Chapter 4 – Drunk Confessions and Electric Fandom
(Yvaine's Point of View)
Being drunk on Skittles Slayer was like getting lovingly smacked by a fruit basket and kissed by nostalgia.
Everything felt soft. My limbs, my thoughts, even the night air brushing against my face as my assistant carried me home, piggyback style like I was an oversized sack of sass and ambition.
"You're warm," I mumbled against the back of his neck. "Like a walking bread oven."
"That's flattering," he replied dryly. "Truly, my life goal was to be compared to dinner rolls."
I giggled. "You smell better though. Less yeasty. Still dependable."
He didn't respond, but I could feel his hand adjusting my position slightly—gentle, steady like I might melt off his back if he didn't secure me better.
"My love," I slurred, "you know what this manor needs?"
"M-My what? Wait—is it a divine intervention?"
"Hey! You should get used to being called my love!" I whined through laughter, the sort of villainous laugh reserved for princesses who just trapped their knight into dating them by accident.
"No!" I poked his shoulder. "An electric fan."
He paused mid-step. "A… what?"
I perked up. "Electric fan! You know, when it's hot and you don't wanna wave those paper fans like you're a wilting noble flower at a garden brunch? An electric fan spins. Like whoosh-whoosh. It makes wind. Glorious, consistent wind."
He tilted his head slightly, clearly confused but valiantly trying to follow. "So… a tool that… blows air?"
"Yes!" I clapped, triumphant. "And we'll call it the Wind Whisperer 3000. First spin every wig will sing."
"That sounds like a magic sword."
"It is magic," I declared. "Except it saves sweat, not slays monsters. And best of all? I can market it as eco-friendly because we'll use hamster-powered energy—"
He groaned. "Milady, please don't smuggle hamsters."
"You're not ready for my innovation," I whined while I pouted acting cute. So what? He's the only one who can make me act like this. How unfair that his still unfazed.
"I'm not ready for your criminal record." He answered seriously but I could feel that little chuckle.
I laughed so hard I nearly slid off his back. He adjusted me again, effortlessly, like he was used to this level of nonsense.
"I'm gonna make Soju next," I declared. "This world deserves to know what it's like to make bad decisions and still think it was worth it."
"Another liquor?"
"Not just liquor. An experience. It tastes like heartbreak, friendship, karaoke, and the reason I passed out on my living room floor once and woke up hugging a chair."
He hummed. "Kara-what? And here I thought tequila was your one true love."
"Tequila is my passion," I said solemnly. "But Soju… Soju is my toxic ex I keep going back to."
"Why are all your relationships drink-related?"
"Because love is confusing," I muttered.
Then, as if the floodgates were opened: "You know, people ask me—why not make wind tools, cooling magic, more sustainable agriculture? I could do all of that. I have ideas. But liquor is my lifeblood, okay? Priorities are priorities."
"You treat everything else like a side quest," he noted.
"I do! It's like Mario Brothers. Liquor's the main mission. The rest? Side quests. Bonus coins. Giant mushrooms. Whatever."
"…You really are drunk."
"Drunk but visionary," I corrected.
A pause.
Then: "Were you ever in love?"
I rested my cheek against his back and sighed. "Not in my past life, no. I was too busy working. Traveling. Managing the family liquor business. I trained, I lived, I laughed. I even punched a guy once because he said women can't brew."
"Fair," he murmured.
"But love?" I shrugged. "Didn't have time. Didn't know what it looked like."
He didn't speak.
I yawned. "But now… I'm curious. So I decided to marry someone."
His steps slowed. "Someone?"
"You," I said cheerfully. "Obviously."
He chuckled, but I felt his back stiffen. "That's a bold proposal from someone who can't walk straight."
"Don't change the subject."
"…And how did you die, if I may ask, oh spirited one of the past?"
I blinked. "I… don't know."
"You don't remember?"
"I was asleep," I said simply.
That silenced him.
"I just didn't wake up," I whispered. "And… I'm glad I didn't know. It didn't hurt that way."
He walked slower now, his grip on my legs more protective than before.
I rested my forehead against his back again. "But this time, I want to live enough to know what it feels like. Maybe not forever, but for however long I can."
Soft. Quiet. That silence between sentences where feelings fester.
Then, gently: "I'll carry you as long as you want."
"…Even when I'm sober?"
His quiet laugh rumbled under me. "Especially when you're sober. You're worse when you are."
"I'm a visionary."
"A tipsy one."
"Still counts," I said as I still rested my head on his very broad shoulder and yes it's an exaggerated compliment.
End of Chapter 4...