Control Freaks

Rule Number One of Being the Party Queen:
Classes can be skipped.
If your friends call you to a party? You go. Screw your dad's illness, screw academic guilt. You go.

You dragged out that worn-thin pink university sweatshirt from under your bed, washed your face, skipped makeup, just dabbed on some lip balm. Hair was thrown up into a lazy ponytail. By the time you headed out with your bag slung over one shoulder, the sky had already dimmed. You didn't bother calling a car—just walked the ten-odd minutes to Dorm B. The wind wasn't cold. It had that rare, perfect sharpness: just enough to wake you up.

Room 104 of Building B was cracked open. Music and laughter spilled out, mixed with the sweet smell of pears stewing in wine and some hard-to-name essential oil fragrance.

You pushed the door open and the first thing you saw was Ymir squatting beside the couch, painting Historia's nails—half-focused, half-yelling toward the kitchen:
"Pears aren't ready yet! Check the fridge yourself if you're hungry!"

You raised your hand lazily.
"Your girl is here."

"Look who finally showed up—our favorite emotionally unavailable guest star!" Ymir beamed.
"Tonight we've got strawberry wine, mango beer, and some weird soju someone left behind. What's your pick?"

"All of it."
You dropped onto the rug, leaned your head back against the couch, eyes half-lidded.
"I'm drinking until I forget what a personality is."

"Preferably not." Historia withdrew her hand from Ymir and crouched down to pass you a drink.
"We kind of like this version of you."

"Which version's that?"

"The one who's emotionally stable but occasionally crashes and comes here to eat wine-soaked fruit."
Her tone was gentle—like a kitten who never drinks but always pours.

You took the bottle of strawberry wine and downed a gulp.
"Ugh. That's sweet."

"Sweetness is medicine," Ymir declared, twisting the nail polish lid shut and plopping down next to you.
"Your sickness isn't alcohol deficiency. It's dopamine withdrawal."

"I'm low on neurotransmitters now?"
You leaned your head on her shoulder, voice syrupy and worn.
"I thought I just needed some emotional violence."

"Exactly. You're addicted to masochism."
Ymir ruffled your hair into a bird's nest.
"Look at you. So hot. And instead of letting people worship you, you gotta go and play war games on someone's office desk."

"Shut up," you grinned around the bottle,
"He Who Shall Not Be Named is banned tonight."

"Who?" Historia blinked with feigned innocence.
"Erwin Smith?"

You rolled your eyes.
"You two need to stop taking turns emotionally waterboarding me."

"Okay." Ymir snatched the bottle from your hands.
"Let's switch topics. For instance—" she pointed toward the door, where a new face had just walked in,
"That literature freshman. Great at baking. Legs for days."

"I don't want dessert," you mumbled, voice hoarse with early drunkenness.
"I want brine."

"Whoa. Your taste buds are going backward now?"
Ymir gave you a look of complicated sympathy.
"What happened? You really that bitter?"

"Not bitter." You swirled the last of the wine in the bottle.
"It's like there's this weird taste in my mouth—too sweet, too bland. Can't brush it off, can't eat over it."

"Sounds like a tongue that talks too much shit."
Ymir pulled you gently into her lap.
"But I like your mouth. A sharp tongue deserves to live."

Historia emerged from the kitchen with a small bowl.
"Alright. Sweet's ready. Come eat."