To the naïve observer, the calming silence as they walked by Sugarcube Corner at this time would not seem out of the ordinary. In fact, silence at this time of night, approximately 10pm, would make sense. The confectionery was closed. The desert rush had long since ended, the front door displaying a closed sign. The owners had put their young foals to bed and were more than likely on their way to bed as well so they could wake up early to open shop.
However, the Ponyville pony population was anything but naïve. The few ponies that passed by the store looked at it in confusion and concern. There had been no word that Ponyville’s Premiere Pink Party Pony was out of town; if there was such a word, the silence would have been a nice respite from the quite common commotion of the day to day. However, without such a word, the silence was deafening. The worried ponies that wandered by were not aware of what went on within the establishment’s kitchen, and therefore were not aware of the ridiculously silly and unsurprising surprise of a happening.
Standing stock-still on one side of the space was a mare that was, on near every occasion, impossible to find static. On her face was a look of uncharacteristic determination, eyes glaring and lips curved downward into a scowl. She did not blink. She seemed not to breath. She did not waver in the slightest. Not even her abnormally bouncy hair dangled to a direction. She was a statue.
At the receiving end of her glare was another pony wearing an uncharacteristic expression. Her glower was not one of ironic cheer. Her jaw was clenched both in anticipation and resolution. While her respiration was perceivable, even it held some sort of resolve. Whatever she was about to do, whether or not it were a competition, she was ready to win.
However, much to the benefit of anypony who would be participating in said hypothetical not-competition, it was, in fact, a competition. While it had no real reward to be reaped, anyone who has been in a competition will know that it is never simply about a possible prize. It’s about pride. It’s about showing you’re the best. It’s about kicking the flank of the pony who dare challenged you, even if you knew them well.
And it was in this spirit that the two ponies stood on opposite sides of the scullery, sitting stationary. A clock ticked in the room, despite the visible lack of any timekeeping device being present. Not that the kitchen held no such things; after all, how could one cook without a timer? No. It was simply that any instance of such a device was absent and a ticking was present. As the ticking went on, the looks of either pony slowly hardened. A bead of sweat rolled down on each of the mares faces.
“Just give up now Pinkie,” The mare said with confidence, “I’m going to take you down.”
Pinkie Pie gave a spiteful guffaw. “I was about to say the same thing, Bons.”
Silence retook the room save for the continued ticking. The tension rose for no reason other than it wanted to; it knew when it was needed in some situations and took care to fill the room with itself.
Then the ticking stopped.
And there was silence for a whole second.
Then the mares started.
The kitchen came alive. The banging of pots and pans resounded across the room; all sorts of cutlery utensils flew from drawers to hoofs and from hoofs to tables. The temperature fluctuated between spots as ovens preheated, refrigerators opened, stoves lit, and iceboxes were thrown wide.
The flurry of sounds would have filled the house, had it not been for the residents’ installation of soundproof walls. Instead, it simply filled the room and was promptly ignored by the frantic earth pony confectioners. Despite their haste, the ponies measurements were somehow perfect. Granted, a large sum of the ingredients were often spread across the counter, the volume in the measuring cups and spoons were exact.
Then, everything halted. Each pony threw something in the oven, slamming the doors shut. Promptly they each turned from their stances, standing with their forehooves on the counter, and stared daggers at each other. On either of their sides, bowls of stuff sat pre-mixed and ready to be added. The kitchen was a battlefield of cooking ingredients. The mares were covered in splotches of flour, sugar, and batter.
With simultaneous dings of timers, the mares turned back and vigorously opened their respective ovens. With potholders in muzzle, they each pulled out their tins. With both grace and speed, the cooks pulled spatulas from bowls and began spreading colorful frostings upon the bare cupcakes in their trays. The pink mare’s cupcakes were coated in a navy blue and bubblegum pink swirl of boiled frosting, while her opponents was covered in dollops of a rich, smooth ganache that was dyed pink.
Finishing their decoration at similar times, they began to look around their respective cooking spaces. With each glance, their movements became more and more panicky. Finally, in a synchronized motion, they looked to eacher. Then, again synchronized, they looked to the lone container of sprinkles sitting on a countertop at the midpoint between them.
Then, they looked back at eachother.
And there was silence for a whole two seconds.
Then, they lunged at the container.
With their full strength, they tugged at the container in their rival’s grasps. They wrestled for it, elbowing each-other to make the other lose their grip. When that didn’t work, they started yanked at either side of the cylinder.
Unbeknownst to them in their competitive stupor, the glass of said container had collected quite a bit of condensation due to the heat and humidity that built up in the room during their battle. However, this reality became clear when they began falling away from the middle of the kitchen. Only mid-flight did they both realize their error, noticing the container of sprinkles floating midair where they once fought over it. As It began to fall, they began to realize their trajectories.
The Container hit the ground.
They hit their counters.
And their trays of cupcakes were catapulted across the room.
Various, but similar emotions went through each of their heads as their eyes widened and irises contracted at the incoming projectiles.
Fear
Hopelessness
Finally, Acceptance.
They each closed their eyes.
And each were immediately smacked in the face by a tray of cupcakes.
Then, they sat there.
And there was silence for a whole three seconds.
Then, they broke out in laughter.
Getting up, they trotted forward and gave each-other a hug.
“So,” Pinkie giggled out, “Did you like your cupcakes?”
Taking her hoof, Bon Bon wiped some cupcake from her face. She gave it a taste. She smiled and licked her hoof clean. Pinkie Pie mirrored the action. They looked at eachother, hooves in mouth.
“They’re delicious, Pinkie.” The mare said with confidence and pride.
Pinkie Pie gave a genuine guffaw. “I was about to say the same thing, Bons.”
Bon Bon stepped forward and gave Pinkie a nuzzle.
“Happy anniversary, dear.” She said.
“Happy anniversary, Sweetie.” Pinkie chirped.
Author's Note
I dub this ship "Sweetie Pie" because of Sweetie Drops
