“Gilda, are you in here? I’m ready—”

Moon Dancer froze in the doorway of the empty room, her lower lip pressed between her teeth.  “You’re... not ready.”

Gilda turned away from her marefriend’s crestfallen expression.  Her nostrils stung and her feathers felt tight and heavy; Gilda guessed that it wasn’t just from the wet paint clinging to her.

“S’what you wanted, wasn’t it?” She took a deep breath; the anger was just starting to fade when Gilda reminded herself that she wanted to [i]be[/i] angry.  “Anyway, I wanna get your new study done, because guess what? I’m [i]not[/i] a boneheaded sack of useless feathers who doesn’t care about you.”

Crimson brows knitted together.  “Can we not do this now? Minuette and the others will be arriving soon—they’ve travelled so far to get to Griffonstone.  Besides, we’re supposed to be celebrating tonight.”

[i]You mean[/i] you [i]are.  A big day when a pony gets to tell all of Griffonkind about their own history[/i].  Gilda’s feathers felt hot as her thoughts returned to the book launch.  She began to paint again, but her claws were shaking.  She glared at them—it was so important that she finished this extension, she just couldn’t remember [i]why[/i].

Moon Dancer stood quietly for a moment before moving beside Gilda, and the fabric of her marefriend’s poncho fluttered desperately against her feathers.  Gilda briefly leaned away to paint in the other direction.  

[i]When did I become a coward?[/i]

“You shouldn’t paint over that,” Moon Dancer inclined her head.  “It looks like a stress crack.  We should have it checked.”

Gilda glared at the jagged line.  “It’s fine.”

“I’m just saying—I was reading up on it the other day, and horizontal cracks—”

“Boreas’ blood, I know how to build a wall.  It’s like a griffon—tough, and able to take a lot of crap.”

Moon Dancer’s muzzle scrunched.  “That hurt.  I [i]said[/i] I was sorry, Gilda—”

“Stop being sorry and start learning.” Gilda battered the wall with haphazard strikes.  “You’re supposed to be good at that.”

“Yes, because I was clearly the only one in the wrong.”  A strand of Moon Dancer’s mane fell loose as she tossed her head.  “I can see how you might think that; after all, you obviously never let [i]yourself[/i] to become a passenger in this relationship.”

Gilda puffed out her chest, her feathers craving satisfaction.  The sharp sound of cracking wood filled the air as her paintbrush splintered.

“Maybe I never had a choice! [i]You[/i] already decided you knew everything—was doing everything.  I’m just gliding in your breeze.”

“That’s not true.  You were [i]supporting[/i] me—you think I could have written even half of that book without your help?” Moon Dancer’s protest collapsed into a sigh.  Silence draped itself like a second skin across the room.  Then, she rested her head against Gilda’s shoulder.

“Remember when I first arrived?  Back when you let me live out of your spare room so I could study?  We worked so hard to help each other feel comfortable—nothing was ever too much, you know?”  Moon Dancer kept her eyes on the freshly painted wall, but Gilda could feel the tremble in her voice.

“I still have nightmares about ‘No Fish Friday’s,” she replied.

Moon Dancer looked up, smiling a smile of blunt angles

“Things felt easier back then—like we were a team.” Her eyes became uncertain.  “Do you think...? Do we need to talk?”

Gilda shrugged. “We’re talking.”

Moon Dancer’s snort was half mirth, half frustration.  But her eyes still looked as though they were desperately seeking safe harbour.  A chill settled across Gilda’s feathers—all of that anger and malicious satisfaction pushed aside as Moon Dancer silently pressed her question.  She wondered what those three years would count for if talking brought up things that couldn’t be resolved.  Her marefriend’s heat and softness became suddenly intangible objects—things that could soon float away and never again found, leaving an empty room and the promise of what might have been.

Gilda opened her beak and closed it.  Then she leant down and kissed Moon Dancer.

“Look.  You got mad, I got mad.  It’s fine.  Forget it and move on.  Gimmie a minute to shower, yeah?”

Relief crossed Moon Dancer’s face.  For a moment she looked as though she was going to say something, but then she shook her head.  As Gilda followed her out of the room, she noticed the jagged grin of the crack devour the wet paint.

It was fine, though, she told herself.  It just needed another coat.