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Stina’s head hurts. She’d known this would be terrible, that she’d spend the night washing the bitter feeling in her throat down with the syrupy sweetness of fizzleberry wine and wishing it were proper to order something stronger from the poor elf stuck behind the bar. Maybe later, when the deep pink liquid in her glass has gone to her head, she’ll get something to truly take the edge off it. Now though, the lights of the ballroom seem to be drilling into her skull, each bit of conversation grating in her ears in a way no amount of cloyingly sweet wine can fix.
She’s not sure why she wore this stupid dress in the first place, it hadn’t fit quite right when she first bought it, it definitely doesn’t fit right nowadays, especially when she’s only worn it a few times in between. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that Sophie had said it looked nice once, back when they were still keeping up the facade of Team Valiant, being trotted around to various council events and keeping face for the public. Now, they’re all emissaries in their own right, in their own areas of expertise.
This might be the first time they’ve all been together in public in years, not that anyone has been making a fuss about it. There were bigger things going on after all, namely promotion of one of them to councillor.
Sophie had given her warning so she’d known this was coming, she’d known it ever since Sophie had whispered it instead of something tender into the breath of space between them one night.
It hadn’t mattered what Stina had said, Sophie had made up her mind long before she’d told her.
Stina supposes it was inevitable for her to fall back on old habits in the face of losing what she had, using venom as if it would do anything other than drive Sophie away, but months of time hasn’t made the notion feel any better. If anything, her words have festered in her chest, turning downright venomous and slowly poisoning each breath
She’s downed three full glasses by the time they get to speeches, her tongue tingly from the bubbles, and she’s working on a fourth while considering leaving altogether. No one’s talked to her anyway, anyone who knows has given her the berth she deserves and everyone else is occupied congratulating the newly appointed councilor, sucking up and trying to jockey for favor she most certainly doesn’t have.
Stina’s never been the center of attention at parties anyway, that’s never been her game. Even at school, she’d relied on fear instead of any real power, and now where was she without even that?
She barely listens to the current councilor’s speeches, welcoming Sophie to their ranks as if it weren’t a blatantly political play, as if Sophie wouldn’t be a puppet councillor for decades, at the whims of the other eleven. Dex’s speech is slightly more interesting, if only because he didn’t seem as obnoxiously happy about it as Stina might have expected. In fact, if Stina didn’t know better, she’d say he was on the verge of tears, freckled face drawn tight, words stumbling into each other.
Then there’s Fitz’s speech and Stina can't say the last time she talked to him, years at this point, but she still can’t help but watch him with a hawks gaze, if only to observe the train wreck in progress.
It actually is a nice speech, Fitz has always been a good public speaker, and he seems to be more committed than Stina is to not letting the events of the night get to him.
“... known Sophie was special. Not just because of anything she can do, but the way she strives for what’s right and takes responsibility. I’ve had the pleasure of being close to her, to her family, and she’s like a sister to me.” Stina nearly snarfs her drink at that remark, disturbing the few elves around her.
“There is no one I’d rather see take this role, and there’s no one more deserving. Congratulations.” Fitz lifts his glass and the crowd mirrors his toast. Even Stina lifts hers halfheartedly before taking a deep sip.
The applause echoes off the vaulted ceiling and Stina deposits her drained glass, happily exchanging it for another. The speeches wrap up and Sophie says a few words but Stina is too busy watching the faint clench of her hands, the way a muscle in her neck twitches faintly as she surveys the room, to really hear anything she says, the circlet on her forehead glinting in the golden chandelier light.
With the speeches over, the room slips back into casual conversation and Stina drifts through the crowd, like a paper in a lazy summer wind. By accident, or perhaps on purpose, she finds herself in front of Fitz, who’s taken up residence by the floor to ceiling windows, staring out into the night.
Stina doesn’t bother introducing herself, instead clearing her throat. “She’s like a sister to you, huh?” She can’t help but let a little wry amusement into her voice, taking another sip from her crystal glass. Fitz glances over his shoulder as if anyone cares enough to listen, his throat bobbing as he swallows once, a muscle in his jaw twitching.
“What else was I meant to say?” Fitz asks, and it’s an honest enough response that Stina’s attention snags at the bit of vulnerability, at the hints of something behind the immovable mask. His lips twist up in a wry smile, teal eyes joyless. “I haven’t seen you go to offer your congratulations yet.”
Stina’s face darkens at the comment, tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. “She knows quite well my opinion on the matter. I respect her too much to lie to her face.” she says pointedly and perhaps she’s had more fizzleberry wine than she’s thought because she hadn’t meant to say the words aloud, not here, and certainly not to him.
Fitz’s expression hardly changes, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes, a flash of recognition. Stina holds his stare, not willing to lose any hypothetical battles of the wills, however much they may be in her head.
Finally, a server steps between them, bearing a tray with replenished glasses. Stina holds his stare as she deposits her empty glass, taking a new one before finally breaking the mutual stare, swallowing the liquid in one fell swoop.
Fitz takes his and indulges in a milder sip, tipping his glass in Stina’s direction. “Care to walk with me?”
It’s an olive branch, an excuse to get out of here, out of the ballroom with its vaulting ceilings that are suddenly crushingly claustrophobic, squeezing the air out of Stina’s chest just as surely as the too tight bodice of this stupid dress. “I suppose.” she says as if she doesn’t have a care in the world, tossing her hair over her shoulder and setting down the glass for good.
The garden is all but abandoned, fireflies flicking between the bushes with no sense of purpose. Light spills from the ballroom and over the tops of bushes, leaving the two of them cloaked in shadow as they slowly trail down the stone pathway.
Stina had shed her heels as they’d descended the marble staircase into the garden and carries them now at her side, the respite more important to her than whatever judgement Fitz might cast. He doesn’t comment and the two of them walk in relative silence, pace achingly slow.
More often than not, Stina finds her gaze flicking over to Fitz, at his impassive expression and taut shoulders. It’s curious, her noticing him. It’s not as if she’d been unaware before, even more so back in school, when he and Sophie were still close and when Stina couldn’t look away. Then again, that had been a function of Sophie rather than Fitz, it was always Sophie and Fitz rather than just Fitz.
A faint tension hums off of him, and not just in the clenching of his muscles she could see with her eyes. It’s muted, after all Sophie’s the only one she could ever get an accurate reading off of at a distance, but it’s enough to pique her curiosity, keep her looking back.
She catches him taking looks of his own a few times, though they both deftly ignore it, eyes returning once again to the winding path in front of them. Bushes rise on either side of them by now and the moon is the brightest thing in the sky, not quite getting the message of mourning, shining down cold and indifferent.
The next morning, between rumpled sheets and not quite alone, Stina won’t remember if he’d grabbed her hand or if she’d grabbed his, drawing their tenuous progress to a halt, the two of them drawn to face one another.
She remembers the rise and fall of his chest, the way he’d laughed shortly and savagely, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. She can’t either, her own breath still sickeningly sweet as the space between them grows rapidly inadequate.
He runs a hand through his hair and a strand falls over his forehead; Stina tucks it out of his face, nail scraping against the smooth skin of his forehead. Her hand lingers, trawling down the line of his cheekbone, almost mistakable for tenderness. “What would you have me say to her?” she practically whispers, holding his gaze. “How would you have me congratulate her? Or are you glad I won’t?”
Fitz holds as still as a statue for a moment and Stina is in no state to be reading the feelings beneath her fingertips, too easy to mix up with her own rattling around her chest.
“I don’t want to talk about Sophie.” Fitz says, his voice raw. Maybe in a different context it might be romantic, but Stina isn’t the type to believe in romance and he isn’t the type to perform it so instead she tugs at his collar, into the inevitable collision, closing the gap between them.
Quick first, and then lingering but not soft, Fitz’s hands paw towards her waist, pulling her closer. It’s the worst idea either of them have had in years, inexcusable by a long shot, but coming here had been a bad idea in the first place, this was simply the foregone conclusion with the center of their orbit removed and the two of them remaining.
Fitz pulls away for a moment and even in the dim light, Stina can see the flush on his cheeks and is glad she can’t see the flush of her own.
She manages to find her vocal chords, swallowing once. “Nobody knows.” she says roughly. Fitz’s nod is practically imperceptible but she doesn’t care as he leans in again, breath warm against her neck before he makes a mark that assures neither of them will be returning to the celebration.
She inhales sharply once, nails digging into his skin through the linen shirt, warning him of what he’ll soon learn, that she bites back.