Serenade for Strings: 1

>You lean back in your chair and take a drink, watching the pink mare hop up onto the table with her forehooves and pick the ball up in her mouth.
>Her eyes narrow with concentration as she takes aim.
>You eye the nicely rounded contours of her behind, jutting slightly out toward you as her purple tail swishes back and forth.
“Amethyst,” you say in pleading tones. “Please. Try not to fuck up. PLEASE.”
>She shoots you a glare, flicking her tail at you in half-playful petulance.
>“’m trrn t’CNCNTRT”, she mumbles.
“What have I told you about talking with balls in your mouth?”
>A flush rises to her cheeks and she turns to spit the ball in your face; beside you, Twinkleshine and Lyra dissolve into laughter.
>”I SAID I’M TRYING TO-”
>“That counts as her turn,” a midnight-blue stallion cuts in from the far end of the table.
“Fuck off, Perry.”
>”She threw the ball, so-”
>“FUCK OFF PERRY,” Amethyst yells, rounding to fix the stallion with a baleful glare.
>You reach out a hand to ruffle her ears.
“Shhh… don’t get overexcited,” you smirk.
>She dissolves into giggles as she cants her head and rubs her cheek against your palm.
>“Oh man, I’m so wasted.”
“Yeah. Me too. That’s why you need to NOT FUCK UP.”
>You bop her lightly on the forehead for emphasis as her giggles intensify.
“Focus.” You grip her head in both hands and hold her locked in intense eye contact.
“I said FOCUSSSSSS.”
>“Okay, okay, geez,” she squeaks out between giggles.
>Finally she’s under control and you release her.
>“Well, if it’s still your turn then GO already,” Perry bitches from across the table.
>“FUCK OFF, PERRY,” your entire team yells in unison.
>“Whatever…”

>Deliberately taking her time, Amethyst Star places her forehooves on the table once more and takes a deep breath, obviously focusing hard as she stares intently at the nine plastic cups of beer that still stand at the far end of the table.
>She rears up, arching her neck into an elegant curve and tilting her head right back.
>She holds the pose for a moment, her body like a drawn bow, gathering all the momentum of her coiled muscles before darting her head forwards with a rapid jerk and releasing the ball.
>The sudden forceful movement throws her off balance and nearly sends her sprawling; she catches herself heavily on one hoof, and bears down with her entire weight directly on the edge of the flimsy collapsible table.
>It immediately tips violently over, flooding the floor with beer as Amethyst lands on top of everything with a hapless yelp.
>There’s a moment’s shocked silence as everybody stares, disbelieving, at the scene of the catastrophe.
>You’re the first one to recover.
“IT’S A DRAW,” you roar, leaping to your feet and then bursting into helpless laughter as Amethyst blinks dazedly up at you from the beer-soaked wreckage.
>“A DRAW?” Perry yells, coming over and stepping up a little too close to you. “You gotta be kidding me. We were winning seven to none, and it was YOUR clutz of a teammate who wrecked the game.”
“Don’t be a bad loser, Perry,” you grin as you push past him and reach down a hand to help Amethyst up.  “Adda girl, good shot. Too bad ‘bout that wonky table. You coulda been hurt or something.”
>“Ow. I know right?” Amethyst pouts, laying a hoof daintily in your hand and leaning on you as she rises shakily to her hooves.

>“You owe us a round of drinks,” Perry persists, stepping in front of you.
>You roll your eyes, letting go of Amethyst’s hoof and turning to square up to the blue stallion.
“You need to stop pissing me off.”
>“Or what?” he says in a low voice.
>You stare him down.
>He holds your eye, but you see him take a tentative step back with one hoof before planting it back on the ground as if remembering himself.
>Lyra steps between the two of you, shaking her head in disapproval. “Ugh. Stallions. Don’t you think everypony’s had enough to drink already? We need to get Amethyst cleaned up, and let the poor barmare tidy this mess.”
>“Yeah,” Twinkleshine adds, stepping up to join the altercation. “Just stop being such a creep, Perry. I’ve never seen anyone get so mad about a game of beer pong.”
 >The stallion glares at you for a moment longer before turning away and stalking back over to his teammates.
“…you weren’t serious about us having drunk enough, right Lyra?”
>The mint-green mare just rolls her eyes at you as Amethyst bursts out into another giggling fit.
>“I’m taking this mare out of the clutches of your bad influence, Anon,” Lyra says with a wry smile. “I’m getting her cleaned up and then putting her to bed. You should turn in as well y’know, we’ve got class at nine in the morning.”
“Yeahhhh, whatever. Hey Amethyst, come find me once you’re not all gross and sticky. I mean, if mom here will let you out to play. We’ve got drinking to do.”

>A couple of hours later you’re in some mare’s dormroom, sat on her bed, passing a bottle of vodka and a plate of hash brownies around while Neighbraska by Bruce Springstallion plays on the stereo.
>Amethyst Star never reappeared, but Twinkleshine has kept up with you like a trooper.
>“H-hey. Hey, Anon,” she says softly, leaning her muzzle up on your shoulder and speaking directly into your ear. The curls of her sugar-pink mane tickle your cheek. “Anon, how many mares have you had sex with? Be honest.”
“The fuck kind of question is that?”
>“It’s a normal question,” she says with a hint of defensiveness, blinking big blue eyes at you.
“Okay, so how many dudes have you had sex with?”
>“Hey, no, I asked first.”
“Shit, I don’t even know. I lost count. Check my room; I started putting the notches on my wall after I ran out of room on my bedposts.”
>She snerks with laughter.
>“You’re so sleazy.”
>You grin and take a slug of vodka from the bottle before passing it on.
“So what is it about sleazy guys that drives you so wild?”
>Her laughter intensifies as she buries her face in your shoulder.
>Your hand moves around the back of her as she leans into you, and comes to rest on her flank.
>You stroke her sleek, snow-white coat idly as your attention drifts to the discussion you overhear coming from your neighbours on the other side.
>“…that’s what I’m saying. Modernism was a self-conscious movement. All those writers knew each other and they talked about what being a modernist writer MEANT, what a modernist novel was s’posed to BE, and then they tried to WRITE that.”
>“And, what, postmodernism wasn’t?”
>“No way. Postmodernism was a thing made up by critics, not writers. No writers called themselves postmodern until postmodernism was already dead as a relevant cultural movement.”

>You interrupt.
“Hang on. Who the fuck cares what the writers thought about it?”
>The two ponies turn to look at you: Felix, a grey stallion from down the hall, and a blue mare you don’t recognise on the other side of him.
>”Oh sure,” Felix says with a roll of his eyes. “’The author’s dead’, and all that.”
>“Whaaa~?” the mare asks, looking between the two of you.
“EXACTLY. But don’t say it like that, man, like it’s just some catchphrase you can dismiss. That shit is REAL. Like… seriously, who cares whether, say, James Joyce-”
>“Who?”
>Oh, right. Ponies.
“Errr… James… Horse?” you try, putting an accent on for ‘horse’ so it half-rhymes with ‘Joyce’.
>“Oh, yeah. ‘Ulyhorsies’ is a classic, but he just crawled too far up his own ass with ‘Fillygan’s Wake’.”
“…right.”
>You roll your eyes; you bet this pleb hasn’t even read ‘Fillygan’s Wake’.
“So, yeah. Who cares if James Horse thought he was a modernist or not? Nowadays we tend to read his texts through the lens of modernism, but that’s only one possible reading. Who’s to say it’s better than any other?”

>Twinkleshine has slumped against you and rolled over into your lap, gazing up at you as you talk with Felix. Your hand toys idly with her horn.
>“Right, right, I know: just because he thought he was a modernist doesn’t mean we need to think that. But it shaped his writing, so-”
“Oh geez, who cares? Why kiss his authorial ass like that? Read ‘Ulysses’ – excuse me, ‘Ulyhorsies’ – however you want. Read it as a typical modernist novel or read it as a really weird Saturday morning cartoon, either one is just as relevant and valid.”
>“Wow,” Twinkleshine murmurs, shifting around a little in your lap. “I wish I understood this stuff better. What you guys are talking about.”
>Felix’s blue mare is leaning on his shoulder, looking intently between the two of you.
>“So,” Felix says, “some dumb pony who doesn’t even know what modernism is, who reads James Horse and thinks it’s just shit boring compared to ‘Fifty Shades of Hay’ – their opinion is just as valid as yours?”
>“Sure it is. Otherwise I’m just an elitist, right? Like, shall we sit down right now and work out which of us has read more books, so we can decide who’s right about everything?”
>“Dude, no way do you actually believe all that horseshit.”
“Well of course not.” You grin back. “It’s TRUE, though.”
>“Hahaha… yeah man. Yeah, it’s true. All right. It’s TRUE horseshit.”
>This guy’s all right.
>The vodka bottle reaches Felix and you stop him with a hand on his foreleg as he’s about to take a slug.
“Here’s to James Horse and his radical contributions to the field of Saturday morning cartoons.”
>“I’ll drink to that,” Felix grins as he knocks back a gulp of vodka and passes you the bottle.
>You drink deep and pass the bottle to Twinkleshine, wincing a little as the harsh liquor hits you straight in the back of the head and burns all the way down to your stomach.

>Later you find yourself staggering back through the harshly lit hallways, Twinkleshine leaning heavily into you as she follows alongside.
>“Shhhhh,” you hiss as she stumbles on the way past someone’s dorm.
>“Shhhhhhhhhh,” she rounds on you.
>“SHHHHHHHHH.”
>Your shushing contest gets louder and louder until Twinkleshine ends up going into an extended giggling fit.
>You stifle it in the end by lifting her up onto her hindlegs and pushing her against the wall there in
the hallway, leaning awkwardly down to lock your lips with hers.
>Her giggles turn to eager little whimpers as your tongue finds hers and one hand moves to roughly stroke and knead her thigh.
>Somewhere a door opens and you break apart, staring at each other wide-eyed and startled.
>After a beat, you register that the noise was in another hallway.
>You rest a hand firmly on Twinkleshine’s shoulder to lead her - silent now, and breathing a little heavily - the rest of the way to your room.
>Finally, after a further eternity of wrong turns, grimy stairways and a last long fumbling with your keys, the slender white unicorn pony is reclining in a languid pose across your bed.
>She bats her eyelids at you as she watches you pull off your shoes and begin to undress.
>Her pink mane spreads out across your sheets as she rolls onto her back, gazing at you upside-down now as one hoof finds its way to her crotch and begins to move there at a leisurely, teasing pace.
>“This is so wild,” she murmurs as she sees you watching her. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
>Her hind legs come together in some rough approximation of modesty, her hoof still trapped between them.
>“I mean I never do stuff like this…”
>You just grin at her and give a shrug as you discard your underwear and step closer.
“It’s okay, I do stuff like this all the time, I’ll walk you through it. Open your mouth.”

>The sun’s first rays find you still awake, your face buried in Twinkleshine’s mane as her warm body moves against you with the rhythm of her breathing.
>Her shampoo smells of something unidentifiable; clean and fresh, but oddly sterile.
>You don’t know if she’s asleep.
>Slowly your drunken state is collapsing into a hangover.
>Your body aches and your mouth is foul from too many cigarettes, but still you have to fight off the urge to climb out of bed and sit on your window ledge in the cold dawn to light up a smoke.
>An hour or two after that – you suppose you might have dozed in the meantime, but you’re sure you never quite went to sleep – you’re aware that your dick is hard against Twinkleshine’s flank.
>She must have realised too, awake or half-awake, and groggily she wriggles against you until you’re positioned at her entrance.
>Your head is throbbing and your stomach is threatening to revolt at any moment; your head is hardly in the mood.
>But your prick is insistent.
>You push your way in, spurred on by the tang of sweat and sex that mingles with the fragrance of her shampoo.

>Afterwards the exhaustion and nausea comes over you in a great crashing wave.
>You pull on a towel and lurch down the hall to the bathroom, passing by several ponies already up and about preparing for classes.
>Finding a vacant shower stall, you lock yourself in and lie down in a crumpled heap on the grooved plastic floor to wait for the nausea to pass.
>Eventually you feel capable of standing up and turning on the water.
>It’s frigid at first and then almost unbearably hot, but you stand indifferent under the stream and let it scour you clean.
>When you come back to your room twenty or thirty minutes later Twinkleshine is still in bed, a soft white-and-pink bundle wrapped up cosy in your duvet.
>She opens her eyes as you come in.
>“You went out. Did you bring coffee?”
“Nope. Listen, I have class, you should go.”
>She doesn’t answer for a while, just watches you as you hang your towel up and pull on fresh underwear and a pair of blue jeans.
>“You don’t even want to get breakfast?”
“I told you, I have class.”
>“You can’t blow it off?”
“No.”
>You turn to the mirror and examine yourself carefully.
>Slightly ashen pallor, bags under the eyes, but not too bad.
>You notice a nose hair and rummage in the drawer for some tweezers.
>Twinkleshine has gone silent; in the background of the mirror she wriggles free from your sheets.
>“Right. Well, err… see ya then,” she says.
“Yeah. Hey, listen, we’ll hang out sometime soon.”
>“Yeah.”
>You give her a quick hug and turn back to the mirror. She turns at the door to smile and wave one hoof a little awkwardly before leaving.

 >Forty-five minutes later you slip surreptitiously through the lecture-hall doors.
>Professor Arpeggio at the front fixes you with a look that says ‘so nice of you to join us’, but thankfully he doesn’t interrupt his spiel for you.
>There are empty seats in the back rows but you walk past them to the fifth row back where you see a spare seat next to Lyra.
>You have to squeeze past a few ponies in her row to get there, earning you a couple of whispered curses.
“Hey,” you whisper to the green unicorn as you put your coffee cup down and start rummaging in your satchel for a notebook and pen.
>She ignores you, busily writing notes.
“Hey, Lyra. Got a pen?”
>She doesn’t look up.
>“No.”
>You roll your eyes and turn to the mare on your other side, a white earth pony with a long blonde mane.
“Hey, can I borrow a pen?”
>She shoots you a glare; you smile easily back.
>She reaches down into her bag and puts a ballpoint down in front of you before returning to her notes.
“Thanks, I owe you. I’ll buy you coffee sometime.”
>Arpeggio pauses in what he was saying and clears his throat, looking down at you impatiently from his vantage point on the raised stage.
“Oh, hey, sorry, I was just borrowing a pen. All set now.”
>“So I may continue?”
“Yeah man, absolutely.”
>“I’m so glad. So.  As I was saying. The rules of counterpoint have changed with each generation of composers, to the point where we might now speak less of ‘rules’ than of ‘fashions’. Indeed, some modern composers…”

>“Dammit Anon, you’re such a total horse’s ass,” Lyra says, rounding on you.
“Oh geez, really? Really Lyra?”
>“REALLY. Why does everything have to be a performance with you?”
“She said, recording her audition tape for a soap opera.”
>“You can’t help yourself, can you? It’s like a compulsion. Even if it has to be a one-man clown show, you hardly even care. You just need to be the star.”
>You’re distracted by a nudge from your other side; the cute white mare is looking expectantly at you.
>“My pen.”
“Oh, I was hoping to hang onto it so I’d have an excuse to talk to you again sometime.”
>You smile disarmingly.
>“...just give me my pen back.”
>You shrug. “Pfft, fine. Don’t know what you’re missing. Here.”
>“Do you EVER stop?” Lyra grouches.
>You turn and see a small queue forming behind her of ponies wanting to get out of the row and leave the lecture theatre.
“You’re blocking the way Lyra. Hi, hi… Beauty Brass, right? Sorry about my friend here, she’s a little worked up.”

>You stand and start filing out with the other ponies as Lyra follows behind you, still bitching.
>“And what the buck did you do to Twinkleshine last night?”
“…you really want the details? Can’t you use your imagination?”
>“I saw her coming out of your hallway this morning. She looked like she was about to break down in tears.”
“She’s just hungover. Speaking of which, I need to get breakfast. You can come if you want, but you’re gonna need to tone down the ‘avenging fury’ bit.”
>“Breakfast? Aren’t you supposed to be rehearsing with your quartet this morning?”
“At like half eleven or something.”
>“We’ve got class at twelve.”
“We do? Oh, whatever, I guess we don’t have time to practice then.”
>“…I bet those guys are waiting for you in a practice room right now.”
“Well they’re gonna be waiting a while then, I don’t even have my violin with me and I’m gonna die if I don’t eat something fried in the next half hour.”
>“I can’t believe you.”
“Believe it, baby. You coming for breakfast or what?”
>She rolls her eyes.
>“Whatever. Fried tomatoes does sound pretty good.”
“Now you’re talking.”

>Soon you’re seated at a table outside in the mild autumn sunshine, sipping another coffee and smoking a cigarette while you wait for your order.
>You idly watch the ponies passing by while, across the table from you, Lyra readies herself for another sortie.
>“But really, Anon. Twinkleshine.”
>You sigh.
“Quit that. Anyway, why’s this all about me and her? What about Amethyst, huh?”
>“What ABOUT her?”
“‘I’ll make sure she gets to bed safe’? C’mon Lyra, I know that line. I’ve USED that line.”
>The look she gives you would make the balls of a lesser man contract into his body.
>“I’m not like you.”
“Oh, fine, get up on your high horse… heh. Horse…”
>“I would NEVER take advantage of a drunk mare.”
“What, you think I’m sitting here advocating for date rape or something? Amethyst seemed like she wanted to have a good time last night. I figured since you cockblocked me, the least you could do-”
>“Stop. Sweet Celestia, STOP.”
“Fine. Chill. Just, y’know, if all that frustration gets too much for you, let me know. I can wingman for you sometime.”
>“…yeah. Great. Thanks.”
>Her tail flicks from side to side like an angry cat.
>Your breakfast arrives and you wisely choose to begin filling your mouth with greasy, delicious eggs and potato cakes rather than push your luck any further.

>That can only last so long, though.
“So you really think, like, me and Twinkleshine last night… you’d call that ‘taking advantage of a drunk mare’? How do you square that with your feminism? I mean, you ARE a feminist, right?”
>“I’m pretty sure I’m not. But it’s hard to say without knowing what that is.”
“Huh. Okay, I guess it figures that a matriarchal society like this would never have bothered formulating the concept. What I’m saying is: isn’t it pretty shitty to just view females as passive victims of male sexual aggression? Isn’t that a pretty lousy, anti-female way of looking at it?”
>“…but I don’t look at it that way at all. I just think you’re an asshole and borderline sex-pest.”
>You sigh.
“Okay. Let me try putting it this way: Twinkleshine is a grown mare and she can make her own choices.”
>“‘Choices’. You mean mistakes.”
“Call them what you want,” you laugh. “I wasn’t her first and I won’t be her last.”
>“And that’s just okay with you? You don’t aspire to be anything more than a mare’s drunken mistake?”
“…Lyra, are you offering to make an honest stallion of me?”
>She glares at you for a moment before her resistance crumbles and she gives a chuckle.
>“Sure, right after I get done trying to make carrots out of rocks. Anyway, you know I don’t swing that way.”
“How could I forget. That’s why you really lecture me, right? You’re jealous that I get more sweet mare poon than you.”
>“Ass.”
“Spinster.”
>“Dickhead.”

>You’ve just forked up the last of your breakfast and are surveying the sunny quad.
>The faint prickling behind your eyes and persistent dryness in your mouth let you know that your hangover is still there, waiting for you like a mugger in an alley; for now though, right this moment, you feel all right.
>“Heads up,” Lyra says with a  smirk, nodding towards something over your shoulder.
>You turn and immediately wish you hadn’t.
>Three earth ponies are approaching with instrument cases.
>They’ve obviously already seen you.
>Their expressions range from rage to disappointment.
“Aww shit, this is gonna be so annoying.”
>“Didn’t I tell you? Why didn’t you just go to practice?”
“I explained my reasons. I regret nothing… hey guys, what’s up?”
>None of them return your salutation, they just walk up until they’re almost surrounding you.
>The chestnut-coloured stallion is the first to speak.
>“What the buck, Anon.”
“Well hi to you too, Concerto. Hey Octavia, hey Symphony. You guys sitting down or what?”
>Concerto slams a hoof down on the table, rattling the cups.
>“We were supposed to rehearse this morning.”
“Were we…? I guess maybe now that you mention it we said something about maybe doing that. But it didn’t work for me, so…”
>“So you just decided to go lounge about in a café without even letting us know?” Symphony says. Her olive eyes blaze at you from the frame of her indigo mane.
>Damn this mare has it going on.
>Too bad she’s being such a total bitch.
“Ehhh… I missed you after the lecture, and then, I mean, I didn’t think we settled on anything concrete…”
>“Horseshit,” Concerto says.
>You lean back in your chair, raising your hands in vague supplication.

“I dunno what you guys want from me. We just had crossed wires or whatever, so, fuck it, let’s get together another time.”
>“The recital’s in a week and we’ve barely even played together,” Symphony says with a petulant stomp of her hoof. “You know some of us had to WORK to get on this course, not just kiss a princess’s behind. Some of us take our futures seriously. Right, Octavia?”
>She looks round expectantly at the grey mare.
>Octavia lowers her eyes in embarrassment and turns her face away so as to hide behind a curtain of charcoal mane.
>“…yes. Right,” she mumbles.
>“You need to stop bucking around, Anon,” Concerto cuts in. “You’re going to screw this up for all of us if you don’t get a grip.”
>You roll your eyes.
“Couldn’t we lower the drama by, like, five notches? I’m getting such a headache. Let’s just figure out when we’re going to practice, and all get on with our lives.”
>“This evening,” Symphony says firmly.
“I have plans…”
>“So did I, but since SOMEONE didn’t show up this morning, we need to make up lost time.”
>“She’s right,” Concerto says. “We need to be putting in time every day if we’re going to be ready for the recital.”
“Seriously. I’m not about to-”
>“Just MAKE IT WORK,” Symphony says, “or we’ll go to Arpeggio and appeal not to be graded until he’s found us a different violinist who will actually show up.”
“…are you serious?”
>“Deadly serious.”
>Concerto is glaring at you right along with her, obviously in agreement.
>Octavia is just staring awkwardly at her hooves, but anyway it doesn’t seem like she’s about to leap to your defence.

“Oh, fucking FINE, if it matters so damn much to you. This evening.”
>“Eight ‘o’ clock,” Symphony says with a smug smile before turning to leave, followed by Concerto.
>You’re almost too pissed off to watch her walk away.
>Almost.
>There’s a meaningful throat-clearing noise behind you.
“Shhhh, Lyra. Having to tolerate Symphony is awful enough without you trying to take away the only silver lining to that big shitty cloud.”
>“By which you mean staring at her flank.”
“Obviously.”
>“Classy.”
“You know me.”
>“Hey Octavia, did you want to join us for a coffee? There’s still time before lit class,” Lyra calls out.
>You’d been focused on other things, but now you notice that the grey mare is walking off in a different direction to the other two.
>She turns to give Lyra a small smile.
>“Err, no, thanks,” she returns just barely loudly enough to be heard.
>She turns back and keeps walking. You cock your head a little as you watch her go.
>“Strange mare,” Lyra says.
“Yep. Good cellist. Wonder what she’s like in bed.”
>“…of course you do.”