“Slurp, slurp~—straws whispering like reeds in a moonlit marsh.” (x2)

They’d begged a straw off Elfe, and Ling and Elfe—two little lolis—hid in a shadowed nook like field mice, secretly setting up a “table.”

No dishes sat there—only empty cups scattered like pale shells, plus snack bags Ling pulled out like treasure from a pouch; neither loli meant to stop stacking that glass cairn.

“Slurp... hiss... drained dry—like a creek blinking out in summer.” (x2)

“Burp~—bubbles popping like lazy carp.” (x2)

“Another round!—voices fluttering like sparrows over grain.” (x2)

The next heartbeat, an elf lady in a maid dress glided in like a swan and set two brimming goblets of Apa wine before them; surprise flickered across her face like a startled firefly—two lolis could really drink.

“Slurp~—the straw sang like a thin bamboo flute.”

A prickle of guilt fluttered like cold moths; Ling halted mid-sip, not because it tasted bad, but because a thought hit like a stone.

“Where are Alicia and the others? Are we just sneaking drinks and leaving them—does that really sit right?”

If they catch us slacking here, they’ll string me up like a carp and swat me, won’t they...

“Meh, let that drift by like clouds. They’re still debating the Elvenfolk joining the Mystic Realm; they won’t have time to check on us. And banquet prep? How could it trouble the great Elven Queen’s daughter!”

“Tch... nepo-brats are such a pain—like thorns snagging your sleeve.”

Ling turned her head and muttered like a mosquito, and the buzz didn’t escape Elfe’s ears.

“What’d you say?”—her eyes narrowing like a cat at dusk.

Annoyance swelled like a storm cloud; Ling ducked her head and bit the straw, yet her gaze stayed locked on Elfe’s face like a spear.

“Gululu...—bubbles rolling up like tiny pearls.”

Too cute—like a kitten pawing foam.

Pouting, Ling bit the straw not to drink the Apa wine, but to puff air into it, blowing little bubbles that rose like moons and popped at the surface.

Watching the whole adorable misdemeanor, Elfe smiled with a cryptic crescent, then pinched up a gummy candy and lifted it to Ling’s puffed lips.

“Hey now—why the sudden thundercloud? Here, candy for you; eat it and the storm’s over, okay!”

Right by her mouth, a gummy she only had to open for; its surface flared fire-red, the color of Alicia’s hair, like a coal in snow, and for an Alicia devotee, Ling’s resistance flickered.

But Ling wouldn’t obey that easily; she had to lace it with a pinch of payback, like spice in tea.

She opened her mouth—like a small furnace.

“Chomp!”

She took the candy—and Elfe’s two pinching fingers—into her mouth, tongue a soft wave too big for the treat, so it couldn’t help but lap those fingers.

Inevitably, those fingers suffered a playful thrashing from that velvet tongue—like willow leaves slapped by rain.

Feeling the glide of tongue on her fingers, Elfe let go of the candy and yanked back in a start, and a silver thread of saliva stretched between them like moonlight silk.

With her prank a success, Ling laced her hands behind her head like a lazy cat and basked in the gummy’s sweetness blooming in her mouth; happiness rose like warm steam.

A guilty thrill fluttered like a sparrow; remembering the lick on Elfe’s fingers—honestly, they tasted better than the candy.

Just fingers, yet the first touch was soft as moss, then a faint sweetness trickled along her tongue to her brain, a sweetness no gummy could match, like sap from spring birch.

The glow dimmed like dusk; Ling stole a glance and saw Elfe scrubbing those two fingers with a tissue, each wipe sharp as frost.

Is my saliva really that dirty...—the thought fell like ash.

Sadness pooled like rainwater; with no comfort from Elfe this time, Ling bowed and drank the Apa wine in earnest—the goblet now her only warm talisman.

Elfe, irked by the finger-lick fiasco, drank hard too, like a soldier marching, faster than Ling, as if to win some invisible game.

Ling refused to lag; she sped up—like wind tugging flags.

Elfe matched her, pushing faster—like a river chasing storm.

A neither-good-nor-bad spiral spun up; their Apa wine vanished faster and faster, till the maid could barely keep up—she’d step in, and before she reached the door, “Another round!” flared like fireworks.

...

“Burp↗ Burp↘ Burp~—notes wobbling like drunk sparrows.” (x2)

Both still clutched half a goblet of Apa wine, while the table lay flooded with cups like a tide of glass.

“You stupid elf loli! You should’ve surrendered ages ago!”

“You—burp—you can’t beat me!”

“I’m—burp—invincible under heaven, a mountain that drinks storms!”

“Brain-dead human loli! Even if I die—burp—die outside, even jump from here, I won’t surrender!”—words like a hawk flying into thunder.

“Hmph! Won’t yield even to death? Spine of steel like bamboo! Lady Ling loves lolis with that backbone! Whoever finishes the last half-cup wins.”

“Lady Elfe, I accept your challenge! I’ll show you the glory of our Elvenfolk, like moonlight on ancient oaks!”

“Three, two, one—go...” (x2)

“What are you doing?” (x2)

...

Silence... a graveyard hush, cold as winter water.

Of the two who froze the scene, the red-haired girl walked to Ling’s side like a slow ember, and without effort plucked the cup from Ling’s hand.

“Hm? Lemme see... what is this thing?”—she tilted it, liquid glinting like dew.

The other girl glanced once and smacked her palm like a judge, already sure.

“This is our Elvenfolk specialty; I think it’s called Dewdrop Tea. Simple stuff, but it tastes nice, like morning mist on leaves.”

“Eh???”—Ling’s eyes popped like lanterns.

“There’s even a legend: a girl who drinks this grows her bust, like blossoms after rain, and the more she drinks, the bigger it gets.”

“Eh??!”—Ling and Elfe cried in chorus, shock flaring like twin sparks.