The warm basement reeked of stale alcohol and instrument grease. The candlelight was just bright enough for Octavia to make out the ancient brick walls that so notoriously personified Haylem architecture. She recognized a few posters on those walls, their paper edges yellowed and curling over the signatures of the ponies adorning them. The ceiling groaned above her, muffled conversation filtering through from the floor above.

Across the worn-out coffee table, Frederick lifted his glass and took another generous sip of the clear liquid within. Beyond their initial greeting and some small talk, the conversation had lulled, and the silence between them had grown heavier with each passing minute.

The outside door opened behind Frederick, and Manehattan’s constant roar filtered into the room alongside two laughing ponies.

“…so this mother-bucker thinks he’s gonna—”

The newcomers froze upon seeing the out-of-place mare sitting across from Frederick, who had glanced over his shoulder towards the two.

“Hey, look at you Freddie,” said the first, smiling wide as he draped his foreleg around Frederick’s neck, jostling him, “bringin’ such a nice lookin’ dame to work! And here I was just tellin’ Strings yous was catchin’ for the other team!”

“Sticks, shut your buckin’ mouth,” said the second with a frown, yanking a cackling ‘Sticks’ off of Frederick, “get upstairs, and start gettin’ ready. You take longer to set up drums than my mother in law takes to wake up every mornin’.”

“Your mother in law’s dead!”

“My point exactly. Get outta here!”

Sticks grinned wildly as he turned for the stairs, while Strings turned to a passive Frederick.

“Set’s up in five Freddie. I’ll pull out the old mare and make sure she’s in tune.”

“I appreciate it Strings. I’ll be up in a few moments.”

Strings nodded once and followed Sticks out. The noise from above filled the musty basement for a moment until a heavy click sent the room into another bout of silence.

‘No more,’ Octavia thought to herself. “Those were…your bandmates?”

“Yes. They’re brothers. They play better than they get along.”

Octavia smiled. “They seem charming.”

Frederick chuckled, lounging back in his chair, inspecting the drink in his hooves. “Maybe not Sticks, but I could introduce you to Strings at least. He can play almost as well as you. And without formal training.” He chuckled again and sipped from his glass.

Octavia shifted on the old sofa. “Frederick,” she sighed, “have you ever considered coming back?”

Frederick glanced towards his oldest foalhood friend. He gave a sigh himself, before leaning over and placing his glass on the table. “Of course I have.”

“And?”

“I’m not.”

Octavia’s ears drooped, eyes dropping to her own untouched glass on the table. “I understand.”

Frederick frowned. “This set’s going to last most of the night, but if you’re still in town, we could practice together tomorrow. For old time’s sake.”

“Our train leaves at dawn,” Octavia murmured, “and we’ll be playing in Las Pegasus tomorrow night.”

“Oh. Right. Another time, then.”

The sound of drums and cymbals crashing, followed by swearing and laughter resounded from above.

“I think that’s my cue.” Frederick grunted and stood. “Are you going to stay, or…?”

“It’s getting a bit late, I think—”

“No, yeah, you’re leaving early, and—”

“Yes.”

“Right. Well,” Frederick rubbed the back of his neck, “thanks for coming today, means a lot.”

“You’re welcome Frederick,” Octavia drew him into a quick hug, “have a good performance. It was great to see you. And Happy Birthday.”

“Thanks,” Frederick smiled, “so long, Octavia,” and turned, trotting quickly up the stairs.

Octavia stood for a few minutes, staring at the closed door. She shook her head and shuffled towards the outside exit. Her breath caught as the first chords of a piano, followed by the melancholy moan of a string bass, trickled into the basement. She turned immediately, trotting quietly up the stairs and peering around the stage door.

Frederick’s eyes were closed, pouring his soul into a weathered piano, playing a very familiar melody. One eye peeked open, and with a nod to Sticks and Strings, he picked the tempo up into a jazz swing, the two brothers effortlessly following up the beat. Octavia watched as Frederick turned the classic tune on its head, much to the enjoyment of the audience in the dimly lit Manehattan club.

“He hasn’t lost his touch,” she whispered, smiling as she settled in behind the door to watch Frederick’s performance. She could sleep on the train in the morning.