Heat of the Moment


                                            Previously: https://ponepaste.org/10315


                                            >“You must really wanna blow your bits on takin’ me out to dinner, huh?”

                                            >You toss your head leftward, then rightward with reckless abandon, the crack of both motions ringing out across the room as a declaration of war.

                                            >Who the hell does this mare think she is?

                                            “You’re donezo, Dash. No way you beat me at this.”

                                            >You turn on your heel.

                                            >The challenger awaits in your living room, sitting menacingly behind a table lined with the hottest sauces this side of Equestria, some of which are considered to be crimes against decency.

                                            >You hope nobody asks how you got some of them.

                                            >Leaned back all the way in her chair and crossing her hooves, she peers down her snoot at you, conceit radiating off of her so heavily that it reaches you from across the room.

                                            >The sight of that cyan menace, so certain of her own victory, so cock-sure in the face of all reason…

                                            >It gives you focus. Resilience.

                                            >/She’s going down/.

                                            >“C’mon, Nonners,” she jeers, possessed by her own ego. “Just own up to it - I can handle more than you. All ya gotta do is say it, and I’ll pick a cheap place to eat.”

                                            >You sit down across from her, all but slamming your ass in the seat.

                                            “Uh-uh. You’re getting humbled today, bluebean.”

                                            >Her eyebrows shoot to the sky as she leans forward in her seat, utterly taken aback by your fly-by-night insult.

                                            >You’re pushing it with that one, honestly. Where’d that even come from…?

                                            >“Bluebean!?” she shouts in disbelief. “Oh, I’m getting Gustav’s now, you buckin’ mareless wond-”

                                            >“Let's /not/ stoop that low, alright?” Twilight shouts over your verbal bout. “You’re best friends, for Celestia’s sake!”

                                            >You and Dash whip your disgruntled stares over to Twilight, who’s perched on the edge of the couch with a clipboard by her side.

                                            >She levels a grave stare at the both of you - one that seems to melt your ire down to something far more suitable for your little sparring match.

                                            >When you look back at Dash, her gaze softens as well, though not entirely.

                                            >Ever since the humiliating day that she slipped that love potion into your beloved jam, you’d both been openly engaged in a prank war - one that had gotten a bit too hot for comfort.

                                            >Next thing you knew, innocent little gags turned into thinly veiled acts of spite.

                                            >Neither of you were sure who escalated first, but you both came to an agreement that it had to end, for the sake of your friendship.

                                            >Since neither of you wanted to concede to the other, though, you’d both come up with a compromise; a challenge to see who would come out on top. Didn’t matter what it was, so long as it was on even ground.

                                            >Hence, Twilight - your mediator for the gauntlet of spiciness.

                                            >You breathe deeply, fighting your irrational agitation as best as you can.

                                            >Regret takes hold /just/ enough to lift your brow, and deep within your ever-trembling heart, you find the decency to apologize.

                                            “Sorry, Dash.”

                                            >“Sorry, Anon.”

                                            >You both speak at the same time, averting your gaze when you’re done. The apologies are superficial at best.

                                            >…Yeah, you need to talk that out with her later.

                                            >Asshole.

                                            >“Alright,” Twilight says, scooping up her clipboard with magic. “Let’s go over the rules one more time.”

                                            >She clears her throat as you eye the plate full of chips in the middle of the table.

                                            >“One: This is a marathon, not a race. You can take as long as you need to eat the next sauce, as long as it’s within reason. Failure or refusal to move onto the next sauce is considered forfeiture, in which the opposing party wins.

                                            >“Two: To drink any milk is also considered forfeiture. You must endure to the very end, with no reprieve.

                                            >“Three: In the event that both parties reach the final of eight sauces, a tiebreaker quiz will be held. Any question answered incorrectly will be considered a loss. In the event that both parties answer incorrectly, they will /both/ take the mediator out to eat dinner.”

                                            >She sets her clipboard back down, looking back and forth between you and Dash.

                                            >“Was all of that clear?”

                                            >“Yup,” Dash confirmed, stretching out her back in preparation.

                                            >You nod, focus back on the line of hell laid out in front of you.

                                            “Crystal.”

                                            >Twilight sighed as she left the couch and pulled out a chair of her own, joining the two of you at the table.

                                            >“Good. Now, let’s put this /ridiculous/ feud to rest, shall we?”

                                            >You nod silently as both you and Dash procure a chip from the plate.

                                            >God, you wish this could’ve been done with chicken wings. Chips are fine, but it’s so much more bearable when the food the spice sits on grants you some merciful form of satiety.

                                            >In a country of herbivores, the omnivore stands alone. A tragic tale, truly.

                                            >Twilight whisks the first bottle into the air, shaking it gingerly before popping the top.

                                            >“You’re both aware of how spicy some of these get, right?” she asks, carefully rationing just a few drops onto each chip.

                                            >“Won’t be a problem,” Dash boasted, her smugness having returned. “Nothin’ on this table’s gonna phase me.”

                                            >You chortle, taking firm hold of your newly christened hot chip.

                                            “You can’t even eat a bowl of curry without sucking down, like, fifteen waters, dude.”

                                            >“Big talk, coming from somepony who asks for mild spice when he orders Taiwaneighse.”

                                            “Ohoho!”

                                            >Twilight purses her lips as she finishes garnishing Dash’s chip, plainly unamused.

                                            >“There’s still time to just make up the /normal/ way, you know.”

                                            >You consider her suggested approach seriously for a second.

                                            >Dash has always, /always/ been there, through everything that fate could throw at you.

                                            >Every roadblock, every setback, every time life was too much and you couldn’t do anything but lie down and let it beat on you - she was there, hoof outstretched, ready to pull you back out of the dumps.

                                            >You did your best to be there for her, too, whenever she needed it. It wasn’t even a matter of feeling like you owed her, either; you /wanted/ to be there. It just felt natural.

                                            >Even beyond that, you just can’t imagine meshing with anyone else even remotely as well.

                                            >Sitting here, looking her over from across the table, you realize that it goes beyond simple descriptions - your bond with her is outright ineffable.

                                            >Could you do everything you do with her with someone else? Yeah, sure, but it wouldn’t feel right.

                                            >It wouldn’t be /her/.

                                            >Even though you still feel a fair amount of resentment at the moment, it was for what she /did/, not her in general.

                                            >…

                                            >But what’s a friendship without a little rivalry?

                                            “I mean, sure. If she wants to concede.”

                                            >Dash barks out a single laugh, her chip now poised delicately in her hoof.

                                            >“Fat chance, Anon. Let’s do this.”

                                            >From somewhere off to your left, a nerdy sigh fills the tense air.

                                            >With practiced grace, you toss your chip into your mouth, and Dash does much the same.

                                            >When your tongue first brushes up against the rather creamy sauce, the heat eludes you - in its stead, the substance on its own is cool to the touch.

                                            >Eventually, though, the creeping heat arrived, enveloping your taste buds and wafting itself through the rest of your mouth.

                                            >The Equestrian Classic - your personal favorite of the lineup. Sweet, mild spice, good for pretty much anything you can put it on.

                                            >A perfect primer for the gauntlet to come.

                                            >You vocalize your approval with a terse grunt, eyeing Dash the whole time.

                                            >The self-assured smarm is still plastered all over her face, directed at you as she scarfs it down.

                                            >Not one to be outdone, you swallow, and it all goes down smooth as butter.

                                            “Light work. You ready for the next one?”

                                            >Dash doesn’t even acknowledge your question as she grabs another chip and holds it out towards Twilight.

                                            >“Hit me,” she all but orders, never once breaking eye contact with you.

                                            >You cock an eyebrow, your own ego flaring wildly.

                                            >A chip finds its way into your eager hand, poised between your fingertips.

                                            >You hold it out to Twilight, who’s already shaking up the next bottle.

                                            “Please.”

                                            >Swiftly, two more dollops are split between both chips.

                                            >Neither you nor Dash waste any time shoveling them into your mouths.

                                            >Since it’s only the second sauce in the lineup, it’s not too bad. Though the heat is undoubtedly a level above the previous bottle, it’s nothing you can’t handle.

                                            >You much prefer the taste of Equestrian Classic, but this one isn’t terrible.

                                            >Across from you, a subdued cough catches you off guard; Dash is leaned over a tad, covering her mouth with a hoof. The strain on her face is unmistakable - she’s already faltering.

                                            >Oh, you are /so/ fucking taking this one home, dude.

                                            >You lean forward against the table, one elbow propping you up while your other hand rests on your hip.

                                            “Feeling it already, huh, Dash?”

                                            >She mean mugs you as she collects herself, her voice raspier than usual as she fights to speak.

                                            >“Went down the wrong pipe, egghead,” she chokes out between coughs. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

                                            >Ha! Like that doesn’t give you a gigantic advantage moving forward.

                                            “Hey, whatever you say, man. I’m chillin’ over here.”

                                            >She rolls her eyes as she keeps working the spice out of her throat.

                                            >Your eyes meander over to Twilight, whose concern has her locked onto Dash like a guided missile system.

                                            “Thanks for helping us, by the way. We didn’t interrupt anything you had going on, did we?”

                                            >“Huh? Oh, no, you’re fine,” she says, waving off your concerns. “Even if I did, I’d rather make sure you two don’t send yourselves to the hospital.”

                                            >She’s got a point, honestly. Trips to the local clinic are a pretty common occurrence whenever you and Dash get up to no good.

                                            >It’s a wonder how you don’t have any sort of permanent physiological damage.

                                            >Jury’s out for brain damage, though.

                                            >Dash’s coughing fit sputters out, shaking her head vigorously before taking one drawn-out breath.

                                            >“Alright, I’m good,” she says, more for herself than anyone else.

                                            >“Are you sure?” Twilight asks. “Maybe you should let your-”

                                            >“I’m /fine/, Twilight! Really.”

                                            >Dash’s snappy interruption betrays her unflinching resolve, even in the face of your impending victory.

                                            >Her determined expression falls, though, when she realizes that she’s accidentally shouted at her.

                                            >“S-Sorry,” she stammered out meekly. I, uh… I didn’t mean to yell at you.”

                                            >Twilight shakes her head and smiles.

                                            >“It’s alright, Rainbow Dash.”

                                            >The thought of using her misstep to throw her further off of her game crosses your mind for a split second before you throw the idea out entirely.

                                            >No victory is worth the price of putting her down like that.

                                            >The fact that the idea even held purchase in your head tightens your chest in guilt.

                                            “You good to keep going, dude?”

                                            >The words leave your mouth reflexively, as if the sentence as a whole had a mind of its own before you threw it to the open air.

                                            >She returns her focus to you, and her momentary lapse in composure all but disappears.

                                            >“You’re gonna wish I wasn’t,” she threatens, a cocky smirk on her face.

                                            >You raise your eyebrows incredulously as you take hold of the next chip, Twilight having already placed a dollop of the third sauce in its center.

                                            “Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

                                            >Without waiting for any sort of smarmy reply, you throw the chip into your mouth, and she follows suit not long after.

                                            >While it still isn’t quite enough to phase you, you can tangibly feel the difference between this sauce and the last; from the tang alone, you can actually begin to suss out some sort of chili pepper.

                                            >Maybe. You’re not really a chef, mind you.

                                            >To your surprise, it actually /does/ start to burn a bit wherever it touches - a fact that you keep hidden by willing your face into neutrality as you chew.

                                            >Shit… You thought you’d at /least/ get to the fourth bottle before you started to really feel it.

                                            >According to your internal quantum bro-science super calculator, you’re gonna tap out on the sixth sauce.

                                            >Judging by how Dash just hacked up half of a lung, though, that might not matter.

                                            >If you can just outlast her, then making it all the way to the end won’t matter.

                                            >As the heat intensifies further and your face is subject to a sudden bout of phantom cold, you hope from the bottom of your heart that that’s the case.

                                            >Evidently, a bit of it found its way onto your lips, if the lukewarm burn is anything to go by.

                                            >You take a peek over at your rival, who seems to be faring similarly; no readable expression other than determination.

                                            >One swallow later, and you’re both expectantly staring at each other, looking for some sign of weakness that doesn’t exist for either of you.

                                            >It crosses your mind to ask her how she’s feeling, but you get the sense that she wouldn’t be very chatty about how she’s actually faring.

                                            >“How’re you feelin’, big guy?” Dash pipes up, smug as ever. “Kinda warm?”

                                            >You lean back in your chair.

                                            “Nah, not really, man.”

                                            >She laughs aloud, her shrill, malcontented joy breaking apart the relative silence of your house.

                                            >“You sure about that? What’re those rosy cheeks for, then, huh?”

                                            >…/Damn it all/.

                                            “You’ve got no room to talk, miss i-just-lost-half-a-lung.”

                                            >“That wasn’t even ‘cause of the sauce, though.”

                                            “Oh, yeah, /sure/.”

                                            >“There’s no shame in admitting you can’t handle spice, you know,” Twilight chimes in. “That goes for both of you. Don’t you think finding common ground will help you both make up faster?”

                                            >You internally agree - after seeing how Dash reacted to your out-of-pocket insult, you’d be lying if you said you weren’t considering dropping the whole challenge altogether in the interest of mending the wound you inflicted.

                                            >In searching her features, though, you can’t find the same willingness to back down. Somewhere deep within your gut, you don’t think she’d appreciate it if you did, either.

                                            >So, the square off continues.

                                            “Oh, no, I get you. We’ll find common ground whenever we both agree I’m winning this thing.”

                                            >“In your dreams, bub,” Dash goads. “Hit us again, Twilight.”

                                            >In tandem, you both reach for the plate, your wills synchronized. You both hold your newly procured chips out to Twilight, whose disappointed eyes can’t seem to settle on either of you.

                                            >Sighing, she levitates the fourth bottle over to her. Rather than immediately begin shaking it up, she takes time to read through the list of ingredients first.

                                            >The further down the list she goes, the deeper her frown becomes.

                                            >“Anon, where did you buy these…?” she asks.

                                            >…No one must know.

                                            “A gift shop from that time I went to Labyrinthia. Why?”

                                            >Yeah, that works!

                                            >She levitates the last bottle in the line over and only gets a quarter of a way down the list before her eyes fling wide.

                                            >Without turning her head, she bores into you with a concerned glare.

                                            >“Some of these ingredients aren’t found anywhere other than the Dragonlands.”

                                            “So?”

                                            >Twilight’s incredulity returns as she fully faces you.

                                            >“/So/, they’re a lot spicier than your average encounter with capsaicin. For Celestia’s sake, the last sauce in the line has Solar Flare pepper extract!”

                                            >Dash shrugs, clearly uninterested by such trivial details.

                                            >“That just means Anon’ll tap out faster.”

                                            >“Or you could seriously hurt yourselves,” Twilight replies as she sets the bottle back down. “Can you both /please/ find another way of settling your differences?”

                                            >Dash waves her concerns off with a wing as she leans back in her chair.

                                            >“Chill out, Twilight, it’s not like either of us are gonna make it to the last bottle anyway.”

                                            >“Plus, it hasn’t been that bad so far,” she says, a fresh tear rolling down her cheek.

                                            >Even so, Dash’s own admission of her inability to finish the lineup surprises you - you’ve never known her to be one that readily recognizes her limits.

                                            >Seems she’s taking a page out of your own playbook, banking on you forfeiting before things get dicey.

                                            “We’ll be careful, Twi,” you add, flashing an award-winning smile. “In fact, we can juuuust…”

                                            >You reach across to the head of the table and slide the final bottle away from the others, inwardly fist-pumping the fact that you won’t have to endure heat death today.

                                            “There. That cool with everyone?”

                                            >“Cool with me,” Dash parrots, putting her hind hooves up on the table.

                                            >Twilight, on the other hand, wrestles with the idea for a few moments.

                                            >The pensive curvature of her restless brow makes her hesitance plain, but something gives as she grumbles to herself for all but a split second.

                                            >“Fine. But when you both start feeling nauseous - not if, /when/ - I’m stopping this whole thing. Got it?”

                                            >You and Dash trade looks of determination before nodding once to yourselves, then again at Twilight.

                                            “Agreed.”

                                            >“Hit us up, Twilight!” Dash echoes, invigorated.

                                            >You both hold your chips out, and Twilight begrudgingly deposits a couple of drops in each.

                                            >Without delay, you and Dash tear into them, thrilled to show the other who’s boss.


                                            Six minutes later…


                                            >The only boss that reigns over either of you is abject agony.

                                            >The turgid slithering of your inflamed intestines doubles you over, your open palms slamming against the frigid, wooden dining table.

                                            >You cough and cough, chasing relief that never once moves from the bottom of your immolated throat.

                                            >Your tongue is a writhing mass of seared flesh, spreading torment over every inch of your mouth that it slides over.

                                            >Saliva pools beneath it, but you’re afraid to swallow - it burns like hellfire, almost as much as the sauce itself.

                                            >Even your lips aren’t safe from the sauce-induced blaze.

                                            >Do you even /have/ lips anymore?

                                            >Wait, wait, hold on…

                                            >…

                                            >Oh, fuck’s sake, even your /teeth/ ache!

                                            “Aughhh…” you moan, red-hot spit dripping out onto a napkin waiting below.

                                            >Beside you, desperately clinging onto the table for support, Dash squirms in pain, whimpering in extreme displeasure.

                                            >In a surge of righteous fury, you yank your arm up and point at the insidious bottle floating in Twilight’s aura.

                                            “What the fuck is /that/?!”

                                            >Twilight’s eyes frantically scramble back and forth across the nutritional info, beads of sweat falling from her forehead.

                                            >“It shouldn’t have been that spicy!” she shouts, bewildered.

                                            >“Well, it is,” Dash groans, her face a shade paler than it should be. Her snoot is matted with snot and tears, much like the volcano that calls itself your face.

                                            >You inhale as deeply as you can, sucking the cold November air through your teeth. The respite it brings is microscopic, replaced by creeping death a mere moment later.

                                            >As you heave scorched breath from your lungs, Twilight continues to flip the bottle over this way and that.

                                            >“What even…?” she mumbles, straightening it out in the air.

                                            >Her brow furrows for a moment before she twists the cap off and brings the bottle underneath her nose.

                                            >She only gets one whiff in before she recoils in horrifying disgust, the putrid stench bringing on a coughing fit of her own.

                                            >The cap is screwed back on at the speed of sound, and she tosses the bottle away into an open-topped trash can next to the dining table.

                                            “Yeah… ‘s bad,” you moan. “Oh, god, what the /fuck/?”

                                            >Your lamentations break off into uncontrollable laughter for a few seconds; you haven’t been in pain this severe for a very long time.

                                            >Dash beholds your declining sanity in pained confusion, saying nothing as she continues suffering.

                                            >Twilight darts from your couch, trotting toward the kitchen.

                                            >Before she even crosses the threshold, the doors of the fridge are wrenched open with her aura.

                                            >She scans the modest contents for a few moments before looking back at you over her withers.

                                            >“Where’s your milk?” she asks urgently.

                                            >Can she really not find it?

                                            >Should be on the door shelf, right there at the…

                                            >…It’s not there. Wait, then where did you-

                                            >…Oh.

                                            >Oh, you forgot to buy milk yesterday.

                                            >…

                                            >Even though you don’t have the fortitude to reply, Twilight draws the obvious conclusion.

                                            >“Okay,” she huffs as she throws the fridge shut. “I-I’m gonna trot over to the market and get some milk, alright? Stay put, I’ll be back soon!”

                                            >She gallops out of your front door, a blast of chilly air billowing about the living room as a result.

                                            >Like everything else, it helps none. Short of the milk you’d neglected to pick up, it feels like nothing will cut this hellish nightmare short.

                                            >Dash stumbles back over to her side of the table and sits down, staring blankly at the chips for a few moments.

                                            >She looks straight into your eyes and smirks not long afterward.

                                            >“N-nothin’ to say, huh?” she nearly whispers, the searing spice lowering her volume involuntarily.

                                            >You frown, mostly out of confusion. The sudden facial movement frees more snot from your nose, which you wipe away with another napkin.

                                            “Dash, this ain’t funny anymore, man.”

                                            >“Why were ya laughing, then?”

                                            “I dunno, dude, my brain’s leaking out of my nose or something. Look, I don’t wanna do this anymore, alright? I’m in a lot of pain, and-”

                                            >“So you’re giving up, eh?” she goads as she cradles her stomach in misery.

                                            “That’s not what I-”

                                            >“What happened to all that boasting, huh? Thought you said I’d be ‘donezo.’”

                                            >You lean forward on your palms. A quick, sharp inhale refreshes the inferno within your mouth, allowing you to keep talking for a little while.

                                            “There’s no way in hell you can keep going.”

                                            >“Says y-”

                                            >She goes to form some kind of smarmy reply, but abruptly belches before she can get a word out.

                                            >She doubles over and leans against the table, much like you.

                                            >“O-Okay, maybe not,” she whimpers out through closed eyes and clenched teeth.

                                            >With what looks like herculean effort, though, she rights herself once more, her steely gaze locked onto yours.

                                            >“Doesn’t matter, though. I’m not callin’ it quits.”

                                            >You sit back in your dining chair once more, sighing fire as you do. The torturous bit of stinging it brings on is almost enough to render you silent.

                                            “‘Course you aren’t…”

                                            >You spit into the trash can, no longer willing to hold onto the magma pooling in your jaw.

                                            “You know Twilight’s gonna kill us for this, right?”

                                            >“Nah,” she replies. “We’ll just get lectured again.”

                                            >You hold her expectant stare for a while, steadying your own gut for the horrors to come.

                                            “I mean, I’ll do it, but…”

                                            >But what, Anon?

                                            >Use your big boy words; that creeping dread in your chest isn’t just the spice.

                                            “I just… I don’t know. I really don’t like being on bad terms with you, Dash. None of this feels right.”

                                            >Her competitive glare makes way for a kind of pained uncertainty, her brow tense as she looks you over.

                                            >“I don’t either, dude, but-”

                                            >She suddenly clutches her midsection, breathing deeply as she winces against the spice’s assault on her stomach.

                                            >“I’d rather do the whole song and dance when we’re not actively dying,” she says in a strained voice. “Besides, don’t you wanna know which one of us can hold out longer?”

                                            >You chuckle to yourself. This mare, you swear…

                                            “You know what? Yeah, I do.”

                                            >She smiles at you as much as the spice will allow.

                                            >“That’s the spirit,” she says, grabbing the next sauce out of the lineup. “We can make up when you take me to Hardy Hayburgers later.”

                                            “I thought you wanted Gustav’s?”

                                            >She shakes her head as she just barely adorns her chip.

                                            >“Nah, too fancy. I’d rather just grab some grub with my best bud.”

                                            >Something inexplicable takes hold of your cheeks, and the corners of your mouth rocket upward in a strangely intense moment of appreciation.

                                            >Although only for a moment, the burning takes a backseat to whatever this new sensation is that’s knotting your stomach and tightening your chest.

                                            “Sounds good to me. Come on, let’s do this.”

                                            >You take a chip from the plate and hold it out in front of you while she loads it with a mere speck of sauce.

                                            >A pit opens in your stomach - the gates of hell prepare to swing wide.

                                            >The two of you hold your chips out in front of you, hesitant to take the plunge.

                                            >You can’t actually believe your dumb ass is about to do this.

                                            >…Deep breaths, Anon.

                                            >As you draw the object of your annihilation closer, though, Dash stops you by wrapping the tip of her wing around your wrist.

                                            >“Wait!” she calls out. “Hold on, lemme just…”

                                            >She holds your arm in place with her wing as she snakes her foreleg around it, holding onto the chip all the while. Your elbow interlocks with her knee, and the difference in the limbs’ length  pulls you both closer to the center of the table.

                                            >“There,” she exhales, apprehensive. “On three, alright?”

                                            >You nod, another superheated breath leaving your lungs.

                                            >“Okay… One.”

                                            >Her grip tightens around your arm; any harder and she’d be cutting off circulation.

                                            >“Two.”

                                            >Her eyes dart microscopically to different locations on the chip, every once in a while darting up to you.

                                            >She purses her lips in hesitancy, wracked with nerves - so you take the final step.

                                            “Three!”

                                            >Your head darts forward, mouth parting. Dash lags just a bit behind, but in a flash, she’s on her chip, too.

                                            >You both place the underside on your tongues, and…


                                            *crunch*


                                            —


                                            >Beep.

                                            >White and gray ceiling tiles consume your vision as you lie in bed, unable to do much but breathe.

                                            >Beep.

                                            >The flickering ghost of hell itself still lingers on your lips even now, five hours later.

                                            >Beep.

                                            >You’re not sure you’ll ever forget the feeling - it was like your insides were /dissolving/.

                                            >Beep.

                                            >Twilight came back not long after to both of you writhing around on the floor, pleading for help. Poor mare didn’t take it well, even after she teleported the both of you here.

                                            >Beep.

                                            >…Man, you hate EKGs. They make it so hard to focus.

                                            >You suppose the pain meds aren’t really helping, either, with how woozy you are.

                                            >They were a necessity, though; having a tube shoved through your nose and down your throat was one of the most unpleasant experiences of your life.

                                            >The hot sauce burning your organs to ash was one thing, but when that thing snaked its way into your throat and caught against everything on the way down, you very nearly went primal.

                                            >Oh, god, and when they ripped it back out again… Not something you’d ever like to relive, if you can help it.

                                            >Dash fared similarly, even had to be held steady by two nurses.

                                            >Your heart shattered when she started to cry. You’d have given anything to have held her hoof through that shit.

                                            >Ordinarily, you’d have been in different rooms, but Ponyville General was somehow so full up that you had to bunk together.

                                            >That, or they just thought it was convenient for two similar cases to be grouped up. Either way, you’re happy they did that, especially with how close the beds are.

                                            >A gentle exhale to your left just barely rises above the ambient noise of the room, fitting nicely in between the incessant noise of the heart rate monitors.

                                            >Willing your weary muscles to life, you slowly but steadily turn your head to the side, your cheek resting on a cold portion of the pillow.

                                            >Dash’s covers are pulled up to her belly, bunched up around her forehooves. Her hind legs just barely stick out from underneath them, resting comfortably.

                                            >Her chest rises and falls at an exceedingly relaxed pace, sleepy breaths escaping from her nostrils every couple seconds or so.

                                            >Her bangs drape over her closed eyes, ruffled and frayed by her earlier struggle.

                                            >…

                                            >Maybe it’s the medication they’ve got you on, but seeing her at ease like this makes you unusually happy.

                                            >Just as well, there it is again; that odd, fluttering feeling from before. Now that the pain of the spice is mostly gone, it’s a lot more noticeable.

                                            >You’re not a poet, so you don’t really know how to capture it with words like they do.

                                            >If you had to liken it to something, though, you’d say it was like when you listened to a really nice song and it stuck with you for a while afterward.

                                            >You think so, at least. You get the feeling you’re underselling it considering how tight your chest is.

                                            >…Aaaand you just now realize that you’ve been staring at her for something like half a minute.

                                            >Kinda odd, man. You’re gonna have to figure /that/ one out later.

                                            “Dash?”

                                            >You break the silence with a hoarse whisper, one that you can scarcely believe came from your own throat.

                                            >After a few fragile moments, Dash turns toward you, not even bothering to open her eyes.

                                            >“Mm…?” she mumbles, blissfully groggy.

                                            >You chuckle inwardly. Whatever they gave her, it was /way/ stronger than what you got.

                                            “Feeling any better?”

                                            >She pauses, but sleepily nods her head after a few moments.

                                            >You let go of a tumultuous breath you didn’t even know you were holding, finally relaxing fully.

                                            “Good.”

                                            >Silence takes hold once again, but she leaves her head turned toward you. Her heavy exhales rhythmically wash over you, so much so that they even mingle with the breaths you take.

                                            >It’s almost enough to stop your words before you can form them, but not quite.

                                            >This is too important.

                                            “…I’m sorry, Rainbow.”

                                            >Her eyes gradually open at the use of her proper name, seldom used by you.

                                            “This whole thing, it was my fault. I took the jam prank way too personally, when I should’ve realized you wouldn’t have had any idea the meeting was gonna take place that day.”

                                            >You return to staring at the ceiling, suddenly unable to hold eye contact.

                                            “And now we’re back in the hospital, and it’s all ‘cause of my stupid hot sauce idea, and…”

                                            >Your throat gets tighter.

                                            “…I’m sorry, Dash. I’m /really/ sorry.”

                                            >Beep.

                                            >Beep.

                                            >Beep.

                                            >Beep.

                                            >Beep.

                                            >“Hey.”

                                            >Your eyes flicker back over to her, head turning slightly to compensate.

                                            >She’s fully facing you now, body and all.

                                            >“I’m sorry, too,” she sluggishly murmurs. “Could’ve said something to you at any point, but I fed into it. Plus, even if I didn’t know about the meeting, the stuff with the jam /was/ kinda mean…”

                                            >You chuckle, stomach pain be damned.

                                            “Nah, it’s funny in hindsight. I couldn’t even leave my house for the rest of the day afterwards.”

                                            >She’s wracked with subdued laughter as she beams at you, never once breaking her gaze.

                                            >“The girls told me all about it when I got back home.”

                                            “Oh, god, what did they say?”

                                            >“I got an earful from Twilight and Rarity, but everypony else was just worried about you.”

                                            >You groan aloud.

                                            “Hope I didn’t scar them for life.”

                                            >“Just Fluttershy,” Dash replied. “Princess Luna was beet red once she smelled you, but they said she took it in stride.”

                                            >/FUCK/.

                                            >Welp, your next meeting with her is going to be devastatingly awkward, to say the least.

                                            “I think I’m gonna die of embarrassment.”

                                            >She chuckles into her pillow, shutting her eyes once more.

                                            >“You better not, bub. I need you around, ya know.”

                                            >Playful curiosity grips you.

                                            “Why’s that?”

                                            >She lazily points a hoof at you, half-lidded eyes holding yours in a death grip. The medicine’s clearly working its loopy magic.

                                            >“‘Cause…” she struggles to get out. “I really like bein’ around you, big guy.”

                                            >You can’t stop from grinning ear to ear.

                                            “Right back at ya.”