See My Lips On Her Mouth? // [Ex+Stella, 93rd]

The 93rd press tour was winding down. Once the tributes were released into the arena it was mostly a formality. A few more interviews with journalists for sound bytes, a sprinkling of sponsorship fundraisers which grew increasingly desperate over the subsequent nine (or so) days. Of course to the Victor's district went the spoils -- and a fuckton more work.

She didn't want that for Stella. She never had.

At the time she'd resented Nico, just a little, even though she'd made plenty by seeding stories about his life in Twelve. He was both a distraction from and a inflammation of everything Stella had suffered and achieved. If she was Victor, he was somehow protege, though Ex would be the first journalist to disabuse anyone of that notion.

But it had been more than a decade since Nico. And even Ex Oh felt the pressure.

So every year she said yes to another invitation, adding to the pile. This junket or that social media blitz shoot or a yuppie gala. She attempted to keep it interesting though it was all a bit tired. Any time she wrangled Stella into attendance it was worthwhile; no one seemed to notice that they were getting older. They were vivacious and in love and who really wanted to invest in wolfie cowboy chic anyhow?

Tonight, the second of the Ninety-Third Games, there was on last desperate media bonanza at a trendy club. Ex walked the red carpet by herself. She'd grabbed an outfit one of the current Stylists had sent as a courtesy: a cotton jumpsuit and bright top, no doubt intended for a lazy afternoon of shopping. It was too casual for the ~ trendy ~ vibe of the evening but she'd worked nonstop for the past several weeks and she barely had enough energy to show up.

That was true until the second she laid eyes on Stella Blakesley, Victor of the Seventy Eighth Games and Keeper of Her Heart.

She'd entered through a back door looking every bit the poised thirty year-old woman she'd always deserved to be. Someone had told Ex years ago that Stella had earned her right to live. It hadn't meant anything to Ex then; didn't everyone deserve to live? But every day she thought that insight proved itself to be true.

Stella was made of the stuff of stars, immortal and impervious.

As always, Ex swallows the impulse to surprise her wife. Only the naive, idiot partners sneak up on those who have survived an arena. Instead Ex lifts two flutes of champagne from a tray, catches Stella's gaze, winks, and meets her by a waterfall of indigo velvet curtains. They're poised at the side of the DJ stand overlooking the club crowd.

"Definitely should have made you do the catwalk thing," Ex murmurs just below the music, clinking her glass against Stella's. "There's big time mystery donor supporting the Mortuus girl. I dug up some articles about how Arbor Halt almost killed Mac--"

The song ends abruptly with the microphone singing static.

Ex winces. The glass in her hand shakes.

The DJ apologizes, dragging one hand through her cropped hair, the other clinging to the microphone. Someone boos. Most people make a beeline for the bar. Ex sets her flute on the nearest speaker, roots around in her clutch, and produces her ear buds. She presents one to Stella and waggles her eyebrows. "Silent disco, babe?"