taking much longer than normal. You’ve got this, you can handle this. The slow steps eventually lead you to the guy that takes the tickets. He holds out his hand and shakes it, impatiently motioning for you to give it to him. Man, fuck this guy.
	You turn to your family, and open your mouth. You feel as if you should say something, but the words just aren’t coming. The helpless expression in your eyes is enough to tell them such, and they move in closer for one last hug. At this point, it’s all they can do. All that either of you can do. You stand there for what feels like minutes, holding close to the safety within their kind hands and arms. But the furious snapping and interjections of the rude old man break the hug up before you want it to end. You see the Apples pull back, telling you sweet promises of never missing you, of visits and unfailing love. The moment they stop touching you, a gray lens seems to fall over the world. Your heart stops, and you’re thrust into some objective position, watching what’s happening from outside yourself. Feeling so cold, all you can offer them is a small smile. The sight of them threatens to pull you back in, send you to your knees, sobbing. But you reject the pull. You’ve gotta be strong now. Apple Bloom, in all her ginger gorgeousness, still finely tanned from those luxurious days in the sun, looks as if she’s about to fall apart. Her smile brings to mind the word ‘fractured,’ the shiny crescent failing to meet her morose eyes. The shown teeth look as if she was bearing them from pain, not giving you a pleasant departure. You wave softly, and tell them that you love them. You tell her that you love her.
	“I love you too.” And that’s it. You turn around, shove your ticket in the man’s unprotected chest, making him wheeze in surprise. He reaches for it, and you briefly consider dropping it, just to offer him some more punishment for ruining your moment. But you know Apple Bloom wouldn’t approve, wouldn’t like seeing you this way. He takes the ticket, and grumbles some obscenity as he gives it back to you. You take the stub, and put it in your pocket. Looking over your shoulder, you see Apple Bloom crying, no longer able to hold it in anymore. Every bone in your body calls out to her, demands that you rush to her side and help her in any way you can. But you can’t, and you know it.  So you just keeping walking, and board the bus. The doors shut after a minute, and the bus moves forward. You press yourself to the window you’ve taken, trying to keep the town in view as long as you can. Then the bus takes a turn, and it’s gone.
	The rest of the ride goes the same way, with that same grey chill encompassing everything within sight. There’s other passengers, some of whom look like they might have interesting stories, but you can’t bring yourself to care. The girl wrapped in a dozen articles of clothing, the dude who got on with you who’s been staring at her the whole time, the possibly dead old men; they’re all sucked beneath the surface. The whites and silvers of the bus’s interior and the bright hues of the advertisements on the sides are dimmed, brought into some grayscale. The time passes in an odd mix of agonizing slowness and retroactive speediness. Every minutes takes an hour to pass by, your eyes coming to rest on the clock on your phone often. But when you think about the trip behind you, there’s nothing to remember, no landmarks to distinguish one moment from another, and as a result, it feels as if you could have left a moment ago. The only thing still retaining any life, any color, is the memory of the Apples waving goodbye to you. You can still see Apple Bloom’s rosy hair, swaying slightly in the gentle breeze. Your hand closes unintentionally at the phantom feeling of her hand grasping it. But it isn’t there; just cold air. Somewhere on the journey, you manage to climb out of your slouched posture, and grab onto one of the poles for those who want to stand. Turning to the window, you gaze out at purple mountains and amber oceans of grain, followed by dense collections of trees and the indomitable reign of green grass sitting atop miles of land. It doesn’t touch you by itself, but there’s this small notion you have: if Apple Bloom were here, she’d love this. You can’t help but grow a little smile as you indulge the fantasy. She’d stare in awe at this grand picture of nature, constantly changing with the imperious drive of the Greyhound. The feeling is enough to keep you on your feet for the next couple moments, but the strain of the first few moments of your Apple-less life is enough to wear you back down. You slump into your seat, and close your eyes. Sometimes sleep comes, sometimes you just wait quietly, hoping to disappear back into that imaginary world. A small stop arrives, and you take the time to use the can, but don’t leave the Greyhound. What’s to see, anyway? After sitting back down, you don’t move again until the tiresome journey finishes, bringing you into the brightly shining lights of a night in the city.
	You exit the bus, stumbling out like a zombie. The giant pack behind you rumbles and tips over under the cobblestone walkway. The blinding fluorescence of this Greyhound building gives you a destination, and you trudge by shadowy buildings towering above you to it. Opening the doors blasts away the heavy shadows, replacing it with a painful, dead light. There’s many passengers and passengers-to-be in the stone cage, all with dreary faces not unlike yours. Expressions twisted with defeat brush past you, their offended ‘excuse me’ the only sign of life on them. A couple minutes of checking the crowded station find your mother not present. With a conflicted sigh, you sit on the bench at the entrance: you don’t want to be here, but it’s certainly better than your home, if only because it’s your last tie -though a stretch- to Apple Bloom. Minutes pass, still with no sign of either parent. Only after hanging your head and closing your eyes, trading vigilance for relaxation, does a slight tap on your shoulder grab your attention. Looking to your right, you see your dad.
	“Hey.” His voice is low, barely audible among the mumbling clamor of the station.
	“Hey.” You mimic his quiet tone; there’s nothing you want to say to him. He makes a motion to take your luggage, but you grab the handle before he can. His hand stays awkwardly in the air a moment before he pulls it back. He mumbles something again, this time totally indiscernible, and heads out the door. Following him, you move once more into the frigid air of the northern night. Your coat is no match for the air, which seems to reach deep into your bones. After a long walk -how far away did he park? - you come upon the silver Mustang. After putting your suitcase in the back and hopping in shotgun, you ask your dad:
	“Why’re you driving mom’s car?” He’s got a little Hybrid that he uses, and swears by its gas mileage or whatever. And given your mother’s belief in rigid property laws, its kind of weird to see him in her car. Then again, it’s kind of weird to see him at all; not counting things like passing him in the halls, you rarely saw him more than twice a month. 
	“One of your mother’s parties was tonight. Well, is. Guess it’s still not over…” He says, a trace of gruffness entering into his voice as he mentions your mom. You aren’t ever around him, but sometimes you wonder if he hates your mother as much as you do. 
	“Oh. Cool.”
	“Mmhmm.” He responds curtly, an annoyed look remaining in his eyes. Then he takes a deep sigh, turning his attention back to you. “So. She said I need to bring you straight back, but I can just drop you off at home instead. Tell her something about you being tired or gross after the trip or something.” You can’t help but feel a happy relief at avoiding your mom for just a little longer. You agree, to his proposal, and in the dark of the car, you can almost make out a small smile.
	There were these girls you knew in high school, girls with shit boyfriends. The kind that would cheat on them, scream at them for little things, whatever. Enough stories persisted, and you’d seen them with too many tears or bruises to convince you that they were just stories. But whenever these girls would manage to make some sort of separation from these jerks, even if it was just being dumped, they’d always run back to them with their arms wide open. All because they gave some meek apology, or bought some roses. You’d never really got it, until you thought of your dad: every once in a while, he’d do something cool like this, which, combined with the loneliness from his absence, made you want to accept him into your life again. But you took a lesson from those girls: nothing but pain came from that. So, even if you enjoyed the rare times he did something cool, you forced yourself to remember all the abandonment and neglect. 
	As you opened the door and gave him a slight goodbye, you thought of all the years he’d been gone, and successfully stomped out the begins of filial affection. He wasn’t your dad, that was something he’d failed at, long ago. And you weren’t about to let him back in, just because he’d done something nice for you. You hoist your suitcase out of the trunk, and lug it up to the opening garage door. You wave him goodbye, and think you see him do the same from his car before driving off. Before you unlock and enter the front door, you’re met with a silence only interrupted by distant cars. Story of your life, you think as you enter your house and the heavy quiet remains. You reflect grimly on that double-bind as you march up the stairs to your room. You need a family more than anything -this was made apparent on your trip- but your awful parents only make things worse by being there. The rare visits of your dad just make his absences cut more, and your mother… Well, there was never a good moment around her. You were damned if they were gone, and damned if they weren’t. You drag your suitcase over to your room, then kick it over. You’re not unpacking that now. The only thing you need now is your handhelds, which you retrieve from the front pouch. Turning on, you spend the next few hours with your pal Pikachu, until you finally fall asleep.
	The next day goes predictably, with you lounging about in your room, trying not to go out. Your mother entered in late in the evening, angrily complaining about your father’s minute rebellion and accusing you of disobedience for not telling him to take you anyway. Apparently these parties of hers were family events, and she was some kind of hero for trying to keep the Orange family name high in the Social Register. Towards the end of twenty minutes, your anger had built up to the point where you couldn’t keep it in. 
	“Shut the fuck up!” You rose from your bed, taking a menacing step towards her. Your mother wasn’t exactly tall, and the illusion of towering over her wasn’t that difficult to achieve. Your eyes narrow and your mouth bares teeth in a hateful sneer. There’s more you want to say, but the terror in her eyes seems like it’s enough to get her out, which you consider an acceptable end. All your previous attacks had been passive-aggressive at best, and during the start of her lecture, you’d just looked vacant, so the sudden ploy at intimidation had caught her completely off guard. She mumbled something more about disrespect and fled the room, the middle-aged dilettante having no way to defend herself against open aggression. It wasn’t really a choice this time, which stood out to you. Usually, you had the patience to bear it; it was something you were used to. But this last week, which was just so incredible and amazing, somehow made everything here worse. Life had been real for a week, had been vivid, instead of this plain, forgettable drudgery. How could you tolerate any of this after what you’d just been through? You knew how good it could be now, and you knew that you could be happy; accepting a life like this wasn’t even an option. Part of you feels guilty about the attack, but its small enough to ignore. She’s had it coming a long time now; and if she was gonna keep you here, it wasn’t gonna be as the perfect son she’d envisioned. That much, at least, you had control over.
	You think of texting Apple Bloom, or maybe calling her. But the thought of it scares you too much to try. She wasn’t here, and it was killing you. And if you did talk to her, what would come of that? It’d be great, sure, but wouldn’t that only worsen your situation? Why would you remember her if it only served to remind you how shitty everything here was? You were alone again. You were stuck at this house again. With a pit in your stomach and a massive headache, you reach for your phone and turn it off. 

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	Fumbling with her ticket, she presented it to an angry old man, who hastily waved her on. She’d never been on one of these Greyhound things, although she had used public transportation from time to time. The air was cold and dry, so she pulled her coats tighter around her. They didn’t help much, but getting on the shaky bus seemed to do some good. A few more passengers step on, and the bus takes off. The trip takes most of the day, and multiple times she pities Anon for having to spend almost a full day on this lonely bus, being driven away from his real home. She wasn’t sure how much this trip would help, but she was certain it’d be worth it nonetheless. Things hadn’t been quite the same since he’d left, which was what really prompted the trip. The bus creaked to a stop, and the driver announced her stop. As she got up, a youngster grinned and offered her a hand, but she declined. Stepping off the bus, she hailed a cab, and told him the address. It drove wildly, and a few times she was worried that she’d crash before her quest ended. Finally, the crazy vehicle stopped, and she handed him a wad of cash, then escaped into the darkening streets. Not necessarily safer, but at least she wouldn’t be flung from side to side inside a metal deathtrap. She looked at the mountainous building in front of her, one Goliath among many. Checking the address she’d been given, she confirmed that this was the right one. Walking in, she asked the first secretary she found where she could find Mr. Orange. When asked for ID, and being told it was standard procedure, she confirmed that she was indeed the Ms. Apple that had made the appointment. The secretary had given her a confused look, the southerner not looking like his usual clients, but told him he’d be ready shortly. A few agonizing minutes later, and he was ready for her to come up. She entered the elevator, the pure, sterile metal making her long for the gentle, organic life of her hometown. A small ding preceded the opening of the elevator doors, and she walked out of it and into the office of Anon’s dad.
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	The way you’re stuck to your bed is reminiscent of a sick person; nothing could force you out of it except the occasional meal. There’s nothing you want to do, nothing that seems worth it. You know Apple Bloom would probably encourage you to get up and go out, but you just don’t have the strength without her and her family. Besides, you don’t want to think of her right now. 
	The days pass quickly, as soon as you find something to occupy your time with. You were already something of a hermit before your vacation, but now it was worse than ever. Whoever texted or called you was getting a dead line, and you intended on keeping it that way. You blew through Far Cry 3 and finished a couple different runs through Pokémon Emerald and Leafgreen with only a couple cursory visits to the kitchen. The solitude you’d achieved by thrusting your mother out, though it had been a long-standing goal, just felt lonely. The vacation had ruined the things you’d normally enjoy; now that you knew what actual happiness felt like, merely getting by no longer had any hold on you. Right now, the only thing you were focused on was drowning yourself in these games; anything that couldn’t make you forget about your predicament replaced with a game that could do better. This might have gone on forever if a persistent knocking at your door hadn’t forced you out of your cloudy daze. The loud knocks don’t quit, and start mixing with the doorbell. It’s pretty early in the afternoon, a time when both parents are out, so it shouldn’t be for them. When you get down to the door and open it, one of your more obnoxious friends appears in the space.
	“Anon, my man! What’s going on!?” He’s got some people behind him, which you guess are your friends too. You mumble a hello to them, and he extends his hand for a high five. Your hand meets his, then he does some other weird thing, after which you realize is your dumb secret handshake. He gives you a ‘what gives,’ expression, and you toss him a bored apology.
	“Uh, sorry man, I’m a little out of it.” Immediately he puts on this huge grin and tells you:
	“Well, of course! You just spent a week in Hicksville!” He turns to his friends -your friends- and seemingly talks to them. “I know I’d need some time to recover if I’d been forced to spent all that time with a buncha hillbillies!” They laugh at that, except for this one girl in the back. The girl you’d had kind of a crush on before you’d left. She just stares at you, a concerned look on her face. Not really sure of how to respond to that, your feelings for her having disappeared a while ago, you glance over at the speaker. His hand finds your shoulder and grasps it, hard. “Come on, man, I know just what you need. And before you can say or do anything, you’re pulled out of your house. With a sigh, you turn and lock the door, then go and follow the raucous troupe; you don’t want to go, but you don’t want to stay either. There’s just not enough strength in you to make a decision for either; you’re pulled along, and that’s that.
	The first place they take you to is The Bee’s Nest, a club you used to frequent. The music’s loud enough that you can’t really hear anything, and the servers are cute enough. Or, they were. You’re becoming less and less aware of the girls around you, with their heavily painted faces and clothes that barely hang on. Stuck in your mind is a picture of Apple Bloom on your last date. She had on those jean overalls with that plain white shirt underneath, and barely any makeup; nothing you’d see any of these girls wearing, but still so far above anything they had to offer. There was a fake bar in this place, which pandered mostly to high schoolers, and so didn’t have much more than a couple sodas to offer. You slump down on it and order a coke from the bartender. The dude’s tall and big, some football player from your high school. He doesn’t say a word to your order, fetching it in silence; kinda reminds you of Big Mac in that way. Your thoughts turn to the Apples, and then to the smallest member of the clan. A sneer of frustration crosses your face, and you barely keep your fist from pounding the table. Why couldn’t you just stop thinking of her?
	You go out to the floor and try to dance, but nothing really comes to you. If anything, you look dumber than you normally do, and retire early. Luckily, the friends accompanying you were terrible too, and so you didn’t end up with any spotlight. As you left, they followed your lead to the bar. A drink or too passes, and a few of them try to make conversation with you. This is just as awkward as your last set of motions, and pretty soon, they don’t really try. The leader of the pack, the one who dragged you out here, signals for every to head out, and the lot of you find yourselves outside the pulsing metal doors. 
	“Alright, I think my buddy Anon here needs something a little stronger to get over that trip. I mean jeez, who’d a thought he’d be that traumatized?” He puts an emphasis on every syllable of traumatized, and everybody laughs, except you and that girl, who keeps up her worried expression.
	“Actually, I think I’m gonna bail a little early tonight.” He face looks downright tragic at your denying his request, which is honestly kind of shocking.
	“What? Come on, man, this is your welcome back party! You can’t ditch that?” Jeez, you didn’t expect your presence to matter this much to them. It’s not enough to make you stay, but you do come up with an excuse in the hopes that he won’t be too offended.
	“Man, I got sick over the trip, and I’m still not much better. Let’s catch up some other time, when I don’t have like, one foot in the grave.” You try to make it sound as natural as possible, but it still feels robotic in your ears. Luckily, the guy takes it, and renames the party in your favor:
	“Alright, everybody! Back to my place for the Get-Well-Anon party!” They whoop and cheer, excited about the probably illicit substances that await them, and start off. Except for that one girl who’d been looking at you. Before you turn and head home, she reaches out and grabs your hand.
	“Are you okay?” Her voice is wavering, as if she’s nervous.
	“Yeah, just a little…” You don’t finish the sentence. There just doesn’t seem to be a point. She doesn’t look satisfied with your answer:
	“Um… ok. Hope you feel better.” You nod, giving her a weak attempt at a smile, and she turns and runs to catch up with the group, but not without looking back over her shoulder. You probably should have been nicer to your friends today, maybe made an attempt to have fun. After all, these were the people you were stuck with. Heaving a deep sigh, you make plans of what you’d do next time. Coming home, still in that depressive haze, you notice a package with your name written all over it in bright red. The letter attached says it’s from Apple Bloom. 
	Without hesitation, you rush upstairs to open it. Even if your parents weren’t here, your room still felt like the only place you could have this present. Your footfalls are heavy on the exotic carpets, still bearing shoes that couldn’t care less about the dirt they spread. Finding your door, you slam it shut in your excitement, then hope that wasn’t sufficient cause for a lecture. Shaking off the mild dread, you bring the package over to your bed and tear into it. The bright red wrapping paper gives you no difficulties, unlike the thick line of ribbon that encircles the package multiple times. After failing to untie the knot, pull off the string, and bite through it, you head over to your desk and grab some scissors. Freeing the present from the shiny trappings, you’re left with a plain brown box with duct tape over the opening folds. Geez, how much protection did this box need? You use the cutting edge of the scissors to open the box, and open the brown flaps.
	Inside the somewhat large cardboard box is something purple, with what looks like white lining. It’s cramped within, the object having been squished in there in order to make it fit. Your first guess is a cushion of some king, maybe a stuffed animal. As you grab ahold of it and pull it out, it becomes apparent that it’s a small, rectangular pillow. The main body is purple and the white fuzzy stuff is indeed its lining. The back is plain, with nothing on it. The front has a huge pink felt square in the center of it, concentric to the whole. In the middle of this is a shape which, after some staring, looks to be a combination of an apple and a heart; in reality, it’s a lumpy looking heart with a stem and two leaves coming out the top. Its color is a deep crimson, like her hair. Four letters -well, three and one sign- are stitched into the center of this with thick white string: ‘AB + A.” Apple Bloom and Anon.
	Your grin, wider than you have in these last few days spent in the city. You hug the little pillow, pressing it tightly into your chest. You can almost feel her here, her presence alive in her gift. Small tears manifest at the edge of your eyes, warning of an incoming deluge. Fuck, you missed her. Unable to count the blurry days that have passed, all you can say is that it’s been far too long. Memories of her golden eyes, that rosy, curly hair come alive with the pillow, which somehow smells like her. You squeeze it even tighter, trying to fight back the despair coming down on you. A sniffle emerges against your will, and you breathe in deeply, trying to calm yourself down. Before you’d left, there was a strength you’d drawn on, not necessarily coming from her. You can take this. You can be strong, if only for her. Sitting up straight, you blink back your tears. There’d come a time when you saw her again, and when you did, you didn’t want to be some wreck that couldn’t live without her. You had to be something she could look up to, like she’d done during that vacation.
	Just as you’re wiping away the final traces of wetness from your eyes, a knocking comes from your door. Your heart sinks; this is almost certainly about you slamming your door. Hoping to deal with this in a calm way -blowing up at your parents isn’t going to work every time- you take a few deep breaths before answering.
	“Come in!” The door creaks open, revealing the face of your dad. His eyes are wide with that inquisitive, slightly mocking expression he often wears. But this time it seems a little softer, as if he were sad about something. It’s a little confusing; never seeing your dad, you never really saw him cry. Whenever something upsetting happened, he would just shut himself up in his office or room. 
	“Hey, son.” The voice matches the tone of his body language: quiet and slightly morose. Geez, what could happen that would make him act this way around you? Was someone dead?
	“Is someone dead?” You ask, mostly sarcastic. His face takes on a bewildered look, before giving an astonished:
	“What? No! Why would you…” He stops his query midsentence, dropping back into that weary look from before. “Nevermind. There was something I wanted to talk to you about.” Moving over to the bed, he sits down on the edge of it. He opens his mouth to speak, but then his eyes find the embroidered pillow you’d just received. “Oh, was that the present in the mail? Gosh, that sure looks like something.” Suddenly irritable, you push the pillow off the bed, out of sight. 
	“What do you want, dad?” Your eyes are probably a little puffy, and you’re not exactly in the mood for having your life pried into. Especially when that part of your life is the best girl you’ve ever known and the prier is your absentee father. His typical absence usually protects him from all the barbs you’ve prepared, and so he’s a little taken aback by the sudden venom. For the second time, he turns his attention back to whatever somber subject he’d been preparing for.
	“I, um. I’m not really sure how to say this, so I’ll start from the beginning. Your mother told me that you wanted to stay at Sweet Apple Acres. Is that right?” You nod slowly, narrowing your eyes in your suspicion of something being up. What’s he after? Your dad continues on, taking the vague head bobbing as a yes. “Ok. She also told me that she said no, because we need you in our life, and that there was nothing for you there. Is that true?” A part of you wants to tell him everything, how there was so much good there, and how you finally found a place you could fit in. But you’re still wary of him, so you hold your tongue. Instead, you try and get some more information out of him.
	“Why are you asking me this?” He looks at the wall and sighs, scratching the back of his head.
	“Uh, the thing is… your mother is not always the most truthful person. And when I picked you up, something seemed different about you. I can’t really say what…” He drops off on this last word, looking down at his knees for a moment, then starting again. “But I don’t know. My point is… No, what I came up here to ask you was: do you want to go back down there?”
	“Yes.” Your plan of not showing your hand disappears at the entrance of that question. The words come out of your mouth faster than you can think, and you almost cover your mouth in shock after you’d done it. Instead, you just stare at him worriedly, hoping desperately that this won’t be used against you. All your dad does is look back at his knees and chuckle.
	“Heh. Guess you really liked that place, huh.” You nod, unable to say anything more. Is he going to reverse the decision? You’re not brave enough to hope for that, even though you couldn’t want anything more than that. Your father looks at you directly, casting off the apparent sorrow for seriousness. “You great-aunt came to me yesterday. I guess she goes by Granny Smith now.” He shakes his head, trying to push off the old memories of his aunt and focus on the matter at hand. “She said you should be living back with the Apples. Now, I was pretty shocked at that.” He smiles a little bit, a humorous look on his face: “It isn’t every day an elderly lady walks into your office and asks for your kids. But all joking aside, she made a few good points. We talked for a while about you-” 
	“What’d you say?“ You can’t help but interrupt. He shakes his head.
	“Just grown-up stuff. Don’t worry about that. Anyway, she gave me a different story than I’d heard from your mother. And I don’t mean to insult her, but my wife can be a little oblivious to people around her.” He grimaces as he says this, obviously feeling more bitter than he’s showing. But then he cheers up, just barely, and looks at you candidly: “So I wanted to ask you about this. Do you think it’d be better if you lived with your great-aunt her grandchildren?” The understanding in his eyes is too much, and all those emotions at the gate pass through. You start telling him of how great it was being there, how you felt like you’d had caring siblings, and the friends you’d made. You try to keep from saying anything that would suggest you don’t consider him and your mom as family, but the implication does come out. The stories of all the fun outings you’d had, all the good moments, and the affection you’d had, fill the air while your dad nods his head. You finish with the comfortable morning you’d had in the rain, breathless from the desperate outpouring of the events.
	“Uh-huh. Yeah, I figured something like that had happened. I think your great-aunt might have reported it a little better than your mother, to be honest.” The promise of going back is still hoped for, but his failure to address it cause it to flicker. For a few horrible moments, you wonder if you poured your heart out for no reason at all. But then he addresses it. “Truth be told, having you come back here wasn’t your mother’s call. That’s something that’s up to me. And while I probably would have done the same as her, you should have called me.” You suppress the urge to tell him he probably wouldn’t pick up his phone. “However, after hearing from your great-aunt, I’m beginning to think that she may be right.” He gets up and walks over to your window, wearing a troubled expression.
	“About what?”
	“About your home being with them. It wasn’t an easy thing to hear, but it sounded like you really found a place with them. And as for here,” he gestures to the house, “I know it isn’t the best home. I, um.” He stops, trying to find the strength to go on. “I know I haven’t always been there for you. In fact, I’ve missed out on a pretty good chunk of your life.” He looks into your eyes, all the practicing of this conversation failing him now. “What I’m trying to say is, I know I haven’t been a very good father. And I know what your mother can be like. So, since you’ve only got a few months before you’re a fully-fledged adult, I don’t see anything wrong with letting you stay down there. I expect you’d be moving out on your 18th anyway, and I don’t see any point in keeping you here any more than you want to.” 
	For a moment, you don’t say anything. All you can do is stare up at him in shock. No way is this happening to you. He seems to understand your reaction somewhat, giving a weak nod. At that little affirmation, the dream come true, you dash forward and give you father a voluntary hug for the first time in a long time. Your dad had resigned himself to a life without a son, and so didn’t expect any kind of affection from you. Upon the grateful squeeze, he laughs softly, and tentatively returns the embrace. It ends a moment later, both parties happy for the gifts given them. Then he stands up, brushing off his pants and clearing his throat. 
	“Alright. Well, I’ll go give them a call and tell them you’re up for it.” The moment he leaves, you reach down and pick up the pillow, squeezing it tight. You’re going back! You’re going back! Unable to contain one iota of excitement, you leap off you bed and engage in the silliest dancing you’d ever done. You pump your arms in a cheerleader-like victory, offering silent ‘Woo!s” to the room. You’re going back! You take the edges of the pillow and start doing a makeshift two-part dance with it, the same kind of swing you’d done with Apple Bloom in the park. You’re going back! Another few leaps of joy bring your energy low enough to realize you’d left your phone off. What if they tried to talk to you? You dive over to the drawer with your phone in it and extract it. Turning it on, you find more than a few messages left from strange numbers. The first of each announces their names as AJ, Apple Bloom, and even Big Mac. You read them all, texting back Big Mac and AJ, then preparing to call Apple Bloom. Before you can hit “call,” a text from your father comes through:
	“They’re coming up tomorrow to get you.” Muting another victorious cheer, you go back to Apple Bloom’s number and hit ‘call.’ 
	“Anon?”
	“I’m coming back!” She gives a girlish scream in response, prompting you to hold the phone away from your ear for a moment.
	“No way!”
	“Yeah! My dad just said I could!” You can barely talk through your smile, which stretches from ear to ear. It almost hurts to be this happy. 
	“Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh! When are you coming over?” Her excitement is palpable, and you can tell that her smile is just as wide as yours. You tell her you’re coming over tomorrow, and she immediately begins telling you everything you’re gonna do with her over the summer. The way she lists everything makes it sound like she’s planned this before, and merely reciting it now. You can’t remember what made you shut off your phone, remove yourself from that beautiful voice. The notes work their way deep within you, the silver bells the most perfect music you’d ever heard. Each word brings you a deeper peace, granting you a fullness you’d never felt before now. For now, there was no threat of losing her: you were going to be with her, and nothing was gonna stop you. She tells you all the plans she’s made during the summer, and your schedule begins to grow with activities you can hardly wait for. Swimming in the old swimming hole, meeting Sweetie Belle’s sister, going camping at a nearby forest, maybe even trying something they call Mooncider. Your heart beats so quickly, the moment still seeming like some thin dream to be popped in a moment. The minutes fly by, your heart soaring above the clouds and resting the brilliant sunshine of her words. You can barely concentrate on what she says with how excited you are, the feeling going beyond any kind of high. The sweet tones of your favorite girl start to lull you to sleep, the daydreams of a future spent with the Apples nearly becoming true dreams. Then she has to go, citing an early morning ordered by AJ. You bid her a goodnight, and tell her you love her. 
	“I love you too.” And then the click signals her departure. Inside, you’re about to explode with joy. Immediately you start over to your dresser, tossing great heaps of clothes on your bed. You sprint downstairs to the laundry room and pick up two big suitcases, then rush upstairs just as fast. In a rush greater than any dose of candy could give you, you fill it up with everything you’d need, then set them by the door. You’ve still got way more energy than you know what to do with. There’s not much you can do, so you just collapse on your bed and play some video games. It’s nothing more than a placeholder, something to bring you from one moment to the next. But for now, that’s completely fine. All you want is for tomorrow to come. Eventually the excitement wears off, the resulting crash leaving you sleeping with a Venusaur shining brightly on your chest, waiting for instruction. 
	You wake up in a daze, still not fully cognizant, but still noticing some weight lifted off you. When you get out of bed to brush your teeth, you notice the packed suitcases at your door. A new rush and ecstasy blows through you upon the recollection of yesterday’s events. The majority of the day is filled with restlessness, playing video games while glancing at the window every few seconds. The continual lack of Apples in your driveway is distressing, each failure of them to appear creating a sinking feeling in your gut. It’s not anything major, just a small voice telling you that they won’t show, that it’s not gonna happen. You struggle to fight it off, sacrificing the day’s hours to your games with as little thought as possible given to it. Every nerve feels like its lit up with energy, even after hours of waiting. Occasional trips for food are unwillingly taken when the hunger pangs grow stronger than the need to keep your driveway in view. Each time you pop something in the microwave, and rush back upstairs when it’s over. The electricity within you never fades completely, the image of Apple Bloom always starting you back up whenever you’ve grown somewhat complacent. And then, right after coming back from the bathroom, there’s a van in your driveway. Voices from below report of your dad’s presence, along with AJ and Granny Smith. Still no sound of your favorite cousin of all. You speed downstairs, and engulf AJ the moment she enters your sight. She returns the gesture, squeezing you for all you’re worth. Once she lets go, you can see her huge smile, happier than you’d ever seen her. You turn to Big Mac, and offer him a firm handshake. Even though you feel more vibrant and energetic than ever before, you still manage to refrain from hugging the guy; he’s definitely not that kinda guy. Instead, you grin and vigorously shake his hand:
	“Welcome to the Big Apple, Big Mac.” He responds to the hearty handshake, chuckling softly at the terrible pun. Before you can do anything more, he pulls your hand and wraps you in the burliest hug ever. It ends after one bone-crushing moment, the big lug laughing at the pained sounds you’d made. Unable to hold off, you ask where the other members are.
	“Where’s Granny? And, uh, Apple Bloom?” You try not to forget the former in all your excitement to see the latter. 
	“Granny’s staying home; travelin’ ain’t too good for her. And Apple Bloom’s out back, waiting for you.” Rocketing out the back door, you see Apple Bloom standing by one of the young oak trees. You looked at Apple Bloom as if for the first time. The teenage girl couldn’t have been more than a couple feet away, one or the both of you closing the distance without notice. It was her eyes that caught yours, the first aspect to capture you. They were large, the wide, inimitable position that accompanies honest hope. The color wasn’t yellow, not quite; the hue was darker, but the shining, naked excitement that made its home in those eyes brought out a gleaming gold to them. Within those sparkling amber pools resides two dilated pupils aimed directly at you. The pale white encircling the hypnotizing circles, by some trick of the eye, seemed to borrow the light hues of the gold within and tan without. The eye itself was carefully and exquisitely lined with the thinnest black trim and curled lashes barely accentuated, the light makeup providing a perfect frame for her perfect eyes. Staring into the two perfect globes, you felt as if you had met some molten image of an Egyptian God, the sandy tones recalling a stylized drawing of Cleopatra. Only these eyes were not bound by the haughty half-glare of the proud ruler, but the open, embracing gaze of a friend. As she continued her responding stare, the open, almost awestruck form of her eyes settled into a more elliptical shape, crinkled at the edges, as a great grin crossed her face. 
	Your sight lingered on those royal visions before slowly falling to the nose below. The perfection of a nose had never been a subject to cross your mind, your interests lying aside the sphere of art. But here you found what you would call such, the small, adorable nose shocking you with an appreciation for a usually overlooked aspect. The sides and lower edges did not have the deep inclines that framed craggier, harder faces. Instead, her soft, pale skin transitioned seamlessly into the smooth nose, speckled with little brown freckles. 
	The thin, creased lines framing the ends of her cheek, accentuated by her full smile, pointed towards the sides. These drew your attention to the full cheeks, raised by the abundant ecstasy written on her entrancing countenance. They held a faint rosy tinge, perhaps from a blushing confession of her happiness to see you, perhaps from a touch of rouge in preparation for your reunion, perhaps both. They were almost puffy, two rounded orbs pushing out. But these enhanced the childish innocence and perfection of her face, rather than making any detraction. This was not the emaciated face of a camera-distorted model, warped into something impossible; this was the face of a real girl, a living girl. These were the warm, thick cheeks of a healthy young girl, the kind you could embrace and kiss, and who could do the same for you rather than sitting frozen on a page. 
	Looking to the sides of her face, you noticed the slightly larger ears poking out of the thick hair that fell alongside her plump cheeks. They were relatively big, not massive, but still more than expected; this bothered you little, the slight imperfection only confirming the reality of the vision before you. She looked down for a moment, brushing the hair on her right side behind her ear. The lobe at the bottom was unattached, and held a small hole, earrings foregone for this event. Pulling yourself away from the suddenly present image of brushing her hair back yourself and placing your lips on that dangling skin, the silken strands themselves fall into notice.
	The brilliant crimson of her hair was revealed in full as it bathed in the light of the evening sun. The thick curls, turned into ringlets for this occasion, bounced at any motion of her head. The undulating shadows cast by other threads created differences in the complex patterns, a range of dark pink to deep crimson emerging in the diversity of illumination. The thick spirals settled one on top of another, swirling like the wind of Van Gogh’s Starry Night. It flowed down both sides her head, alighting softly onto mostly bare shoulders. A heavy bundle of twirling reds keeps falling onto her spotless forehead, noticed and brushed away in moments, then falling back no sooner than it takes for her to have faith in its stay.
	Moving downward, the crimson mouth arrests your attention like her eyes did. Her mouth was small from side to side, yet could still stretch widely to grant you the massive smile she now had on. The lips themselves were moderately large, still looking puffy during the smile. You could see that she’d colored them a deeper kind of pink, not the passionate crimson from your date. Still, the shiny curves beckoned you, the smooth “m” of the top setting your heart aflutter. Visions of your thumb sliding across that perfect red line, your own lips falling towards them cloud your mind; had you been alone, you would have recreated that moment here and now. Instead, you take a step back, intending to say something, but instead falling under the spell of the rest of the sweet country girl. 
	She wears a small red dress, the color matching that of her irises. Thin straps, about half an inch wide, hug the tops of her shoulders, hiding beneath that glowing red hair. It’s lined thinly with white, and goes down to mid-thigh, flaring out just a bit after the waistline. Below this you can see tight white shorts hugging her legs to just above the knees, the shapely forms beneath evident. Over the waistline, she wears a little white belt with a golden buckle. The dress itself isn’t form-fitting, but is close enough to see the curves of her little tummy and the push of her fair breasts against it. Tall white socks reach close to her knee, ending in ruby red shoes to rival Dorothy’s.
	She stands just beside a tree, whose shadow blocks the full deluge of the setting sun. The sunshine is cut by the curved trunk of the mighty tree. As such the light fell on half her body, the other half lit only by reflections of the former rays. The two parts, shining and glowing, were partitioned diagonally, starting at her right ear and ending just above her left knee, with the higher part being the shaded area. It was just so that you could see the skin of her left shoulder and arm aglow, the golden hue matching her eyes in color and gleam. 
	She was beautiful.
	This was the girl that was so full of life, she could be mistaken for some deific incarnation of life itself. Her every smile sang like the birds of the morning, the glint of her eyes shining with the brightness and hope of a young child. With every motion she seemed to radiate with energy, the forward momentum of a carefree nature or a determined young man. She was electric, like a bolt of lightning. Only she stayed. She was here, and she was present. Though she was so much, so beautiful and so full of life, she was just as human as you or anyone else was. And that only made her more so! She was not some abstract theory, some ideal dreamed by a poet or a superman created in the furrowed brow of a philosopher., She was a real girl, a living, breathing beauty that you could touch and hold and kiss and love! 
	This was the girl healed you, mended you. And though you weren’t perfect, it was as if a bandage had been placed over your heavy wounds. The first steps to healing, so desperately needed after years of being untended, laid ragged on the side of the road. But though so long had passed, and so many had passed you by, one had finally come to you. And that gentle girl, the healer who had noticed you, had been perfect. The streams of anger and hurt still ran in you, but the turbulence had largely fallen; the roar had become a groan, occasionally a whisper. And as you look inside yourself, you know that it was going to be alright. You’re on the mend. But no way would you allow this to be one-sided. True, she just didn’t have issues so raw and vile, but there were problems for her that were just as important. You are going to do whatever you can to protect that smile; you never really thought of yourself as that important or interesting, but you had the willpower going for you, and that’s something to trust in. She picked you; you are going to live up to that, and earn your appointment. Looking into those eyes, those that set your heart on fire, you foresee a challenge in your future to never let her down. And you won’t.
	The silent gazing continues, the smiles slowly fading; not for any loss of happiness, but for a new, more intimate kind. Your eyes meet, almost somber looks taking into the importance of this moment and each other. How long had you known this girl who had touched you so thoroughly? Barely a week ago, you’d been hanging by a thread, a patchwork Frankenstein waiting for the one thread to break, followed by an instantaneous unraveling. And then the Apples had come into your life, piecing you back together. AJ and Granny Smith had helped you, you’d even developed a solid, though distant, relationship with the silent Big Mac. But Apple Bloom was the one who’d pursued you, who taken and healed you to such a degree. You wished vainly that your quiet gaze could show her how much she meant to you, how much you cared, and how thankful you were. You doubted it; but you were going to be this girl’s steed, knight, cousin, friend, and whatever else she needed to make her life complete. It wasn’t just that you owed her, but that you wanted to; this girl deserved the best, and you were going to be the one that makes sure she gets it. 
	As you stand looking at her, for almost a minute, you remember the others inside. Your gaze falters, turning from your gorgeous cousin to the door. Perhaps you should re-enter, start packing or saying goodbye. But as your eyes return from the door to your cousin, it’s evident her eyes haven’t left you since she’d first begun looking at you. No, you won’t. This is the person you want to, need to be with right now. And this is the girl you’re going to be with right now. 
	Her arms raise, a jerky movement showing the restraint she’d placed upon it, into an empty pre-embrace. She smiles crookedly as she offers a hug, not being familiar with this kind of moment, and deciding a hug is the best way to resolve the sad look in her cousin’s eyes. She was right. Without hesitation you closed the distance, your legs lowering so your arms might go below hers. In place, you hug her tightly, then extend your bent legs, lifting the girl into the air. She lets out a cute “eep!” and buries her head into your neck. Not finished yet, you lift your left leg up and rotate it 90 degrees, then begin spinning her counterclockwise, pivoting on your feet. Her legs float up as you increase your speed, enough to make the excited girl laugh at the unforeseen display of affection. You join her, throwing your head back and laughing. 
	As you slow, and set her down, she leans into you, still grinning and giggling. But hey, you’re grinning like an idiot too. Looking down at the girl holding onto you, the good news finally catches up with you, engulfing you in the purest joy you’d felt in years. For it wasn’t just the joy of connection with your family, your real family, it was freedom. The whole trip, there’d been this fog hanging over you, never too far from the back of your mind; it constantly reminded you: “you’re still going back. You still belong to the Oranges.” But now that cloud was broken, a future expanding out before you. You were going back to the Apples. You belonged to the Apples. Even if your last name remained, it didn’t matter. Looking into the gorgeous eyes of Apple Bloom, you knew what you were when it came down to it.
	You were an Apple, to the core.


The End