#coryo fluff

He wouldn't ever dare to show it outside of the safety of this room under the cloak of night, but he was terrified. And you were as well, knowing you couldn't save him if it was his year.

"I feel it. I feel it, something bad is going to happen. I'm going to- they're going to call me." He was crying as he spoke, his voice, only recently broken, shaking you down to your core.

You offer him a sympathetic smile in the dim light, reaching up to brush his hair back from his face. "Remember last year? We had this exact same conversation. And the year before that, and the year before that, too. They're yet to call your name, and they won't. Not ever, bug."

You knew it had the potential to be an empty promise. That you very well could find yourself in the crowd of other kids tomorrow morning and hear your little brother's name echoed over the speakers- a summoning to death, but the odds of that actually happening were slim. One in close to three hundred other boys in the District aged between 12 and 18. He would be okay, you were certain.

When you're only met with sniffles in response, you pull the quilt up over your heads, pressing your forehead against his. "To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow," You whisper, and Lennox stops his sniffling.

"Don't give me a monologue right now." He grumbles, and it pulls a slight smile to your lips. You continue anyway.

"Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!"

You can see he's smiling too, even just a little bit as your eyes adjust to the dark.

"Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale..." You pause, and he sighs.

"Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing." He whispers along with you.

You let the silence swallow you both for a moment, looking at the redness in his cheeks and eyes from tears of fear. "It's signifying nothing, Lennox." You whisper again. "You will be okay."

Come the morning, his tears have dried and he puts a brave face on for your parents. You eat breakfast before the sun rises, before your father has to leave for work in the mines, and Lennox laughs and jokes with them as if he's never been less afraid in his life.

Your mother always has this look in her eye on reaping day. Her eyes are red-rimmed, puffy around the edges much like your brothers. You think that on this morning every year, they never look more alike. She's quieter as she makes something special, wheat toast with crushed berries and boiled sugar on top. Even a few chocolate shavings, if the year can spare it. This year, you can.

But then your father has to go, and you can see the hesitation in his look before he even moves to get up from the table dimly lit by a few lanterns so early in the morning. He chews on the inside of his cheek, looking down at his empty plate. He doesn't want to look at you. You know that, but you sit next to him at his spot at the head of the table, wishing he would.

"I should probably get-to-steppin'." He says, just like every normal morning when one of you happens to be up early enough to hear it. It's missing the cheerful note it usually carries, though.

Your mother nods, and both you and Lennox stand as your chairs push back simultaneously.

Your brother goes first, stepping around the edge of the dining table and shoving himself into your father's arms without a word. The air in your house feels multitudes thicker as you watch them.

"Be good for your mother," Your dad whispers, unable to help getting choked up already. He's holding the back of Lennox's sleep shirt so tight you know he's truly afraid he'll be ripped from his arms at any moment. "I love you so much. I love you more than anything. My baby boy..."

The nickname is reserved for days like today, of which there are very few. Your brother is fifteen now, and should be turning sixteen in just over a month. But on days like today, he's still just a baby.

Eventually, with a pat on his back, your father lets him go and Lennox knows he has to do the same even if neither of them want to.

His spot in your father's arms expands and shifts into your own, and before you're even aware of your feet carrying you those short three steps, your face is buried in his shoulder and his calloused hands are in your hair and on your back.

"Be good for your mother," He echoes the same sentiment to you, but his voice cracks. "My beautiful girl, I love you. I love you so much."

And into your hair, he whispers: "Be great in act, as you have been in thought."

You got your penchant for reading from your father. Most of your books, as well. You don't know where his family had acquired such a collection of by now ancient texts, but you were endlessly grateful. And together, he was determined that you both would read every last one. With the loss of a more than a few nights of sleep, that is.

"I'll see you tonight." You whisper back, a quiet reassurance that neither of you can fully, wholeheartedly accept. He nods anyway. "I love you, pa."

"I love you too," He replies, because saying it only twice wasn't enough. "Think about what you want to read tonight, and we'll all head out to the meadow, yeah? You and ma make some of those cookies I love, I'll be expecting them when I get home tonight."

"They'll be ready." You promise him, trying not to let the possibility that this is your last ever conversation choke you. Like last year and the year before, you were confident you would see him tonight. Both of you would, and to act as if you wouldn't, to say any kind of real goodbye would only result in the worst. But still, you couldn't take it. Maybe Lennox had gotten in your head last night, saying he felt like something would happen.

As your father pats your back in signal that he's going to let you go, you only hug him tighter. "I love you." You say again, but you both know it means something else this time.

The narrow, unpaved road and outskirts of the town are deathly quiet when the sun rose, and remained that way even close to noon as you held your mother's hand and walked down to the city centre. Lennox drags his feet a few paces ahead of you, hands shoved deep into his pockets as he kicks along the same rock he had been since you left the house.

Tybalt, bless his little heart, has decided to join you as well. You'd made it out the door, sans saying goodbye to him in manifestation that you would be back in the afternoon, before he jumped out the window of your bedroom and followed you out to the street. With a huff, your mother returned inside to grab his makeshift leash to be able to at least keep him close during the reaping if he wouldn't allow her to hold him.

You wanted to hold him, of course, but God forbid your name is pulled and then you would just have to hand him to Lucy Gray and say goodbye. You knew he would be fine if that was the case, but the odds of you being strong enough to let him go in a moment like that were slim to none.

Walking into the square and up at the stage ahead, grey and brown and dreary, you linger by the surrounding buildings for a moment.

"We should wait for the Covey." You suggest quietly, wrapping your arm around your mother's.

"Good idea, sweetheart." She agrees, entirely unwilling to let either of you go yet either.

But that excuse didn't last forever, and they came running into the square just as peacekeepers came rounding up the stragglers, forcing kids out of the arms of their parents and into mildly organized rows. Girls on one side, boys on the other.

Starting with the little ones, your mother hugs each of them and whispers something to them. A brief "I love you", if you had to guess, or some assurance that they would be okay. That it wouldn't be their year. When she gets to Lucy Gray, your friend grabs you by your hand and pulls you in to share in it.

"Oh, I love you, my girls... We'll see you both after. Dinner at ours tonight, Lucy Gray, we wanna hear that new song you've been-"

Her attempts to calm you both with normalcy is cut short by a peacekeeper grabbing the back of your dress and yanking you off them, nudging a gun into your shoulder. "Line up."

Lucy Gray was getting much of the same treatment, but she was able to grab your hand once they released the back of her corset. It was a beautiful dress, her mother's that she wore every year just like you wore yours every year. Hers was much nicer, that if she were to get picked it would scream to the world that she is not erasable. You'd commented on it years ago, the first time she'd been eligible and had to join you in the lineup, with the rainbow ruffles getting caught under her boots from it being too big for her. She'd offered to share it with you, to trim the bottom and make that into a shawl or a skirt or a scarf for you to wear so you could match and so she wouldn't step on it anymore. You said no, though. You knew she'd grow into it, and you liked the one your mother had stitched for you anyway.

You look for your brother in the crowd as you make your way with the Covey girls over to the rows and rows of other young kids.

Somewhere in the middle, you end up in the row behind Lennox, though he's obviously on the other side. You can see him, which comes as a comfort. He can't see you, though, unless he turns his head. Which he does.

You meet his eyes and give him a small nod, and little CC next to him looks over as well. You give him a subtle wave and what you hope is a reassuring smile, blowing him a kiss which he pretends to catch. You pat your pocket, nodding for him to "save it for later", and he grins. What little you could do to make the little ones feel better was extended eagerly and at every opportunity.

Lucy Gray's hand is shaking in yours, and she leans in closer as the Mayor starts speaking, ignoring him completely. "Billy Taupe is upset with me." She whispers, and you'd welcome the familiarity of her boy troubles happily as a distraction.

"Why?" You ask quietly.

"Jessup Diggs." Apparently they were cutting right to the chase today. You knew him, sort of. You weren't close, but you often helped your ma fix up clothes for his family, or she stopped to chat with them in the market on days where you weren't in a rush. He's a lovely young man. It's heartbreaking.

But it isn't any of your boys. You spare Lennox a weak smile and a nod just after Jessup is escorted down the middle between you.

Lucy Gray continues, though, rushed now to get her words out. "He's cheatin' on me again, with Mayfair." Your eyes widen and your jaw locks as you find the mayors daughter in the crowd. "I gave him hell for it and he said we're done."

"Oh, hon-" You want to try and comfort her, but you don't get the chance.

"I'm scared they're gonna call me. That she told her pa, and-"

She stops dead in her tracks when your your name echoes through the square instead.

Your eyes snap up to the stage again, feeling oddly calm considering you're certain you'd just been handed a death sentence.

Still, you smile, eyes getting watery. You can feel the eyes of everyone on you- not that it was a concern of yours, but the gaze of Maude Ivory and Clerk Carmine and Lennox felt particularly heavy. Lennox's relief had been so short lived.

Lucy Gray whispers your name, sounding horrified. You can't look at her, but you know the expression on her face. Similar to yours, minus the smile. Hurt, angry- you're sure. "Give 'em a show. Don't go down quiet." She whispers, and you can hear the crack in her voice. The last words your best friend would ever share with you.

Heart pounding you nod a little, pushing your shoulders back as you drop her hand and walk down to the middle aisle, cameras tracking your every step. For as long as you've been eligible for the reaping, that had been exactly your plan. To get into the arena and lay down and take whatever would come to be your end. You couldn't fight, you couldn't hurt anyone. It was all wrong, anyway. Even if you could, you didn't stand a chance. She must have known that, though.

You'd always said that when you were younger, since the games were established almost in myth, and every year older kids would disappear to the Capitol and never return. 

"I'd take one of them guns the 'keepers got, and I'd win in a minute!" Lennox said, holding a broken stick to his shoulder like a weapon, squinting as he pretended to look down the sights.

You eyed him with suspicion, remembering what ma always said. "Boys will be boys," But your baby brother always seemed so separate from that when it came to violence.

"No you wouldn't." You giggled, shaking your head as he turned the stick gun on you and little Lucy Gray.

"Yes I would! Bang, bang! The first victor of District Twelve! We'll have a party!"

Your parents, guiding you down the wooded path to the lake with the Covey kids in tow, didn't like this joke. "Len, don't point guns at anyone."

"It's just a stick, pa!" He groaned.

"Never point a weapon of any kind at anyone." Your father stuck to his point, grabbing the stick from your brother's grip. "It's never a joke. You wouldn't be laughing if they called your sisters name in a few years, so don't laugh now."

Your father was right, Lennox most certainly wasn't laughing now. Somewhere you hear a sob, and you know it's your ma. Peacekeepers block either of your sides so you can't run, and the march to the stage feels like it goes on forever. A tear falls down your cheek, but you don't wipe it away.

"Thank you." You nod to the peacekeepers when they come to a stop with you at the bottom of the steps, but you have to continue. You have to.

You never had much experience with crowds, not the way Lucy Gray and the Covey kids did. They could command a space, change the energy in any room at the drop of a dime. Finally you can spare a glance at your mother, who's clutching Tybalt close to her chest and crying into his fur. It's deathly quiet. With a brief scan of the crowd, you can see tears on Lennox's cheeks that match your own, but his face is stone cold. You look at Lucy Gray, Barb Azure, and Maude Ivory. It was a jarring difference, seeing them from on stage. Lucy Gray nods at you, now holding her little cousin close to her side. Lifting one hand she taps the bottom of her chin.

"Head up, shoulders back. It takes confidence to hold a crowd, but even more to get your ass up on stage in the first place!"

Her voice from when you were just kids rings in your ears. The day you'd told her you could never do what they do, and she'd insisted they'd adopt you and you'd learn it like second nature soon enough.

You'd never quite gotten the knack for performing, though.

"May I?"

"Please," as the mayor nods and gestures to the mic, stepping out of the way to give you a minute.

You're not sure how to feel, what to say- but you couldn't disappoint Lucy Gray and the others, you couldn't let your brother go without hearing your voice one more time.

"Hello," You settle on, your voice calmer and smoother than you expected. "Thank you all, for being the village that raised us."

With a glance back at Jessup who just looks shocked, you hope he's okay with you speaking on his behalf.

"There's nowhere in the world with kinder people and kinder souls." You continue, wiping away a tear when it tickles your jaw. "My friends of noble touch; when I am forth, Bid me farewell, and smile."

"Don't be sad," you want to tell your loved ones, or everyone. This was the only way you knew how to say it, with so many eyes and cameras on you. Frozen were your own words, left to rely on the comfort of your beloved books. You know they understand, anyway.

The clock is ticking, and goodbyes cannot be forever. "I must go in, the fog is rising." You say in finality, and a fresh set of peacekeepers flank you again to guide you and Jessup back away from the stage, away from everything you'd ever known and loved.

This would be the beginning of your final act.

You couldn't bring yourself to look back, and you wished that you had when you're corralled into the dark and cold train car. For a while, you and Jessup travel in silence- the train wheels rattling beneath you as it drew you further and further from your family.

Even still, you sat side by side, shoulders bumping often with the sway of the car.

"I'm sorry." He whispers into the dark after what must have been hours, and the words sound more like a breath than a tangible statement.

Looking over at him in the dark your eyes have adjusted to, you give him a small smile. "Don't be." You whisper back, shaking your head. "The way I see it, I'm lucky today."

Jessup cocks his head to the side slightly. "How do you figure that?"

"It could have been my brother, or any of my sisters." You explain with a slight shrug, and though he knows you aren't related to the Covey, he knows what you meant.

"I guess..." He agrees hesitantly, scrubbing his hand at the back of his neck. "I mean, I wouldn't want it to be my siblings either, but that doesn't mean our cards are fair. It shouldn't have been any of us."

"It shouldn't be anyone." You nod. "But there's some... peace, I suppose, to be found in going off today knowing that all those kids are safe another year, at least. They all get one more birthday, one more Christmas... feels kind of worth it. Like we've done good, by giving ours up."

"Let's just get this over with." He grumbles as he wraps his arm around your shoulder, as gentle in touch as you knew he was in soul. Even yet to meet the other tributes, you hope that Jessup makes it home to his family.

You hear shouting as you blink your eyes open, head resting against Jessup's warm shoulder in the previously droning train car. You must be stopping. Sure enough, the train jerks as it stops and you're rocked onto your side, even sitting down. A rude awakening, to be in the Capitol.

"Everybody out!" A voice bellows, followed by banging on the outside of the doors. You're shivering as you stand, brushing off the back of your dress as Jessup holds your arm to steady you. It had been a long journey, and a while since you'd stood up to stretch your legs. You tried to sleep most of the journey, to eliminate the possibility of overthinking as much as possible. You didn't want to cry anymore- it wouldn't change the past, and you wouldn't want to change it anyway. Bid me farewell, and smile. You think to yourself as the doors slide open, and Jessup hops out first before peacekeepers would get the chance to jump in and drag the two of you out by your collars.

He extends his hands out to you to lift you out, but with that smile you shake your head and sit down on the edge of the train car before making the small jump down to the paved ground of the station. Patting Jessup's shoulder you quietly thank him, looking around and taking in your new surroundings. It didn't look too terribly different from the station at home, which surprised you. The Capitol, in all its superiority, was a myth at best back home. No one knew what to expect, really, no one ever returned to tell the tale. In your own mind, it would have looked more like a Shakespeare play- the opulence and royalty of castle walls, but so far, all you could see is concrete and military uniforms.

Except for the flash of red that appears before you in an instant, attached to the body of a boy. Blonde hair that's curly like Len's when he hasn't cut it, kind blue eyes, a determined step, and a white rose extended in your direction.

"Hello." He says, clearing his throat. You smile wider.

"Hi there."

For the rose, though its petals be torn asunder, still smiles on.

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Coriolanus Snow is the type of man to love letting his girlfriend wear his clothes. Maybe it's because he’s possessive—he doesn’t think so—or because of how adorable she looks.

How his button up shirts fall past her thighs and she has to roll up the sleeves. And whenever she wears one of his pullovers she’s practically drowning in them, burrowed in his scent of roses. If she ever forgot her mittens then he gladly let her borrow his, ignoring how they engulfed her small dainty hands.

Coriolanus Snow is the type of man who loves teasing his girlfriend. Whether in the bedroom or just day-to-day, he loves to tease her, poke her, rile her up.

He loves calling her little pet names that he knows will get a rise out of her. Little mouse, doll, bunny, angel. They get a completely different reaction in the bedroom but outside of it, they get little glares and huffs. And he loves it. Loves seeing her roll her eyes and remind him that she does have a name.

In the bedroom she loves it as much as he does. How his low, timber voice drawls them out while he pounds into her, the words dripping out of his mouth like thick, warm honey. That’s when she loves it. And he loves the way she moans when he says them, how her perfect little cunt tightens around his cock whenever those names strike a nerve.

Coriolanus Snow is the type of man who despises tears. Happy ones or sad ones, pleasurable ones or painful ones. They’re all the same to him. In his eyes, it’s a sign that you lack control of your emotions.

How can you possibly go through all those feelings internally and still feel the need to cry? To physically prove what you’re feeling is true? But when his girlfriend cries?

When she cries from being sad he’s all over the place. He’s bringing her roses, kissing her all over, giving her hugs—and he’s very selective on who gets hugs from him—singing her songs. The man will do absolutely anything to cease those tears.

When she cries from pleasure he’s cocky. He knows he’s good in the bedroom, but to make someone cry from pleasure? Well, there’s a sick sadistic side in him that enjoys it. He loves knowing he’s the only one who will see these tears. Knowing that the shape of his cock, the tempo of his thrusts, the overwhelming feeling and sensation of him is causing these tears is a great boost to his ego. He’ll wipe her tears eventually. First, he’ll tease her about it, degrade her a bit. “Already crying doll? Too much for my sweet little mouse? Is my cock too big for you angel?”

It’s when she cries from pain that he truly despises tears. For who could ever cause harm to his sweet, precious angel? They’d have to die. Simple as that. It’s more difficult for him to manage when it’s something like a menstrual cramp or if she stubbed her toe. For what can he do? Yell at her uterus? Chide the coffee table for being in her way? He’d do anything to make the pain go away, he’d take it on himself if he could.

Coriolanus Snow is the type of man who absolutely needs sex. He craves it honestly. And he needs it from her.

He needs to hear her little mewls of pleasure. Needs to watch her eyes roll back when he hits that sweet spot inside of her. He needs to watch her take it over and over again, absolutely dumb with it. He needs that control, that power. Even if it means tying her up. He’s willing to make that sacrifice. He loves watching her struggle to free her wrists from the confines of his necktie while he fucks into her right little cunt, hard and deep.

Knowing that she’ll be sore drives him mad, so sore that he’ll be the one to bathe her after they’re done and be the only one who knows why she’s limping the next day. He loves when she gets overstimulated, sobbing and begging for him to stop as he continues fucking her stupid. It’s only then that he’s truly got her where he wants her, stuck on his cock, his little fuckdoll.

Coriolanus Snow is the type of man to be selective with the kisses he gives out.

On the lips is for certain times of the day, moments in both their lives where it’s simply expected. Like waking up. That deserves a good morning kiss, doesn’t it? Before he leaves for work calls for another, they won’t see each other for quite some time and he needs all the motivation he can get.

On the nose is for when she’s simply too cute for her own good. These kisses are quite rare in the grand scheme of things. He feels a little silly pecking someone’s nose of all places. But he adores the way she giggles when he does it, the way her eyes close and her smile widens. He indulges in those every so often.

A kiss on the cheek is casual yet calculated. He saves those for when he’s out in public with her. For when he needs people to know she belongs to him. He does it when they’re all some fancy gala and quite a few men are eyeing her up, too much for his liking. He enjoys it when she gives him a peck as well. Mainly because she has to get up on her tiptoes to do so and you won’t ever catch him bending down so she doesn’t have to.

A kiss on the neck is a question. Will she or will she not let him fuck her into the bedsheets until she’s a screaming, withering mess? It’s a simple question really and he’s mastered asking such a thing by pressing light kisses to her neck. It’s when she leans into them that he knows he’s got her.

Coriolanus Snow is the type of man to promise to burn the world to the ground should anyone ever hurt his precious girl.

If only he knew he’d get burned in the process.

"I don't see the problem with that." Your friend's boyfriend says after a moment of watching to her to gauge her reaction, but she's stone-faced as she stares at you. "I think that's just effective communi-"

Your friend comes back to life and smacks him on the arm, nose scrunched up in obvious disapproval of his opinion. "Shut up- no. He's being a prick."

Her boyfriend rubs his arm, chuckling. "Alright, ignore me, then." He says, standing from the arm of the couch that he was perched on and brushing a kiss to her hairline. "I'll be helpful and make drinks."

"Yes. Go be actually useful somewhere else, please." Your friend huffs in agreement, standing from the couch as well and starting to pace in front of you.

She was a little mean to him at times, sure, but it was a mutual arrangement. They know each other's boundaries, are comfortable with each other, love each other. If you didn't love them both so much you would hate them for it- for having something that feels like a cosmic crime for you to even want.

"Maybe he just... maybe he just needs a week or so." You say, watching her and her storm of frustration. "I'll wait like, a few days to text him and see if he wants to talk about it."

An exhausting routine by this point. Eventually it would work though, right? Waiting for your open doors of intention and communication to be respected. (Yet to happen.)

"No, no." She insists, pulling out her phone. "I'm reactivating your Tinder, and I'm finding you someone else."

"C'mon, no- let's... let's give him a chance, okay? I'll try and talk to him... In a few days."

"You're not going to beg for scraps from... from someone's son. Don't be ridiculous. You deserve better. Period."

There's a clatter of utensils or cups from the kitchen of their shared apartment, followed by a huffed laugh as her boyfriend peeks his head around the corner. "Didn't you say he's an orphan?"

"Fine," Your friend huffs, waving him off again. "Nobody's son, then. Whatever. He is literally nobody's son, and you think his opinion of you matters? Not on my watch. No. Snap out of it."

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms around your midsection as your shoulders curl in. "That's not nice, it's a sore subject for him-"

"Oh, boo hoo!" She bites sarcastically, jaw tightening briefly. "Poor Coriolanus Snow, he lost his parents and now he's clearly absolved from all consequences of his actions. Ugh. Fuck. Him."

"I-"

"You did, I know." She cuts you off, looking up from her phone again and raising an eyebrow at you. "But that's not what I have a problem with. I have a problem with you meeting his friends, hanging out five times in a week, him telling you he can see things moving forward with you, and then ghosting you, and then circling back around when its convenient for him. How many times have you played his game? It's killing you."

Gesturing vaguely at the phone in your lap, she tips her head in exasperation at you. "Babe, stand up."

"Well, I just think that-"

"If you're going to defend him, stop and reassess before continuing."

You press your lips together as she scolds you, and you look anywhere but at her. She was right and you knew it. That was the worst part.

"He broke up with you." She reminds you, taking a step closer and snatching your phone from your lap, which you frantically try and stop her from doing. "You can't just "wait a week", that's a break up text-" 

Crickets... again.

"You texted him." It wasn't a question, it was a statement. She takes a moment to read the message you'd left out of your storytelling of the scenario. "Take as much time as you need! I hope everything is okay with you. You know if something is going on I'd want to support you however I could. Can we talk soon?"

She reads out loud, looking up at you as you grimace and she continues, driving the blade deeper. "Read, 2:37pm. Three minutes after you sent it, and that was... four hours ago? Interesting."

"What?" You ask, already knowing. "I just thought if he's having some kind of... emotional thing, it might be a good idea to reinforce that I would be happy to help."

"You're begging." She corrects, just as her perfect, lovely, incredible boyfriend who worships the ground she walks on comes back into the room, this time with drinks in hand for both of you.

"Don't beg." He agrees with her, handing the alcohol-laden glass to you. "Just drink."

You take a long sip of the drink, letting the burn distract you from the existential terror of your own phone. “Okay, maybe a date wouldn’t be the worst,” You mutter, just loud enough for her to hear.

Her eyes light up. “Finally, some sense. Good news is I never deactivated your Tinder in the first place, and I’ve found someone for you already. His name is Max, he likes dogs, he’s exactly one foot taller than you- which is perfect, and he has a beard you can pet responsibly.”

“I- do I have to go?”

“Yes,” She says, pointing like a general. “You’re leaving the house whether you like it or not. Don't dwell on him. Coriolanus was... he's literally just some guy. Move on now instead of crying in bed for the next week. Consider it therapy. And actually move on this time.”

Her boyfriend raises his drink in a mock toast. “Nobody's son.”

Fine. You agree. And so, somewhere between therapy and potential humiliation, you find yourself sitting across from this Max guy at a trendy coffee bar three days later. He smiles nervously. You smile back weakly, trying to summon any energy for human interaction that isn’t spiraling around Coriolanus Snow.

And of course, because the universe is dramatic: he walks in just when you decide to stop thinking about him.

Like, actually walks in. And stops. And notices you.

Max is mid-sentence: “So, I love-”

You freeze. Eye contact is made, and you're blinded by blue eyes that have seen more than their fair share of you considering how short of a time you'd known each other. The music is too quiet, and even though Max doesn't know anything about who Coryo is, he can see you just hardly stiffen before quickly looking back at him again to continue endless small talk and the repeated, tiring routine of "getting to know" someone.

Ten minutes later after you recover from the awkwardness and text your friend to let her know who just showed up, your phone vibrates- but its not a response from her.

“You look good”

“Oh, great,” you mutter under your breath, juggling your drink, Max’s head tilts curiously, and the fact that Coryo is now just standing there, in this space, while you were on a date, of all things, is frying your brain with embarrassment.

Your friend is dying laughing, you know it. Or she's on her way here with a gun. One of the two.

You take another sip of your drink, trying to focus on Max, who’s talking about his extensive houseplant collection. Which is great, except that every word is bouncing off your brain like a ping pong ball.

Max beams. “Do you like plants?”

“Yes,” you mutter, very carefully not looking anywhere else, “I… love them.”

Max nods furiously. “Me too! Actually, I have—”

Your phone buzzes again. Another text from him.

“I wasn’t thinking straight. Can we try again? I’m on the patio if you still want to talk.”

You stare at it. Blink. Stare again. Max is mid-sentence: “—and that’s why my aloe is actually the most dramatic of all succulents.”

“Uh-huh,” You manage, thumb hovering over the text field like it’s a bomb you might accidentally detonate.

Max leans in, oblivious. “You’ve got to tell me your favourite plant. It’ll help me understand you better.”

Favourite plant? Really? Now?

You glance at Max. He’s smiling with innocent enthusiasm, and God, he’s nice, but… he’s not Coryo. He didn't take you to meet his friends, and never let his hand stray from your lower back the whole night. He's never kissed you like his life depended on those seconds he was attached to you, and he's never taken you to places he claimed were special because it was his late mother's favourite restaurant that he, quote, "never brings anyone to". How could anyone compete with the way Coryo looked at you like you held his world in your palms only twelve or so hours before saying he wanted a break?

You type something. Delete it. Type again. Delete. Finally, you mutter under your breath: “I’m so screwed.”

And that’s when he texts again.

“Meet me outside. Just for five minutes. Please?”

You look between Max and the door like it’s some absurd morality choice in a video game:

Option A: Go out, face Coryo, risk being emotionally annihilated. Again.

Option B: Stay, pretend you can keep a plant alive, and possibly fall asleep at the table.

Max tilts his head. “Everything okay?”

You give him the faintest, guilty smile. “Yeah… I just... I'm gonna run to the washroom, I'll be right back, yeah?”

You push out the door at the back of the coffee shop next to the bathrooms after checking Max didn't suspect anything. Coryo is leaning against the brick wall, hands in his pockets, looking... perfectly calm. 

“Five minutes,” he says softly, not a smirk, just a steady gaze that somehow makes your chest tighten.

You cross your arms, wrapping them around your midsection. “Okay.”

He shakes his head slowly. “I didn’t… I mean, I wasn’t thinking straight. I shouldn’t have texted you like that. I’m sorry.”

You tilt your head, suspicious but more than willing to hear him out. (You shouldn't be.) “I... yeah, its okay. I get it. Is that... Is that it?”

“No,” he admits, stepping a little closer. “I… I just… I panicked. I wasn’t ready to mess up again. But I realized, being away from you… it’s worse than anything I thought I needed to figure out.”

You blink, caught off guard. The quiet intensity in his voice makes it hard to argue. “So... what are we doing, then?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at you, patient, and finally says, “I’m saying I don’t expect anything. I just needed you to know how I feel. And… I shouldn’t have left it like that. I should have agreed to talk to you right away, but I just...” He drags a hand through his hair, looking up for a moment before back down at your eyes. "Like I said, I panicked."

You fold your arms tighter, but your knees almost betray you. “I get it, I know its not... Its not that simple.”

“Because it is,” he says softly, like he’s not trying at all, and that’s the part that hurts the most. “I messed up. I’m not asking you to forget that. But I need you to know that you’re the only one who matters in this. Only you can make sense of... us.”

You glance back at the coffee shop and through the glass of the back door. Max is still sitting there, awkwardly nursing his latte. You take a step forward… and then stop, heart hammering. “You make it sound like this is my choice.”

“It is,” he says, his tone calm, unyielding. “I can’t force you to stay, but I'd like you to. I just needed you to understand, like... this isn’t about ego. It’s about you.”

You groan, because of course it’s him. Of course he’s turning guilt, sincerity, and heartbreak into a perfect trap. “Five minutes,” you mutter again, mostly to yourself. “Not a second longer.”

“Five minutes,” he echoes, soft, steady, patient- convincing you it could be enough. 

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, heart hammering like a drum set. He’s standing there, calm, steady, looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. And somehow, that makes you want to fix everything- even the part you know is probably (definitely) fucked up over him beyond simple repair.

“I… I don’t know,” You murmur, tugging at the sleeves of your jacket like a nervous habit you just developed for him alone. “I just... I hate that you panicked. I get it, but it’s not fair to me either.”

“I know,” He says softly, just soft enough to make your chest ache. “And I’m not asking you to forgive me right now. I just needed you to know how I feel. I owe you that much.”

You swallow. Because you do know. You feel it. That little tug in your chest that refuses to let go, no matter how many times your friend has screamed at you to “stand up.” You groan quietly. “I get it. I feel it too, don’t I?”

He nods, just enough to confirm it, and your stomach twists. "I probably shouldn’t,” You whisper, mostly to yourself. “I know my friend would hate me for this. She’d be yelling at me right now, probably throwing something.”

“I don’t care what anyone else thinks,” He says, calm and steady. “I care about you. And I just needed to be honest with you. I should have before.”

You groan again, heart hammering. You want to be mad. You want to run back inside and hug Max and apologize for abandoning him mid-latte. You should do that. But instead, you find yourself stepping a fraction closer to him. “I... I don't know what to do with this...”

“You don’t have to say anything,” He murmurs. “Let's just leave. Tell him you're sick.”

And of course, because you are exactly the kind of person who caves when empathy and quiet sincerity hit in the right way, you nod. Just a little. One fraction. One impossible, ridiculous, terribly human fraction.

Your brain screams at you, this is a terrible idea. Your friend would kill you. Max is waiting. And yet...

Your heart ignores your brain.

Here we go again.

Every note, every chord, every pull of the strings with your fingers called for you to sing. It was a physical sensation, stemming from so deep in your chest you weren't sure you'd ever felt less real in your life. Your body was hardly a passive vessel used by you day in and day out to carry you from point A to point B. It was begging you to make a sound, to sing in a way that used to be second nature but was now forbade by your own anatomy. You wonder, if your body plead to create music so desperately, why had it even let you survive without functioning vocal cords? Why had you woken up from that trauma in the first place, if your body, separate of mind, needed the music so badly?

You have a vision of what you know the melody would go, should your mindless repetitive strumming be accompanied by lyrics. You can't even be granted the peace of being able to hum it to yourself.

What had you done to deserve this gentle torture?

You don't know when you'd started writing things down, scribbling on the nearest pad of paper you could reach for days between visits from Coryo or silent dinners with your parents.

That song was all you could think about until it was done, written and prophesied to never be heard in its entirety by anyone except your own mind.

By the time Dr. Gaul reaches out to you again, the song is perfect; scribbled and scratched and rewritten until it became what you were sure was your magnum opus- though you had never written your own music before. You had nearly succumbed to it being a work of tragedy, something you would never even get to hear yourself until Dr. Gaul gave you hope.

On September 3rd, the day before classes started and Coryo was meant to begin his apprenticeship under her, Dr. Gaul made a house call with a folder of extensive research done on the jabberjays in hand- she believed she could fix you.

In small doses, she believed it was possible to slowly tweak away at the remains of your vocal chords until they could be salvaged. Maybe. But you were more than happy to take a maybe, and so were your parents. What's the worst that could happen?

Coriolanus Snow had fallen in love with the beautiful voice of his best friend long before he ever realized he could feel similarly about the rest of her, too. If he were conscious of such a fact, it would have offered a much needed solution to his current predicament.

He could hear you in everything. In the whispers of the girls behind him in his lectures, in the crackling elevator music on the way to and from his penthouse- now that it was functional again, that is. In his own absentminded humming while he was too focussed on his reading to notice he was really doing it.

In the chirping of jabberjays in Dr. Gaul's lab.

Today, however, reviewing charts and signing off on the wellbeing of other creatures he couldn't really care less about, he has become convinced that the lack of sleep has finally caught up with him and he's actually lost his mind.

It is you. It is your voice he's hearing, like those records that lined a shelf in your room, though one he's never heard. Talking, instead of singing.

You were talking, and he clearly needed to ask Dr. Gaul for a prescription for some kind of sleeping med, because that was just plain impossible.

But he knew your voice as well as he knew the voice in his own head.

"Yes, please." Your voice says, echoing through a cracked door down the hall. "No, thank you."

His feet are carrying him through the corridor before he can weigh the merits of leaving his job, the section of the lab he was meant to be monitoring for the moment.

Dr. Gaul's office, separate from the extent of the broader laboratory she ran in the lower levels of the citadel, was somewhat of a mystery to him. It was her office that the sweet sound was coming from, but it was just more echoes of the same thing. "Yes, please." "No, thank you."

"Hello."

That one sounded off.

"Goodbye!"

That one sounded so cheery he almost jerks his head back like the word had struck him. When he knocks on the door, your voice abruptly stops and it's quiet for a moment before the door is opened.

"Did something bite you?" Dr. Gaul asks, raising an eyebrow as she looks at him in the doorway. She was clearly unimpressed that she was being interrupted.

"No, but-"

"Scratch you? Sting you?"

He shuts up then, shaking his head.

"Then I am busy. Please ask one of the other doctors to sign off on whatever you need me for and I'll look at it later."

He stops the door when she tries to close it in his face, his eyes searching hers. "I heard her, is she here?"

Dr. Gaul's lips press together at the question, her head tipping slightly. "Your chickadee? No. But I was just speaking with her mother on the phone, perhaps that is what you heard."

Immediately, Coryo is skeptical- his eyes flicking past her into the room. As if he wouldn't know your mother's voice from your own. It was you. He was positive.

"Why did her parents call? Is she okay?" He asks instead of calling her out on the obvious lie.

"As okay as a bird with clipped vocal cords could be, I assume." Dr. Gaul responds, and it's clear to him from the smile on her face that she somehow didn't mean any harm by saying something so horrible.

"If there is nothing else, then, please return to your duties." She adds when he doesn't say anything, and as she closes the door in his face, he can just make out the twitching wings of a bird pinned down to a metal sheet on her desk.

You hadn't intended to keep it from him. But something in your gut told you not to say a word, and you were grateful you couldn't. You were a lot of things, but not a good liar- and your muteness offered you a wall between you and your best friend that allowed you to guard secrets for once.

This was also made easier by the fact that you had less classes with him here at the university than you did at academy. Spare for a couple general studies courses you both needed for your differing degrees, you didn't see each other nearly as much. It was a curse and a blessing in equal measure.

Like a perfect routine, you slid his dedicated notebook back and forth across the desk between you while your English professor rambled on and on.

'Bellacora's after class?' He writes next to your previous doodle of a flower, sliding it back over to you quietly with a questioning expression.

You redip your pen a couple of times while you think about it. He had the day off, but thats why you had to see Dr. Gaul today. You couldn't accidentally cross paths with him while he was working between or after classes. But you did really want to go.

Being a little late to the lab wouldn't be the worst thing if it was only once, right?

'Sure. I'll meet you there after my last class :)' You scribble out and you can practically feel his smile as his hair brushes against your ear from where he was leaning close to watch you write.

Bellacora's is quieter than usual. The bustle of students in the shop set between the university and Academy campus's has dulled to a low murmur, the clink of spoons and the occasional hiss of the espresso machine filling in the space. Coryo's already found a booth by the window, one the two of you have always frequented since your parents allowed you to go out alone, and there are two mismatched mugs between you by the time you slide in across from him.

He doesn't smile right away. But he lifts your mug, blue with a spiderweb crack near the handle, and nudges it toward you with both hands. You mouth a silent thank you and take a sip.

It's perfect. Lemon tea with honey, no sugar- he remembered.

"I thought maybe you'd change your order," he says lightly, "new voice, new tastebuds, or something. But I decided to play it safe."

You raise an eyebrow at him, amused, and he immediately flinches.

"Sorry. That was stupid."

You shake your head, then pull out your notebook.

'Not stupid. Funny.' You underline funny twice for emphasis. He was right to wonder that, though. That had been your favourite drink for years- moreso, the only drink you could have other than water because it was good for your throat and kept your voice perfectly smooth. As far as anyone was concerned, there was no reason for you to continue drinking three cups of the substance a day. Truthfully, though, it was both a habit you couldn't break and ideal for the soreness that was a fresh constant since you'd started seeing Dr. Gaul.

He lets out a short breath, it could almost be considered a laugh, and leans back into the booth. His gaze drifts toward the window, where autumn leaves skip past in small bursts of wind. "Feels weird not seeing you everyday anymore."

You nod slowly, holding onto the top of your high neck shirt and pulling it up under your chin, further covering your neck as you rest your chin in your palm and mindlessly stir your drink even though you're not adding anything.

"Do you miss it?" he asks.

You hesitate as you let go of the spoon, then write, 'Every day.'

There's a long silence as he reads it and nods once. "You've been... different lately."

You freeze.

"Not in a bad way," he says quickly. "Just... quieter. And I guess that's ironic, but... I don't know. You feel far away. Even when you're right here."

Your throat tightens. You scribble something and slide it over with a bit too much force.

'I'm trying.'

He reads it once, then again, like he's looking for something hidden beneath the ink.

"I know," he says. "I can tell."

You look down at your mug. Your reflection wobbles inside it.

'It's not you.'

"I didn't think it was." He mutters. "But I wish you'd let me help. You always used to let me help."

You tap your pen against the side of your notebook. 'Some things you can't fix.'

That gets him. His jaw tightens. But then he nods, slowly.

"I'm still here. Even if I can't fix it. I told you that."

You can't meet his eyes, so you trace the edge of the table with your thumb.

He reaches across and places his hand on top of yours. Just rests it there, warm and still.

You want to speak, to say something real, something that would let you fall apart safely in front of him, but the words are still locked inside you. Maybe not because of your voice. Maybe because after the show those months ago, things had gone back to normal even though you were certain it would be the beginning of change.

So instead, you stay like that, holding onto him.

The lab was nearly empty, the usual unending busyness reduced to a low mechanical hum beneath the thick veil of silence. Coryo lingered, pretending to review data logs, but his gaze kept drifting toward the far corner of the testing room. The small metal cabinet, usually overlooked and locked tight, seemed almost to pulse under the dim light as he went over log after log, checking and rechecking dates for what he felt was no real reason.

He checked the time on the wall. Everyone had left at least an hour ago, and the dim orange glow from the street lamps filtered faintly through the narrow windows- the kind of light that made every shadow stretch and flicker.

His fingers brushed against the small, cold master key tucked in his coat pocket, the one Dr. Gaul had trusted him with weeks ago for emergency access. She trusted him, and for the first time, he's considering that maybe she shouldn't.

The urge tangled in his mind, an electric mix of curiosity and dread. It was none of his business, he knew that. His tasks were limited to the list of busywork given to him every day when he signed in, but the voice in his head was louder than that. He thought of her, of you, and the fragile hope in your eyes when you'd sat in the hospital room in the short weeks following the assault. The widening of your pretty eyes when you'd ran into him at this lab on the day he was offered his apprenticeship, and how he'd never been given a straight answer on why you were here.

With a steady breath, he rose from his chair and crossed the room, careful not to disturb a delicate jar on the nearby shelf. The key slid into the lock, turning with a quiet click that echoed louder than it should have in the stillness.

Inside, rows of glass jars gleamed under the low light, each containing pinned jabberjays, labeled meticulously with dates and codes he was still learning to decipher. Coryo's breath caught as he reached for the one near the back, its label marked only days ago, hastily scrawled in Dr. Gaul's unmistakable handwriting.

He lifted the vial gently, eyes scanning the tiny glass filled with a strange, pale tissue sample suspended in liquid. Notes accompanied it — words like "vocal cord regeneration," "experimental dosage 04," and "patient confidentiality." His chest tightened.

A soft rustling sound made him freeze. Footsteps? His heart hammered, and he pushed the cabinet door shut, pocketing the vial. He slipped back to his desk, hiding behind a cluster of equipment just as a janitor's shadow passed beyond the doorway.

When the footsteps faded, Coryo sank into his chair, the weight of the glass heavy in his pocket. His fingers reached instinctively for the worn notebook you shared with him. Filled with song lyrics, doodles, programs from your past performances. The pages were stained and creased, but still sacred.

He traced a finger over a line he'd written to you, he remembered sitting in the grass in the academy's courtyard over the summer when he'd told you something dumb.

'I'd sell my soul to hear you sing like that again.'

And then, where you'd replied in print:

'Me too :('

At that time you'd laughed at the dramatics of his claim, but he'd meant it. Only now he was considering the possibility that you did too.