Ballister isn’t quite sure how it all started. One minute they’re baking festive cupcakes for their neighbors, and the next, Ambrosius has set up an assembly line of cupcake decorating, complete with a turntable for optimal piping.
“Why does everything we do have to turn into a competition?” Ballister asks with a sigh.
“Competition implies that there’s some chance of success on both sides,” Ambrosius says in that infuriatingly smug tone of his. “And I notice that while I have one and a half dozen perfectly designed cupcakes, you have yet to crack your first dozen.”
“Yeah, between the two of us, it is I who hasn’t cracked yet, that’s for sure,” Ballister mutters under his breath.
Ambrosius does a fantastic job of pretending not to hear that. But he does sneak a finger into Ballister’s icing pot, swiping a generous portion and sticking it into his mouth faster than Ballister can even realize.
“Hey!” he exclaims. “Eat your own icing!”
He dips his own fingers into Ambrosius’s icing as retribution, wiping out almost half his supply.
“Stop that, I’m running out of icing!” Ambrosius whines. He grabs Ballister’s jar of icing and starts using it over his bare little cupcakes at the beginning of their march through the most precise decoration experience possibly to ever exist.
Ballister huffs and picks up their little shaker full of glitter and upturns it over Ambrosius’s cupcakes, getting a good amount over Ambrosius’s head.
“Ballister!” Ambrosius shrieks, clouds of glitter billowing down from his head. “You idiot, we’re never going to get all of this cleaned up!”
“You started it,” Ballister says, and yes, he is aware of how childish he sounds.
The glitter really is getting everywhere and he sneezes, watching a puff of sparkles explode in front of him at the disturbance of the air.
Ambrosius is staring almost maniacally at his cupcakes, frantically brushing off the piles of glitter, his tongue sticking out in concentration. There’s a long streak of blue icing across his cheek and his hair has long since been frantically trying to escape the handkerchief he tied around his head, sticking out in wild, blonde tufts with a bit of glitter still sprinkled on top.
Ballister can’t help smiling at the sight.
He picks up the sprinkles.