cham-pain
There was no question about it: every single carat that Milla had gambled away at Angora’s casino over the past year, she was prepared to get back tonight in the form of excessive volumes of champagne. Hors d'oeuvres, too, but the champagne was much easier to track down at the masquerade, considering just how many waiters were flitting back and forth across the ballroom to make sure Angora’s guests were properly sauced up for the festivities to come. The finger foods, being laid out atop a long table at the side with a line spanning practically the length of the room, would be a nice distraction later, to be clear– Milla would never write off the novelty of a dark chocolate bonbon or cake pop so sweet that it made her teeth ache.
It was the bubbly stuff that she couldn’t stay away from, though. She had a glass in her hand within moments of hers and Friedrich’s fraudulent invitations being accepted, and had nearly downed it like it was mere juice before entering the ballroom proper. For as fizzy as it was, the pale yellow drink was clearly quality, going down so smoothly that she could forget it was alcohol if she wasn’t careful.
So, it was around that point that she decided to get her money’s worth out of a party she neither paid for nor was actually invited to, taking Friedrich’s champagne from him and downing that, too. Her partner didn’t care for anything too much stronger than beer, so he didn’t lodge any sort of complaint about that, instead giving her back a gentle pat when the bubbles forced a tiny burp that, to her credit, she was very discreet about.
“Can I have this dance?” Friedrich asked when they’d made it to the dance floor, which was just as romantic as she’d hoped being asked to dance at a fairy-themed masquerade might be. What was even more romantic than that, though, was him producing a flute of champagne seemingly out of thin air when the waltz was over. He’d likely snagged it from a waiter while she was ooh-ing and aah-ing over the couture that other guests were showing off– or… maybe the champagne from earlier was already going to her head, and anything he’d done would have impressed her.
It was a possibility, but Milla didn’t feel any unease at the idea. Friedrich had taken her home on many, many nights after she’d drank a little too much, and aside from maybe All Sinners’ Day, nowhere seemed quite so appropriate to drink to excess as a once in a year, rich person gala.
“Don’t mind if I do,” she hummed, taking the glass in both hands to sip eagerly. “Are you sure you don’t want a drink? It’s good.”
“No, no,” Friedrich replied, one hand resting on her arm to keep her steady; did she really need to be kept steady so soon? “Someone needs to drive us home safely.”
“You don’t drive,” she giggled, earning a smile from him in turn; he was likely just proud of himself for having made her laugh.
Milla moved to step forward, surprising herself when she lost her footing far too easily. “Whoa.” Friedrich’s hand on her arm fortunately stopped her from falling over, but a few of the guests near them seemed to side-eye the pair for the rather inelegant display so near the dance floor. “This really is the good stuff, huh?” Milla downed the rest of the glass and handed it back to Friedrich, who expertly waved a waiter over to replace it with a full one. She reached over for it, but he held it just out of reach.
Milla made an indignant little noise.
“Let’s go see what’s on the snack table,” he prompted rather than giving in, hooking his arm through hers. “You’ll feel better tomorrow morning if you don’t drink on an empty stomach, you know?” Friedrich had nursed her through enough hangovers to be sure about that advice.
“You’re right,” she conceded, squeezing his arm with her own. Milla moved to step forward, again, then cut herself short when she felt the same dizziness in her head. No, no. She was planning on drinking enough fancy champagne to bankrupt Angora tonight, but toppling over on the dance floor was just not a sustainable way of going about that. “On second thought, we should sit down for a little bit. Rest our feet.”
Friedrich saw through her, as usual, guiding Milla to an empty table and setting the champagne in front of her. “Dark chocolate bonbons?” he asked, his toothy smile as charming as ever.
“Sparkling wine mochi,” she retorted, picking up the flute of champagne and winking. Maybe it was a wink. Maybe just a regular blink. He understood the gist of it.
“Cake pop,” he decided for her instead, turning to head off to the snack table. Milla smiled to herself. Moderation was certainly not in the cards tonight, but at least she had a partner in crime with her to make sure she didn’t horribly embarrass herself. (Not until she got back on the dance floor, at least.)
