A/N: As usual, happy birthday, Naruto!

Beta-read by Nadramon.


I'm sitting here at the table, right across from you. It's about one and a half meters. That's all that is separating us. And I'm staring at you.

You're eating that cake that you made, but that's by far an exaggeration, idiot. To me, if I had to give it a definition, I'd say it's a slice of sugary death. All I saw you put in that thing was sugar, flour, chocolate, syrup, and water. And that's just boiling down the ingredients list. Almost all the things I listed out have a high concentration of sugar in it already.

It's too sweet for me, but not for you. You love it. But of course; you're the one who made it.

I'd say that it's bad for you, that it's going to give you root canals, that it'll give you freaking ulcers and diabetes while it's burning holes in your digestive system. But, you fool, I won't. Because a long time ago, I learned that you didn't like getting corrected or warned.

Still, I always try to chastise you and tell you over and over again that, "That's not good for you."

But then you'll call me a stupid jerk and ignore me in that annoying way of yours. It never lasts long, but it gets on my nerves. (But really, how mature of you is that?)

So here I am, watching you eat your slice of death and I know there's still an entire cake left of it in the fridge. I swear you're attempting suicide sometimes. The only foods we have in the house only consist of MSG and sugar. What the hell are you trying to do with us?

You grin at me and I try my best not to burn a hole in your head and muster a twitch of my mouth. How can you—how can you manage to swallow that sweet, sugary goo down your throat?

I think you've halved the required amount of flour and doubled the sugar quantity again, but I don't bother telling you that—the disaccharides are probably gluing your teeth together. I don't know how you do it, but somehow, you're already on your second serving of cake. I'm still sitting here, trying to see if all your teeth are still whole. I swear they're simply melting away.

There's too much chocolate syrup, and raspberry syrup, and caramel syrup, and… what the hell is that? Mint syrup? And if I prod around long enough, I would probably find too much chocolate chips, chocolate ribbons, and… chocolate in general. Now that I think about it, that's probably why you look more like you're drinking that crap instead of actually chewing it.

Just watching you makes me want to go to the bathroom and brush my teeth several times. You'll probably get an upset stomach for a few days after this. In fact, you've probably consumed enough calories to last you a week—including missions. And if this won't get you hyper, I have no idea what will.

I can't help but stare at you incredulously as your face gets covered in your pseudo-cake. How do you manage to do that? I don't think that shoving your face into the plate is an effective way to eat, idiot.

There's no way you can feel your taste-buds any more. Or your mouth, for that matter. If I ever thought that getting poisoned was bad, I believe I'm sorely mistaken. This is infinitely many times worse—at least, that's what it appears to be like.

In the back of my mind, there's a part of me that wonders if you did this on purpose just to piss me off. (I do realize that you used my money to buy all those ingredients.) You know so well that I don't like sweets. In fact, I can barely stand that red bean soup concoction that you love almost as much as you do ramen. Or have you forgotten again? You always forget.

"Do you want some, Sasuke?" you ask me, curiously. "You've been staring at me really intensely for a long time."

You're looking at me with such inquisitive eyes, as if I would really actually want a piece of that… thing.

What? Don't tell me you actually believe I would want to even touch that thing?

But now you're earnestly staring at me as if you're expecting a "Yes" from me.

….

You're really thinking I would say "Yes," aren't you?

"No," I grate out, feeling extremely disgusted and irked by the mere sight of that abomination.

There you go, with your face all scrunched up in indignation and anger.

"What!" comes your yell (and by the looks of it, some saliva as well…). "But I worked so hard on it! You won't even eat a little piece of this?"

Again, I decline. "No. I don't want to die prematurely—unlike yourself."

It appears as if you want to say something back to me, but I'm not in the mood to deal with you now.

"Shut up and be glad I'm not chucking that thing out the window. Right. Now."

And…. There, your mouth shuts with an angry click, and you're fuming angrily again. At least you've learned that my threats are not empty ones. (Perhaps you might also learn to wipe your mouth when you're done eating.)

I think I will take my leave before you change your mind and start challenging me again….

Besides that, I really need to think of a way to get rid of that… cake before it mutates and turns into one of those moldy science projects you've been so fond of lately….