Bubbly

Summary: The only way Rita gets through the endless royal balls is with a good, strong drink. Sometimes two or three. Features friendly drunk!Rita and, ultimately, Estelle/Rita.

A/N: So, I started this story months ago then got mad at it and put it down for a while. Then, when I felt inspired, it transformed itself from crack to Estelle/Rita. So that is what it is. It also features some temporary Flynn/Rita, which is super weird. Takes place a couple years after the game, so Rita is seventeen or so. Enjoy!

And I do not own Vesperia.

It is pure happenstance that the first real, grown-up party Karol gets invited to coincides with the first time Rita imbibes just a bit too much champagne.

Karol watches her, eyes darting between the empty flutes scattered on the table to his own barely-touched glass. It teeters between his fingertips as he sips it. Raven handed it to him earlier—the leader of a guild was mature enough to have a glass of the bubbly, he'd said. It tastes fruity, though, and Karol wonders if Raven cut it with juice.

Watching Rita at a party is almost a social experiment. Out of courtesy, Karol tries to be discreet, which is challenging when she's a scant few inches away, sharing the ornate settee with him. Rita's dress is a fluffy green thing that looks like it was picked out by Estelle, and for the first hour or so, Rita shifted in her chair. Karol surmised the dress must be itchy and he's thankful for his comfortable pants.

The number of suitors who asked Rita to dance was at least a half dozen. The first one's persistence made Rita down her flute of champagne in three large gulps. Drinking looked aggressive when Rita did it. Estelle stays close to Yuri, whose glares and reputation ward off too many wooing attempts, but Rita has no such defense. Instead, she takes root on the settee like a fortress.

"Lovely lady, would you care to share the next dance with me?"

The man who approaches Rita is conventionally attractive. If Karol were a girl, he'd probably dance with the guy. Rita, however, narrows her eyes and glares up at the man. He's smiling foppishly and Karol spares just a second to pity him.

"Ya know what," Rita's not using her indoor voice, "No!"

Karol takes the largest sip of his champagne yet and watches the pageant unfold.

Taken aback, the man leaves. Rita slumps petulantly in her seat, glaring at Karol as if she expects him to retort. He doesn't.

Minutes later, another hopeful wanders near Rita's perch, extending a hand to Rita in what Karol thinks is a very noble flourish. "Milady, I'd be honored if you—"

"Is it opposite day in Zaphias? I already told you go away."

"Rita," Karol tries to interject, "that's not the same—"

How long does it take for word of Rita rejecting everyone to filter through the room? How many single young nobles does Zaphias have?

It takes Rita much too long to process Karol's words, but even with her unfocused gaze she looks pissed off.

"Karol, you idiot, they're all the same."

Well, she does have a point there.

The palace servants have long since become overwhelmed by the volume of empty alcohol glasses. Karol places his own empty one amongst the carnage of glasses Rita downed and isn't surprised when a waiter near his elbow floats him another.

He tries the champagne. Yep, Raven definitely cut it with juice.

"You should be happy people are interested in you," Karol tries after an empowering sip. Rita starts on a new glass and slumps a bit to the side.

"I don't want it," Rita slurs and leans closer to Karol, "Let Estelle have 'em—she's the princess. I jus' need blastia."

Rita's physical proximity to Karol lessens and Karol's throat tightens. "Uuuuum," is the only reply he can manage.

Finishing another flute, Rita smacks it on the table. Karol stops it from falling and gets closer to Rita in the process. Karol feels the silky texture of her dress against his thigh and wishes for harder liquor.

"Hey, Karol, you're safe though, right? You won't ask me to do stupid dancing stuff."

Karol only nods.

"Kinda tired now," Rita doesn't seem the mind the one-sided conversation, nor notice Karol go stiff-as-the-dead when she half-crawls into his lap, resting her cheek against his lapel.

"I—I think you've had too much to drink." Karol decides that explains everything. He keeps his palms glued to the cushion. Rita will remember this tomorrow then light him on fire. Literally.

"Nah, I only had…" she trails off like she's trying to count the glasses on the table and gives up. Karol drinks from his own glass and tries to avoid hitting Rita in the head with the stem.

Fuck that look that Yuri is giving him from across the room.

"…Enough," Karol finishes and avoids looking at Rita or Yuri. It doesn't leave many options.

"…Hate these parties."

"The champagne is good, though." Karol tries to find a bright spot.

"Yuuuuuuuuup," Rita stretches the word out and tries to burrow into Karol.

Normal conversation will keep this situation sane, Karol decides.

"Is there anyone you would like to dance with?"

Rita tilts her head up and looks Karol in the face. Her hair tickles his chin.

"Hmmmm, maybe a girl."

Flynn looks like he needs a drink even more than Yuri wants one. Estelle's running commentary is usually enough to save yet another gathering of nobles from being an absolute drag, but she is off making obligatory rounds around the dance floor.

"We look like idiots," Yuri sympathizes and hands Flynn an icy blue concoction housed in what could serve as a fishbowl. The pink umbrella jabs Flynn in the nose as he takes the first sip.

"At least your shirt isn't magenta," Flynn adds.

"At least your hair isn't coiffed up with flowers."

"Cut if off if you don't want Estelle to play with it." Flynn takes an even larger gulp.

"Nah, I think she thinks it's sexy."

Flynn stiffens and reddens and Yuri snickers.

"Yuri, please don't say things like that about the princess." Flynn, even decked out in shorts and a shirt printed with large, tropical flowers, is still Flynn. Yuri thinks the contrast is even funnier with him looking so un-Flynn-like. Fine. Yuri guesses he could tone it down a bit.

"You should hear what she says about everyone else."

Flynn sighs and Yuri watches him find Estelle across the room. She's wearing a bright pink bikini and looks like she's having way too much fun.

"No doubt you enhanced her vocabulary," Flynn keeps watching Estelle, but Yuri doesn't miss his smirk.

"Yep, I'll own that."

There's a long lull in the conversation where Yuri downs half his drink as quickly as possible. The brain freeze is worth the possibility that alcohol might make this party fun. Flynn, while pacing himself, seems to have a similar goal.

Eventually, Estelle dances her way over. Someone has given her several necklaces made of flowers and Yuri laments how much of her torso they obscure. Estelle has Rita by the wrist and keeps trying to get her to sway to the music as they approach.

Rita looks how Yuri feels, only magnified about ten times: bored, but more pissed off.

"C'mon, Rita, the music is nice," Estelle tugs the younger girl's arm back and forth and Rita sways unwillingly.

"It's not," Rita argues.

Yuri takes one for the team and grabs Flynn's drink, handing it to Rita.

"You look like you need this worse than he does."

Flynn blinks slowly at his empty hand, "Hey! I was drinking that."

"Ya spend two hours in this grass skirt and tell me who needs it." Rita sticks the straw in her mouth.

"She thinks it's itchy," Estelle supplies, swishing her own skirt back and forth, "but she looks so pretty in it."

"Pretty itchy," Rita deadpans.

Yuri decides silence is the smartest reply. Flynn, however, laughs.

"See, Flynn knows good jokes," Rita decides.

"Looks like Rita's comedy routine has found its first fan," Yuri smirks and hooks an arm around Estelle's waist.

Rita is less than pleased: "Shut it, Yuri. Next time you can wear this getup."

"It would go lovely with your hair," Flynn adds, smirking at Rita.

"We should leave them alone, Yuri. They're like two peas in a grumpy party pod."

The band begins playing an up tempo song, complete with steel drums, and Estelle tugs on his arm. Rita's glare increases and Yuri wonders if she hates steel drums that much.

"Would you like to dance, princess?" Yuri queries. Estelle smiles up at him and pulls him onto the dance floor.

"Let's stay close, though," Estelle whispers, "I want to watch this."

"Better entertainment than the nobles provide."

Yuri spins Estelle around, her grass skirt tickling his shins. They are within earshot of Flynn and Rita, although a lot of it has to do with Rita stage whispering her half of the conversation. The contents of Rita's drink rapidly decreases and Flynn secures another blue concoction from a very uncomfortable shirtless server.

Rita looks at the dance floor, then at the steel drums, and then finally at Flynn, "We're not dancing."

Flynn jumps like Rita actually had set him on fire.

"I—I never intended to ask," Flynn counters, stumbling over his words. Yuri guesses Flynn would be happier hiding behind one of the many potted palm trees for the remainder of the evening.

"You nervous?" The pitch of Rita's voice increases, and Yuri, distracted, squashes Estelle's foot when Rita wraps her drink-free hand around Flynn's arm.

"No!" Flynn practically yells.

"Ya know, lotsa the nobles around here ask me to dance. I hate 'em and say no, but still." Rita's drink tilts dangerously and Yuri is mildly impressed when Flynn grabs it from her. "You think I'm pretty?"

Estelle misses her step this time, and the two of them hop like a three-legged animal for a few beats.

Flynn is a tomato and Yuri wishes one of the royal artists would swoop in and immortalize this scene. Perhaps Yuri could snag some wallet copies…

"Nervous now?" Rita tries again, sidling closer yet and blowing in Flynn's ear.

Flynn jumps and, this time, the drink does drop from his hand and shatters onto the dance floor. Rita cackles demonically and wait staff materializes with small dust pans to attack the mess. The steel drums are so loud Yuri is doubtful anyone heard the crash.

Rita wobbles and tugs at Flynn's arm until they are half obscured by a column. "Spin," Estelle whispers and Yuri barely catches Flynn's pleading, help-me-I'm-being-kidnapped expression.

"He seems nervous now. Should we intervene?"

Estelle looks the picture of benevolent royalty, "Nah."

The last ball of the summer is a cross-dressing masquerade. Estelle wishes she didn't know who came up with these ideas—they are the fantasies of middle-aged women who, Estelle thinks, have no idea what risqué even means. Although they throw the word a lot in the droll and never ending planning meetings she skips out on.

Poor, poor Ioder.

Yuri and Flynn both refused to participate, and spent the first hour of the ball huddled over a cheese platter they'd commandeered. The drink of the evening seems to be some sort of sangria. Yuri and Flynn seem to be going for something much harder, if the slivers of amber liquid left in their glasses are any indication.

Estelle, on the other hand, dons her heroic actress costume. She hasn't worn it since the play on Nam Cobanda Island, but it suits the festivities. She is always a good sport, after all.

Rita is her partner for the evening; the only one willing to cross-dress since it meant not having to wear a ball gown. She looks quite fetching in her suit; Estelle congratulates herself on having excellent sartorial sense.

The evening is well underway and Estelle hits the sangria harder than Rita. There are tumblers of it everywhere and it's so delicious Estelle wishes for an extra arm just to hold three at a time.

"Flynn seems to be keeping his distance from you." In fact, it was almost like Flynn had a measurable distance in mind and keeps altering his position around the room, dragging Yuri and the cheese platter in tow. "What happened last time?" How lamentable that she wasn't able to keep spying on them.

Rita wears her usual party expression. "I'm not telling you. Ever."

"But Riiiita."

"No."

Estelle's persistence rarely works on Rita. Maybe if Judy was nearby and they worked together they could get Rita to spill.

She brings her face close to Rita's, "Yuri told me Flynn liked it, whatever it was."

Rita's blush approaches the shade of the sangria and Estelle thinks it's delightful.

"Flynn—he told Yuri!? Aaaargh. I—we were not in possession of our faculties."

"But you do remember?"

Knowing isn't really that important. Her imaginings of what transpired are probably more colorful than the actuality. Yuri and she already fictionalized a blow-by-blow account of what they called "The Tryst." Although, if Flynn told Yuri some of what happened, had his interjections been fact-based?

Fascinating.

Rita never answers Estelle's query and grabs another drink and sips it aggressively—an emotional fortress with a sangria moat.

When Estelle reaches a stage of drunkenness where everything is happy and fuzzy, she asks Rita to dance. Rita's been asked to dance dozens of times never acquiesced. Estelle can't name exactly why, but chances that if she asks Rita, the answer might be different.

"Soooo?" The orchestra is taking a five minute break and Estelle really wants Rita to say yes. She invades Rita's personal space to adjust the younger girl's frilly cravat. "You fit the theme and everything."

"I've never said yes," Rita says it like people seeing her dance will ruin her credibility.

"Well, I've never asked you," Estelle has a conflicted relationship with how flirty that sounded.

"You haven't," Rita's voice is strangely lacking any indignation.

The alcohol makes Estelle feel like she's wading through candy floss and she hears the violins tuning their strings. Rita is inches from her and time is running short.

"Are you not drunk enough to dance?"

Estelle, in contrast, is imbued with enough drunken bravery ask Rita to dance, or drag her into a closet.

"Alcohol makes me even more belligerent about dancing," Rita corrects.

"…But I'm special," Estelle amends.

Rita's hair ghosts the back of Estelle's hand when she touches her cheek. Totally sober, there'd be a million reasons not to do this. Hopefully, Rita can't think of any of them at the moment either.

The violins start up and dancing commences.

"We missed it." Estelle feels Rita gulp, the way her jaw moves as she whispers the words.

"…Did we?"

"The dancing, yeah," Rita's hands grip her pants hard enough to leave wrinkles.

"Did Flynn kiss you?" No jealousy, not really, but Estelle wants to know. She rests her hands on Rita's shoulders instead. The lapels are perfectly pressed; she tries not to fidget with them.

"No."

"That's not how Yuri and I plotted out the events, either."

There is a perfunctory appalled look (but no surprise) on Rita's face.

"So you kissed him, you handsy drunk." Her smirk is the polar opposite of Rita's mortified expression.

Oh man, if looks could kill.

Estelle ruffles Rita's hair. "You don't need to answer that."

"I hate you-I haven't had enough alcohol for this."

"Is that a prerequisite?"

"Does it seem that way?" Estelle isn't sure if Rita's voice lowers or the music suddenly gets louder.

"No!" Rita looks insulted and Estelle backpedals, "I mean, here I am and how many glasses have I had?"

"Four." Estelle isn't surprised that Rita kept track, "but you're not kissing everyone you see."

Estelle wobbles a bit and Rita steadies her, hand at her back. "You don't kiss everyone."

Wine and the warmth of Rita's hand through her jacket are a motivating combination. Estelle doesn't analyze her actions too deeply; Rita always knows what she means, even if left unsaid. A peck, Estelle decides; a chance to laugh it off if things go awry—the sangria mote.

So Estelle kisses Rita, frames the younger girl's face with both hands and presses their lips together. The moment passes to categorize it as a platonic kiss, a tipping point, and Rita remains immobile, hand frozen on Estelle's back.

"I took a gamble," Estelle puts enough space between them to whisper.

A few protracted seconds pass before Rita replies, "Was it a solid wager?"

"Um, I didn't think you wanted to kiss Flynn again."

Rita chuckles. Estelle feels her face heat up. Could it pass as a drunken flush?

"You could make some money at this."

There's no mistaking the intent behind Estelle's second attempt. Rita's hands meet on her back, pulling Estelle. She runs her fingers through Rita's cropped hair and oh if the middle-aged noblewomen want risqué, she can help them out with that.

"You won't insist on staying at least the length of the ballroom from me at all times after this, right?" Rita's words are warm in Estelle's ear and she shivers.

"Flynn's an idiot." Estelle rests her head on Rita's shoulder and doesn't concern herself with messing up the pressed lapels. "I think I'd prefer the opposite."

Rita's fingers under the back of her jacket tell a similar story. "I think I scared him."

"You did."

"Do you…still want to dance? I told Karol once that if a girl asked…"

"No," Estelle is facing the dance floor and the number of eyes fixed on them is a bit much, "Can we…leave? I mean, don't look, but half of Zaphias is…"

"Oh."

And of course, Rita does look, craning her neck around to get a gander at the group of nobles, a few of which have stopped dancing mid-step.

"We should walk out like we own the place," Estelle advises.

Rita curls her fingers around Estelle's and leads the way.

"Don't you sort of own the place, anyway?"

"That's my girl."

She stops and kisses Rita again, just for good measure.

"You've been…restrained this past few," Yuri tells her at the kitschy harvest-themed party a few weeks later. The wait staff are dressed like scarecrows and they look really, really itchy.

Estelle is dancing with Karol, who steps on her toes at least twice per minute.

Rita doesn't answer, but she's barely touched her cider and her gaze follows Estelle across the dance floor.