Chapter Text
Coriolanus Snow was never one for dances.
Sure, he may have envisioned a time in his youth in which he would host the Capitols greatest galas, where Avox’s would serve hors d'oeuvres to women in tight cocktail dresses, and sparkling champagne to men in fanciful suits; but Coriolanus had come to realise that an event like that was a mere pipe dream.
Especially now, as he nervously fiddles with the hem of the baby blue dress shirt that traps his chest like a boa constrictor; as his toes ache at being shoved into his all too tight dress shoes, making him fully aware that he is no Cinderella; as Tigris fawns over his cheeks by coating his face in the finest layer of his mother’s rose powder, the crumbling remnants of the makeup a painful reminder of the crumbling Snow name.
As always, Tigris fails to match his deep-seated anger at their poor situation. Rather, she giddily hops in place, her fragile hands coaxing him to jump in step, “Oh, Coryo, baby,” she coos, an echo of his mother in her voice. She swiftly leads him to their grimy mirror, fretting over his curls behind him.
Coriolanus can’t help the guilt that washes over him at seeing their reflections – he had pretended not to notice the glaring red rings on his cousins’ wrists, which were painfully obvious in their reflection. He eyes his shirt, an ugly guess as to how she got it planting itself deep in his stomach. Today is a good day, he reminds himself, a day his cousin was never able to experience. He musters a smile, “I only wish you could come with me, Tigris.”
She swoons over him by hugging him around the waist, in turn making Coriolanus flush a furious red. However, he quickly falls in step with her as they sway to the discordant tune of Gem of Panem, and he allows himself to close his eyes for a few moments of peace.
Gem of Panem,
Mighty city.
Through the ages, you shine anew.
Coriolanus can’t bring himself to cringe at the Grandma’am’s poor rendition of the anthem, and he actually manages to find a crumb of solace in her singing; at least the matriarch still has a voice to sing with, at least it wasn’t snuffed out by the war, or their bought of hunger.
We humbly kneel
To your ideal,
Doubt begins to seep into his thoughts at the lyrics, unfortunately not for the first time. Coriolanus sees no reason to humbly kneel to the Capitol, to Ravenstill, the Heavensbee, to the Plinths.
And pledge our love to you!
The Grandma’am’s failure of reaching the high note snaps the Snow heir out of his trance. Swiftly, he turns around to face Tigris, removing her delicate hands from his waist. Instead, he holds them tightly and stares at her with anger, with pain, with sorrow.
A look of hurt flashes past her face before her eyes soften at her broken cousin. “Oh, Coryo, baby…” She repeats, knowing why he must stare at her with such ugly feelings.
Unspoken words pass between them, causing Coriolanus to rip his hands away, “You don’t understand, Tigris. The Plinth Prize was right there, right in my grasp before Casca High-as-a-Kite Bottom ripped up the cheque. Our cheque. My cheque!” He stalks across the penthouse, almost ripping his jacket off of the coat rack.
“Coryo!” His cousin calls after him, tears already threatening to tumble from her golden-brown eyes, “Even so, that doesn’t mean it’s the end of the road. What about Satyria?”
“What about Satyria?” He snaps back, a twisted sort of glint in his eyes, “She gave me an unpaid internship to, what? Shine her wine goblets?” The irony is palpable, the bitter memory of his joking with Sejanus Plinth that the only reason he doesn’t shine her goblets is because the woman had yet to think of it. Of course, none of the other Academy mentors had stayed with their tutors post final exams, yet Snow had. Pitiful, poor, Coriolanus Snow, who clung to his insignificant role in the hopes of getting thrown scraps from his sympathetic master.
“But it will lead to bigger, greater things, Coryo.” she pleads with him, “You don’t need anyone’s money, not the Plinths, not Satyria’s. Snow lands on top.”
Snow lands on top. Snow lands on an abandoned junkyard, a sleazy hostel, a crumbling one bedroom that should be much roomier once the Grandma’am finally keels over—
He can’t allow himself down that line of thought. They still have their penthouse, and they still have the rose garden, the monument of the Snow’s name. Sure, they only managed to scrape together enough money for the tax from the all too gratuitous Pluribus Bell, who had offered them the apartment above his nightclub if Snow does indeed fall. How long would it be until snow turns to sludge?
Suddenly, Tigris’ arms snake around him in a tight embrace, different from the one in front of the mirror: she’s giving him a command, not reassurance. “Coriolanus Snow, tonight is your graduation ceremony. You are going to march in there with all the dignity a Snow can muster, put on your biggest smile, and charm the world as you usually do. University be damned, you will carve your own path to greatness.”
Her forceful compliments soothe him ever so slightly, at least enough that he won’t go rushing towards the academy with thoughts of violence and jealousy swarming his mind. Instead, he equips the smile that makes his cousins heart melt every time, and gives her a chaste peck on the cheek, “I’ll be good, I promise.”
She smiles and straightens the rose on his lapel, “I know you will.”
As much as he wanted to, Coriolanus was unable to take the trolly to the academy. Money is tighter than ever, even with Tigris’ promotion at her job. The pay raise was pitiful, and even with lunches he still received at the academy as a fledgling tutor, it was not enough to sustain three adults, one of whom required constant medical attention. That meant he couldn’t spare even a penny on the trolly, so now he stands in front of the sweeping academy steps to calm the sweat brewing under his blazer. The July heat mingled with his anxiety at facing his peers, all of whom were going to the University. Of course, he plans to have them all believe that he aims to have a career in education, before retiring to the less demanding job of being the Snow heir; to his teachers faces, he will thank them all for inspiring him to teach the future of Panem.
Coriolanus is by no means late, he is never late, yet Heavensbee Hall is swarming with students, faculty, and family alike. Staring at the already flushed faces of the Capitols most elite families fills him with an indescribable hatred, seeing as Tigris had to work today and the Grandma’am is in no fit condition to leave the house. He strokes the deep pink petals of the rose, a childish part of him hoping to summon his mother or the Grandma’am through the action.
“Coriolanus!” A deep and rough voice calls out to him, before wrestling him into a crutch, “I can’t believe we haven’t seen each other since the exams!” Festus Creed booms at him, his ruddy face evidence of the posca coursing through his body. Coriolanus checks the clock across the hall – it’s ten in the morning.
Expertly, he weaves himself free of the man’s grasp. Festus has never been one to scoff at in terms of his athletic build, but he seems to have gotten inexplicably stronger since they had left the academy. “The Snow’s responsibilities are plentiful.” If responsibilities meant avoiding eviction and starvation then, yeah, the Snows have plenty of those.
A fraction of a beat passes between them, so Coriolanus softens the statement with a charming chuckle, “Of course, I’ll be sure to attend the wrap party tonight.”
Festus lights up, “Now that’s what I like to hear!” He goes to flunk his weight atop Coriolanus’s shoulders, which he avoids by waving over Lysistrata Vickers.
“Lyssie! It’s so nice to see you.” He takes her hand once she strides over, placing a kiss on the upside.
“Come, now, Coryo, you know you don’t need to charm me,” she giggles, though not in a romantic way. This somewhat disappoints the Snow heir, as he has come to realise in recent days that marriage might be the only way to secure himself a fortune. He mentally kicks himself, wishing he had set up a security blanket during his time at the academy, perhaps courting Clemensia Dovecote? Speaking of, she seems to have bounced her way to their circle, and he finds himself walking to the centre of the hall with the group.
“You almost miss it, don’t you?” She asks to no one in particular before carrying on, “I mean, our academy days were so easy compared to now.” Coriolanus finds himself aggressively clutching the glass of posca that had spawned in his hands, likely from Festus, at the feckless statement. Life has never been easy for him, and he fears it never will be. None of his classmates will ever have to know the pain of micro analysing everyone that crosses their paths, they will have long forgotten the pang of hunger that comes after days of eating lima beans and cabbage soup, and they will never know the humiliation and fear that comes with having to pretend you’re someone you’re not – someone you’re supposed to be.
“I hear that!” Arachne Crane butts in, her dress bouncing with her as she talks animatedly, “I wish life was still just about boys, gossip, and useless rhetoric classes,” of course that class is useless to someone as crass as Arachne, “but now my parents want me to get married and have kids. Ugh! ” She throws her hands up in exasperation and the girls throw her empathetic looks. For a moment, a fraction of a second mind you, the thought of being lawfully wedded to Arachne Crane dawns his mind. He’d rather be employed at Pluribus’ nightclub and working for pennies.
Unfortunately, that might be his future if he doesn’t think of a plan soon.
Livia Cardew’s shrill voice cuts through his musings, “I know, right? It seems like all us girls—”
“Women,” Lysistrata corrects.
“Women,” Livia grimaces, “it seems like all us women are being forced to marry off.”
Mumbles of assent can be heard throughout the group, which has now expanded to their entire graduating class -- excluding Sejanus, naturally. The men, including Coriolanus, avert their attention to far off spots in the distance, feeling inadequate to give anything meaningful to the conversation.
“Well, not quite.” Arachne interjects, a knowing grin creeping across her face. Her voice attempts a hush, but it fails as she projects to the entire group, “Now, don’t tell anyone this, but apparently Strabo is looking for suitors for his son.”
A collective gasp washes over the group, and Gaius Breen quips, “All the money in the world and he’s still unlovable,” earning haughty Capitol laughter, filling the space between them. Coriolanus risks a glance towards the sulking Sejanus. Unfortunately, their eyes meet, but the ceremony is called to start before Sejanus can worm his way towards him.
Coriolanus’ heart sinks as he sees the catering trolly being carted away to make way for the ceremony. Cabbage soup certainly won’t be enough to carry himself through a day of festivities, and he can only pray his stomach won’t betray him in the next hour or so of dead silence.
Casca Highbottom, eyes more sunken than usual and a sickly white pallor coating his face, wobbles onto the dais. Behind him, the Academy tutors sit and stare at the audience, including Agrippina Sickle and Satyria Click. The latter shoots him a congratulatory smile.
“Coriolanus Snow.” Highbottom calls after far too long, and at this point the emptiness and anxiety weigh heavily in the young man’s stomach. In fact, he almost slips on his way up the stairs of the dais, due to his light headedness.
When he shakes hands with the dean, a horrible chill courses through his body, a chill he imagines must come when one shakes hands with the devil. He switches to his gratuitous smile, which Highbottom scoffs at.
“I suppose I should say congratulations,” his grip tightens, “especially considering you’ll get the honour of working under me once the school year starts.”
Coriolanus freezes. He shoots a terrified, pleading glance to Satyria, who’s last in line to shake hands with, which she pointedly ignores, awash with a look of guilt. He turns his attention back to Highbottom, glaring down at the man. “I look forward to working with you,” he bites his tongue so hard the taste of iron floods his mouth, the sickly taste of honey, herbs, and malnourished blood tempting him to throw up.
Instead of punching the man, he gathers himself, and dutifully accepts the handshakes and congratulations thrown his way. Finally, he reaches Satyria. She grasps him with both hands, like a mother consoling a child, “I’m sorry, Coryo.” How dare she use his nickname at a time like this, when the taste of betrayal is still thick on his tongue?
“I just wish I hadn’t heard it from him.”
She nods, knowingly and apologetically, “I wish I’d had the time to tell you earlier, truly. It’s just…” Her hand releases his and travels to her stomach, a barely noticeable bulge protruding from her gown, “I just learnt it’s a girl.”
A dumbfounded look creeps across Coriolanus’s features, before registering what she meant. Stupid, idiotic, ignorant Coriolanus Snow, how did he not see the signs earlier? In theory he knows all the telltale traits, he remembers his own mother’s morning sickness, her unusual cravings, and her quickly erratic behaviour. Even amidst a war, she demonstrated all the traits of a pregnant woman. Satyria was no different; Coriolanus had taken note of her unusual food palette, consisting of those dreaded lima beans and a new tomato paste being rolled out at Capitol supermarkets, wherein they used some sort of sugar to enhance its flavour. How did he not question her food choices in the times he had done her errands for her?
He swallows his bitter feelings and nods to her, “Congratulations.”
“The same to you.”
As he leaves the dais, he can’t help but recognise the finality in her voice; this is goodbye, she won’t be back after her maternity leave, at least, not for Coriolanus.
Once the celebratory round of applause dies down, Coriolanus finds himself making a beeline for the replenished cart of posca. He hopes the anger, fear, and anxiety making a home in his stomach will be washed out by the fuzzy feeling the beverage elicits in him, or he will at least be able to wash down the blood coating his tongue. He doesn’t understand why they haven’t stationed Avox’s with more tiny plates of food, but he can’t ignore the gnawing in his stomach much longer. Anything to fill his stomach and head will do.
“I don’t think you want to be drinking that stuff.” Sejanus clasps his shoulder. Stupid Sejanus, who has never known hunger or need in his life, wants to tell him what he should or should not be consuming? Worse still, he’s right. A Snow should not be seen day drinking, even at graduation.
“Forgive me for wanting to participate in the festivities.” he half jokes, hoping his irritation doesn’t seep into his voice.
“Please don’t, or I just might follow in your footsteps. That wouldn’t work out all that well, my father doesn’t like to drink, nor does he want me to.” The district boy laughs nervously, an attempt of banter that only serves to highlight his insecurities. Pathetic.
Coriolanus follows Sejanus’ gaze towards Strabo Plinth, who seems to be nursing a full glass of posca. “He pretends to drink in front of others. It seems you Capitol folk have a penchant for the stuff.”
Yeah, because posca was the only medicine we could get when your home bombed us, Coriolanus wants to scream. Even with the hunger pangs swarming his head and abdomen, he does not scream. Panem knows that for all Strabo Plinths shouting, Sejanus never listens.
“Listen,” Sejanus begins, twisting the others body so that they are face-to-face. The height difference is noticeable, making Coriolanus want to squirm, to run away. Instead, he concentrates on his classmate’s face: the way his brow creases with nerves, at how his pupils widen when the two lock eyes. An emotion Coriolanus can’t quite read swims in his irises, which irritates him to no end. Tentatively, Sejanus’s hand reaches for Coriolanus’s shoulder, then sharply changes course for his hand instead. The Snow heir almost winces at the touch; his hand is silky-smooth, further evidence of the privilege life the boy has led. Furthermore, the thick scent of tea tree oil swarms the inches of space between them, a scent that slightly disarms him. Just for a moment. “My father is about to make a formal announcement but, well, you’re the closest thing I have to a friend here, so…” He runs a trembling hand through his locks, averting his gaze momentarily. Then, he summons some courage and looks directly into Coriolanus’ eyes, “I would like to personally invite you to the graduation party my father is hosting.”
The Plinths are hosting the party? That can’t be possible, Coriolanus reasons. Festus had been talking about the party for weeks before their exams, never missing an opportunity to mention the date. He had shown Coriolanus the receipts and all. They even hosted the graduation party for his sister two years prior. So why is Strabo Plinth hosting it?
Before he can dwell on it any further, the clink of a glass commands the room’s attention. Up on the dais, which is now adorned with plush chairs meant for leisurely chat, is Strabo Plinth and Mister Creed. It’s hard to miss the glaring shame on the latter’s face.
“I would like to begin by congratulating each and every one of you on your graduation,” Strabo speaks without an ounce of warmth, and a round of applause breaks out. He gestures to Sejanus, who is still grasping Coriolanus’s hand. Quickly, he snatches it away, hoping no one had noticed, however he hears the mocking snickers and whoops of his classmates. If only a hole would open up below him and swallow him whole. How on earth will he explain this later? “To celebrate your collective success, I would like to cordially invite you all to an after party at the Plinth Estate.”
The applause is watery this time around, with many of their classmates shooting sympathetic glances at Festus. It is painfully obvious that, once again, Strabo has bought his family into the inner circle. And suddenly, Arachne’s words from earlier come echoing back at him. Perhaps Strabo did this to scout out a suitable partner for Sejanus? For some reason, that leaves a displeasing feeling in the back of his throat.