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Rarity is drenched. Completely and utterly drenched.
Rain pelts down on her from above, unforgiving, unrelenting, and most importantly, extremely rude! This weather is nothing short of anti-fashion. Her coat hangs on her form like a damp towel, and her hair plasters to her forehead in a most unbecoming manner. She glares up at the slate grey sky in hopes of instilling shame in the goddesses for their cruelty.
“Today?” Her voice is hardly audible over the heavy downpour, but she doesn’t care. She's alone, after all. “You’re going to do this today?” She shakes her head, stamping her shoe against the slushy ground below. “Oh, you’re just vile.”
The first day in months that the buses are running late just so happens to be the day the weather decides to act up. Now, Rarity is hardly the type to complain about the elements. She’s of the belief that there’s beauty to be found in even the most dreadful of storms— only, this particular bout of rain seems less like nature’s will and more like an affront to her very existence.
You see, today has been nothing but an endless string of disasters. First, her over-eager younger sister tried her hand at air-frying an omelette and succeeded instead in setting off the smoke alarm and waking half the neighbourhood. Rarity’s primping time was cut awfully short as a result, leading to her dashing out the door without completing her 5-step morning skincare routine. Add on top that the cafe where she intended to pick up her morning coffee(straight black with a dash of almond milk, if you’re curious) had been shut down on account of a rat infestation.
“Just perfect,” she mutters. Her hastily applied mascara trickles down either side of her nose in a manner that makes her feel decidedly unloved by the cosmos.
It’s enough to make a lady lose her marbles, if you’d excuse my language. But, despite the of woes her incredibly taxing day, Rarity perseveres. After all, there’s not a single thing in this world that could make this day any worse.
“Good gosh, Rarity, s’at you?!”
…there’s a single thing in this world that could make this day considerably worse, and she’s just shown up.
Rarity gnashes her teeth for a brief, feral moment. Then, she arranges her face in something resembling a smile and turns to greet the newcomer. “Why, Applejack, how funny it is to see you here!” She’s almost frightened by the hostility underlining her own voice.
Applejack— because of course she’d be the one to see Rarity like this, and not a more forgiving and civilized individual, like Fluttershy or Twilight or, goddess forbid, Rainbow Dash— looks her up and down with open bafflement.
“Y’know,” she starts, and Rarity just barely tamps down the urge to inflict on her some degree of bodily harm, “I would think you’re the type t’check the forecast before ya step foot outside.”
Ah, so this is the direction they’re taking? So be it. Rarity lifts her chin and bestows on Applejack the combined gift and punishment of her undivided attention. “And I would think you were above mocking victims under the shelter of your umbrella. I suppose we were both disappointed today, darling.”
While this scathing response should leave Applejack speechless and skittering away in shame, it somehow elicits a truly awful bout of laughter. In other terrible news, Rarity finds that the other woman’s smile is, by some absurd twist of the English language, rather pleasant.
“Just what, pray tell, is so amusing to you?”
Applejack gets her voice under control, shaking her head. “Even when you’re soaking worse than a housecat up a creek, y’all can’t pass up a chance to be petty,”
Petty? Oh, the nerve! “I do believe you’ve misunderstood me, dear Applejack. A self-respecting lady such as myself refuses to engage in playground insults,” she turns away sharply. “Ta-ta, now!”
That was...unexpectedly exhausting. But, with any luck, Applejack will be deterred from mockery and leave her be.
But, of course, Rarity’s luck reserves are at a critical low, and the squelch of muck boots signals Applejack’s approach.
Then, suddenly, the rain stops. Rarity blinks, startled, and looks up to see the glistening shield of a burgundy umbrella hanging over her.
“…what on earth are you doing?”
Applejack raises a practiced brow. “What does it look like, sugarcube?”
A feeling like no other bubbles up in Rarity’s chest. A cocktail of frustration, bewilderment, and whatever emotions comes with being soaked to the bone and standing beneath an umbrella beside the most uncouth woman in town.
And yet…
She clears her throat a smidge louder than necessary, and forces herself to meet Applejack’s keen eyes. “Your, ah, generosity is greatly appreciated,”
“Ain’t no nevermind, Rarity,” a smile once again graces her features, but only for a moment. “Don’t go expectin’ this sorta thing movin’ forward, now,”
Rarity heaves a sigh. She chooses not to acknowledge the upward twitch of her lips, instead turning away once again. “Must you always sully the moment?”
Applejack shrugs. “If it ain’t me sullyin’ it, it’s you.”
Rarity can’t quite argue with that, so she settles for a soft huff of irritation in response. They stand in silence under the protective cover of the umbrella, Rarity's thoughts running rampant. A little over two decades of prim, proper politeness has taught her the art of ignoring someone and acting as if there is no one in her vicinity save for the air itself. To do this when said someone is mere inches away, however, is a feat.
The temptation to glance Applejack’s way grows unsurmountable, and Rarity folds at last. She glances at the other woman du coin d'oeil and takes careful stock of what she sees. A worn work jacket, pants stained and muddied at the knees. Her muck boots, true to their name, are caked in grime, surely from trudging about in the mud-glutted streets.
Slowly, Rarity’s eyes drift above the neckline. See, as much as Applejack is unladylike and crude, her features are remarkably well-sculpted. Sharp cheekbones, a clear complexion, and bright green eyes. Her thick, sun-bleached hair is pulled back in a practical ponytail, though a few stray strands frame her face.
…their eyes meet.
Both women avert their gazes at once, caught red-handed and, regretfully, red-faced.
For a long moment, Rarity stares resolutely at the street before her. Then, she says, “Why is it that you never attempt anything with your hair?”
“I work in the farm from sunup to sundown, sugarcube. No style’s gonna last,” she hums, “and how about y’all?”
“Pardon?”
“This is the first time I’ve seen your hair outta them ringlets. How come ya don’t wear it down more often?”
Reminded of her drenched hair, Rarity twirls a limp strand between her fingers. “It’s more than a matter of preference, darling. I’d hardly expect you to understand.”
“Try me.”
Perhaps the rain is affecting Rarity's mind as well, because she finds herself explaining. “My hair, when worn loose, tends to behave like a bedraggled weed. These locks require rigidity, upkeep, care— why, just last night it attempted to strangle me while I was sleeping,” she shudders. “Believe me dear, maintaining hair like mine goes far beyond vanity.”
Applejack blinks. “Well, shoot. I reckon it looks just fine as is.”
Despite herself, Rarity smirks. “And that, dear Applejack, is exactly my point.”
There’s that laugh again, spilling out and filling the space between them. “You’re impossible, yanno that?”
"I am perfectly doable, thank you." Rarity’s eyes widen as soon as she’s spoken. The words tumble out before she can catch them, as slippery as a fish on a hook. Not at all unlike her hair, apparently.
Applejack nearly keels over with the renewed force of her laughter, and Rarity has to shoot out a hand to steady their shared umbrella. She means to scold the other woman for her recklessness, but she finds herself cracking up instead.
Here they are, two grown adults, cackling beneath the shaky cover of an umbrella as the sky shoots down bullets of rainwater from above.
Had you told Rartiy just this morning that she’d end up like this by the end of the day, she would have had to hold back an unladylike snort at your expense. How outlandish! Unthinkable, even. What a miserable way to close out the night..!
And yet, if she’s to be wholly and utterly honest; it’s not the worst possible thing.