#omggggg I forgot the fucking readmore at first

[aclosetfan]

Looking at the list, 10 reminds me of your little Bloomer (or Cotton Candy) fic. 👀👀

:) here's a five-second continuation of this

Prompt 10: I have never been this sick before I'm sorry did I, haha this is so weird, but did I confess my love for you? f- four times? yeah? haha oh

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There was a knock on the bathroom door, and Blossom pulled her head out of the toilet.

“Ugh, come in,” She groaned, green in the face, and instantly regretted it because, a second later, Boomer waltzed with a smile loud enough to make her headache scream.

“Hey-oooo!” He announced, pushing his sunglasses on top of his head and waving a plastic bag in the air.

“B-Boomer!” She scrambled to maintain some decency as she pulled her blanket tighter around her shoulders and smoothed down her hair, “What are you doing here!”

“Ah, don’t act all surprised.” He snorted, plopping down beside her, “I told ya I’d stick with you, didn’t I? First time drunk, first time hungover. I brought all my hangover shit.”

She briefly regarded the plastic bag before throwing an anxious look toward the bathroom door, “Did my dad see you? Does he know you’re here? He can’t know—”

“Relaxxx, Bloss.” He waved off her concerns as he stretched out in the cramped space. As if offended, he leaned against the bathtub and flippantly remarked, “I think I can sneak in and out of a girl’s house without their dads’ noticing. Sort of the whole thing with me and my brothers. Bad boys. You feel?”

Her face warmed on its own accord, and considered his words in earnest, “It feels . . . degrading?”

“Yep!” He chirped, rooting around in the plastic bag, “Anyway, Buttercup helped me sneak in. She said you were goin’ through it, and your dad’s, like, in his lab, so we’re all good. It’s not like he has super hearing. Here, drink some Pedialyte.”

A drink was in front of her face before she could blink, “That’s for babies.”

“Annnd it has a shit ton of electrolytes.” Boomer smiled, “Hydration is key. Look, it’s pink! You like pink, right?”

“I’m partial to it.” She deadpanned, accepting the drink and ignoring her reflection in the mirror, head-to-toe covered in pink with fluffy slippers and a headband to match.

He watched her take a sip of the drink and then a gulp until she had chugged half the bottle, and he was laughing, “I bought two.”

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

He seemed to like that response because he perked up and started rooting through his bag. “I brought other stuff too, like hangover snacks, but—” He stared pointedly at the toilet, “—I’m guessing you’re not keeping much down.”

She grimaced, “No.”

“How about your sisters?”

Blossom rolled her eyes and fought the pout off her face, “Buttercup’s acting like she could run a marathon and thinks this is all hilarious, and Bubbles, well, she’s been quieter, but she isn’t puking like I am. It’s annoying.”

“They drank less than you,” He shrugged, “‘sides they can handle it better since they’ve done it before. What are they telling your dad? Does he know you’re hungover?”

She blushed again, “No! He just, oh, you know—” she shrugged and mumbled, “—just that it’s that time of the month.”

“Ah!” He laughed and winked, “Gotcha.”

She took another drink and closed her eyes, mulling over the previous night. The whole morning, she had been battling against a tremendous ball of guilt that she didn’t think was contributing well to her nausea. She knew that she had no reason to feel guilty. From what she had been able to pester out of Buttercup and Bubbles, absolutely nothing (technically) embarrassing had happened.

“But,” Buttercup had cooed with a wicked smile, “someone was certainly getting cozzzzy on the couches. Didn’t think you went for blondies, Bloss.”

She had started puking around then, and Buttercup didn’t stick around long enough to keep teasing her. Her sister didn’t need to, though. Blossom had plenty of half-formed memories to do the job for her.

Blossom’s recollection of last night was fuzzy at best. Still, there were significant chunks of time that she couldn’t remember anything at all outside of abstract ideas, the smell of men’s cologne, and a pair of arms around her waist or shoulders. She had spent most of the morning convincing herself that, at worst, what had occurred last night could have only been perceived as platonic cuddling, but with Boomer here, her heart was too stuck in her throat to believe that.  

She returned the drink to her lips and allowed her gaze to flicker to him. To her surprise, she caught his eye, and he quickly looked away, pretending to fiddle with the plastic bag.

“Uh,” he cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck, “sorry, by the way. This is probably my fault. I should have made you drink more water, but uh, I was also pretty buzzed, and—”

“You don’t have to apologize. I can own up to my own choices.” She interrupted him. Then, with a small smile, she added, “Besides, despite present circumstances, it was . . . fun.”

Boomer blinked, and his charming, toothy smile was back on his face, “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“I can own up to my own mistakes?” She teased, playing along.

“Uh, no, the other thing?” He leaned in, cupping a hand over his ear, “I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

“You don’t have to apologize?”

“Nah, nah, there was definitely something else.”

“Oh! Was it maybe the part where I may have had fun?”

He snapped his finger and pointed at her, “Yes, that! That’s what I thought you said.”

They laughed together, and Blossom felt herself relax. Despite what may have happened last night, she was glad he had convinced her to drink with him. Boomer was her friend; half-baked memories aside, that was really all that really mattered.

She glanced down at the bottle in her hand, examining the label. For lack of anything better to say, she held it up, “This was a good idea. I would have never thought of this.”

“I—” he paused, looking sheepish, “—well, I can’t take all the credit. I learned about it online, but it sure helps with headaches.”

“Regardless, it’s smart.” She fiddled with the wrapper, “Thanks, uh, for everything really. I’m serious. I had fun last night, and it’s all because of you.”

Boomer flushed under the praise. It was sweet to watch the dark hue travel across his face.

“Maybe—” she gave him a serious look, “—not now, but maybe, later, we can, I don’t know, do it again?”

His brows shot up in surprise, “Really?”

She shook the bottle at him, “Yes, and next time, I’ll be more prepared.”

“Of course, yeah, totally!” He blinked, his reaction a second delayed, “I, uh, yeah! Tha—that sounds awesome. I, um, I actually . . . wanted to ask you something along, uh, along those lines actually, and, well, it’s—”

Her heart swelled in her chest because she had an idea of where this conversation might be going, but it was cut short by a low rumble in her stomach. She paled, and a thin layer of sweat broke out across her forehead. She held a hand up in front of Boomer’s mouth to silence him as she fought off the wave of nausea and ignored the semi-hurt look that crossed his features.

She swallowed slowly and, after a few deep breaths, opened her mouth to explain herself, only to immediately turn and vomit into the toilet.

Boomer cursed behind her and reached over to hold her hair back.

“Th-anks—” she groaned between heaves.

“It’s no big deal. It’s just like holding Brick’s, but you aren’t yelling at me, and yours is considerably softer—” She felt him tense behind her as he started laughing an octave too high, “—not that I notice that stuff, haha!”

“Oh,” She couldn’t respond appropriately; she hardly had anything coherent to say as she turned her face back into the toilet. It seemed an eternity passed before she could get another word out, “I’m so sorry. This is so, so gross. I have never been this sick before!”

“Blossom, it’s totally fine. I've seen grosser.”

“It’s really not—” she dry heaved and moaned, “—what even happened last night? I remember drinking, and then we sat on the couch, and—” Boomer carded his fingers through her hair, adjusting his grip, and her question stopped short, the innocent gesture triggering a painfully embarrassing memory. Now, it was her turn to laugh off-key, “—I’m sorry, did I—haha—this is so weird, but did I . . . confess my love for you?”

“Uhhh,” Boomer started, tensing again, “well, I think we were both a little drunk.”

“So, I did?”

“Well—”

“—like four times? Did I do it, like, four different times?”

“It’s not like I minded!” Boomer argued, “You were drunk!”

“But was it four times into the karaoke machine? That was hooked up to the surround sound? While everyone was watching? And no one stopped me?”

It took Boomer a second to answer, “Listen, I was extremely flattered.”