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I'm just as fucked up as they say

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It's definitely local chocolate. Nothing fine or exotic or even extravagant here, and yet Sasha gently arches her back (feeling the tug as her hair stays simultaneously attached to the brush in Boo's hand and to her head) to reach for the knife to cut herself another piece of failure cake. It's a small piece, but already she knows her stomach won't be pleased.

Which isn't to say that the cake isn't delicious.

Sasha swipes the damn exclamation point off of her piece and sucks it from her finger, moaning quietly when Boo hits a knot.

"Oh," she cries out, immediately dropping the brush and shoving at Sasha's shoulders. Boo holds her hands up at gunpoint: innocent. "Did I hurt you? I didn't hurt you, did I?"

A corner of Sasha's mouth lifts, and she takes advantage of the freedom and rocks around to face her friend.

Her friend? Her friend.

"Of course not. Don't be an idiot."

Boo's eyes narrow. "I'm not." She sucks in a breath and shoots it out of her. Her eyelids drop, half-mast. She's salivating, watching Sasha's fingers work on tiny swipes of icing. "How is the cake?"

A full smile this time. Sasha takes her square of probably box mix cake and cracks it in two. "See for yourself." She wafts the cake in a sweeping motion across Boo's vision, under her nose, across her lips (brushing, just so, with a flourish, with her index finger against wet flesh), under her chin. The cake is moist and the frosting is sticking to Sasha's fingers. The Vanna White of Just Desserts.

Boo wrinkles her nose and leans back. "Ugh, no thanks."

Sasha grabs at a corner of the piece she's saved for herself -- one handed, sloppy, messy against her mouth -- and chews open-mouthed. "But you're the one who needs the luck, silly!" She regrets it immediately. The almost imperceptible drop in Boo's shoulders, the set of her mouth, her jaw. Fuck. "I mean," (she backpedals, tries to) "It's your cake, isn't it?"

"I already ate, Sasha," Boo says, and now she just sounds tired. She turns away and Sasha drops her cake-laden hand away from Boo's face. The cake feels heavy and thick and sticky, and suddenly Sasha feels incredibly far too full of sweetness. She shouldn't have come here.

Friends.

Fuck friends.

"You ate, what? A broccoli tree? You can't possibly think that will sustain you." Sasha's lip twitches. It spills out of her, keeps coming up. "You know what happens when dancers don't eat? They don't dance. And dancers who don't dance aren't dancers and what the fuck are you then?" Fuck everything, really, because Sasha's still holding the cake in her hand and she might be crying, but whatever, and Boo might be kneeling in front of her, her face completely changed, her eyes wide.

Both of her hands cup Sasha's shoulders and if Sasha closes her eyes she doesn't feel quite so much like her insides are going to split and reform.

"You really want me to have some of that cake, huh?" Boo asks, and her right hand moves from Sasha's shoulder to press a warm thumb in convex arcs along Sasha's eyelashes. First the right, then the left, then settling on her cheek. Sasha swallows.

It's easier, then, to push forward, her stupid hand and the stupid cake between them, to push closer, to push her mouth against Boo's, to push past the surprised oh! she makes, to push and push until the grains of sugar on her lips imprint on Boo's, until they tip and the world spins sideways and a deft movement and a gasp leaves them horizontal on Boo's bedroom floor, legs splayed.

"You aren't very nice," Boo gasps out, her jaw working against the cake smeared there by the hand Sasha doesn't have tangled in her hair.

Sasha wishes she could manage a smile. Maybe just a tug of her lips. "You seem to be the only one who hasn't figured that out."