Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster."

—Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil

Life is a repetitive cycle, Coriolanus Snow knows this. The same mornings, so monotonous to the point of nausea, are necessary to finally land at the top. Not on the mezzanine, somewhere in the middle. At the very top. He has to be patient to become the most important person in all of Panem, and perhaps even in the world.

But now, he has what he has. He wakes up in his single bedroom—fortunately, sharing a bed with Livia Cardew has never been an option—and takes a long, cold shower in his luxurious bathroom. Cold water is good for your discipline, they say, and Coriolanus Snow had already gotten used to bathing in it during his days of poverty. The Avox knows to serve breakfast at 8 AM, usually scrambled eggs with truffles, not too moist and not too firm, freshly baked bread, a glass of freshly squeezed, tart orange juice, and twice a week, bacon—well, it isn’t too healthy—and always a green salad from vegetables gathered from the garden. Coriolanus watches the Avox closely as they prepare it. Livia joins him at ten past eight, and as they watch the morning news, they don’t have to struggle to find topics for conversation, which would be interesting to both of them, and, to be honest, there aren’t many of them. Occasionally, Livia greets him with a comment—"Oh, you have gray hair there; you could eat more slowly; your belt is getting too tight." Coriolanus only responds to these remarks with a smile, inwardly contemplating how lovely a wife he has.

One day he will poison her.

He has no idea why he married her. Oh, maybe he does—he didn’t want to feel love, and, well, he succeeds every day in not feeling it for Livia Cardew—or rather Snow, though he still can’t get used to her carrying his last name.

But today’s morning isn’t boring. It isn’t ordinary. It isn’t usual. During today’s morning, the scrambled eggs stuck in his throat.

At first, when hearing the reporter's monotone voice, Coriolanus doesn’t even raise his eyes from the newspaper.

“Following the tragic and mysterious death of the Alliance for Prosperity party leader, Nero Falk, the organization has been searching for a new leader.”

His death might not be so mysterious, Coriolanus thinks, taking a bite of the creamy scrambled eggs. The Alliance for Prosperity has been a pain in his ass practically since the start of his political career. They’re always spouting nonsense about how animals shouldn’t be used in the arena or that hygiene products should be provided for girls who might menstruate. A load of rubbish, if you asked Coriolanus—no one takes them seriously, and their bills are consistently rejected.

"The party's new leader is someone relatively unknown in politics—Sejanus Plinth, the son of the late weapons manufacturer Strabo Plinth, who passed away a few years ago."

Now he swallows his food with difficulty, staring at the screen, utterly puzzled and speechless. He exchanges glances with Livia.

She croaks, “Did you hear that, Coriolanus?” Her voice reaches him as if she’s speaking from behind glass. “Un-be-lie-va-ble,” she remarks. “Sejanus Plinth? Who would let that idiot into Parliament?”

For a brief moment, Coriolanus thinks he must be hallucinating; after poisoning the leader of the party, perhaps the antidote didn’t work perfectly, and some damage was done to his brain. But Livia can’t hallucinate as well. There he is, right on the screen. None other than Sejanus Plinth. Coriolanus would be less surprised if he saw a massive elephant Avox mutt—one of Dr. Gaul’s creations, back when she was still alive. He’d recognize Sejanus anywhere, though he looks different now. He’s bigger—definitely bigger than the last time Coriolanus saw him, at Strabo’s funeral a few years ago, very surprised to even see Sejanus at all. Coriolanus even offered his condolences, though it was awkward. To this day, Coriolanus doesn’t know if Sejanus ever found out who turned in his confession.

What happened to Sejanus over the years remained something of a mystery. Back then in District 12, Coriolanus had made a single phone call—to Tigris. It was her task to inform the Plinths of the situation, and she fulfilled her duty swiftly. Strabo Plinth must have acted immediately, likely spending a fortune to secure Sejanus’s life. Somehow, Sejanus escaped the execution that seemed inevitable.

Coriolanus didn’t encounter him in the Capitol for years after that. He later learned Sejanus had been confined to the Capitol’s Asylum, subjected to what was euphemistically called a "reformation course." Strabo Plinth had described it as a necessary duty, but for Sejanus, it must have been nothing less than a living nightmare.

Still, Strabo Plinth didn't write Coriolanus a cent.

But now Sejanus Plinth fills the screen; he’s definitely bigger, his broad shoulders emphasized by a dark navy jacket. His hair is still curly. Coriolanus would never allow himself such indulgence; though his own hair wants to curl, practically begs to, he tames it daily with gel. “You look like an idiot with those curls,” Livia had once commented, and that was enough. Sejanus’s face is still full, almost childishly so, and when he smiles, dimples appear on his cheeks, along with fine wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Yet that smile isn’t as genuine or cheerful as it once was.

It’s really Sejanus Plinth.

“It’s a great honor and a tremendous responsibility to take on this role after Nero Falk, who was an incredible leader. I’ll do my best not to disappoint everyone, and I’ve got a few ideas of my own,” he says cryptically, with an unusual confidence.

“What would you like to change in Panem?” a woman’s voice asks, holding the microphone up to his mouth.

“Well, I have some very ambitious plans, but the first is certainly the reform of the Hunger Games, as my predecessor wished. I also believe we should pay attention to the living conditions in the districts,” Sejanus says. “We have to remember that Panem is not only the Capitol.”

“What motivated you to enter politics?”

Sejanus smiles enigmatically.

“Well, an old friend told me I could make a difference. I finally believed him,” he replies.

“Friend? This moron had friends?” Livia mocks, staring at Coriolanus. “You’re white as a sheet. What happened to you?”

Coriolanus remains silent before giving her a polite smile.

“To me? Nothing, my love,” he always enjoys calling her like that, it’s so ridiculous that it’s even funny. “I need to go to work.”

***

Sejanus Plinth and politics. What a combination. Like putting a kitten in charge of a lion’s den. After all, there’s probably nothing to worry about, Coriolanus starts to comfort himself. Sejanus has always been devoted to him, so what could really change? The Alliance for Prosperity is just a group of harmless fools who believe they can make a difference. Coriolanus got rid of the last leader because he started to overstep, but Sejanus? He’ll propose a few bills and then cry when no one votes for them.

They also used to be best friends. Brothers. Probably even something more, but Coriolanus tried to suppress these memories. Still, it wouldn’t be hard to rekindle this one. All it will take is a fake smile, some pretending talk. Why not?

But despite his thoughts, Coriolanus can’t quite shake the knot of unease in his stomach as he presents his identification at the entrance to the Parliament. After all, whether he wants to or not, Sejanus Plinth knows his dark secrets. He knows perfectly well that Coriolanus killed the Mayor’s daughter. That he cheated during the 10th Hunger Games. All other witnesses to those events are probably dead by now. Only Tigris remains, who also knows too much, but despite the disdain she feels for her cousin, would never betray him.

Yet, what is knowledge without evidence? Coriolanus reassures himself as he distributes polite, society smiles left and right. After all, Sejanus has no proof, only not actually a very honorable past. He must have greased a few palms here and there to even get into Parliament. Does he even have any proper qualifications?

Coriolanus smiles at his secretary, the freshly graduated Panem University alumna, Veronica Fontaine. All the other representatives look at her with desire, but she belongs to him alone. Professionally, of course, since Coriolanus Snow would never allow himself to engage in such behavior in the workplace. At work, he is an exemplary husband, and he wants to become an exemplary father too.

But Livia isn’t exactly a useful partner in that regard. And not that it pains him much—but he’s gotten the impression she’s clearly cheating on him. There will be time to put an end to that once he becomes President.

Coriolanus clears his throat before speaking. “Miss Fontaine, I would appreciate it if you could ensure my meeting with Mr. Plinth is scheduled for this afternoon. Let’s say three o’clock?”

“Mr. Plinth?”

“Yes, Sejanus Plinth. The new leader of the Alliance for Prosperity,” Coriolanus delivers the name smoothly, as though the syllables are not foreign in his mouth, though he has barely spoken them aloud in years.

“Of course, sir,” she replies quickly, even firmly, but Coriolanus notices how she stifles.

He moves toward the door of his office but pauses just before entering. Turning back, he tries to keep his expression pleasant, and smiles, but also slightly narrows his eyebrows to make his face look a little bit strict. He used to practice this facial expression in front of the mirror a lot of times. “Oh, and Miss Fontaine? I couldn’t help but notice that your break yesterday ran a little long—twenty minutes, if I’m not mistaken.”

Veronica blinks, clearly caught off guard. “Oh, um… I—I’m not sure, sir. I didn’t really check the time.”

“Ah.” Coriolanus tilts his head slightly, the smile still affixed but now carrying a faint edge of condescension. “Well, perhaps next time, you should. Precision, Miss Fontaine, is a virtue. Don’t you agree?”

Before she can respond, he turns on his heel and disappears into his office. How much she must hate him, venting about her insufferable boss to her friends over free evenings. He’s probably the most frequently discussed person in her life. The thought is oddly satisfying.

The door clicks shut behind him, and a short snigger escapes his mouth. It’s the small, effortless victories that make mornings enjoyable. It’s the small things he can now do to prove to himself that he is no longer that poor, pathetic boy living in a crumbling apartment and that he has control over everything.

At least he thinks so.

***

Coriolanus has never assumed that working in Parliament could be this dull. His days are filled with tons of paperwork. And although the Hunger Games concluded only two months ago, it is already time to plan the next ones. After seventeen years, his own creative ingenuity is beginning to wane, and his team of Gamemakers, well, doesn’t consist of particularly bright individuals.

While preparing his speech for the next proceedings, Coriolanus is also getting ready for the afternoon meeting, which even stirs a hint of excitement in him. After all, something different. What might Sejanus be like now? Still so foolish, reckless? How can he even afford to find a position in the parliament?

Coriolanus sets everything intentionally. He doesn’t seat him in front of his desk; instead, he chooses a table with two wooden chairs. Testing a few types of lighting, he finally decides to use a slightly dim one to create a more intimate atmosphere between them.

“Miss Fontaine, could you come here?” he calls to his secretary, fully aware of how absurd it is. He could easily stand up and go to her desk, but he doesn’t. Soon, Veronica appears in his doorway, barely managing to stop herself from rolling her eyes.

“Please, be polite and buy me a few cookies. Maybe macaroons?” he asks, handing her a crisp twenty-dollar bill.

She returns quickly, as efficient as always, and as usual, he asks her to eat one he chooses—the yellow one.

“Thank you. Please arrange them by color,” he says next, watching her hands the entire time. “And please, bring me the finest tea set from the buffet.”

Coriolanus smiles slightly to himself, observing his secretary at work. He, of course, never forgets to say “please.” After all, he is the very picture of a polite, inspiring politician.

And it’s his territory— he has control here.

Still, control has always been a fleeting thing with Sejanus, hasn’t it? That thought lingers as he adjusts the chairs, imagining every scenario that can happen during this meeting. After all, Sejanus has always been the wildcard.

He searches his computer in the Capitol’s archives for information about the facility where Sejanus was kept. There are only two mental asylums in the Capitol, and one is exclusively for women, so it doesn’t take long to figure out which one housed Sejanus. The program doesn’t sound particularly groundbreaking—electroshock therapy and reformation courses seem to be the main methods. Still, way more merciful than anything Dr. Gaul could do.

At 3 PM, the quiet knocking on his office door nearly rouses him from a light doze.

"Come in," he mumbles, quickly adjusting his tie and suit.

“Mr. Snow, Mr. Plinth came,” Veronica now looks at him almost with disgust.

What a creature, Coriolanus thinks; can't even smile properly. The ginger receptionist always gives him the most adorable smile when he takes the key.

“Let him in after five minutes. I’m busy,” Coriolanus says, and during that time, he stares at the wall.

Finally, the office door opens, and Sejanus Plinth stands in the doorway. Coriolanus looks him over from the bottom up. Good suit, as usual—probably tailored. Leather shoes. He must be taking steroids, Coriolanus quickly assesses, glancing at his shoulders. Well, that build isn't exactly in vogue in the Capitol, but then again, Sejanus is from the districts.

But when Coriolanus's eyes reach Sejanus's face, he swallows hard. His expression is so unlike the one he knows—completely neutral, cool, even distant. But that doesn't stop him.

"Sejanus!" he exclaims with an enthusiasm that sounds forced even to him, striding toward him and practically throwing his arms around him. "How many years has it been? Come here, let me get a good look at you!"

But the hug is, at best, awkward. Sejanus barely reciprocates, taking a step back and only briefly squeezing Coriolanus's hand.

"Six. It's been exactly that long since my father passed away," he responds quite officially.

“Oh right, right, I’m sorry…” Coriolanus says. “Would you like something to drink? Tea? I have jasmine, green, red… Coffee, or maybe you’d prefer something stronger? After all, it’s already three o’clock.”

Sejanus doesn’t even blink. “No, thank you.”

“Cookies? They’re delicious,” Coriolanus continues, grabbing one from a plate and popping it into his mouth, as if the act itself could diffuse a little bit the tension hanging in the air.

“Thank you, no,” Sejanus replies dryly.

“Are you sure?” Coriolanus presses.

“Yes.”

If that’s how he prefers it, Coriolanus thinks, his smile stretching too wide, nearly brittle. He motions grandly toward the table and chairs. “Well then, let’s sit down,” he says.

As they take their seats, they spend a moment simply staring at each other, and Coriolanus studies Sejanus’s face, searching for a hint of what he’s thinking, but it remains frustratingly blank.

"I was surprised when my secretary told me who wanted to see me," Sejanus begins. Coriolanus notices something in his expression—a subtle jaw clenching that resembles a nervous tic, something Sejanus doesn’t seem fully in control of. Well, the electroshocks probably weren’t without their influence.

"Why? When I heard this morning that you’re working in Parliament, I was… surprised too," Coriolanus replies smoothly, forcing a warm smile. "But also pleased. It’s good to reconnect with an old friend."

"Friend?" Sejanus echoes, arching an eyebrow. His lips curl into something that might resemble a smirk, though it’s hard to tell. "I wasn’t aware we were still friends, Coriolanus."

"Why wouldn’t we be?" Coriolanus says. "Time may have passed, but some bonds are unbreakable."

Sejanus lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Unbreakable, huh? That’s an interesting word for it. We haven’t spoken in years."

"I’ve been busy," Coriolanus says. "You know how it is. Life in the Capitol is demanding."

"Right," Sejanus says. "Organizing the Hunger Games must be terribly exhausting."

There is no doubt that Sejanus is just teasing him. He was never a fan of the Hunger Games, and he certainly isn't now.

Coriolanus’s smile only tightens at this remark. "It is demanding work, yes. But important," he replies as if nothing had happened. “We are all here to make changes. Probably you too, right?”

"I’m not here to entertain Capitol propaganda, if that’s what you’re asking," Sejanus replies, leaning back in his chair with crossed arms. Oh no, the therapy didn’t work well.

“You haven't changed at all,” Coriolanus notes, now even sincerely.

“But you have changed beyond recognition,” Sejanus says, observing him. “Or maybe not at all?”

Coriolanus shrugs and sniggers shortly. “Change is inevitable, isn’t it? The world shapes us, whether we like it or not.” He tilts his head slightly, as if studying Sejanus in return. “And yet, I like to think I’ve stayed true to who I’ve always been.”

For the moment the room is filled only with silence and their heavy breaths.

"Why did you want to see me?" Sejanus asks finally.

"Well... Do I need a reason to see old friends? Reminiscing about old times, perhaps?" Coriolanus says, not having an idea what to add more. "You know what, I'll make myself some tea. Are you sure you don't want any?"

Sejanus shakes his head.

What a bore he's turned into, Coriolanus thinks, pouring water into a small kettle. He'd installed a kitchenette in his office ages ago and had never once drunk anything he hadn't prepared himself. Too many people had wanted to poison him, and no doubt that list now included one more person. But why is Sejanus angry, Coriolanus wonders, watching his back. He again fixes his eyes on the kettle, trying to survive this festival of awkwardness.

"Old times, huh?" he hears a voice behind him as Sejanus slowly rises. His footsteps echo through the office. "Old times?" he repeats, almost right behind Coriolanus's back. "What exactly from those old times would you like to reminisce about most?"

A chill runs down Coriolanus's spine.

Still, he doesn’t turn around. “Oh, I don’t know. The simpler days, perhaps. When the times were carefree.”

“Carefree?” Sejanus is so close now that Coriolanus can feel his warm breath on his neck. “For whom, exactly, were they carefree?”

Coriolanus swallows hard, feeling like his throat tightens.

“I’ve had a lot of time to think, you know,” Sejanus murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. The sharp, intense scent of his cologne reaches Coriolanus—a stark contrast to the light, barely noticeable perfumes he used to wear. Coriolanus fixes his gaze on the kettle, forcing himself to remain calm, though the slight tremor in his hands betrays him.

“About what?” Coriolanus asks.

“Well, well. Ten years in a psychiatric hospital gives you plenty of time to think about various things,” Sejanus replies, stepping back.

“Plenty of time, indeed,” Coriolanus says quietly.

The water for the tea boils, almost like a saving grace. Coriolanus pours the scalding water into the cup, slightly overfilling it.

“You know green tea should be brewed at 80 degrees?” Sejanus remarks.

“What?”

“80 degrees. That way, you don’t destroy all its properties.”

Coriolanus offers him a polite smile as they return to the table. On the way, he pours boiling water on his hand.

“If you want to reminisce about the old times,” Sejanus says, feigning deep thought, “where should we start? Maybe with how you cheated during the 10th Hunger Games? Or how you killed the mayor’s daughter?”

Coriolanus’s entire face, already somewhat frozen from Botox, tenses even more.

“Sejanus,” now Coriolanus hears his voice high-pitched, “what are you talking about?”

He could be bugged. He could be trying to bait him. It was so long ago—who cares? Plinth doesn’t have a single proof.

A sly smile plays on Sejanus’s lips as he crosses his legs. “Oh, come on. Don’t pretend you don’t remember. Those were such… crucial moments for you, weren’t they? Just a loose thought—does everyone know about them? It could make for some very interesting news about our future president.”

Oh, blackmail. Cliché.

“Me being president… Nothing guaranteed,” Coriolanus says politely.

Sejanus leans back in chair. “Oh, come on, Coriolanus. Let’s not insult each other’s intelligence. If there’s one thing guaranteed in Panem, it’s that you always get what you want.”

“And what do you want, Sejanus?” Coriolanus asks directly, though he can feel cold sweat trickling down his back.

“The truth.”

Coriolanus looks aside, pretending he didn’t hear this one. “What are you even doing here? Didn’t you want to be a medic?”

Sejanus shrugs. "Things change, and, well, after wasting ten years in an asylum, believe me, there are plenty of reasons why I can’t be a doctor anymore. You must be very scared to hear that I’m working here, aren’t you?"

“No, I’m not,” Coriolanus says firmly.

“But you should be.”

For a moment, Coriolanus observes him, tense, trying to process this unsettling comment.

Then Sejanus bursts into laughter, loud and shameless. He even pats his knee like he just said the funniest thing ever.

“I was only joking, Coriolanus,” he says. “We are old friends. Why would I betray my friend?” he asks provocatively and suddenly becomes deadly serious.

He just lost his mind, Coriolanus thinks, but he forces a smile again.

“Very funny,” he says, attempting a laugh that comes out stiff and unnatural. “You always had a great sense of humour.”

Sejanus hums. “But you know, actually… Maybe we can remind ourselves of old times. It’s a great idea. But here, we should remain professional, I believe. How about dinner at my house?”

“At your house?” Coriolanus asks weakly.

“Yes, I have a wonderful estate near the Capitol’s forest. You will love it.”

Coriolanus swallows hard. “What a nice proposition. Maybe I can introduce you to my wife?”

Livia might despise Sejanus, but at least she’d keep him from being alone with that lunatic.

“Livia? I already know her very well. I’d prefer it to be a men’s meeting,” Sejanus says slowly.

“I haven’t seen your Ma for so long. Maybe she could…”

“Just you and me, Coriolanus,” Sejanus interrupts sharply. “The perfect occasion to reminisce about old times.”

Sejanus practically drills into him with those large, brown, nearly black eyes. Coriolanus notices again his involuntary movements—something like a muscle spasm. He looks like a true madman. Coriolanus cannot risk being alone with him.

“You know what, I would love to, but I’ve been quite busy lately,” Coriolanus says.

“Oh, Coryo,” Sejanus says cheerfully, and Coriolanus shivers internally upon hearing that old nickname. “I don’t think you have much of a choice in this matter. Tomorrow, eight? My driver will come pick you up. You still live in the same penthouse, don’t you?”

“How… how do you know?”

“I know everything,” Sejanus says, and for a moment Coriolanus feels as if he might drop dead from a heart attack right then and there. “Relax, Coryo. My Ma told me. So, eight o’clock?” he repeats.

“Eight is perfect,” Coriolanus replies quietly.

If Sejanus is so eager to play games, Coriolanus would oblige. But his version of the game would end with something very permanent.

Chapter Text

The Present

Sejanus Plinth starts every morning in a very similar way. After all, routine is something that can protect against madness; small habits are capable of grounding you in reality — at least that's what the only reasonable therapist in the mental asylum told him.

So when the sun rises, Sejanus jumps out of bed. He runs every morning in the Capitol’s forest near his estate, usually three miles, but on weekends, he goes for six. He is always accompanied by his big Dogo Argentino, whom Sejanus named Churro. After that, the dog receives a big breakfast, but Sejanus doesn’t allow himself to eat it yet. It’s time for boxing. Sejanus punches the bag until his hands ache. And then, weights—bench press, deadlift, squats. A little bit of boxing again.

"You can put anger to good use," the therapist had said. "It can disappear."

It doesn’t.

No matter how many miles he ran, how many punches he threw, or how much weight he lifted, it never did. If anything, it burned hotter, fiercer, consuming him from the inside piece by piece.

Because how can you not be angry when everyone you’ve ever trusted has betrayed you?

The next is a quick, hot shower, washing away the remnants of sweat from his body. After his time in the psychiatric hospital, Sejanus shivers at the thought of cold water. He doesn't even mind looking at himself in the mirror unless he doesn’t look at his back covered with silvery-white scars.

Then it’s time for breakfast—usually six eggs, bacon, bread baked by Ma, with a lot of butter, and a protein shake. He doesn’t want to allow himself to be weak ever again.

Sejanus calls his Ma every day, except Sundays when he spends the whole day with her. Twice a week, Florius, the gardener, comes to tend the grounds — and occasionally, Sejanus takes him in one of his rooms. It almost feels wrong because he’s his employee, but after all, Sejanus isn’t paying him for that. From time to time, other men pass through his house. Each of them resembles Coriolanus Snow in one way or another, and Sejanus despises himself for it. Nevertheless, now that he’s begun to engage in politics, it’s time to put an end to it.

Watching television always makes him even more angry.

Since he was a teenager, he couldn’t believe how people bought into it. Those calculated poses, those shallow conversations. Even his Ma, his poor, innocent Ma, would watch some mind-numbing TV shows with a sparkle in her eyes—some idiotic telenovelas, one right after another. It didn’t bother her that the same TV channel broadcasted the Hunger Games too.

Now, it was far worse than anything he had seen as a teenager.

They all acted as if it wasn’t real. As if every year, they weren’t murdering children from the districts. As if the people in the districts weren’t dying like flies, starving, while they feasted on caviar and sipped champagne. They appear on TV screens in their fancy outfits, with fake smiles on their faces, talking about shallow things as if the people from the districts don’t have to struggle to survive every day. Sejanus used to trying to understand it, but he failed at that. Now he doesn’t look for excuses for people anymore.

Sejanus’s hands are clenched into fists every time he sees one face on the screen—the face that used to make him feel true joy.

In the beginning, when Sejanus heard that Coriolanus Snow was working for Dr. Gaul, he couldn’t believe it. Sejanus refused to acknowledge that his friend was doing it. Coriolanus, who had despised the Hunger Games, who had always been nothing but kind to Sejanus, who had smuggled food for Lucy Gray, who cheated during the Hunger Games to rescue her, who had once told him he was like family, was now working for this madwoman? Sejanus couldn’t believe his own ears when he heard him speaking on the television about the Hunger Games, about arenas.

Were these the same lips speaking—the ones that had kissed him so passionately the day before Sejanus was caught?

They must have made him do it, Sejanus used to think. If they tortured Sejanus like that, surely they would have done the same to Coryo. They must have forced him. They must have given him some kind of medication to dull his mind. They must have blackmailed him.

But after some time, Sejanus Plinth lost his illusion that people are good—and, most importantly, that Coriolanus Snow is good.

It was probably during one of his televised exposés when Coriolanus declared that the most crucial thing was to maintain control over the districts. Someone dared to ask him an uncomfortable question: had he ever been to a district? He replied that he had, which only confirmed to him that its citizens were inferior, both socially and intellectually.

Then, suddenly, everything clicked into place.

There was something elusive in his expression, maybe the smirk, the way he curled his lips, and Sejanus began to recall that Coriolanus had always spoken to him like that. And well, when he had proof of who betrayed him, Sejanus started hating his former friend in the same way he used to love him.

After leaving the psychiatric hospital, Sejanus Plinth had one mission: to stop Coriolanus Snow.

Even if it meant sacrificing his own life.

***

The Past

The whip had appeared in his dreams ever since, constant and unyielding.

“I will ask once again,” the voice of Peacekeeper, Brennan Cole, was persistent. Sejanus used to see this man in the canteen, sitting a few tables from him, and he heard he was exceptionally cruel during the interrogations, “do you know how the mayor’s daughter died?”

At first, Peacekeepers weren’t brutal. “Let’s talk, kid,” they told him. But Sejanus didn’t want to talk. Still, they didn’t use the whip immediately. At first, it was a punch to the face, more surprising than painful.

But as the hours dragged on, their patience wore thin. One warning came, then another. And finally, it happened. "If you won’t talk willingly, we have other ways to make you speak."

Sejanus hissed as the whip cracked against his back once more. Shirtless and chained to the wall, he had no way to shield himself, no way to stop the next merciless strike. Physical pain was a stranger to him for most of his life. The worst he’d known before this was the time he slammed his finger in a door—and even then, Marcus had been there to help him.

Now, there was no one left to help him. Ma was far away, and, well, his father's influence didn’t reach this far.

The thing about pain, Sejanus had learned, is that after a while, it all blends into a dull, numbing throb—if it comes from one place. But the whip was different. Every strike felt sharp and fresh, like his skin was being torn open all over again. He would have done anything to make it stop—anything except the one thing they wanted. Sejanus would sooner bite through his own tongue than give them this information.

“Please, stop it! I told you, I know nothing,” he repeated over and over. His cries were loud—too loud—pathetic in their desperation. His chest heaved with each breath, raw from the strain of crying, but at that moment, he didn’t have the strength to care about dignity. All that mattered was to stop the pain.

“Nothing, huh?” Brennan asked, landing the whip again on his back. “Very likely story. You’re conspiring with the rebels, trying to help them escape, and suddenly the people involved in this die. But you know nothing?” He mocked, raising the whip lazily and this time dragging it with a loud hiss right across the middle of Sejanus’s back. Sejanus didn’t need to see it to know it had broken skin. The sting burned deeper, hotter.

“I’m telling you the truth!” Sejanus cried out. At that moment, he would have said anything to make it stop, but there was one thing he couldn’t bring himself to do—betray Coriolanus. Even as the pain throbbed through him, a fleeting thought crossed his mind: to just say it, to take the blame himself. After all, they were going to kill him anyway. What did it matter? At least if they had the killer, Coriolanus wouldn’t be touched, wouldn’t be dragged into this mess again. And he was having nothing but troubles because of Sejanus.

The door opened, both a salvation and a curse, when Commander Hoff stepped through it.

“I want to talk to Private Plinth,” he scoffed at Brennan. “Alone,” he added when the second man didn’t move.

Cole looked disappointed, putting down the whip, but obediently stepped out. Hoff placed a chair in the middle of the room, right in front of Sejanus, who could barely see him through his own tears.

“Listen up, Private Plinth,” Hoff started as he pulled a cigarette from his case. “I’ve never seen such betrayal in all my years. You’re a damn disappointment.” He lit the cigarette, the flame flickering in the dim room. “Sneaking around with rebels right under my nose? That's audacity.”

Sejanus stayed silent, biting down on his trembling lip as he tried to suppress his sobs.

“It’s a shame, too. You were a damn good shot,” Hoff noted with some kind of nostalgia.

You were. He was a good shot, a disappointing son, even worse friend. During his short life Sejanus didn’t achieve a lot, he thought back then. He didn’t help any people. He didn’t make a change.

"But today’s your lucky day. Or maybe your unlucky day. Your father... You're not some extraordinary boy, are you? Tomorrow, they'll be taking you out of here," Hoff muttered, not bothering to remove the cigarette from his mouth. "But if you know anything about what's going on... it’d be in your best interest to spill it now."

“Nothing… Sir, I know nothing,” Sejanus sobbed. "I swear, I don’t know anything. I just... I just wanted to help her. She didn’t deserve to die, she didn’t do anything wrong..."

Hoff let out a humorless laugh.

“Boy... I advise you to drop that attitude. There are things you have no control over. I’m giving you good advice, learn to follow orders,” he said quietly, his gaze was empty.

Sejanus was still shaking from the pain, he squeezed his eyes shut.

“I’m not your boy,” Sejanus said finally.

“What?” Hoff seemed momentarily thrown off balance.

“I told you, sir,” Sejanus repeated, his gaze hardening as he lifted his head just enough to meet Hoff’s eyes. “I’m not your boy. And I’m definitely not Capitol’s boy.”

For a moment, the room was deadly silent.

Peacekeepers didn’t use the whip that day. But they left Sejanus chained to the wall, bloodied, with aching arms, and what was the worst — with his thoughts. How could they find out, he wondered, feeling the persistent, dull pain in his shoulders and back. How could they possibly know? He asked himself that question for hours, replaying every word, every action in his head. He was discretive, he was careful.

Billy Taupe was dead. Spruce was very likely dead too. And why would they have betrayed him? It didn’t make any sense.

Coriolanus. Coriolanus knew. Sejanus quickly suppressed this name from his thoughts—why would Coriolanus do something like that? It didn’t make sense.

Over time, Sejanus Plinth discovered there were very few things Coriolanus Snow wouldn’t do.

Where would they take him now, Sejanus thought. Somewhere far away, perhaps. And buried deep beneath all his questions, there was the thought that they might take him far from here, away from Coriolanus Snow. The same Coriolanus who had kissed his lips the day before, the same Coriolanus who had hugged him and said everything would be alright.

Sejanus stared at the door, lost in a haze of longing, imagining Coriolanus coming to save him, bursting into the room and telling him they’d escape together. In a half-dream, he almost saw his figure.

But he never came.

Sejanus believed he had experienced the worst thing in his life.

Still, far worse was yet to come.

***

“So we have a rebel here, huh?” Thallus Veyne asked above the papers as Sejanus stepped into the small, claustrophobic room. He introduced himself as a ward of Dr. Gaul, and as Sejanus Plinth soon found out, he was just as twisted as her. Bald, very tall, with a goatee and contempt in his eyes.

Sejanus didn’t get the chance to properly take in his surroundings. A cold shower, a shave to remove the hair that had grown back, and the humiliating personal search—he knew it all too well.

“If rebellion means I’m not okay with killing innocent people then yes, I’m the rebel,” he replied indifferently.

"We’ll see how long that attitude of yours lasts in these conditions," Thallus replied coldly.

The program was dull. The same routine every day: television blaring Capitol propaganda. Paper plates and plastic cutlery in the cafeteria, so there wasn't even the solace of ending it all with a knife to the artery. Bars on the windows. A cocktail of medications. No real therapy.

They concluded that Sejanus had delusions. Hysteria. Dissociative identity disorder. Suicidal thoughts. So, it wasn't his fault for what he had done. He just needed treatment.

The cocktail of medications they were giving him turned him into a zombie. Soon, he started hiding them under the mattress, and later, flushing them down the toilet. He left himself only sleep medication.

It wasn’t an ordinary mental asylum; it was definitely designed for the wealthier residents of the Capitol. Sejanus kept to himself, as usual, but he didn’t see anyone he could talk to. Only during lunch he used to speak with Dorian and Elliot, two brothers, who seemed to be decent. They even used to study at the Academy, but they were way older than Sejanus. Still, some of the patients were truly insane, drooling and walking from wall to wall without any contact with reality. Some—most likely children of Capitol's wealthy families—had to end up here as part of a compromise, instead of receiving a proper sentence, and passing by them, Sejanus felt a shiver run down his spine. Once, a group of them stopped him outside the bathroom, demanding that he pay for entry, so Sejanus simply did. Not that he wasn’t used to being bullied.

Sejanus didn’t agree to meet with his father for weeks. He tried to spend all his time sleeping, as if the option was to sleep through the time he had to be there. Finally, he reminded himself that it wasn’t about his father. It was about Ma. She threw herself around his neck, sobbing, and over her shoulder, Sejanus exchanged a nervous glance with his father. “Are they feeding you here? How are they treating you?” she kept asking, while Strabo sat stiffly, occasionally taking a sip of water from his glass, swallowing too loudly. He uncomfortably looked around at the other patients in the room. Sejanus had heard that weeks ago, one of the patients had attacked his own father with a fork here, fortunately, a plastic one. Still, since then, they had been searching everyone before they went into the visitation room.

“I want to speak with him alone for a while,” his father said, and it was only then that Sejanus noticed his mother struggling to hold back tears in front of him.

Once they stayed alone, the silence was at least awkward.

“Sejanus,” Strabo seemed ashamed, “I had no choice… Otherwise, they would’ve executed you,” he said, grabbing his hand.

Sejanus pulled it away.

“So you made the wrong choice, Father,” he replied coldly.

"Choice, Sejanus?’ his tone shifted. “What choice are you giving me? Going to the arena? Sneaking out with rebels? You're trying to kill yourself. Good at least that he… He called. I don’t know what would have happened otherwise."

“Who called?” Sejanus asked slowly, but he didn’t get any reply.

But after his father disappeared, the answer seemed obvious.

So Coriolanus wasn’t bad. He rescued him once again, even if not in person. It brought him relief, even if only short-lived.

***

At first, it was only boring.

Over time it started being very painful.

“Patient number 341,” Dr. Thallus Veyne announced. “Very, very resistant material,” he commented under his breath.

Sejanus squeezed his eyes shut. He was shackled to the bed with overly tight straps by two stocky nurses. Completely helpless. But it couldn’t be worse than whipping, could it?

Sejanus knew exactly what was coming; they had already warned him about using electroshocks. Somehow, he even felt like it might be his fault. He could keep his mouth shut when they showed him that film in the room they mockingly called the ‘playroom.’ Every day, for hours, they had to watch movies about the Capitol’s values, which were nothing more than primitive propaganda. Sejanus felt that the words of the Panem anthem had etched themselves so deeply into his brain that he could recite it at any time of day or night. But when they started talking about how the citizens of the districts had less developed brains and how the Hunger Games were for their own good, he couldn’t stay silent. Soon, the anger arose, and all he did was throw chairs, and yell how everybody could watch it with so much calmness.

“Open your mouth,” Dr. Veyne said to him almost amicably. “You don’t want to lose your tongue—though we wouldn’t rule out such a solution in the future if you keep this attitude, young man,” he added.

Sejanus complied reluctantly, and Dr. Veyne leaned over him, forcing a thick leather bite block between his teeth. The acrid taste of sweat and chemicals hit Sejanus immediately, but he obediently clenched his jaw around it. Fear coursed through his entire body, and he was even glad that they put something in his mouth, so he wouldn’t beg them to stop.

Next, Dr. Veyne positioned the electrodes carefully on Sejanus’s temples, the cold, sticky pads biting against his skin. There was no coming back from this point, Sejanus acknowledged it. They really were doing it to him, right now.

“Let’s start with 100 volts,” Dr. Veyne announced, his tone almost cheerful. “We’ll increase gradually until we see signs of compliance. Sometimes it takes as much as 400, but let’s hope we don’t have to go that far.”

Sejanus’s stomach churned. How could they even notice signs of compliance if he couldn’t speak? His breathing grew rapid, and his throat tightened as he tried not to panic before anything even started. He had heard of the procedure in whispers—a punishment masked as therapy. His father explained to him it was simply “reformation,” but now, strapped to this bed, it felt like a death sentence.

At first, the sensation wasn’t intense, but his heart raced like it might stop. It wasn’t exactly pleasant, like tiny needles piercing through his body, but soon that feeling grew more intense. His teeth ground into the bite block, muffling the scream that erupted from deep within him. Sejanus had the urge to call one person—his Ma. His head slammed back against the padded table, and the tears pricked at his eyes.

“Not enough,” Dr. Veyne muttered, adjusting the dial. “150 volts.”

The next shock tore through him, more intense than the first, as though his nerves were being set ablaze from the inside out. His jaw clenched tighter around the bite block, so much so that it felt like he might bite clean through it. His muffled cries were barely audible over the hum of the machine. It felt as if his muscles were trying to tear themselves free from his skin, convulsing violently against the straps that held him immobile.

He looked at Veyne, angrily and bitterly, as if he wanted to kill him with his own gaze.

“Still no response worth noting,” Veyne said. “200 volts.”

Sejanus wanted to shout, to beg for it to stop, but he was helpless. The third shock sent him into another spasm, his vision flashing white as his thoughts disintegrated into static. For a fleeting moment, he couldn’t remember where he was—or even who he was.

“Interesting,” Veyne mused, leaning closer to observe Sejanus’s reaction. Sejanus never wanted more to spit right into someone’s face. “It’s almost like you’re trying to hold onto your defiance. Admirable, but ultimately futile. We’ll push to 250.”

The bite block pressed harder into Sejanus’s teeth as his jaw spasmed involuntarily. Soon, he felt it coming, the way his body moved without his will. His vision went black, and he drifted away.

With each next session, Sejanus remembered less and less. Fragments of his life slipped through his fingers like grains of sand—faces, names, and places.

But Sejanus never forgot a few things. His Ma’s voice and her warm eyes—the only source of comfort that managed to cheer him up through the darkness during his worst moments. She kept coming, almost every day during visiting hours, and sometimes she just held his hand, saying nothing, bringing food that he didn’t even want to eat and wiping his tears. When the next session was about to begin, Sejanus tried to imagine something else, a moment when he was still free. The crisp, mountain air of District 2, fresh and invigorating, a reminder of his childhood, the only moment when he was truly happy.

And above all, he never forgot Coriolanus Snow, his piercing, opal eyes, and also—the taste of his lips.

Sejanus even received a letter one day. From District 12. Of course, he knew his correspondence was being monitored, but he couldn't suppress a flicker of excitement. It had to be Coriolanus writing to him. Even though the handwriting on the envelope looked nothing like Coryo’s, Sejanus couldn’t stop the smile that crept onto his face.

That joy vanished the moment he opened the letter.

It wasn’t from Coriolanus. It was from Smiley. Somehow, Smiley had found out where Sejanus was being held.

"Sorry, man," the letter began. "Coriolanus went back to the Capitol. They replaced our Commander, and the new guy banned music in District 12. That singer girl you were both so hung up on? She’s gone. Word is the mayor took care of her."

Sejanus stared at the paper in his hands, his fingers trembling slightly. The boy he had known for what—three weeks?—had written to him. And Coriolanus hadn’t. Not a single word. Not a single letter.

“Don’t worry, Sejanus, everything will be alright.”

He could still hear Coriolanus’s soothing voice. He could still feel those slender fingers brushing through his hair, the cool breath grazing his cheek just before Coryo kissed him.

Sejanus had played that scene in his mind over and over, like a melody stuck on repeat. But now, something has changed. That once-comforting phrase—“everything will be alright”—had started to sound different.

It slipped through his mind, slowly and sharply.

It sounded like the hiss of a snake.

***

Sejanus Plinth was twenty-one years old when they assigned him a roommate.

At first, he thought they wouldn't get along. Ophelio Devereux—a delicate boy who often looked like he'd just been crying. Pale skin, a small face, gray eyes, and blond hair. When he stood with his back to Sejanus, he could even mistake him for a girl. For several days, Sejanus didn’t speak to him, but he often heard him crying at night and noticed the bandages on his arms. It was pretty obvious why Ophelio had ended up here.

Sejanus was almost curious. It wasn’t like he’d known a lot of people who wanted to kill themselves—besides himself. There was only one. His grandfather, his father’s father, had shot himself in the head. No one in the family ever talked about it too much. They had their story, of course. They claimed he’d been drinking too much, that "bad spirits" had gotten to him, and filled his head with dark thoughts. But Sejanus knew that was just the kind of lie people kept repeating to themselves. It wasn’t the alcohol. It wasn’t "bad spirits."

It was something much worse.

But in the Plinth household, you didn’t ask questions like that. You didn’t pry. He could only imagine how his father spun excuses to cover up the fact that his son was a madman.

Sejanus noticed that Ophelio would roll his eyes when he listened to Capitol’s propaganda. Once, he mimicked Dr. Vayne’s walk, and Sejanus even laughed. They exchanged awkward glances.

“Want a smoke?” Ophelio asked him unexpectedly one day when Sejanus was simply lying down on the bed, and trying to read a book.

“I don’t smoke,” Sejanus replied.

“Then try it. They let you go outside more often if you do.”

They stood in the courtyard, and Sejanus started coughing as he tried to inhale the smoke. The other boy even laughed briefly, observing him, but Sejanus didn’t feel offended; he smiled a little bit himself.

“I heard what you did in the playroom,” Ophelio said.

“Yeah…” Sejanus replied quietly.

"And good job, fucking good job," Ophelio said with a grin.

Sejanus wasn’t sure if Ophelio mocked him or not, but he smiled even wider.

And since then, they have been going everywhere together. Sejanus even found himself smiling more often for the first time in a long while when he listened to Ophelio. He could turn even ordinary things into theater.

"Welcome, citizens of Panem, to the most exquisite culinary showcase of the season," he would say during lunchtime in his perfect Capitol accent, lifting a gray, flavorless bread roll as if it were something truly special.

Sejanus shook his head. "What are you doing?"

"Today, our esteemed guest, Chef Sejanus, will be judging this bold reinvention of 'boiled cabbage and madness.' Tell me, Chef, how would you rate it on flavor and presentation? Good thing they gave us plastic cutlery, because this dish is draining what little will to live I have left."

Sejanus gave him a funny look. "Everyone's staring at us."

"They are looking at us because you're beautiful," Ophelio said seriously.

Sejanus only blushed, hearing that, it was the first person that ever told him something like that besides his Ma. He didn’t have the audacity to ask about it for days, but he wanted to know more about him. This question escaped his mouth one day.

"Why did you want to do it?"

Sejanus regretted asking this almost immediately when he noticed a grimace on Ophelio’s face.

"You know, I’m just bad at long-term commitments. And life is very long," Ophelio replied, exhaling smoke from his mouth.

"I’m being serious," Sejanus said, his gaze fixed on his shoes. "You know… I wanted to do it too. Not so long ago."

"And then what happened?" Ophelio asked.

And what happened that Sejanus had changed his mind? Was it when they sent him to train as a Peacekeeper, and he could be… there with him? Was Sejanus really that stupid, that desperate? Coriolanus hadn’t written a single word to him. Not one. He never visited him here. And Ma confirmed that Coriolanus came back to the Capitol. He’d gotten a new job working for Dr. Gaul.

Why was Coriolanus even coming to Sejanus’s family? Why was he allowed to come back? Sejanus didn’t like this one answer in his head that he had for all his questions.

“Your father is grateful to him,” Ma had said.

Sejanus squeezed the cigarette tightly in his hand, his thoughts spiraling. It was obvious, wasn’t it? It had to be him. It had to be Coriolanus who betrayed him. And now, he was reaping the rewards for it.

"I don’t know," he finally replied.

Ophelio only hummed thoughtfully. "I just… My parents want me to marry someone. Really badly. And I didn’t want to.”

"But you don’t have to. It’s not like we’re living in the era of arranged marriages anymore," Sejanus remarked.

"You’d be surprised what’s still popular in the Capitol," Ophelio shot back. "I bet your father had some girl lined up for you too."

"Probably," Sejanus admitted, though in his case it wasn’t the issue. Who would want to marry him? "Is she that bad?" he asked after a pause.

"No, she’s not bad," Ophelio said, glancing up and locking eyes with Sejanus. "I’m just not into women. I’m gay. And, well... my parents aren’t exactly thrilled about it."

He said it plainly, no hesitation, no shame. His gaze didn’t waver.

Sejanus smiled awkwardly. He knew this one about himself, probably for quite a long time.

“It isn’t forbidden in the Capitol?” he asked.

“No. But again, I’m from an old Capitol’s family. Do you think they are happy with his only son being faggot?” he asked, putting out the cigarette. “And what about you? Why are you here?”

“Uhm… I was reckless,” Sejanus replied.

“Really? I told you this about myself, and you will be so mysterious?” Ophelio asked teasingly.

He told him partially the truth. Not about going to the arena, but being a mentor, going to District 12, and about rebellion. And Coriolanus Snow.

“You really like this guy,” Ophelio noted as he took a slow drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around him like a shield. “And you know what? I like you, Sejanus. And I’m not going to hide it.”

It was bold — almost cheeky — and it caught Sejanus off guard.

He looked at him, surprised. Liked him? Nobody ever told him so, maybe again besides his Ma. He swallowed hard, feeling his mouth go dry.

“I... I don’t know what to say,” Sejanus muttered. He felt foolish, like a child fumbling for words. He’s never been good at this—never been good at knowing what he wants—but here he was, unsure about anything, but so desperately to taste the other’s boy lips. “I don’t know what I feel. About anything.”

Ophelio shrugged “That’s alright. Take your time, Janey.”

It turned out Sejanus didn’t need much time after all. That evening, they kissed — a long, slow, unhurried kiss. Sejanus wouldn’t even be able to recall later how exactly it happened; it just did. Ophelio was only the second man he had ever kissed, after Coriolanus. It wasn’t as sweet, and it didn’t fill him with butterflies, but it was nice. Gentle. Unforced.

"You caught my eye from the moment I saw you," Ophelio told him.

Life started to taste good. It wasn’t perfect, but there was some reason to wake up in the morning and Sejanus no longer felt alone.

"You’re smiling," even his Ma noticed.

That year, Sejanus deliberately failed the tests they gave him on Capitol traditions. He no longer wanted to leave. He was finally liked, desired, maybe even loved, because Ophelio whispered it to him one night. Sejanus stopped fighting so much, trying to ignore what he heard on television. He and Ophelio would just look at each other and laugh hearing this absurd propaganda.

In the evenings, they used to push their beds together, or sometimes Ophelio climbed into his, practically lying on top of him, whispering “My Janey, my sweet Janey”. He felt a thrill of excitement when Ophelio stole kisses from him in the hallway, hidden behind a thick pillar. The fact that the things they were doing weren’t allowed made everything even more exciting. When Ophelio made him pretend they were in a real cinema when they were sitting in the playroom and were allowed to watch something else than Capitol’s propaganda. They played every available game, and ate his Ma's treats together until they were too full to move. Sejanus felt like he had a friend. Real friend. And a boyfriend.

One evening, Sejanus had sex for the first time in his life, taking Ophelio from behind as Ophelio muffled his moans into the pillow. It wasn’t exactly the kind of life-changing, unforgettable first time you’d read about in books, but it was real. And each time after that, it got better, though they always had to be quiet.

But Ophelio was sometimes strange. Mean without reason, crying his eyes out, talking how he didn’t want to live. During those moments, Sejanus would simply hold him close, wrapping his arms around him in silence.

“Let’s run away,” Ophelio said one day. At first, Sejanus thought he was joking, but when he laughed, Ophelio didn’t reciprocate it.

“It’s… How? They will catch us,” he replied. After years, Sejanus could notice his own plan was simply stupid. He wouldn’t repeat this mistake a second time. He even thought that the rebel in him was dead. Maybe they broke his spirit. Maybe they managed to do so, because all he wanted was to lie down and stare into the grey eyes of Ophelio.

“My parents want to take me from here... From you,” he said, and Sejanus felt like his heart stopped. “Look, I have a friend, he will help us to escape.”

“How?”

“There’s a gap in the fence,” Ophelio said. “The car’s scheduled to show up at a specific time. I’ll send him a coded message—he’ll know what it means. I’ve got some cash saved up, and you can ask your old man for a bit too. He won’t think twice about it if you play it right.” Ophelio’s eyes darted around the room before locking on Sejanus. “We’re not prisoners here, Sejanus. Our parents just want to keep us trapped like we are.”

Maybe you aren’t, but I am, Sejanus thought, but he simply nodded. The plan was absurd, reckless even, but the idea of being left alone here — again — was far more terrifying.

"You really think it will work?” he asked, gently running his fingers through Ophelio’s hair.

"Yes, we can go anywhere. Hide out in the forest, live off the land. You said you’re a good shot, right? Or maybe we could find that district you talked about."

"It’s... I don’t know," Sejanus replied.

"Would you rather spend your whole life here?" Ophelio shot back.

So they planned it for months. Sejanus even asked his father for money. "You know, they sometimes trade different things here," he said, and Strabo was probably just happy that Sejanus was speaking to him at all, so he didn’t make a fuss about it.

"Imagine, we will run away from here," Ophelio said, tracing lazy circles on Sejanus’s chest with his fingers. "And be free. Happy. No one will stop us."

"I wouldn’t be so optimistic," Sejanus replied bitterly.

"You’re so pessimistic, Janey. Smile from time to time," Ophelio teased.

This time, the plan seemed more logical than the one from District 12 — all they had to do was go out for a cigarette. At 9 p.m., there was a guard shift change that lasted fifteen minutes. There was a large hole in the fence, and they were supposed to get into the car.

Sejanus clung to a fragile thread of hope. That weekend, he went for dinner with his parents during his pass. Maybe it would be the last time he saw them, so he even embraced his father with tenderness.

But when he returned to the facility, the room he shared with Ophelio was empty.

There was only one note.

I’m sorry, I can’t.

He crumpled the paper and threw it in the trash. Later, he spent hours sobbing into his pillow. He tried to find out where Ophelio had gone, but all he got from a nurse was a simple answer — his parents had taken him away. For weeks after that, Sejanus started taking the medication again, just to feel nothing at all.

The Hunger Games started in the meantime. They made them watch it, in a darkened room. And they introduced him.

Gamemaker, Coriolanus Snow…

The youngest Gamemaker.

“It’s an honor”.

He said it was a fucking honor.

That was the moment Sejanus lost control of himself. This time, he didn’t hold back — he hurled the chair straight into the screen, shattering it into hundreds of tiny shards. But oh, the satisfaction it gave him, watching Coriolanus's face splinter into pieces.

The reward for that was electroshock therapy and a stay in solitary confinement. This time, they were so intense that, even after the shocks stopped, his muscles continued to spasm. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving him alone, crying. Sejanus didn't know how long he'd be kept like this with his thoughts.

And he hated his thoughts more than the shocks.

The next time he saw his father, begging was no longer beneath him.

"Pa, take me from here, please, take me, please, take me from here, I won’t do anything stupid," he said.

Strabo looked at Sejanus, his eyes filled with a kind of sorrow that Sejanus had never seen before in him.

"Sejanus, I can't," he said.

“We’re not fucking prisoners here. Our parents want to keep us here."

"You can't or you don't want to?" Sejanus asked, much more aggressively.

"Sejanus, don't be ridiculous,” his father replied, but avoided to meet Sejanus's eyes. "I'm doing the best I can. This isn't something I can just fix. This system... it’s too big. But I swear, I’ll get you out of here. I’ll make sure of it."

When years later Sejanus left the hospital, he tried to find some information about Ophelio.

It turned out that he married this woman.

And he had taken his own life a few years after that.

***

Sejanus had learned to survive there, though it wasn’t easy. Sometimes he still spoke too loudly, too boldly, and earned himself another session with Dr. Veyne. However, a new therapist was conducting a real therapeutic session. Dr. Moira Yates, a brunette with a kind face, reminded him of Ma’s sister, aunt Sophie, the only one who was still contacting them through letter.

“You have a lot of emotions inside you,” she told him, “but we’ve agreed to handle them in a healthy way.”

Breathing exercises, a lot of sports. Sejanus noticed that he had lost a lot of weight and felt drained, his body weak. So, he decided to eat more, exercise harder, and meditate. With each passing day, he grew stronger, bigger. He noticed the boys who used to demand money from him for using the toilet now avoided even making eye contact.

Coriolanus Snow started appearing on television more and more.

Sejanus was doing push-ups with one hand.

On the television they announced that Volumnia Gaul passed away. Tragic accident in the laboratory.

But Sejanus failed his tests once again.

“Who even keeps me here if she’s already dead?” Sejanus asked Strabo.

“Next year, you’ll definitely get out,” Strabo replied.

There was even another man who caught Sejanus’s attention. Sebastian. Tall, muscular, handsome. They were exercising together and having shower sex. He liked it very spicy. But that was all. Sejanus didn’t want to allow himself to feel emotions. He started reading a lot about stoicism. It was something he wanted to achieve. The calmness of mind and body.

But no matter how much he tried he couldn’t watch the Hunger Games with calmness.

“Your father doesn’t feel very well,” Ma told him one day.

Hearing that, Sejanus felt nothing. He noticed Strabo was more tired, maybe even thinner, but why would he care about his father? About the father who was visiting him out of obligation, about the father who betrayed him like every other person in his life?

Sejanus left the hospital a few weeks later. Suddenly, it appeared to be easy. His father had cancer with metastases to the bones and liver, the diagnosis said. Even with Strabo’s money and the best Capitol technology, they told him he had no more than one year left.

Firstly, Sejanus didn’t go to his father’s room and kept avoiding his parents. He was relieved that he could finally leave the house, go for a walk without supervision, breathe the air, even if it was only the air of the Capitol. The best years of his life had been spent in the psychiatric hospital.

Still, Strabo did something he wasn't used to. He didn’t call an Avox to bring Sejanus to his cabinet, nor did he wait in the hallway to catch him by chance. This time, his father came to him first.

For a moment, he lingered at the door, one hand resting on the frame. His face was thinner now, the hollows under his eyes darker than Sejanus remembered. Illness clung to him like a second skin. He looked at Sejanus with something unexpected. With guilt.

"I'm sorry, son," he said. "I’m really sorry."

Sejanus didn’t bother to even look at him. He sat on the edge of his bed, fingers fiddling into his bedsheets.

“I don’t have to hear this,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the floor.

“Sejanus, at first, they demanded it from me to avoid your execution,” Strabo said, stepping further into the room.

There was a pause—long enough for Sejanus to hear his own nervous breathing and quickened heartbeats.

"At first?" Sejanus repeated slowly, his gaze lifting from the thread to his father’s face. His eyes narrowed. “And later?”

Strabo parted his lips, then closed again.

“You have to understand me, Sejanus,” he said.

"No," Sejanus’s voice came hard and sharp. "I don't have to."

He rose from the bed now, his full height making him tower over his father by a head. No longer a boy—he was a man now, and he stood like one. “So you could have pulled me out of there the whole time, right?” His voice cracked, and he could feel the sting of tears welling in his eyes. “You could have pulled me out the whole time, and you chose to keep me there.”

His father stood like that, and for the first time in his life, Sejanus saw him as small, almost ashamed. His shoulders, already so frail, seemed to fold in on themselves. "It was... It was for your own good, Sejanus." He reached for his son’s hand. "You were safe there. Far from that woman. You couldn't hurt yourself. I thought... I thought it was the best choice. But more and more, I think it was a mistake."

Sejanus didn’t move. He didn’t pull his hand away, but he didn’t offer it either. His father's hand hovered in the empty space between them.

“You thought,” Sejanus echoed with a mocking laugh. “That’s always been your problem, hasn’t it, Pa? You always think. You think and think until you convince yourself that your cowardice is wisdom.”

Strabo flinched like he'd been struck. He stared at his son, almost with tears in his eyes. “It wasn’t like that,” he said.

“Yes, it was,” Sejanus replied. “You let me rot because it was easier.”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he whispered. “You were so angry, Sejanus. You had so much rage in you, and I thought-I thought I could protect you from yourself.”

"Protect me?" Sejanus asked in disbelief. "You didn’t protect me, Pa. You threw me to them." His hands clenched into fists at his sides, but he didn’t raise them. “They strapped me to a bed, they gave me electroshocks, they brainwashed me, and I—” He stopped himself, swallowing hard. “You knew what they were doing to me. You fucking knew it!” Now, he exclaimed, pointing his finger at his father.

“I didn’t know it was that bad,” Strabo said. “I didn’t. I really didn’t. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“And did you ask me? At least once? Why was I begging you to get me out of there?”

“I really didn’t know, son…”

“You didn’t want to know,” Sejanus hissed, stepping forward. “That’s the difference.”

The silence that followed was thick, overwhelming. For a moment, Sejanus thought his father might cry. But Strabo Plinth had always been a man of pride — too much pride to produce even a single tear. So instead, he reached for Sejanus again, his frail fingers trembling like the wings of a dying bird.

"I was wrong," Strabo whispered. “I know that now. I’m sorry, son. I’m so sorry. But you still have your whole life ahead of you. And mine… well, you know mine is coming to an end.”

Sejanus inhaled deeply through his nose, recalling the breathing exercises from the asylum. He wanted to hit him, to grab his father by the collar, maybe even strangle him. But it would be like hitting a defenseless child. His eyes drifted away from his father, settling on a spot just beyond the window. He could hear the distant sounds of the Capitol outside—a world that never stopped moving, even when his own had.

Coriolanus Snow was somewhere there.

"You've failed me, Father."

Strabo sat down on the edge of Sejanus's bed. He buried his face in his hands. “I know,” he said. “I know, son. I thought if you had money you would be happy. If you will be living in the Capitol you will be happy. But I was wrong.”

Sejanus watched him for a moment longer. It wasn’t rage. Not anymore. It was something worse. It was indifference.

He took a step back, hands loose at his sides.

“Get some rest, Pa,” he said, turning away toward the window.

There was really Coriolanus Snow somewhere. The one who betrayed him. The one who was truly responsible for his suffering.

"Please… Your mother, Sejanus," his father said quietly. "She hates me too. But promise me… promise me you’ll take care of her when I’m gone."

Sejanus hesitated, his gaze fixed on the ground as millions of emotions swirled inside him. How could he not forgive a dying man? After a moment, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around his father’s body which not so long ago was so strong.

They never spoke of it again. Not once. Not until Strabo drew his last breath. Sejanus didn’t send his father to hospice, though it was an option. When Strabo lay sprawled on the bed, he and Ma took turns watching over him because Sejanus was well aware that his father was too proud to be cared for by an Avox. Sejanus read aloud to him from a book, some Greek myths that he had learned at the Academy but could no longer fully remember. Stories of King Midas, Prometheus, Icarus, and Daedalus. Each of these somehow felt familiar. His father didn’t even have time to read, he didn’t have time to live.

He passed away quietly, in his sleep.

The funeral was a true event. Sejanus let Strabo's assistant, Julius, organize everything. Perhaps some had even forgotten that it was, after all, a citizen of the district who had passed away. Perhaps Strabo had achieved in his lifetime what he had desired most — to erase his origin from his history. The Capitol's high society attended in full force, but Sejanus put on sunglasses and tried to stay on the sidelines, keeping his sobbing Ma close by his side.

Until he saw him in the crowd.

Handsome as always. His lean frame moved with quiet grace; his golden hair shone even brighter in July’s sun. His face — narrow, sharp, and always watchful — missed nothing, his gaze constantly scanning his surroundings.

He was holding a bouquet of white roses in his hand.

His presence there felt like an insult.

Sejanus's heart pounded in his chest so hard it felt like it might burst. He wanted to grab him by the tie and throw him out of the cemetery, but instead, he quickly approached him and took off his sunglasses, trying to look him straight in the eyes.

Coriolanus Snow looked like he had seen a ghost, but he quickly regained his composure.

“Oh, Sejanus… I didn’t expect…”

“To see me again? Or to see me at my own father’s funeral?” Sejanus asked sharply.

Coriolanus glanced away, a grimace flashing briefly across his face.

"I… I’m really sorry for your loss," he replied. Socially. Officially. Insincerely.

“Thank you,” Sejanus said, drilling him with his gaze.

What a small man he was.

Only now did Sejanus see it clearly. A true pretender.

“Good you can be here today,” Coriolanus said, meeting Sejanus’s gaze. “Maybe we can… meet sometime,” he added with a fake smile.

Sejanus didn’t answer. Didn’t blink. Just stared.

There was a long pause.

Then, out of nowhere, Coriolanus stepped forward. His arms moved toward Sejanus, hesitant, as if unsure how Sejanus would react. It wasn't a genuine gesture. It was a performance. But Sejanus didn’t step back. He stood firm, his body tense, as the smell of roses filled his nostrils. How badly he wanted to strangle him. How badly he wanted to hold him and kiss him.

Sejanus felt the cold petals of the white roses press against his neck — and then the sharp prick of a thorn. He sucked in a quiet breath as a thin, hot sting ran down his skin.

“Ah, sorry,” Coriolanus muttered, pulling back. "These roses… I always forget they have thorns," he said.

"But they really are beautiful," Sejanus replied coldly. "It’s nothing. Thank you for your presence."

He put his sunglasses back on, turned away, and didn’t look back.

His father left him everything. The house. The company. The fortune. The name that now was even respected.

Sejanus was disgustingly rich. Not his father. He, Sejanus Plinth, was rich and he could do anything he wanted with money.

He tried to do something about the tic that remained from the electroshock therapy. A slight, almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw. Sometimes his hands were trembling. He also didn’t have such a good memory like before.

There was no hope for studying medicine anymore.

In the newspaper, he noticed a job advertisement for a position as a new Gamemaker: "You can make a change."

Now he could do it. He could stop this madness.

The next day, Sejanus enrolled to study political science and diplomacy.

***

The Present

Sejanus stands before the dinner table, his hands trembling slightly as he touches the cold steel of the knife he had just used to gut a rabbit he hunted in the forest. Sejanus has imagined many times what he would say to his friend, who betrayed him, repeating different scenarios in his head during long nights. None of them were satisfying enough.

Now, the rainbow dress hung on the mannequin in the main room. The Beretta 92FS model weapon was placed in the display case—exactly the same model that ended Mayfair Lipp’s life years ago. A whip lays waiting in one of the rooms, a near-perfect replica of the Peacekeeper's tool of punishment. None of these are originals. But how could Coriolanus Snow know that?

Vengeance would be finally served tonight.

Chapter Text

Livia Snow wakes up every morning very early, not because she needs to, but because she wants to. After all, life is built on small pleasures, and driving her husband to fury is the sweetest of them all.

But first, her morning routine — the maid, a young Avox girl named Annie, whom Livia even feels a little sorry for, knows exactly what to prepare for her every morning. A bath infused with milk and a hint of honey, which smooths the skin. While Livia lounges in the tub, Annie combs conditioner through her damp hair. The facial care routine begins with an exfoliating scrub — at least three times a week — followed by a pore-tightening mask made from golden clay, and finally, a moisturizing mask with hyaluronic acid. Some might call her shallow, but Livia would call herself practical. She knows that at thirty-four, she’s no longer the youngest, and beauty is a woman’s greatest asset in the Capitol.

When she saw Coriolanus's secretary at a party in Parliament, she started booking botox appointments even more frequently.

After the bath, she dries her body with a towel — fresh every day and made from the softest fabrics — and gently pats her face with paper towels. She never forgets her makeup routine, even though today she’s only meeting Clemensia at the fitness club. In fact, that’s all the more reason to put in extra effort.

Her foundation matches her skin tone perfectly — shade N52, labeled "porcelain" on the packaging — though Livia has to admit that Clemensia’s skin is far more porcelain-like. A blood-red lipstick to match her nails, a hint of blush, and a beige eyeshadow complete the look. If there’s one thing Livia excels at, it’s drawing the perfect eyeliner wings — thin, precise, and extending just past the corners of her eyes. They emphasize her blue-gray eyes, though she’s always been envious of her husband’s eye color. Really, sometimes she thinks he should have been a woman.

Finally, she applies mascara. The Capitol has recently been producing some excellent mascaras that lengthen and volumize lashes, and she makes sure to use only the best.

Next comes the choice of outfit. Livia’s wardrobe is enormous — it was her first condition when she agreed to move in with Coriolanus in his old penthouse. Truth be told, she’s never liked the smell that lingers in the apartment. Since she goes shopping at least twice a month, she always has the latest fashion pieces. The old clothes? She gives them to Annie, though the poor girl probably won’t have much use for them. But well, maybe she’ll sell them. Livia likes to think of herself as charitable.

Today, it’s a little black dress, pearls, and a white blazer. Livia actually likes what she sees in the mirror. She sprays rose perfume on herself, the one Coriolanus is always gifting her.

Before leaving the room, she never forgets one last thing. She reaches to the very bottom of her drawer and pulls out her pack of birth control pills, swallowing one. Nothing seems to hurt her husband more than the fact that they don’t have children. But a few mentions of polycystic ovary syndrome, endometriosis, and a couple of other conditions that would make pregnancy exceedingly difficult have effectively closed that topic. Well, at least they don’t have to have sex too often. Though once, it was even pleasant, Livia recalls with disbelief.

Clicking her heels as loudly as possible, she strides into the drawing room, where Coriolanus is already waiting for her. He seems more out of sorts than usual, Livia quickly assesses.

“Good morning, darling,” she chirps sweetly, aiming her voice to be borderline annoying, taking a seat next to him.

“Morning, Livia,” he mutters, poking at his scrambled eggs with truffles. In her view, it is not even that appetizing. He’s probably eating it just because it’s expensive, Livia grimaces, almost tasting the intense aroma of truffles in her own mouth. A smoothie will be enough for her. She doesn’t want to feel bloated before her meeting with Clemensia, especially since they’ll be changing in the locker room.

“Not in the mood?” Livia asks with feigned concern.

“I… I have dinner plans after work today,” Coriolanus replies, watching her closely.

Oh no, Livia is afraid he’s about to drag her to another dull-as-hell business dinner. And he always limits her to no more than two drinks at those events, which is pure torture.

“Oh? With whom?” she asks, trying to sound casual.

“With Sejanus Plinth.”

Livia nearly spits out her smoothie, letting out a small chuckle. But when she sees the look on his face, she says, “Oh, you’re serious.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re always telling me you don’t have time when I ask for us to meet with Fes and Persephone,” she notes dryly. Somehow, Coriolanus never seems enthusiastic about meeting with their old Academy friends. The reason is simple — they aren’t particularly influential. Festus works at his father’s factory, and Persephone, like Livia, could be called a "trophy wife." The difference is that Persephone actually has something to do — raising two small children.

“I’ve told you before, I don’t like eating at their place,” Coriolanus replies curtly.

“You’re usually not that much of a picky eater,” Livia says innocently, poking him with small, deliberate jabs. But this time, Coriolanus doesn’t even grimace.

“So you prefer a fancy dinner from a district boy?” she pushes further, but Coriolanus doesn’t even furrow his brows in that amusing way he usually does when he tries to hide how annoyed he is.

“Listen, Livia,” he says, suddenly looking like a true madman, his eyes sharp. “If I… I’ll check in every hour. If I send you a message, come get me. You have my location.”

Livia gives him an amused look.

“What? Afraid Plinth is going to bore you to death?” she teases.

“Livia, I’m serious,” he says.

“Fine, fine,” she says, rolling her eyes. Year by year, Coriolanus's paranoia grows worse. He used to be just a little odd, but now he’s starting to resemble those old, strange men feeding doves in the park.

“What time will you be leaving exactly?” she asks innocently, but today he isn’t even suspicious.

“Eight.”

This time it wasn’t even amusing, she concludes, watching as her husband gets ready for work. He’s definitely nervous, but not because of her.

Only when he disappears from her sight does Livia grab her phone and send a short message to Yago Trivane, one of the Gamemakers: “Come today at 8:15 PM.” She doesn’t even bother hiding his contact under some female name, like she probably should, but maybe that’s exactly what makes the whole situation so exciting.

On the surface, Coriolanus doesn’t care about her. Not her, not their marriage. The Hunger Games, the Parliament — those are the things that matter to him. But during one party, after Livia had a little too much champagne and started flirting with one of the Capitol’s officials — Hugo or Huro, she couldn’t even remember his name — she noticed how quickly Coriolanus appeared at her side. How he possessively placed his hand on her shoulder, squeezing it just hard enough for her to feel it.

A shiver ran down her entire body.

That night, they had sex. Not the usual kind of sex they had for the purpose of "procreation," but real, raw sex — the kind that left bite marks on her neck and the imprint of his fingers on her hips.

In these moments, Coriolanus Snow becomes almost a different man, allowing himself to lose control for just a brief moment. Because he’s not used to doing it very often. Livia almost sadistically loves watching him simmer on the inside — sometimes because of her, sometimes because of someone else — while on the outside, he maintains that polite smile.

Still, the dinner with Plinth — it seems surprising actually. But if thanks to that Livia can have good sex, maybe she should even thank Plinth.

She smiles, looking at the screen.

“Of course, my queen.”

***

Livia doesn’t have any true friends since Arachne Crane died. She’s very aware that — unlike her husband, who somehow manages to gain the love of those around him — she isn’t exactly easy to like. She knows her tongue is probably a bit too sharp, and she should pretend more. But with Arachne, it somehow worked. Their mutual insults had a strange dynamic, something deeper and even genuine. She remembers how Arachne comforted her after her parents' divorce. Now, Livia wouldn’t even know who to turn to for comfort.

Although, to be honest, Arachne probably wouldn’t have allowed her to marry Coriolanus Snow. And maybe she would have been right. Livia isn’t even sure why she did it. Wasn’t marriage just a shared effort to make each other’s lives miserable? If so, then they were a perfect match for each other.

As she gazes through the window of the limousine, Livia catches herself wondering, if she had married someone else, would things be better? The reasons she married Coriolanus are pretty clear to her now. From the start, she told him that she would never work a day in her life. She made no secret of her lack of ambition. After all, what did "ambition" mean in Panem? Was it working as someone’s secretary, a fashion designer, or maybe a teacher? If so, she would much rather lounge on the couch eating strawberries and sipping champagne.

Livia always liked it when people envied her, and, well, most girls were in love with Coriolanus Snow. She never really understood why. Sure, he had a beautiful face, but there was always something odd about him, something darker and unsettling. From time to time, though, that darkness was oddly attractive.

And, well, if being with him meant she could one day become the First Lady — even if only to spite her own mother — then why not?

Livia smiles a little wider as she steps out of the limousine and spots an old acquaintance from the Academy. Back then — before her marriage to Coriolanus — they weren’t all that close. But since she’s one of the few people who still remains a presence in their lives, and since Coriolanus has no time for friendships, you could almost say they’ve grown closer.

Clemensia Dovecote is one of the Capitol’s most famous models, though, at the age of thirty-four, she is nearing retirement. Mysterious flu she contracted years ago left scales on half of her neck and her cleavage. However, in the Capitol, resembling an animal has become the latest fashion — a trend that Livia particularly doesn’t understand. Tigris Snow, Coriolanus’s cousin, looks more and more like a real tiger each time Livia sees her. Like a freak, to be clear.

“How are things going with Coryo?” Clemensia keeps repeating the same question, and Livia sometimes gets the impression that she’s waiting to hear news of a divorce. Yet, she would never allow anyone to know what her marriage is truly like. On this matter, she and Coriolanus are surprisingly aligned.

“Great. Like always,” Livia says. “Yesterday he took me on a date to ‘Charlotte.’” She deliberately chooses time when Coriolanus was at home, and this restaurant because she knows that getting a table there is nearly impossible, so no one will question her lie. “Let me show you the flowers he brought me. He surprises me every day, you know,” she adds, showing a photo on her smartphone of the large bouquet of blood-red roses she bought for herself yesterday.

Clemensia wrinkles her nose for a brief moment, but then she smiles unnaturally.

“Beautiful,” she says politely, her eyes lingering on Livia with a hint of coldness. “I’m amazed that, with how hard Coriolanus works, he still finds time for dates.”

The bitterness in her voice is impossible to miss, and Livia smiles to herself. It must sting to be turned down by him, even if Livia knows full well that her husband doesn’t exactly crave spending time with her either.

“And how is your dating?” Livia asks casually.

“Oh,” Clemensia tries to force a smile, “nothing to talk about.”

They change in the locker room, and Livia secretly glances at Clemensia's body. Scales or not, Clemensia looks perfect, not an ounce of extra fat. It’s hard to believe she’s still single.

“You know what’s strange,” Livia says, putting on her yoga pants. Clemensia gives her a questioning look. “You know who they hired at the Parliament of Panem?”

Clemensia doesn’t look particularly interested in the topic, but she emits a short, “Hm?”

“Sejanus Plinth,” Livia says, as if it’s great news.

“Sejanus Plinth?” Clemensia echoes, tying her hair back, “the one from… the District?” she asks quietly.

Livia nods with a smirk.

"Hmm. Good for him, I guess," Clemensia says, sounding surprisingly disinterested in the topic. "Anyway, I can recommend a great specialist. I just had the most amazing facial, and my pores are practically invisible," she adds, stepping into the light and tilting her head to show off her porcelain-like skin.

Livia grimaces slightly. As much as she hates to admit it, Clemensia's skin really is flawless.

"Oh yes, I’d be grateful," Livia replies with a polite smile. "And I can recommend a great doctor for botox. My forehead practically doesn’t move," she adds, attempting to furrow her brows, but she isn’t able to do it.

Clemensia nods thoughtfully.

Soon, they walk in silence toward the first machine — a large white box where they have to climb stairs for fifteen minutes in what feels like a real sauna. Livia hates it because it requires effort, but she knows it burns five times as many calories as usual exercises.

“Lately, I’ve been on a new diet — I’m only eating raw vegetables and fruits,” Clemensia says.

“Oh, interesting,” Livia replies with boredom, barely glancing at her.

“But you know…” Clemensia adds with a hint of embarrassment, “when I feel like eating something else… the doctor prescribed me these new capsules. The calories from food don’t get absorbed.”

That catches Livia’s attention. She turns her head slightly to Clemensia, narrowing her eyes.

“Really?” she asks.

“Yes, I can give you a few to try,” Clemensia offers casually.

Why not,Livia thinks as they move to the second machine. Fortunately, this one requires no effort at all. She just has to lie down while the device vibrates her thighs and glutes. It’s a bit painful, but it’s incredibly effective.

“But Sejanus Plinth… What does Coriolanus think about that?” Clemensia unexpectedly returns to the earlier topic.

“What do you mean?” Livia asks.

“You know… They were pretty close, weren’t they?” Clemensia says.

“Nothing like that,” Livia denies quickly. The last thing she needs is for people to start thinking her husband is a sympathizer of the districts.

“Though he’s never really liked the Hunger Games, has he?” Clemensia says with a smirk.

Oh yes, to this day, Livia regrets missing the spectacle of Sejanus Plinth throwing chairs. Though, to be fair, she was afraid she might pee herself from laughing too hard if she had been there to see it.

“Yes, and now he’s the leader of that party… Makes you wonder who he paid off to get there,” Livia replies. She suddenly winces as the machine’s vibrations grow stronger.

“Honestly… I don’t really like the Hunger Games either,” Clemensia admits quietly.

Livia narrows her eyebrows, but her attempts are in vain; well, botox in fact was this time very effective.

“Well, I don’t think you should say it loudly,” Livia cuts her off sharply.

“You think so? I thought that all of us… After what happened… It’s hard to watch it,” Clemensia notes. “I don’t know how Coriolanus is doing it.”

“What is he doing?” Livia asks, trying to hide her irritation.

“Organizing it. Especially since we all know…”

“Clemmie,” Livia cuts in sweetly, but firmly, “what’s the point of bringing that up? Coriolanus is simply organizing an event in line with our Capitol tradition. He’s not doing anything improper.”

“You’re the one who brought up Sejanus Plinth.”

“Because I found it amusing,” Livia snaps back, her patience already wearing thin. “But let’s end this topic, alright?”

Her mood has already soured. They are all like this. Always circling back, dropping subtle barbs about Coriolanus being Gamemaker, now the Head one, as if he were some kind of monster. Sure, because all of them are saints.

“Of course, if this topic is making you uncomfortable, Liv,” Clemensia says with faux politeness.

Livia fights the urge to crank up Clemensia’s machine to maximum intensity. Oh, how satisfying it would be to watch that perfect porcelain face twist in discomfort — just for a moment.

But instead, they move on to the final machine, the one that works the abdominal muscles. It’s the worst of them all. Every crunch feels like her body is being torn apart piece by piece. But they say that half an hour on this machine is the equivalent of thirty hours of aerobics.

Afterward, they’ll head to the massage room. Livia always lets the towel slip just a little further than necessary when Manuelo, her dedicated massager, presses his strong hands against her sore body.

“Maybe we’ll go for some brunch?” Clemensia suggests casually, brushing a perfectly manicured nail against her temple.

Livia knows exactly what Clemensia has in her mind. It’s just an excuse to have some mimosas before noon as the gossip that Clemmie drinks too much is quite popular among their old Academy friends.

To be honest, by now, they have nothing left to talk about, but Livia still replies, “Why not?”

***

Livia can’t wait for her husband to finally leave the house. In the afternoon, she did a bit of shopping and bought a new set of red lingerie along with a matching red slip. Champagne and sushi were already waiting in the fridge. But Coriolanus was dragging his feet like never before. Livia glanced at the clock with irritation. It was already almost eight.

She stands in the doorway of the bathroom, arms crossed, watching as Coriolanus meticulously styled his hair.

"Are you planning to fuck him while you’re there?" she asks bluntly.

Still, Coriolanus gives her a look of the true madman, again.

“Don’t say it ever again, Livia!” he hisses.

“And you’re going to take my favorite wine?” she grimaces, glancing at the bottle near the sink. Why did Coriolanus even bring it here? “You definitely want to seduce Plinth,” she adds, smirking at her own joke.

“You should…” Coriolanus says, spraying himself with cologne, “stop drinking so much anyway, Livia. It’s bad for fertility,” he adds under his breath.

Livia glances at the green seal on the bottle. Wasn’t it supposed to be yellow? But she quickly forgets about it as the irritation comes through her whole body. What is it with him and children? The moments when Coriolanus is with Liliana, his cousin’s daughter, are the only times he looks genuinely happy. He even speaks in that strange, high-pitched voice.

Livia would never want to make him that happy.

“I’m heading out,” Coriolanus brushes past her at the doorway, pausing for a moment to press a fleeting kiss to her cheek. It’s… unusual, to say the least. “Livia,” he says, locking eyes with her — those piercing, opal eyes that could freeze fire. “If I message you, come get me or send the driver, alright?”

“You’re acting weird,” she says, tilting her head suspiciously. “Why won't you take our driver and tell him to wait?”

“He just…” Coriolanus glances aside. “Sejanus suggested his driver take me instead. It would be rude to refuse.”

Rude? Livia narrows her eyes.

“I’m being serious,” Coriolanus says.

“Alright, alright,” Livia sighs, rolling her eyes. “Have a nice date,” she can’t help but add.

She sees it — that flicker of irritation flashing across his face — and her heart swells with satisfaction.

The moment the door shuts behind him, she bolts to the bedroom. No time to waste. She slips into the red lingerie set, pulling the silky chemise over her body, and finishes the look with black stilettos with crimson soles.

Livia stands before the mirror, turning this way and that, admiring her reflection. She really does look divine.

"Yago, better appreciate this," she whispers to herself and pours a glass of perfectly chilled champagne. Striking a deliberately composed pose, she sits on the couch.

A few minutes later, she sees a message pop up on her phone.

"Is the coast clear?"

What a coward, she thinks.

"No, I’m in the mood for a threesome today," she replies, smirking.

After a longer pause, she finally hears the doorbell ring.

Livia doesn’t open the door immediately. She waits a minute and a half, then slowly rises from the couch. Unhurried, she gets up and slowly pulls the door open.

He greets her with a wide smile.

Yago Trivane caught her attention almost immediately during one of the parties at the Parliament. Tall — much taller than Coriolanus — with black hair and magnetic green-blue eyes. He was dressed entirely in black, and Livia almost drooled watching how his shirt hugged his muscular shoulders.

Coriolanus, no matter what anyone says, doesn’t have a particularly strong frame. He’s just slim, and that’s all.

Back then, when she slipped outside for a smoke, to have a minute alone from the party, she suddenly heard the sound of a door opening behind her. She nearly jumped, startled, and there he was.

“Does your husband know you smoke?” he asked simply.

“Not your business,” she snapped back.

“I imagine someone like him would hate it,” he replied, his voice slightly hoarse, so masculine it sent a small thrill down her spine. “Got a spare one?”

Livia handed him a cigarette, and he looked almost ridiculous holding her slim cigarette. But somehow, it only made him more attractive.

“Boring party, huh?” he asked.

Livia was immediately suspicious, wondering if Coriolanus had sent him to watch her.

“Well, let’s just say I’ve had more fun in my life,” she replied, arching an eyebrow.

“I can imagine,” he said smoothly, his gaze resting on her for just a second too long. “Beautiful women deserve to have a lot of fun. And I mean… a lot,” he emphasized, locking eyes with her in a way that felt far too intimate.

They met a few more times at similar parties, always sneaking away for a cigarette. Their conversations grew bolder, their glances lingered longer. It was inevitable.

One day, as they stood hidden from sight behind a marble column, Livia reached up and kissed him.

It made her feel so wet. So excited. She finally felt she was living.

And he kissed her back.

Now, Livia leans against the wall and says, “Hello.”

The delight on his face is genuine — she can tell. It’s something she still doesn’t fully understand. Yago is younger, probably around thirty, and he could easily have a twenty-year-old girlfriend if he wanted to.

But maybe there’s something about sleeping with his boss’s wife that excites him even more.

“Livia…” he purrs, taking her hand and spinning her around slowly like she’s on display. “You’ve outdone yourself…”

He steps closer, his full, soft lips grazing the side of her neck, and Livia shudders as chills run down her spine. Her thighs press together as she feels a familiar tickling sensation also between her legs.

But she can’t let it be so easy.

“Not so quickly. I have champagne, sushi,” she says with a playful smile. “And what do you have for me?”

She knows he has something. He always does.

With a smirk, Yago pulls a small box from the pocket of his trousers and hands it to her.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” Livia says theatrically, trying to mask the thrill bubbling inside her. She tears off the wrapping slowly, savoring the moment.

Inside, a golden bracelet glints, decorated with delicate laurel leaves.

Her eyes widen slightly, but she masks it quickly with a sly smile.

“For my goddess,” Yago says softly.

Livia tilts her head, letting him clasp the bracelet around her wrist. She admires it for a moment, turning it slowly to catch the light.

“Well, well,” she says, and now gets rid of her mockery. ”Thank you, my love, it’s beautiful,” she says seriously.

Soon, they are sitting on the couch, eating. Livia sometimes even catches herself thinking that she maybe eats too quickly in front of him, maybe she doesn’t control herself so much like with others, and sometimes it makes her a little bit scared.

“So, Coriolanus went out?” Yago asks.

“No, he is waiting in one of the rooms,” Livia replies with a wicked smile.

Yago shakes his head. “Oh, what a naughty girl to mock me like that,” he says teasingly. He moves closer to her and bites the lobe of her ear, whispering, “And I’m asking because of you. I could crush him with one hand. But I want you to be safe.”

Livia laughs softly.

“Coriolanus wouldn’t harm me,” she says seriously, and she is even sure about it now. He wouldn’t have any purpose for that.

“Of course. The guy who poisons the entire Parliament left and right wouldn’t harm a fly,” Yago says.

“You have no proof he did it,” Livia cuts him off, maybe a little too sharply.

“Please, Livia, you aren’t naive, are you?” he says, now leaning back against the couch. “Someone's going to catch him eventually. Lately, he’s been overdoing it. And those damn Quarter Quell Hunger Games... It’s in ten months, and he is torturing us with it all the time. He’s never satisfied with anything. ‘It has to be a real spectacle,’” Yago even mimics Coriolanus's voice.

Now, Livia again thinks about the bottle of wine Coriolanus took. Usually, it had a yellow seal on the bottle. This one had a green one.

“If you’re so interested in my husband, why don’t you just go and fuck him?” she asks.

But Yago is never annoyed by her.

"Tempting," he says, his grin lazy and self-assured. "But somehow I prefer you, you know? And I get the feeling someone here is in a mood because she hasn’t been properly fucked by her boring husband."

Livia tries to suppress her smile, tilting her head just slightly, but it’s clear she’s enjoying the attention.

"What time will he be back? How much time do we have?" he asks

"I have no idea," Livia replies with a shrug. "He went to... to meet an old schoolmate. The new leader of the Alliance for Prosperity party, Sejanus Plinth."

"Oh, Plinth? As in the weapon manufacturer?"

"Yes, yes. I still don’t know how they even let him into Parliament. He’s from a district."

"Well, it’s not surprising to me. He’s perfect," Yago says, reaching for his glass of champagne.

"Perfect for what?" Livia asks. "To smash his head into a brick wall?"

“You don’t like him,” Yago notes.

Like him? Livia never really thought about liking or disliking Sejanus Plinth. He was from the district, and before the 10th Hunger Games, he acted like a complete moron. But beyond that, he wasn’t necessarily the worst. He even lent her a pen once when she didn’t have one and asked her if it didn’t bother her that the pen came from a district. It was actually kind of funny.

"And nah," Yago smirks, taking a sip of his champagne. "The districts are rebelling more lately, aren’t they? So the Capitol gets to say, ‘Look, you have your representation in Parliament.’ It’s a win for them. But everyone knows that after all these years, he has nothing in common with the districts anymore." Yago swirls his glass idly. "And their new propositions… like raising the tribute age will actually change something. Please. It won’t change anything, children will be dying anyway."

Sometimes he says such strange things, Livia notes. He’s a Gamemaker, and yet he speaks like he’s against the Hunger Games. It’s something she hasn’t fully figured out.

"If I wanted someone to bore me to death with that kind of talk, I’d just invite my husband," Livia replies with a sly smirk.

"Alright, alright. Enough of that attitude," Yago says with a grin, moving closer to her. He slides his hands into her hair, his fingers tangling at the roots, and tilts her head back. His gaze locks on hers sharply. "That clever tongue of yours has been busy all day. Let’s put it to better use"

Livia swallows hard.

“What use?” she whispers.

That’s all the invitation Yago needs. His lips crash against hers, hot and demanding, his hand sliding from her hair to grip the back of her neck firmly. Livia’s fingers claw at his shirt, feeling the sharp curve of his muscles beneath the fabric. The kiss is messy, rough, and perfect in all the ways her life with Coriolanus isn’t.

Her back presses against the coach, her breath coming in sharp gasps as Yago’s hands touch her sides, his fingertips tracing the curve of her waist before gripping her hips with a firm squeeze. Her head tips back, baring her neck to him, and he doesn’t waste a second before his lips trail down to her collarbone, teeth scraping lightly against her skin.

Livia feels herself already wet. She closes her eyes and tilts her head back as she feels his lips moving lower and lower until his face stops right at the edge of her slip, and his head lowers beneath it. His lips brush gently at first against the inside of her thighs, but soon he begins to nibble lightly.

He teases her, kissing spots that get closer and closer to her already-soaked, eager pussy, so ready to take his dick. Finally, his lips land on her clit, but he kisses her through the fabric of her panties.

“Yago!” she exclaims, feeling like she could come from just that alone.

“Impatient, aren't we?” he mutters, his teeth hook the edge of her panties and pull them down slowly, agonizingly slow. “Relax, Livia. I like it when you beg.”

She bites her lip hard to stifle a gasp, her fingers tightening in his hair. “I’m not begging,” she hisses, but the way she pushes her hips towards his head is telling something different.

"No?" Yago replies with amusement. "Your body says otherwise, my queen."

He is a pure sadist, Livia thinks, feeling his lips hovering just close enough to drive her insane but not fully pleasuring her yet. Finally, his tongue lands on her clit, and a low groan escapes her throat.

“You’re so sweet there. Like honey,” he whispers.

What a cheesy thing to say — normally, Livia would think that, but right now, it sounds charming.

Livia doesn’t pay attention to the phone vibrating in the background, nor does she even hear it as more moans escape from her lips.

Chapter Text

Coriolanus Snow feels drops of sweat on his forehead as he injects a little something into the wine bottle through the cork with a syringe. Threats are something he handles with precision. Volumnia Gaul thought she was more cunning than him, but in the end, she only got disappointed in herself. The press claimed she had been careless in the lab; Coriolanus knew the truth. Her morning coffee came with an unexpected addition: a paralytic neurotoxin. And the snake... it slithered out of its cage and strangled her. Nobody even questioned what had happened; it looked like a perfect accident.

Over the years, Coriolanus Snow became a master of poisons. He studied substances from nearly every corner of the world and had been microdosing himself with poisons since the age of twenty-five. This practice had some drawbacks, such as the painful sores it left in his mouth, which prompted Livia to constantly remark that his breath smelled like rotting leaves. The sores were almost healed now, but with each occurrence, Coriolanus noticed that they took longer and healed more slowly. Still, the benefits far outweighed the costs. Coriolanus Snow knew it was crucial to choose the right substance for the right circumstances.

For example, Coriolanus couldn't outright poison Secretary of the Treasury and Resources Quintus Draven, a man he despised, but he did manage to slip some Devil's Breath into his drink during one of the parties. The result? Quintus vomited, slurred his words, and made a fool of himself in public. Everyone gossiped that he had had too much to drink, that he couldn’t hold his liquor, and his reputation was tarnished for a while.

When it seemed likely that, after Volumnia Gaul's death, Coriolanus wouldn't be appointed as Head Gamemaker — after all, he was still relatively young — he decided to eliminate the competition. Aconitine was his tool of choice. His rival was already in his fifties, so his sudden death looked like a heart attack. The argument that the Head Gamemaker should be older and more experienced vanished overnight.

For the previous leader of the party Alliance for Prosperity, Nero Falk, Coriolanus went with something much more drastic: Polonium-210. By that point, he’d had enough. Falk had been driving him mad for months and had almost managed to pass a law that would increase the tribute age — something Coriolanus simply could not allow. Birth rates in the districts were already low.

Yes, Coriolanus Snow excelled at poisons. He had perfected his craft. But now, the idea of giving something so deadly to an old friend feels, perhaps, a bit too drastic. At first, Coriolanus had planned to do just that. But the mysterious deaths of two party leaders in a row would raise suspicions, and after all, this is Sejanus Plinth. Coriolanus could still remember his face from when he was only eight years old. It feels different to kill someone you’d known for years compared to someone you’d only recently met. Or to kill someone like Dr. Gaul, because, if he was being honest, killing her was a favor to the entire world.

So, Coriolanus chose LSD — not a poison, obviously, but a perfect substance that guarantees Sejanus would fail the drug tests that every politician had to undergo during their first weeks in office. Coriolanus took a fine needle and injected a horse-sized dose into the bottle of wine. Just to be sure. His hand trembled slightly, aware that he was about to ruin Sejanus Plinth's life — again.

But was he really? Not really. Sejanus Plinth had practically begged for it. Back in District 12, Coriolanus had warned him. It wasn’t as if Coriolanus hadn’t tried to save him before being reckless. Before being a rebel.

And now? Now, he is saving Sejanus again. After all, Sejanus Plinth is not made for politics. He doesn’t have control over himself, and doesn't know how to keep his composure. This is for his own good.

Besides, Sejanus could always retreat to his Ma’s lap, safe in his father’s fortress of fortune. Coriolanus, on the other hand, still has to work, especially considering the extravagant spending habits of his "wonderful" wife. Her parents’ generosity dried up years ago. Well, Coriolanus doesn’t blame them that they don’t like their own daughter.

Coriolanus himself is taking one of Livia’s depression pills, Mirtazapine, which she pops like candy, along with a hefty dose of Vitamin B. Honestly, he supposes he’d be depressed too if he spent his days lying on the couch, doing nothing worthwhile with his life. The combination should block the effects of LSD, as he’ll inevitably have to drink at least one glass of wine himself. And if he ends up a little high, well, maybe it’ll make enduring that fool’s company a bit more tolerable. No one conducts drug tests on Coriolanus anyway, and even if they did, he’d simply ask Livia for a urine sample.

Coriolanus gives himself one last glance in the mirror. He looks surprisingly good — innocent, even. Livia is barking something in the background, but he hardly listens, replying with half-syllables. It’s only when he hears the word "fuck" that his face twists in displeasure. Why is she always so vulgar? And what exactly is she implying this time?

For a moment, an overwhelming sense of shame creeps over him as a memory forces its way to the surface. That scene. The one he’s buried so deeply he barely remembers it himself. The moment when he kissed Sejanus Plinth. Why had he done it? Was it guilt? Pity? No, not pity. He didn’t pity Sejanus. So what was it? Weakness, maybe. He grits his teeth at the thought, blinking rapidly, as if that alone could erase it.

His eyes shift to Livia, watching her for a moment. Can he trust her? Probably not. But calling Tigris is out of the question. Her husband is already irritated with him, and maybe Coriolanus shouldn’t have suggested that plastic surgery last time. Not everyone needs to be beautiful, right? But he didn’t want his own cousin to be known as the ugliest stylist. She is still Snow.

“If I call you, come get me,” he says, but hesitates. He already knows she’ll be drunk by that hour — that much is certain. Now, the headlines he had once imagined weren’t about Coriolanus Snow found dead in Sejanus Plinth’s residence, but instead, Coriolanus Snow died in a car crash caused by his drunk wife behind the wheel. The thought makes his stomach twist unpleasantly. “Or at least send a driver for me, alright?”

Livia raises an eyebrow, tilting her head like she’s about to say something sharp, but for once, she stays quiet.

“Alright,” she replies.

***

Sejanus’s driver looks like he stepped straight out of a mafia movie. A hulking brute, his broad frame fills the front seat and he is stuffed into a shirt two sizes too small. His face is all sharp angles, thick brows, dark skin. For sure he isn’t from the Capitol. The overpowering stench of cheap cologne fights a losing battle against the reek of stale cigarettes that clings to his leather jacket. Coriolanus is certain that the man could break him in half with one hand, and yet, the gorilla greets him with a broad, crooked smile.

"Evenin’, Mr. Snow," he says in a voice as if it were coming from the grave. "Long night ahead?"

Coriolanus forces a tight-lipped smile. "Aren’t they all?"

He slides into the back seat. The wine bottle rests on his lap, his fingers curling tighter around its neck. For a moment, he feels in control — after all, he’s holding the poison. But then, unease seeps into his chest. His grip on the bottle tightens.

This man can kill him. Maybe that is Sejanus’s plan. Coriolanus imagines it vividly, a way too vividly. The driver can pull off the road, take him into the woods, and swing a baseball bat into his ribs. One crack, two cracks — his bones like dry branches snapping in the cold. No one would even know where he’d gone.

A throb of nausea climbs up his throat. Coriolanus reminds himself he needs to control himself. His fingers twitch against the bottle's glass. It’s paranoia, that’s all. Sejanus would never do something like that. He’s not ruthless enough. He's soft. Always has been.

The car glides through the city. It all feels too normal at first. They roll past the high-end Corso and boutiques of Capitol Row. Then, as they pass through the outer boroughs, the lights get dimmer. Gray apartment complexes flash by in quick succession, all identical in their dull misery. The streets grow wider, emptier. No more shops. No more pedestrians. No witnesses.

Soon they are passing the outskirts, yet the driver doesn’t seem to be stopping anytime soon.

"You’re sure, sir, that this is the shortest route?" Coriolanus tries to sound as light as he can.

"Of course, boss," the driver looks straight into the mirror, and their eyes meet. "Mr. Plinth practically lives on the border."

"Border of what?" Coriolanus asks blankly.

"Of the District and the Capitol."

On the border? Coriolanus swallows hard, but he remains silent, even as they pass through the dark woods. In these woods, a lot of people disappeared.

Maybe he could call Livia. Just a casual talk. Coriolanus dials the number, but no one answers. Damn it. He tries a second time. Nothing. So much for being reliable.

So he decides on a desperate step. Tigris.

After a few rings, he hears his cousin's voice.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Tigris. How are you?" he asks, too cheerfully.

“What do you want, Coriolanus?” she says sharply.

“Can’t I just call my lovely cousin and ask how she is doing?”

“I haven’t gotten that facelift yet if that’s why you are calling.”

Oh, she is still angry about this one. Coriolanus laughs nervously. "Oh, come on, Tigris. I had only the best intentions, I just wanted you to…"

"To what? To not look old?" she cuts in.

"Stop it. You don’t look old," he says.

There’s a long, uncomfortable pause on the other end of the line.

"Good to know," she finally says.

"Look," Coriolanus says. "I’m just… calling to check how you are. And Lilianna. And your… husband,” Coriolanus barely masks the disgust in his voice. To the end of his days, he wouldn’t survive the fact that the son of a baker wears the Snow name.

"You never call," she says bluntly.

"Maybe I can take Lilianna for ice cream tomorrow?" he asks with a hint of hope. Hope that he’ll be alive tomorrow. And he would love to spend time with his niece. Tigris’s daughter really is something else. Beautiful, with long lashes and opal eyes that mirror his own. Cheerful but polite, with that quiet kindness Tigris always had. The kind he never did.

Tigris sighs loudly. “We have plans for tomorrow,” she says.

“Oh, sure. So maybe next weekend?”

“We will see.”

“Say hello to her from me.”

"Sure," she replies, but then her tone softens. "So what are you doing today?”

“Actually I'm going on the dinner to Sejanus Plinth who is living on the outskirts of the Capitol,” Coriolanus nearly yells this one, and notices in the mirror how the driver rolles his eyes.

“Sejanus Plinth…?” Tigris asks, audibly puzzled.

“Yes.”

“Oh… So say hello to… Sejanus," she adds. There’s a long pause. "He was at my shop some time ago… I was fitting him for suits."

She never mentioned that.

Was Sejanus just casually visiting his cousin? It really doesn’t look good.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I told you.”

“No, you didn’t!”

“I told you this, Coriolanus. You just don’t listen to me.”

Coriolanus sighs.

“And he was asking about you. A lot, actually,” Tigris adds. “Lily, I’m going… Oh sorry, I need to go give Lilianna a bath. Have a nice dinner,” Tigris says.

Coriolanus for the moment looks at his phone, and with some terror, he notices they’ve stopped. In the middle of the forest. Exceptional politician was brutally murdered...

“We’re here,” the driver announces.

Coriolanus steps out slowly, scanning his surroundings. Woods. Tall, dark pines loom overhead, their branches twisting together like a canopy of bones. The air smells fresh, sharp with the scent of pine and damp earth. It’s colder than it was in the Capitol — not freezing, but enough to feel it in his fingertips. He pulls his coat a little tighter around himself.

He takes one step forward, then turns to glance back at the driver.

Too late.

The engine growls. Tires screech against the gravel. The car jerks forward, spraying dirt and rocks behind it as it speeds off. The sound of the engine echoes briefly before it fades into nothing. He is here alone.

Coriolanus stands in the middle of nowhere, fingers tightening around the neck of the wine bottle. He swallows hard, his throat dry despite the cold air. His eyes shift to the front, gaze narrowing at the shape that rises out of the woods before him.

It looks like a goddamn palace in the middle of the forest.

Massive stone walls stretch upward, their cold gray surface interrupted only by enormous windows that gleam faintly in the low light. A wrought-iron fence circles part of the property, like the whole house was built to be some kind of fortress. Tall arched doorways, wide terraces, balconies with marble railings — too much space for one man. The house looks like it was stolen from a king's estate and dropped in the middle of the woods.

He stares at it for a moment, brows drawing together. Why the hell does Sejanus need a house like this? He’s only one man. His family isn’t even here. No children. No one to fill all these rooms. How rich Plinths have to be. Richer even than Coriolanus suspected.

Coriolanus nearly jumps when he notices Sejanus is already standing in front of his estate .

Their eyes meet.

Sejanus Plinth stands on the threshold of the house, leaning against the doorframe like he’s been waiting for him. He’s dressed casually — too casually. A deep burgundy shirt hangs loose on his frame, unbuttoned at the top, exposing his collarbone and a hint of his chest. His black trousers sit low on his hips, and he’s barefoot.

He doesn’t move to greet him.

Then Coriolanus sees it.

The dog.

It’s not just big — it’s enormous. Thick muscles ripple beneath its short, white coat as it shifts its weight. The dog's eyes are locked on Coriolanus, unblinking.

A hunter’s dog. A predator's dog.

Coriolanus feels his stomach twist.

Sejanus rests a hand on the dog's head, his fingers sliding lazily over its fur.

"Welcome, Coriolanus," he says in his low voice.

Coriolanus comes closer to him.

The dog doesn’t bark. It doesn’t growl. It just stares.

Just like its owner.

"Hello, Sejanus," Coriolanus says with a smile so practiced it feels carved into his face. He raises the bottle slightly. “Nice puppy.”

“Thank you. His name is Churro,” Sejanus says, patting it on the head with tenderness.

Churro. Sejanus for sure lost his mind.

"I brought you wine. Maybe we can have a glass to toast the undoubtedly excellent dinner you’ve prepared. It’s a very old vintage and a fine bottle."

Coriolanus stands two steps below Sejanus, but with a smooth motion, he hops up to the top step. Even so, Sejanus is still taller than him.

"Oh, thank you, I don’t drink. But don’t let that stop you," Sejanus says.

What? He doesn’t drink? Old Strabo didn’t drink alcohol either, Coriolanus thinks bitterly. Now he regrets not taking with himself any other LSD dose, that he could slip into some food here.

"Oh, a whole bottle would be too much for me alone..." Coriolanus says, and it’s true. It would definitely be too much, considering it’s loaded with so much LSD that Coriolanus fears he might end up wandering the Plinth’s residence naked after drinking it.

Sejanus smiles. Now they’re standing so close that Coriolanus takes a moment to study his face carefully. The same eyes as always — brown, big, sad. His face is still gentle, but at the same time, masculine. It’s no longer as round as it used to be, but it’s still soft in a way that makes him look younger than he is.

The smile is different — there’s something more bitter in it. But his dimples are still there, barely visible but present when he smiles like that. Light freckles dust the bridge of his nose, subtle but enough to notice up close. His curly hair is longer than it was when he was at the Academy.

But that burgundy shirt perfectly highlights his angular frame. He must be working out. A lot.

"In that case, it definitely won’t go to waste," Sejanus says slowly. "My Ma recently took a sommelier course and has developed a taste for good wine. I’m actually visiting her this Sunday."

Sejanus looks at him with a smile. Is he joking? Either way, dosing Mrs. Plinth with a ton of LSD doesn't seem like a great idea.

"Oh, you know what… Maybe I’ll just take the wine back. I forgot it’s Livia’s favorite, and she’ll be mad," Coriolanus says, trying to pull the bottle from Sejanus’s hands, but he doesn’t let go.

"You brought wine and now you want to take it back?" Sejanus raises an eyebrow.

"I’ll bring you another one next time."

What the hell is he saying? Next time?

"It’s just that this one is really tart. Your Ma won’t like it. I know she prefers sweet wines."

"Not anymore."

Coriolanus wants to punch Sejanus right in that annoyingly happy face.

"Just give it back," he says.

"No."

Coriolanus grabs the bottle firmly, and Sejanus doesn’t even seem to try that hard — he just holds it. Eventually, Sejanus lets go, and Coriolanus nearly loses his balance, dropping it with a loud crack against the stairs.

"See? Now you've made a mess," Sejanus says, shaking his head.

Coriolanus breathes heavily.

"Maybe my dog will drink it," Sejanus adds.

"Dog?"

"He likes wine."

Coriolanus watches Sejanus closely, eyes narrowing, trying to figure him out. But then Plinth suddenly bursts out laughing.

"Don’t worry," he says, now almost kindly. "I was joking. I’d never give a dog alcohol. It’s poison."

The last word he says with such emphasis and deadly serious eyes that Coriolanus feels sweat on his back.

“But come inside. It’s chilly, and I remember you don’t enjoy being cold,” Sejanus says, opening the door. There is no way back from this point.

Coriolanus gives him a polite smile and walks in slowly. A palace, truly, he thinks, admiring the marble walls. Without even realizing it, he hands his coat over to Sejanus, his eyes fixed on the surroundings. Paintings on the walls — nothing extraordinary. But that rug, now that is something — white, soft. Coriolanus takes off his own shoes, let's join this madman, and also notices it’s impossibly plush beneath his feet.

Suddenly, his eyes stop on a mannequin, and for a split second, he jolts as if struck.

He would recognize that dress anywhere. This damn rainbow dress.

He shoots Sejanus an angry glare, but Sejanus just stands by the wall, arms crossed, a small smile playing on his lips.

"What is this, Sejanus?"

"My decoration. Do you like it?"

"You think this is funny?"

"Actually..." Sejanus begins to walk slowly toward Coriolanus, almost like a predator, "Yes. At least until you remember that fourteen years ago, Lucy Gray Baird just vanished from District 12 after she was planning an escape with you."

Coriolanus swallows hard. "I never planned—"

"Stop lying," Sejanus cuts him off. "Did you know she told Covey she was going to escape? With you? They were supposed to join her."

"How do you know that?"

“Let’s say that I talked with some people from District 12.”

Coriolanus lets out a snigger. “Are you sure there were real people from District 12? Not your… You know, imagination?”

Sejanus now stops, his eyebrows narrowed and he raises his voice out of sudden, "Don’t you fucking dare suggest that I’m not normal, got it? Don’t you dare throw jabs about my time in the psych ward, you understand? Especially since I owe it to you, you fucking bastard!"

Breathing heavily, he leans his hands on the small table.

“Owe to me?” Coriolanus asks. “You know that I called Tigris so your father could rescue you, right?” he says slowly, observing Sejanus closely. He shouldn’t provoke him, definitely.

“It wasn’t rescuing me. And I’m not talking about this call.”

Coriolanus looks aside. “So about what?”

Sejanus turns to him slowly. “I know the truth, Coriolanus. But today I want to hear it from your mouth.”

He doesn't know a thing, Coriolanus thinks, but he shrugs.

"Want a tour of the house?" Sejanus asks, his tone almost cheerful.

Coriolanus nods with a forced smile, trying to suppress any scare he feels due to Sejanus’s sudden change of mood, his eyes still darting toward the dress.

For years, he had been afraid of it. Afraid that she was still alive. That she would come back.

But no one had heard from her in fourteen years.

She had to have died that day. Sometimes he almost regretted it.

"You know," Sejanus says over his shoulder, "my whole life I tried to stay away from my father's business. But now… I’ve actually grown to like weapons."

They move from the foyer into a massive living room. Coriolanus’s eyes sweep the space. In the corner, there’s a grand piano. In the center, a colossal dining table, large enough for a banquet. But on the wall…

“Fuck, Sejanus!” he blurts out, unable to control himself.

Even the dog starts barking in the background, but Coriolanus feels like he’s been struck by lightning, straight at the top of his head. His heart pounds in his chest, and for a moment, everything tilts.

It’s impossible.

That weapon is at the bottom of the lake.

It’s impossible.

Coriolanus squeezes his eyes shut.

"What? Something wrong?" Sejanus asks innocently, now sitting on the edge of the table. "Nice piece, isn't it?" he adds casually.

"What kind of game is this?" Coriolanus asks coldly.

"I don't know what you mean..."

"Yes, you do, Sejanus. You know exactly what I mean. What are you trying to do?" Coriolanus tries to sound authoritative, but it comes off as pathetic. His voice is trembling.

"You like games, don't you, Coryo?" Sejanus says, stepping toward him, one deliberate step at a time.

"Like that time you kissed me right after you sent my confession to Volumnia Gaul."

Sejanus stops just in front of him, towering over him, his gaze sharp.

Coriolanus's throat tightens. "Kiss you? Sejanus, I don’t mean to sound insensitive, but that’s a bit much… Maybe you dreamed it?" he asks nervously, but the idea that Sejanus knows makes sweat gather at the back of his neck.

"Liar," Sejanus hisses. "So tell me, why does this ordinary weapon make you so uncomfortable, huh?"

Coriolanus takes a step back. "I did it to protect you, and this is how you repay me? By blackmailing me?"

"If it were blackmail, I’d probably be asking for something, don’t you think? So I guess I’m not…" Sejanus's jaw tightens in a strange, deliberate way. "Not yet."

Yet?

"I’m calling my wife to come pick me up," Coriolanus says sharply, pulling his phone from his pocket.

"Oh, come on, we haven’t even had dinner yet."

"I’ve lost my appetite."

"Coryo, don’t be so sensitive over a little joke. I just wanted to see your reaction. But I’d be happy to show you the rest of the house. Don’t you want to see it? Are you really going to make me eat dinner all by myself? I hunted that rabbit myself, just for you," Sejanus says with a polite smile.

Coriolanus sighs loudly. "Fine," he mutters through clenched teeth. But as soon as Sejanus turns his back to him, Coriolanus discreetly sends a message to Livia. "Pick me up. No questions. Don’t call, just come."

Sejanus gives him a short tour — the kitchen, the bathroom, the exercise room. Coriolanus glances around with mild boredom, only half paying attention.

Maybe it won’t be that bad, he thinks. Maybe Sejanus is just a little angry. That’s all.

But then they walk into the next room.

The door clicks shut behind them, the lock turning with a sharp snick. Coriolanus stiffens, his eyes flicking toward Sejanus, who leans casually against the door, twirling the key between his fingers like it’s nothing.

The room is dim, lit by a soft red glow that casts long shadows on the walls. The air is warm, and thick with the scent of leather and metal. Against the far wall, a St. Andrew’s cross looms, its dark wood polished smooth, leather straps hanging from its arms and legs.

To the right, a rack of whips, floggers, and paddles hangs in neat rows. Long braided whips, short leather crops, and heavy floggers with thick strands dangle from hooks, their handles worn smooth from use. Below, a low shelf holds blindfolds, ball gags, and leather cuffs.

At the center of the room sits a padded leather bench — low, wide, with buckled straps dangling from the sides. The faint glint of steel rings embedded in the ceiling catches his eye, chains and ropes hanging from above.

A full-length mirror on the opposite wall reflects the entire space, doubling it, and making it feel even larger. Coriolanus catches his own reflection — stiff, tense, his eyes terrified.

Sejanus watches him from the door, arms crossed, the key now tucked neatly into his pocket. His eyes stay on Coriolanus, his lips curling into a smile.

“Like my collection?” Sejanus asks softly.

“Why did you bring me here?”

“There are a lot of reasons.”

Coriolanus suddenly feels how weak his knees are. This room looks terrifying, Sejanus acts terrifying. What does he want? A confession? An apology? Fine, if it will help him to get out, Coriolanus will do this.

“Sejanus… Don’t do me… Okay, Sejanus, I’m sorry,” Coriolanus says seriously. “Don’t hurt me. I’m sorry.”

“For what you’re sorry?”

"For…" Coriolanus glances at the floggers, swallowing hard. "For betraying you, okay? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I was a scared teenager too. And you were… irresponsible. But I didn’t know they’d want to execute you. I just wanted you back in the Capitol, safe. I thought your father would take you from there..." His voice trails off, quieter now, his breath shaky. He can feel the burn of tears forming in the corners of his eyes. So this is how it ends? Killed by Sejanus Plinth?

"Coryo…" Sejanus begins, slowly circling him like a predator. His footsteps are slow but deliberate, his eyes never leaving Coriolanus. "That even sounds sincere, I have to admit. But I know exactly why you did it. Not because you were scared. Not because you wanted to save me." He stops just behind Coriolanus, his breath close enough to feel. "You did it for power. That’s all it’s ever been about. You’d sell anyone — anything — to keep it, wouldn’t you?"

"Does it even matter?" Coriolanus snaps. "That was years ago!"

"Years for you," Sejanus says, his voice sharp as glass. "For me, it was ten long years of torture – one-third of my life spent in tortures. And did you have a nice life during this time, huh, Coryo?”

Coriolanus pulls his phone from his pocket, fingers fumbling for control. No signal. Damn it. He taps it, shakes it, but there’s nothing. His stomach twists, cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. He needs to get out whatever it takes.

"It’s not my fault, Sejanus," he says, his eyes locked on him now, unblinking.

They stare at each other, the air between them tight.

"And this room?" Coriolanus asks quietly. "What’s it supposed to be?"

Sejanus raises an eyebrow, letting out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh. "You know, my therapist told me I should release my anger through sports. Running, boxing, all that crap." He gestures vaguely to the cross and the wall of implements. "But I discovered there are… other ways."

Coriolanus’s eyes narrow. "What do you want to do to me?"

"Relax, Coryo," Sejanus says mockingly, tilting his head. "Nothing serious." His smile sharpens into something cruel. "I just want you to taste the whip. That’s all."

"Excuse me?" Coriolanus stares at him, his jaw tightening.

"Look," Sejanus says with mock patience, like he’s explaining something obvious. "When you murdered the mayor’s daughter—"

"I didn’t do it,” Coriolanus says loudly.

"Of course. Don’t worry, this gun is a decoy. But you should have seen your face," Sejanus says with a shrug. "I didn’t turn it in during the investigation. And you know what happened because of that? I was whipped for hours. Over and over. But you wouldn’t know what that’s like, would you, Coryo?"

Sejanus steps in close, face inches from his. His voice is quieter now.

"You love punishments, don’t you?" Sejanus whispers. "You’ve always been so eager to punish the districts. So eager to watch them suffer. Which is why I believe, truly, that my dear friend, Coryo," he sneers, "has no idea what a whip actually feels like."

He leans in just a little closer, eyes locked with Coriolanus.

"Because surely," Sejanus says almost kindly, "surely you wouldn’t send people to be whipped if you knew how much it hurt."

Silence.

“I’m not doing this,” Coriolanus says coldly.

“Are you afraid? That you won’t handle a little bit of whip?” Sejanus whispers.

“I’m not afraid. I just don’t see any point in that.”

Now Sejanus stands just close enough for Coriolanus to feel his breath against his ear.

“Coward,” he whispers.

“I’m not a coward!” Coriolanus exclaims.

“Then prove it.”

“I don’t need to prove anything to you, Sejanus. Think what you want to think,” Coriolanus grits his teeth and clenches his fists. He definitely needs to get out of here, Sejanus is not in his right mind if he…

“Then I will think that you are just a pathetic coward.”

"Who cares what you think," Coriolanus snaps, almost instantly regretting letting the words slip out. "Everybody knows you’re not in your right mind." He shivers, bracing for Sejanus’s outburst, but it doesn’t come.

Instead, Sejanus grins, his eyes glinting with something that almost resembles insanity. "Crazy or not, I know a lot of things about you."

"And what do you want?" Coriolanus replies. "And don't think I don't know things about you too, Sejanus," he adds. "So maybe we should both keep each other’s secrets."

"I told you," Sejanus says, his grin widening. "I want you to taste the whip. What’s the matter? Is the great Snow so afraid of a little whip?"

His words are a deliberate provocation, and Coriolanus knows it — but his pride is still a little wounded. After all, how bad can it be?

"You can do it the easy way, or I can make you," Sejanus adds.

"How?"

"You saw my driver, didn’t you? I know a lot of people like him. And I mean, a lot."

“You’ll leave me alone if I do this?”

Sejanus nods.

“Fine. Then go ahead. Whip me if it’s something you’re dreaming so much,” Coriolanus says, stepping back. He takes off his jacket and throws it to the ground. What an absurd situation.

“Shirt too,” Sejanus says calmly.

“No way.”

“You won’t feel a thing through that fabric. So, a shirt too. And stand against this nice cross.”

“You’re not tying me up,” Coriolanus hisses.

“I’m not tying you up, relax,” Sejanus replies.

Coriolanus groans but removes his tie and starts unbuttoning his shirt, feeling his hands tremble. Is this freak getting off on this or what? He shoots Sejanus a hateful glare before stepping in front of the cross, goosebumps already crawling up his back. To be honest, he’s terrified.

He clenches his fingers around the ends of the cross.

Coriolanus hears slow, deliberate footsteps behind him. Then a sharp whoosh of air, and he jumps on instinct.

“Not a coward. Not at all,” Sejanus says with mockery.

“Let’s just get this over with, if that’s what you want so badly,” Coriolanus says.

“Oh, let me savor the moment,” Sejanus replies, voice thick with satisfaction. “I deserve it, don’t I?”

Coriolanus closes his eyes, feeling every muscle in his body tense. His breath is shallow, his heart thudding in his chest. The sound of Sejanus’s footsteps draws closer, the goosebumps on Coriolanus’s skin intensifying with every step.

Instead of the whip, he first feels the delicate touch of the fingertips on his back.

“Relax, Coryo,” Sejanus murmurs softly. “I won’t hurt you. Well, at least not permanently. If you’ve had enough, just use the safe word.”

“Safe word?” Coriolanus mutters through gritted teeth.

“Your safe word will be the truth, what do you think?” Sejanus chuckles softly, but it’s at least disturbing.

The first lash of the whip lands without warning. Coriolanus’s entire body jolts forward as a short, sharp cry escapes him. It feels like someone has dragged burning metal down his back, splitting his skin in one clean, fiery line.

The second strike is no better. It’s a searing, stinging pain that burns long after the lash itself has passed. This time, he clenches his jaw so tightly that he feels pain in his teeth. By the third lash, tears gather in his eyes.

His breath is shallow, his face flushed with humiliation. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

Sejanus moves lazily behind him, dragging the tip of the whip slowly down the center of his back.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” he asks, almost with concern, before raising the whip for another strike.

“No,” Coriolanus snaps through clenched teeth, his lips trembling. He grits his teeth so tightly that his jaw aches. Still, he’s determined to stay silent.

But when the next lash hits, a strangled cry forces its way out of his mouth.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Coriolanus gasps. He is so tempted to step away from the cross as soon as possible, but he makes himself stay. He won’t move, not until he is sure Sejanus got what he wanted from him and will not bother him anymore.

“Oh no, Coryo,” Sejanus murmurs, his voice almost sing-songy. "I want to hear the truth."

The whip lands again, and this time it’s crueler, striking the exact same spot as before. Coriolanus’s back arches in pain, and for a moment, he swears he feels blood trickling down his skin.

“The truth,” Sejanus repeats, his voice so soft it could almost be gentle. “How exactly did you betray me, hmm? What happened to Lucy Gray? And what did you do with the guns?”

“I didn’t—” Coriolanus tries to lie, biut the next lash stops him. His entire body flinches. He presses his lips together so tightly that they begin to sting. His pride is cracking.

“And why did you kiss me, Coryo?” Sejanus says. “Because we both know it happened.”

Another lash. This time, it strikes lower, brushing the top of his pants. The intimacy of it makes his skin crawl.

“Alright, alright!” Coriolanus yells. “I recorded you! I recorded you on the damn jabberjay when you confessed that idiotic plan and I sent it to Dr. Gaul, okay?!” His voice cracks with panic. “And yes, I hoped she’d be grateful, but I didn’t mean— I didn’t want to kill you, alright?! What would be the point of that? I don’t kill people…” He pauses, realizing too late what he’s said. His breath hitches in his chest. “...without purpose.”

“Good boy,” Sejanus says teasingly.

“Don’t call me that.”

Coriolanus’s shoulders shudder with rage and exhaustion. He doesn’t know what he hates more — the pain, the humiliation, or the fact that he broke so easily.

“And Lucy Gray?” Sejanus asks

“I don’t—” Coriolanus starts, but the whip hits him before he can finish. His teeth clench so hard it feels like his jaw will break.

"That’s not the safe word, Coryo,” Sejanus says flatly.

“We had… a misunderstanding,” Coriolanus says, panting heavily. His eyes are squeezed shut as he speaks. “She figured out I betrayed you. And she ran while I was in that cabin, you remember this one, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.”

“You didn’t try to find her?” he presses.

“No.”

The whip rises again.

“Not your style,” Sejanus says.

“Okay, I tried!” Coriolanus shouts. He can barely breathe. “She left a trap for me. A snake! It bit me, and I panicked. I started shooting.”

“Hmm.” Sejanus clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Fucking bastard. Shooting at a sixteen-year-old girl. Half your size.” He steps in front of him again, but Coriolanus keeps his eyes on the floor.

“And the guns you used to kill the mayor’s daughter?” Sejanus asks.

Coriolanus’s eyes flick to the ground again. He whispers, barely audible, “I found them that day. I hid them.”

“Where?”

“I’m not telling you that,” Coriolanus snaps. “And believe me, you wouldn’t find them anyway.”

“I don’t want to find them,” Sejanus replies with a small shrug. “I don’t want to punish you for that. Maybe it’s hard to call killing anyone a good thing, but back then…” Sejanus pauses, his voice taking on a strange, almost tender tone. “Back then, you didn’t do it for the wrong reasons.”

He steps forward slowly, wiping a tear from Coriolanus’s cheek with his thumb.

“Don’t touch me!” Coriolanus snarls.

“Why did you kiss me?” Sejanus asks.

Coriolanus breathes heavily, his chest rising and falling. His voice is hoarse when he replies.

“I don’t know, alright?” He squeezes his eyes shut. “Maybe to manipulate you. Maybe I knew I could. Or maybe…” He opens his eyes again, glaring at Sejanus. “Maybe I just wanted to. Maybe I felt guilty. How does it matter, Sejanus?! After all these years? Move on, for fuck’s sake! You have money, everything. Move on from all this old crap!”

Sejanus laughs, but it’s short, sharp, and void of joy. “Old crap?”

He leans in, so close that their breaths merge. Sejanus’s breath is steady, warm, and slow, while Coriolanus’s comes in short, frantic bursts.

“You stupid, sad bastard,” Sejanus says quietly. “Are you happy with the life you chose?”

“Yes,” Coriolanus mutters under his breath.

“Liar.”

Their faces are inches apart. Sejanus leans in closer, and his lips press softly against Coriolanus’s. His tongue presses forward, searching for a way in.

Coriolanus locks his jaw, his teeth pressed together like a steel trap.

But then Sejanus’s fingers brush through his hair, so softly, so gently, that Coriolanus’s resolve cracks. Nobody touches him like this. Not Livia. Not anyone.

Maybe… maybe this is the way to get Sejanus to manipulate him again. To give him the thing he wants.

He opens his mouth. Slowly. Reluctantly. He returns the kiss, moving his tongue in circles against Sejanus’s. It’s slow. Calculated. A tactic. Nothing more.

Still, it’s somehow pleasant.

Sejanus steps back, and Coriolanus can feel the shame pooling in his chest. Not only did he so willingily reciprocate the kiss, but Sejanus was the one to end it.

“You think you’re better than me?” he asks angrily. “You just tortured me!”

“Torture you?” Sejanus laughs. “Look in the mirror.”

“What?”

“Look in the mirror, Coriolanus,” Sejanus says, gently turning his head.

He does it reluctantly, feeling even more humiliated. Yet, his back bears only a few faint pink welts. Barely anything at all.

There was nothing there that should have made him scream like that. Nothing that justified him coming so close to tears.

“It’s not even a real whip. It’s just a toy. And when you order people to be whipped until they bleed, do you think it hurts them any less?” Sejanus asks with bitter mockery.

Coriolanus now tries to fix his gaze on anything beside Sejanus and the mirror.

“And maybe… look at this. What I did. For you,” he adds, slowly unbuttoning his shirt and turning his back to Coriolanus.

For a moment, Coriolanus keeps his eyes fixed on the floor, unwilling to look. But slowly, his gaze rises, falling on Sejanus’s broad shoulders.

His entire back is covered in scars.

Awful, twisted scars. Pinkish-white, long healed but still very visible. Now real pain sensation comes through Coriolanus’s whole body. They stretch from the top of his back all the way down to the base of his spine. There are dozens of them. Some thin and straight, others jagged, like whoever had done it had lost their patience.

Looking at it is at least uncomfortable, but somehow Coriolanus can’t tear his eyes away.

Sejanus turns to him with a smile, and says cheerfully, "I think the rabbit is cooked now."

Chapter Text

Present

Hating Coriolanus Snow from a distance was effortless. Sejanus Plinth had often imagined doing to him a lot of different things—like whipping him, over and over, until blood flowed, until his screams echoed through the corridors, until he begged.

Yet, hating Coriolanus up close—face to face, skin to skin, lips to lips—is far harder.

Having so much control over Coriolanus, even if only for this brief moment, was satisfying—Sejanus couldn’t deny it. Still, it didn’t look quite as good as it had in his head.

The first two lashes had been fierce, and Coriolanus’s cries of pain had rung out like the sweetest melody to Sejanus’s ears. After all, Sejanus Plinth had discovered some time ago that he had a sadistic side he hadn’t fully acknowledged before. By the third blow, something shifted. His hand faltered as he prepared to strike Coriolanus’s back again. Sejanus knew this pain—though it could never compare to the one he himself had endured. And yet, for some reason, he felt pity. Was it the shimmer of tears in those opal eyes? Or the weight of everything Coriolanus had confessed? Sejanus couldn’t be sure.

Now Coriolanus sits at the table, tense, glancing warily around as Sejanus places a plate of rabbit served with sweet potato purée and grilled vegetables in front of him. Coriolanus thanks him with that polite smile seemingly sewn into his face, but Sejanus is certain he won’t take a single bite.

How awful it must be to live like this, in constant tension, always glancing over your shoulder. The smallest sound makes this man—who speaks with such authority on television—flinch.

Sejanus knows he has a mission to complete and a role to play. His own life isn’t any better, and well, one thing certain is that Coriolanus doesn’t feel any pity for him, though he started avoiding locking eyes with Sejanus since he saw his scars. So why should Sejanus feel pity for him?

“Don’t you have servants?” Coriolanus asks when Sejanus brings his own portion to the table. This question is supposed to be innocent, like little small talk, but Sejanus knows that Coriolanus is simply afraid to be with him alone.

“They come twice a week to clean, but generally—no. I live on my own,” he explains casually, taking a seat next to him—just a little too close, though the table is enormous. Coriolanus stiffens even more. “But I have a lot of bodyguards, you know,” Sejanus adds.

The fact that Coriolanus Snow fears him is even flattering, because in the past Coriolanus had always perceived him as weak. Though Sejanus never wanted to be feared. He wanted to be loved. Or maybe at least liked.

“You know… These scars… Sejanus, I didn’t know they did something like that to you. I’m sorry,” Coriolanus says at the edge of audibility, finally glancing at him with these opal eyes.

It even sounds sincere, but with Coriolanus, you can never know.

“Does it make a difference if they treat me like that or someone else?” Sejanus asks, pouring water into two glasses. His claim about not drinking alcohol was a lie. He does drink—sometimes too much, sometimes mixing it with calming pills—but in front of Coriolanus, Sejanus doesn’t want anything clouding his mind. “Whipping is a pretty popular punishment among districts.”

Strabo didn’t drink; in his entire life, Sejanus had never once seen his father tipsy. But Sejanus is nothing like his father, who, before he fell ill, got up every day at five in the morning and worked tirelessly his whole life. He lacks his father’s strength of character—he knows it. Perhaps Strabo should be grateful for that, because under other circumstances, his final days might have been very different. But Sejanus never wanted revenge on his father. Coriolanus Snow, however, is another story.

Sejanus blinks nervously and sips water with his meal, hearing how loudly he swallows. This noise irritates him.

If Sejanus hadn’t felt like a madman before his time at the facility, he certainly does now. There are only fleeting moments when he completely loses control, when anger courses through his body like a venomous tide. Sometimes it lasts no longer than three blinks of an eye, but in those moments, Sejanus feels as if he could kill someone with his bare hands.

“But you’re a citizen of the Capitol,” Coriolanus says politely, and Sejanus feels this anger right now. He wonders if Coriolanus is only provoking him. On one hand, Coriolanus seems terrified of him, but Sejanus suspects his outbursts give Coriolanus some twisted satisfaction.

“No, I’m not,” Sejanus replies calmly and notices a subtle eye roll from Coriolanus. “Why aren’t you eating?”

“Oh well, my stomach…”

“I’m not trying to poison you. I’m not you,” Sejanus cuts him off and with satisfaction observes how Coriolanus swallows hard.

Soon, he laughs fakely. “Sejanus, what are you…”

“Please,” a hint of irritation appears in Sejanus’s voice, “if we’re going to talk like a couple of imbeciles, where is this going to lead us? That scene on the stairs was worse than Flickerman’s jokes. And you know, I cleaned up the glass while you were in the bathroom? But I didn't throw away everything. I will give a sample to check what was there,” he says, though Sejanus doesn’t care too much what Coriolanus wanted to use to kill him.

“Sejanus, stop it. I know you have reasons to doubt me,” he continues with feigned amusement, though Sejanus notices drops of sweat forming on his forehead. “But I only wanted to be nice. Unfortunately, it just so happens that you don’t drink, but the wine is exquisite. And you could have called me—I would have helped you clean up.”

“Stop lying to me.”

“I’m not lying.”

Sejanus hums and tries to count to five, but his fists instinctively slam against the table with such force that the plates jump—and so does Coriolanus.

“Stop fucking lying to me, all right?! Do you think I’m dumb? You tried to poison me—have the courage to admit it at least! And if you don’t tell me now, I’ll find out anyway what shit you put into that bottle. Do you think I can’t afford to have that sample tested?”

Coriolanus watches him closely. “Sejanus… Calm down. It wasn't poison. It was only…” he lowers his voice, “LSD, relax,” he says slowly.

“LSD?” Sejanus asks, puzzled.

“They’re doing drug tests in the Parliament,” Coriolanus admits and even seems to be embarrassed.

Sejanus shakes his head and snorts, “Unbelievable.”

“What, Sejanus? You barge into my office, almost blackmailing me—what do you expect from me? I have a life. A career. It can’t be ruined,” Coriolanus says, adjusting his tie.

“I expect that you want to sabotage me before I even have a chance to start my career. There are exactly the things friends are doing,” Sejanus replies sarcastically.

“Friends aren’t blackmailing each other,” Coriolanus huffs.

“You were the one that invited me to the meeting. And I told you I haven’t blackmailed you—yet,” Sejanus says. “Now the only thing is I just expect you to eat dinner with me,” he adds. But when Coriolanus doesn’t touch his utensils, he adds with a smirk, “You’re welcome to my plate, if that would ease your mind. I haven't touched it yet.”

Coriolanus stops smiling, his face suddenly deadly serious, and even his voice changes into something way darker when he says, “This could have been your plan from the beginning, couldn’t it? So your portion can be poisoned as well.”

Sejanus rolls his eyes but then exclaims, “Churro!” He sticks his own fork into Coriolanus’s plate and throws the piece of rabbit on the floor. The same he does with his own portion. Churro eats it within seconds, wagging his tail.

“Not all poisons work immediately,” Coriolanus notes.

“Oh, who’s the crazy one here?” Sejanus asks. “I wouldn’t poison my own dog. He is like… family to me,” he says with tenderness, patting Churro on the head. For a few years, this dog was the only constant creature in his life. He and his Ma.

The silence is heavy as they stare each other down, Sejanus forcing himself not to blink, as if they were waging a battle with their eyes.

“Fine,” Coriolanus says with exaggerated emphasis. After a few moments of hesitation, he finally takes a bite of the rabbit, then the next one. “Exquisite. But hunting? That seems quite brutal for someone like you.”

Someone like him. So Coriolanus still keeps this image in his head. To Sejanus, this is even amusing. Maybe it’s good, so he can disappoint himself.

“Something like me?”

“I mean pacifist.”

“This rabbit was injured anyway,” Sejanus replies. “I just ended its suffering.”

Coriolanus takes another bite, chewing slowly. Sejanus watches him more closely now. His forehead is unnaturally smooth—Botox is quite popular in the Capitol. His lips seem slightly fuller than Sejanus remembers, plumper and more defined. But his jawline remains as striking as ever, unchanged. High cheekbones, and perfectly pale skin. Still, after all these years, Coriolanus Snow is the most handsome man Sejanus has ever seen.

Coriolanus looks up, their eyes meeting. He even smiles—weakly, but with a touch of sincerity. “Sejanus, what do you want from me? Really?”

“Oh, I’ve always wanted one thing. Remember?”

“What exactly?”

“For the Hunger Games to be stopped.”

Coriolanus immediately cackles and this sound is unpleasant. “Sejanus… The Hunger Games to be stopped? I don’t know what you think, but even if I wanted to I can’t stop them. I don’t have so much power.”

Sejanus smiles, “I think you underestimate yourself. You have all the power to stop it, Coryo.”

Coriolanus sighs and buries his face in his hands. “No, I don’t have, and…” he looks directly at Sejanus, “tell me, why would I do it?”

“You didn’t ever like them either,” Sejanus says and he feels the old him speaking. Naively, foolishly, hopefully. For the moment he even sees this face of Coriolanus, an eight-year-old, tiny boy who had never bullied him, who had never been cruel to anyone.

“It’s not about the Hunger Games!” Coriolanus says with visible irritation, “You still don’t understand it after all these years, do you? It’s about control. That’s all, Sejanus. Not the Hunger Games, it would be something else. It might be something far worse.”

“Worse? There is something worse than murdering children?” Sejanus asks.

“It always can be worse.”

“I don’t think so,” Sejanus cuts him off. “And you have all the measures to stop it. You’re the one making it so entertaining.”

Coriolanus looks at him, now with hostility.

“I’m continuing tradition. And tell me why would I do it and how?”

“Oh, I will tell you. Don’t worry. But now let’s finish the dinner,” Sejanus replies enigmatically.

Coriolanus now seems to be lost in the thought. “How did you even graduate… They didn't confiscate your diploma from the Academy?” he asks carefully.

“No.”

***

Past

"I don’t know if I can release these items to you, Mr. Plinth," Dr. Thallus Veyne said, watching Sejanus from behind his thick glasses. "You were accused of a serious crime," he added.

The visit to this facility was unavoidable, and although Sejanus was dressed in his most expensive suit, with his own bodyguard standing behind him, he still couldn’t shake the feeling that at any moment, someone might come and restrain him again.

"I understand, sir," Sejanus replied with a strained smile. "But I thought this visit to the facility was supposed to... rehabilitate my mind. So, now that I’m free, doesn’t that mean I’ve changed? That I’m ready to return to society?”

“You should be able to answer these questions, Mr. Plinth.”

“So are you saying your therapy isn’t as effective as you claim?"

Dr. Veyne leaned closer over his desk, folding his hands.

"Oh, therapy is very effective. Sometimes, it’s just the material that’s resistant. And well… The Academy is a very prestigious school. I’m not quite sure if you, Mr. Plinth, with all due respect, should have this diploma."

Sejanus knew the only obstacle was this man’s stubbornness. Dr. Gaul was dead. To begin his studies, he needed the Academy diploma. After numerous attempts to locate it—searching at his former school and even contacting the Peacekeepers’ base—he discovered that all his personal belongings were being stored at the psychiatric hospital.

Sejanus sighed and pulled out a check. Without a word, he quickly wrote down a sum and slid it across the desk toward Dr. Veyne.

The man glanced at him briefly, and smiled. Sejanus knew he was even too generous.

"I think we can work something out."

At that moment, Sejanus thought that this must have been how his father learned to navigate the world. The blacksmith’s son from District 2, who managed to bribe everyone he only wanted in the Capitol.

And, as it turned out, it was usually very simple. People were greedy.

Dr. Veyne handed over all of Sejanus's belongings. A few months later, he had an accident. According to the newspapers, his car mysteriously exploded in the hospital parking lot. The fact that, in the meantime, Sejanus had gotten to know his driver was, of course, purely coincidental.

But that day Sejanus Plinth left the psychiatric hospital with a box of belongings in his hands. There was not only the Academy's diploma, but also photographs with his parents, and pictures with classmates from District 2.

But the most mysterious item was a cassette. The title was enigmatic: “The Confession of Sejanus Plinth about the Rebellion.”

Sejanus already knew what he would hear, but he clung to a sliver of hope. At home, with trembling hands, he played the tape and listened to his own voice. It struck him deeply—not drastically different, just slightly higher-pitched—but undeniably belonging to someone he no longer was. Someone naive. Someone who believed too easily. Someone who still had hope.

Sejanus played the tape over and over again.

They were the exact words he had said to Coriolanus Snow ten years ago.

That night, he cried himself to sleep.

The next day, he bought a dog.

***

Present

They finish eating, and Sejanus occasionally feels the gaze of those piercing eyes on him. Coriolanus doesn’t say anything right away, as if he’s pondering something, though the silence is starting to feel awkward. Not that it bothers Sejanus—he’s spent long hours in silence during therapy.

“Sejanus,” Coriolanus’s voice turns sweetly friendly, “you’ve had quite a rough ten years, haven’t you? Why do you want to put yourself through even more trouble?”

“Trouble?” Sejanus echoes bluntly.

“Trouble,” Coriolanus confirms smoothly, leaning back slightly from the table. “I’ve always admired your passion—your conviction to stop the Hunger Games. Truly, I wished you success in that noble cause.” He pauses, letting the false sincerity linger before adding with a faint smile, “But… you must understand. The Hunger Games are an institution, a cornerstone of Capitol culture and politics. Fighting against it is not only futile—it’s reckless.”

Sejanus’s eyes narrow, but Coriolanus continues.

“Perhaps a political career isn’t quite the right fit for you,” Coriolanus says. “Have you considered devoting more time to your Ma? Family is so important, don’t you think? Especially after wasting so many years… And look, there’s no reason we can’t have lunch together now and then, share a little talk. But Parliament…” He shrugs delicately, his smile sharpening. “It’s simply not the place for people like you.”

People like you. Sejanus again feels overwhelming anger.

“What do you mean it isn’t the place for me? It's the place just for you?” he asks, trying to sound calm.

Coriolanus doesn’t allow his polite smile ever to falter. “What I mean is,” he continues, “there isn’t a single person in Parliament who opposes the Hunger Games. Not one.”

Oh, how clueless he is.

***

Past

Propaganda was something very familiar to Sejanus Plinth. Ever since he crossed the threshold of the Academy at the age of eight, he had to accept that he would never be fully embraced as one of them. The bullying persisted for years, but he usually kept silent about it. The atmosphere at home was tense enough, as his Ma had never reconciled with the move to the Capitol. Yet, when Strabo once saw a bruise on Sejanus’s head, the bullying mysteriously stopped. Almost everyone ignored him after that, but Coriolanus Snow had always been simply polite to him, and Sejanus couldn’t recall a single time when Coriolanus would be even slightly mean to him. Back then he interpreted it as a hint of sympathy.

The curriculum was vastly different from that in the districts, and the level of knowledge required was higher. Still, his father ensured that Sejanus had the best tutors, so he eventually became one of the top students. Not that he had many other tasks besides studying. He particularly liked biology—a science grounded in facts and the laws of nature, objective and impartial.

In many other subjects, still, there were frequent claims that erudition was one of the traits that set Capitol citizens apart from those in the districts. It was only during Panem History classes that Sejanus spoke up too often and too irreverently, questioning every other sentence in the textbook. This didn’t win him much sympathy from his classmates, not that he had much to begin with. Even Coriolanus once told him after class that Sejanus should stop doing this.

Yet, Dean Casca Highbottom, who taught those classes, somehow never called Sejanus’s father to the school.

Agrippina Sickle, a professor, and the gymnasium mistress, was even kind to him. Once, after a class where Sejanus was left unpicked during team selections, she consoled him. She made a speech to the boys, sending Sejanus to the storage room, and after class, she made him chamomile tea when tears were embarrassingly trying to escape his eyes. When he was fifteen, she chose him to be her student aide.

She was always strict and demanding, often having him carry equipment as the “strong boy from the districts,” but Sejanus believed she cared for him. She even resembled Ma's sister a little bit. Even though she had him take class photos Sejanus interpreted it as an attempt to spare him from further humiliation, because who would want to stand next to him. Sometimes, she remarked to him about his overly elegant clothes at every school event, though it wasn’t like Sejanus had much choice in the matter. He wore what his father instructed him to wear.

Sejanus wanted to see her as someone kind. It wasn’t until years later, when she refused to release his diploma without the construction of a new gymnasium, that Sejanus realized why she had likely taken an interest in him. She didn’t feel pity for him, she didn’t like him, maybe she even despised him. It was because of his father’s wealth.

Yet, his studies in political science and diplomacy showed him he didn’t yet know what real propaganda was.

Ma was against it. “Sejanus, why do you need this?” she asked quietly. “I don’t want anyone to hurt you. I won’t survive if they take you away from me again.” But he reassured her that this time, no one would hurt him.

Every subject, every book he read felt like a slap in the face. Still, Sejanus had no intention of openly revealing his views. He decided to enroll as a full-time student, which likely made him look ridiculous to others, because he was visibly older, and showing up on campus every day in a suit, with the nervous tic that worsened whenever he was stressed. Once, however, when he overheard a student mocking him in the hallway, he walked straight up to him, looked him in the eye, and asked him to repeat it. From that moment on, no one dared laugh at him. Well, at least openly.

Sejanus finally understood why people in the Capitol were in this way. After all, they were taught complete nonsense, presented as the absolute truth. In Political Ethics, they discussed how a crime like the Dark Days must be punished, how the districts were devoid of human rights because they were too stupid to understand them, portrayed as the missing link between humans and apes. In Diplomacy, they were taught how to speak to people from the districts—using simple sentences and avoiding any real meaning in them. Of course, in Panem History, the story was told entirely from one side: how the ungrateful districts turned against the Capitol because they wanted more, and now they were paying the price.

As an elective, he chose District History, taught by an ignorant woman who claimed the districts had no developed industry and no culture. Besides Sejanus, three other people were attending these classes, and usually were sleeping.

Sejanus sat and listened, his leg bouncing nervously every time, but he remained silent. Sometimes, he dug his nails painfully into his skin; other times, he took calming pills before class. But he remained silent. For three years, he didn’t reveal his true views and consistently earned the best grades of his year.

On weekends, he often spent his time wasting his father's fortune in gay clubs on the Capitol grounds. Once he went to a rather unconventional party, where he observed people on leashes, dressed in leather, and wielding whips. Initially shy, Sejanus left almost immediately, but a few weeks later curiosity drew him back. A quiet young man approached him and asked if he would flog him, to which Sejanus agreed. He hesitated at first, handcuffing the man and throwing the first blows, but hearing his moans of pleasure emboldened Sejanus, awakening something completely unexpected in him.

He discovered it also helped with the anger. Yet, getting to know a few men he wasn’t ever particularly keen on developing anything deeper.

Sejanus wrote his bachelor’s thesis under the supervision of the future Secretary of the Treasury and Resources, Quintus Draven, a professor of International Relations Theory. Sejanus had never excelled in writing, but this time, he decided to pour his full effort into it. He chose an analysis of the socio-political functions of the Hunger Games as his topic. He presented all the known history of the districts, described every Hunger Games—including the tenth, which had been erased from official records—and drew on all the philosophies he could find to argue how unethical this punishment truly was.

The dominant philosophy in Panem was the concept that the nation should be ruled by an exceptional individual, a superman, who was responsible for the greater good. According to this philosophy, people were divided into two categories—supermen and subhumans. The subhumans, of course, were all those from the districts, viewed as a primitive state of society, while the supermen were the citizens born in the Capitol. The natural state of society was assumed to be one in which, under the right conditions, people were cruel and capable of anything.

Sejanus turned to books that were unread in the Capitol—to Greek philosophers and their concepts of an ideal state based on democracy and virtue. From a biological standpoint, as he aimed to prove, people from the districts and the Capitol were no different from one another. It was upbringing and life conditions that shaped them, and his family was the best example of this.

The Capitol, as Sejanus claimed, had created an artificial construct—the Hunger Games—in which people, placed in conditions that would never naturally occur, were forced to fight for survival and revert to their primitive instincts. But many of the tributes didn’t even try to fight—some helped each other—which contradicted the theory that all people from the districts were naturally cruel.

The Capitol also created a situation in which violence and authoritarianism gradually led to societal rebellion, and the alternative to this was the creation of a harmonious society where the districts and the Capitol could coexist peacefully.

His thesis was one hundred and fifty pages long, and by the end of writing it, he felt like he lost his mind.

Quintus Draven called him the day after he received Sejanus’s thesis and asked him to stay after his lecture. Sejanus knew he would probably be expelled. Still, he hadn’t expressed his own opinion directly, so he could argue that it wasn’t right.

“You wrote this yourself, Mr. Plinth?” Quintus asked.

Sejanus nodded.

“We need to talk. But not… here. Come to my place. Today,” Quintus said, writing an address on a piece of paper and handing it to him.

That evening, Sejanus, accompanied by a large bodyguard, headed to the address in the limousine. Still, he has to come inside alone.

Quintus invited him into his enormous living room and offered him a cognac, but Sejanus declined. Quintus poured himself a glass and stared at him intently for a moment before finally speaking.

“Has anyone else seen this thesis?”

“No,” Sejanus replied.

“You can’t submit it, Mr. Plinth,” Quintus said.

Sejanus looked aside.

“Is it bad?” he asked quietly.

“No,” Quintus sighed loudly, “It’s the most brilliant work I’ve read in my twenty-year career at the university,” he said. “But… Do you truly believe what you wrote?”

Sejanus nodded. Maybe there were microphones here, maybe it was a setup. He wouldn’t fall for old tricks again.

“I looked into your case. You were in a psychiatric hospital, weren’t you? For ten years? For rebel activity?” Quintus asked delicately.

Another reluctant nod.

“You were lucky. I know people who fared worse. My brother was one of them. He was… made into an Avox,” Quintus said. “But you need to be more careful. Don’t reveal your views so openly again. You’ll write a thesis on another topic,” Quintus said. “But I’ll arrange an internship for you at my office. I know you probably don’t need to work, but the experience will be useful if you ever want to help with something.”

“With what?” Sejanus asked in a hollow voice.

“You were in the same year at the Academy as Coriolanus Snow? You were together in District 12?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think of your old companion?”

Sejanus felt his jaw clench involuntarily. “What can you think of someone who betrayed you, sir?” he asked quietly. “I’m disgusted by… The things he is doing.”

“You put it very delicately, Mr. Plinth,” Quintus said, leaning forward. “He’s a dangerous madman who needs to be stopped. Before it’s too late.”

***

Strabo Plinth used to say that Sejanus was the only idealist and pacifist in the entire Capitol. Yet, he was wrong.

Quintus Draven didn’t fully trust Sejanus, and Sejanus didn’t completely trust him either. So, he commissioned the creation of a small device, nearly invisible and no larger than the width of a fingernail, yet capable of recording hours of conversations. It cost him a fortune, but he decided to record every single meeting.

After submitting his bachelor’s thesis—not particularly remarkable, on the topic of import and export of goods from the districts—Sejanus began his master’s studies while simultaneously interning at Quintus Draven’s office. Soon, he started meeting more and more people, though usually was serving them coffee, which had to look truly comical. Nero Falk, the party leader of the Alliance for Prosperity, was always attempting to introduce new regulations for the Hunger Games. The party had no more than twenty members, but, as Quintus explained, each one opposed the Hunger Games and Coriolanus Snow. Then there was Caelina Heavensbee, the campaign manager for a presidential candidate who claimed to be a serious challenger to Coriolanus Snow in the next election. Still, Sejanus never heard about Fabius Lorne.

In Quintus’s office, countless faces came and went. Watching this, for the first time in his life, Sejanus felt that perhaps there wasn’t something inherently wrong with him. There were others who didn’t agree on this. There weren't a hundred of them, but a lot of influential people wanted to make the change he always was craving for.

A few months after completing his master’s degree, he was finally invited to one of their gatherings, under the guise of a charity ball at one of the Capitol’s estates on the outskirts of the city. Like at every such event his father had dragged him to in the past, Sejanus felt awkward. Grabbing a glass of champagne, he downed it almost in one gulp, glancing around to see if anyone noticed.

They began to speak. Quintus Draven was first, thanking everybody for coming and saying they have a common purpose.

“The Hunger Games,” he said, “need to end. More than five hundred lives have been lost. And we cannot allow Coriolanus Snow to ever become president. Let me introduce his opponent in the next election, Fabius Lorne.”

A man of about fifty walked onto the stage, and Sejanus quickly assessed that he didn’t seem particularly likely to stand a chance against Coriolanus in the Capitol. He was short, with fiery red hair and a freckled face.

But they spoke, one after another. Their conclusion was clear: Coriolanus Snow was unstable, and power in his hands was dangerous.

What caught Sejanus’s attention most was a man with black hair and emerald-green eyes, the only person here besides him who appeared to be under fifty. He stepped onto the stage dressed entirely in black, with his hands tucked into his pockets.

“Yago Trivane,” he introduced himself.

“Coriolanus Snow is planning something special for the twenty-fifth Hunger Games. The last Games didn’t generate the expected profits, and he’s quite desperate. If you ask me, I think he’ll set himself up for failure in the coming months.”

Nero Falk then stepped onto the stage and began his speech, explaining how his party was working to divert attention from the critical issues Coriolanus Snow was leveraging. He warned everyone how important it was to avoid eating or drinking anything at events where Coriolanus Snow was present.

A few weeks later, Nero Falk was dead.

Sejanus wanted to get some fresh air—-somehow he felt where all of this was heading, and it was simple. They didn’t just want to stop the Hunger Games. They probably wanted to execute Coriolanus, and this thought was somehow painful for him. Inhaling the frosty air deeply into his lungs, he noticed Yago Trivane out of the corner of his eye, smoking a cigarette.

They glanced at each other, and maybe Sejanus looked for too long, because the man smiled at him.

“I see you here for the first time,” he said.

“Oh, yes. I… I’m Sejanus Plinth, and I’m… Quintus Draven’s assistant. Or something like that.”

“And I’m Coriolanus Snow’s assistant. Or something like that,” Yago replied, observing Sejanus’s expression, likely with amusement. “You know how the saying goes: ‘Keep your enemies close,’” he said with a wink. “But the number of these kinds of meetings I have to attend is terrifyingly large. Sometimes I’m afraid I’ll mix them up—whether it’s the one where I love Coriolanus Snow or the one where I hate him.”

Sejanus laughed briefly, because it was probably supposed to be a joke. He leaned against the wall and began staring at his shoes.

Coriolanus deserved to die, he thought to himself. He shouldn’t feel any sorrow about it, but he felt like crying.

“That must be hard,” Sejanus replied blankly.

“Cigarette?”

“Why not.”

They exchanged a few sentences, and Yago finally invited him out for a beer or two. Sejanus suggested a gay bar, as he didn’t know any others, and Yago didn’t seem to protest. Besides, the dimly lit space, with tables spaced far apart, was conducive to secrecy.

“So, how did it happen that you… you know…” Sejanus asked quietly. “Started working for Coriolanus?”

“No. I’ve been here from the beginning. I’m Quintus’s protégé—well, nephew—but Coriolanus doesn’t know about it. They created me… a fake identity. That I come from the old Trivane family. Such a family doesn’t exist, to be clear,” he replied. “So Coriolanus was more than willing to hire me as a Gamemaker.”

Sejanus nodded and stared at the bottom of his glass. “You know… I knew him… before. We were classmates,” he said quietly.

“Classmates?”

“Yes, in the Academy.”

“Oh, the Academy. I just went to a regular roadside high school in the Capitol. I wasn’t worthy of the Academy.”

“Me neither, to be honest… I’m from District 2.”

“From District 2? No way!” Yago seemed intrigued.

“Yes, my father… bought us our way here.”

“Incredible. And very rare.”

Sejanus nodded. For all his life he wished his father didn’t do it.

“And did you like each other? You and Snow?”

“I think so,” Sejanus said.

“How was he?” Yago asked.

“Nice… He was one of the few who was really nice to me. We were even kind of friends,” Sejanus said. “But he…” he took a deep breath, “It’s a long story, but we were both Peacekeepers in District 12 for a few weeks…”

“Peacekeepers? How?”

“It was our punishment for the 10th Hunger Games. I went out to the arena…”

“You did what?” Yago now seemed even more intrigued.

“I was the mentor of my classmate from District 2, he tried to run away, and they were very brutal… They didn’t simply kill him. They allowed him to suffer at the arena, and well, I didn’t like it. I went out to the arena to take his body… And perform a ceremony for him.”

“Oh, you have balls. You were lucky they didn’t execute you,” Yago said, taking a sip of beer. “And what did Snow do?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Sejanus said, not knowing why, but somehow he didn’t want to tell him Coriolanus’s secrets. Not yet. “Anyway, in District 12 I was sneaking around with rebels, and he recorded my confession and sent it to Volumnia Gaul.”

“Shut up, what a fucking scumbag!”

“Yeah.”

Yago sprawled out more on the chair.

“So, you’d probably be perfect for extracting some information from him. I’m trying… and it’s useless. I even started an affair with his wife.”

Livia Cardew. Sejanus had heard about her from his Ma. It seemed ridiculous that they had gotten married.

“And let me tell you, I’ve never seen such a shallow person in my life. And she’s… clueless. Imagine being with him and being completely clueless? She doesn’t care that he’s poisoning people, that he’s organizing the Hunger Games… But let me tell you, the worst part is, sometimes you can actually like him. And that’s the worst, he can be really charming,” he said. “But her? Absolute nightmare. Although… she’s quite pretty,” Yago added.

Sejanus could imagine being that clueless, but he gave Yago a weak smile.

“What kind of information are you looking for?” Sejanus asked.

“That he’s poisoning everyone—that’s what we need most. I mean, the fact that he’s organizing the Hunger Games… He has the right to do so. But poisoning? He wouldn’t get away with that. Another route is proving that he’s unstable. That’s also an option, and I’ll tell you, I’m starting to believe it. Because the stuff he’s pulling with the 25th Hunger Games… The president had to chew him out because the last ones were such a disaster. But he’s already pestering us about it now, even though the 24th just ended.”

They kept talking and talking, and out of nowhere, Sejanus realized that Yago was holding his knee, and with each beer, he grew more touchy. Finally, he leaned his face so close to Sejanus’s that there was no longer any doubt about what he wanted, wrapping a finger around one of Sejanus’s curls.

“Your place or mine?” he asked.

Sejanus swallowed hard. It was about time he finally decided to buy his own house because still living with his Ma, who made him sandwiches and tea every morning, felt a little ridiculous at his age. But he laughed awkwardly and said he simply lived far away, feeling his erection grow in his pants at the mere thought of doing anything with this man.

Yago lived in a relatively small apartment on Corso, and Sejanus didn’t even know what to do when he crossed the threshold, but he didn’t have to think for long. Yago pushed him against the wall, kissing his neck and unbuttoning his shirt.

“You’re… really fucking hot,” he panted, slowly working his way downward.

Sejanus gasped when Yago went down on him, wrapping his mouth around his cock. But it didn’t last long, because Yago got up and walked slowly to the bathroom. When he returned, Sejanus noticed condoms and lube in his hands, but this time it was Sejanus who was thrown onto the couch.

“You know, I like men,” Yago purred into his ear, “but I always have to be on top.”

Well, Sejanus wasn’t used to that, but feeling Yago’s fingers inside him, he didn’t protest, though he still was tense.

Yago leaned over and whispered, “Relax,” giving a Sejanus firm swat on his backside.

Something with his confidence was different, and soon Sejanus was moaning loudly, feeling his dick inside.

Sejanus closed his eyes, allowing himself to surrender to the moment, but somewhere in the back of his mind, was unease.

Was this just another attempt to get closer to Coriolanus Snow?

***

Present

Sejanus knows that now it’s the most important part of the show that he can’t spoil.

“Would you like a piece of cake? I have a chocolate one from my Ma. I can make us coffee,” he asks.

“Why not,” Coriolanus shrugs.

“I can even pack you a piece for your lovely wife,” Sejanus says, rising from the table.

“It would be very nice,” Coriolanus replies.

Sejanus, heading to the kitchen, breathes heavily. He has to manage to do it.

Blackmail.

His hands are shaking so much that, while cutting a slice of cake, he almost cuts himself with the knife. He makes two weak coffees in his espresso machine—a true marvel of technology—and places everything on a tray that trembles in his unsteady grip. This won’t do, Sejanus thinks. He needs to stay composed. He has to be the one in control. Managing to calm his trembling slightly, he steps into the room with a smile, though his stomach churns inside.

“This looks delicious,” Coriolanus comments, and this time, he doesn’t sound so reluctant. He even seems relaxed, loosening his belt by one notch.

“You have all the means, Coriolanus,” Sejanus says.

“To do what?”

“To stop the Hunger Games.”

“Oh, not this again,” Coriolanus grimaces, “The problem is… Sorry to disappoint you, Sejanus, but I don’t really want to,” he says, putting the cake in his mouth. “It’s the cornerstone of my whole career. Though I’ll admit, it’s starting to feel… tedious. But vote for me in the next presidential election, and I promise I’ll consider suspending them,” he adds in a blatantly fake tone.

Coriolanus Snow as President of Panem. A madman with that kind of power. It cannot happen—not even if Sejanus has to strangle him with his bare hands to prevent it.

“The problem, Coriolanus,” Sejanus says, “is that I’m afraid you don’t have a choice. I expect you not to veto my party’s bills. I expect you to ensure that the next Hunger Games is a complete failure.”

Coriolanus smiles maliciously. “Okay, and why would I do that, Sejanus?”

“Because,” Sejanus blinks nervously, “I know a few things about you that could ruin your political career—or even your life. Revenge is tempting, but today isn’t about that,” he says quietly.

Coriolanus sniggers loudly, now it even sounds like he is truly amused. “Sorry to disappoint you, but you… I could even file criminal charges after that whipping, get a full examination…”

“Good luck,” Sejanus replies with a smirk. “Do you want a ride to police station?”

“But let’s say I forgive you your little games. Still… You have no proof for anything,” Coriolanus says at the edge of audibility.

But now comes the best part of the show.

“You see, I take inspiration from the best,” Sejanus says, “so let’s just say that during all those things you screamed while I was whipping you… Oh well…” he says, watching panic grow on Coriolanus’s face. “Funny how conversations can linger, especially ones with… inconvenient truths. And recorded ones.”

“You wouldn’t dare…”

"You’re clever, Coryo. I’m sure you’ve already guessed what would happen if this conversation left this room. Didn’t you also suggest that you kill people when you have a purpose?"

Coriolanus stares at him, now breathing heavily. His eyes dart to his plate, maybe searching for a knife to attack Sejanus, but Sejanus knows Coriolanus isn’t a real threat to him, at least a physical one. He is still a lot smaller than him. At the table, there are no weapons. Only spoons and forks.

“And what’s more, Coriolanus, even if in this bottle it was only LSD, you tried to intoxicate me. I saved the broken bottle all covered with your fingerprints. Don’t you think that if I take this to the authorities, the ethics committee won’t take a closer look at those past deaths? Maybe even order a new autopsy for fellow politicians that passed away in such mysterious circumstances?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Coriolanus says smoothly, though the tightening of his grip on the spoon betrays him.

“Oh, you know, you know, you fucking bastard,” Sejanus growls as his finger trails down Coriolanus’s face. Coriolanus jerks back, trying to push him away, but Sejanus’s fingers pause near his wrist before withdrawing—lingering just long enough to remind Coriolanus that he could hold him there if he wanted to. “But you know what?” Sejanus continues, his voice softening into a purr. “Just listen to me, and everything will be good.”

“Good?”

“I can give you a lot of pleasure…” now Sejanus says teasingly. “I noticed you quite enjoyed our kiss.”

Sejanus hates himself for the thought that the feeling of Coriolanus's lips on his own is probably the most pleasant seconds he has experienced in so long.

Coriolanus shakes his head. “What pleasure do you think you can give me, you psycho?” he hisses.

Sejanus smiles. Coriolanus doesn’t understand that in this twisted way, Sejanus is trying to do nothing else but save his life.

“It’s your choice. But choices have consequences. You’ve always been so good at making the right ones.”

“Are you threatening me?” Coriolanus asks coldly. “I’m not… afraid of you, Sejanus.”

“Not afraid of me? Good. I don’t want you to be afraid. Though I know a lot of people you would be very afraid of, Coryo… But I’d rather handle it myself. You’ve seen my room, haven’t you?” Sejanus says, leaning so close to him that he feels his nervous breath on his cheek, but when he hears nothing, he adds, “I’m waiting for an answer.”

Coriolanus nods reluctantly.

“Imagine what could be done with all that… potential.”

Coriolanus squeezes his eyes shut.

“Sejanus, please, be serious. I didn’t do anything bad to you! Remember I… Saved your life? Why do you want to ruin mine?” he says, blinking away tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.

“Oh, ruin? Coryo, what are you talking about?” Sejanus asks softly. “We can have a lot of fun together,” he says, now lazily brushing his finger through Coriolanus’s hair, and he can sense how Coriolanus flinches.

“Fun?” Coriolanus asks weakly.

“Fun. Think about it…” Sejanus says with tenderness, “Now you can relax and finally give control to someone else.”

Before Coriolanus can respond, Sejanus presses his lips firmly to his. Sejanus senses Coriolanus stiffening momentarily, and this time he doesn’t open his mouth. His lips are so soft, slightly sweet from the chocolate cake. Coriolanus tries to pull away, but Sejanus doesn’t let go. Not yet, not even when he feels Coriolanus finally hit him on his shoulder.

When Sejanus leans back, Coriolanus, breathing heavily, spits out through gritted teeth, “What the fuck are you doing?”

But Sejanus doesn’t care about his words. With a smile on his lips, he replies, “See? Not so bad, is it?”

Chapter Text

Tigris Snow isn’t beautiful, and she knows about it very well.

She is kind. Nice. Polite.

But never beautiful.

And she never was. It was always Coriolanus, her cousin, who drew attention during their childhood. When she and Coriolanus accompanied Grandma’am on those absurd walks through the ruins of the city, offering polite smiles and bowing—she in her pink ball gown, he in his little suit and tie—people often stopped. “What a beautiful boy,” they would say. And then, almost as an afterthought, “And a nice girl,” barely sparing her a glance.

In truth, Tigris and Coriolanus have always been somewhat similar in appearance, but everything that makes his face beautiful doesn’t add any charm to hers. A nose that is too long and slightly pointed. Lips that aren’t quite full enough. A very thin, delicate face with high cheekbones, androgenic like she heard once. A forehead that is just a bit too high. Eyebrows and eyelashes are so absurdly pale—Coriolanus’s are slightly darker, making his face seem far less plain.

She tries to do something with her look. She covers her face with so many layers of makeup that she no longer looks like herself. She’s already had her Bichat fat pads removed in a clinic. She’s plumped her lips. She lifted the outer corners of her eyes.

All in vain.

When Tigris looks at her own face in the mirror, she sees a monster. So, she has been avoiding them since childhood. It’s challenging when working in a fashion house, but not impossible. All it takes is squinting slightly, focusing elsewhere, and her face becomes a blur.

“You’re so pretty, Mommy,” Lilianna keeps repeating whenever she sees Tigris applying makeup. Tigris wonders how long it will take for her daughter to grow up and realize that it’s not true.

Tigris’s body isn’t particularly attractive. Coriolanus somehow grew out of the effects of hunger. He could, of course, be taller, but he looks fine—he’s filled out a bit. But Tigris? Just skin and bones. And she doesn’t really want to change that, because during pregnancy, when she gained weight, she noticed that her body didn’t look more attractive once it had more fat. It’s better to stay starved. She has adorned her body with tattoos—spots on her skin resembling tiger stripes, covering her ribs. Her husband probably doesn’t like her modifications, but he doesn’t say much about it. “Whatever makes you happy,” he keeps saying. Tigris, however, fears that no such thing exists.

Tigris hadn’t been particularly smart, either. She never excelled at school. Maybe it was because, from an early age, she spent more time in the kitchen poring over an old, nearly falling-apart cookbook than studying. Or maybe her mind had always been that way—chaotic, unable to focus on one thing. In the fashion house, there were dozens of fabrics, textures, and embellishments, everything sparkling, pulling her attention from one detail to another. Textbooks, on the other hand, were dull. Their sentences were so long that by the time she reached the end, she’d forgotten what the beginning was about.

The first time Grandma’am ordered her to make a stew, Tigris skipped a day of school. After that, she began missing more and more classes at the Academy—Coriolanus needed a button sewn onto his coat, Grandma’am complained that the floor was dirty, and someone had to take care of it. Tigris barely managed to pass from one grade to the next, and sometimes she even dozed off during lessons, earning herself detention.

Coriolanus has always been the best. Even when hunger struck, he buried himself in his textbooks. His weakness revealed itself mostly at night. Until Coriolanus was almost ten years old, he would from time to time wet his bed.

“Don’t tell Grandma’am,” he would say every time, visibly humiliated. Later, he seemed to have completely repressed the memory—or perhaps he just pretended to, because Coriolanus had always been nothing but proud.

“It’s not a big deal; it can happen to anyone,” Tigris would reassure him, stroking his hair briefly and leaving a kiss on his forehead. She washed his sheets without much disgust. She had always felt like Coriolanus’s mother, even though she was only a little older than him. But they both depended on her—he and Grandma’am, who lived in her own fantasy world.

Grandma’am bartered everything they had with Pluribus Bell, but she didn’t care to find a job, though back then she was perfectly capable of working. But Snow and physical work—it wouldn’t pair well, unless it was Tigris, who started thinking about herself as a servant. During the school year, she and Coriolanus could eat meals at the Academy, while Grandma’am often filled her stomach with flaxseed, and Tigris made broth from bones.

But the nightmare began in the summer, during the school break. The relentless hunger pangs in her stomach were so intense that every movement became painful. It was impossible to focus on anything else, even for a moment. Tigris felt as though her stomach was nearly touching her spine, that she couldn’t even suck it in if she tried. Once, she fainted in the bathroom, collapsing just inches from the edge of the bathtub.

The heat, hunger, pain, and the stench of rot filled the air throughout the Capitol. It was the worst summer of her life. She tried to fill her stomach with water, even bits of paper, but nothing worked. She survived on half a slice of bread each morning—nothing more.

But her own pain wasn’t the worst—it was her cousin, poor little Coryo, with his big blue eyes and bright hair, so small in comparison to other children his age. This suffering she couldn’t bear to watch.

Tigris was only fourteen years old, too young to be hired for any official job. The idea that she could earn money with her body didn’t come to her immediately. She had seen those women on the streets—the ones Grandma’am called harlots. Perfumed, garishly dressed, with painted eyebrows. Grandma’am always hurried them to the other side of the street. “Don’t even look in that direction,” she would say.

That summer, she searched for food in dumpsters almost every day. The streets of the Capitol seemed to simmer with heat as she rummaged through trash bins, mostly at night. Sometimes she found a carrot or vegetables that were still edible, but more often, the stench of rot was overwhelming, making her vomit bile and water several times.

Coriolanus had started coughing and running a fever, even though it was the middle of summer, and she didn’t even have enough food to make him broth. She and Grandma’am took turns keeping vigil by his bedside, until one day Grandma’am sold her pearls to Pluribus Bell—probably the last piece of jewelry she had left.

That day, Tigris was able to buy groceries and medicine, but she knew all too well that they needed a permanent source of money.

She had seen that man a few times before. Usually, Tigris lingered near the dumpsters just long enough to avoid being noticed, but this man seemed to be waiting for her on purpose. He was well-dressed, always carrying a leather briefcase, though there was something slightly terrifying about him.

At first, he just stood and watched.

Then he approached her.

“I have a blueberry muffin,” he said.

Muffin. Her stomach churned painfully at the thought of putting something as delicious as a muffin in it. But Tigris knew she shouldn’t accept anything from strangers, so she simply ran away.

Yet, the next day she found a ten-dollar banknote near the dumpster. The man was watching her. Tigris took it, and again ran away. She bought enough groceries to last for a few days and didn’t have to search for food in the dumpsters during that time. She even bought a piece of real meat—beef—which she secretly ate raw in its entirety. She felt guilty for not sharing it with Coryo and Grandma’am, but the hunger was stronger. Later, she thought it was probably the most selfish thing she had ever done in her life.

And sometimes she did it like that—eating raw meat, which she felt an indecent, almost overwhelming hunger for. She doesn’t understand it herself and never tells anyone, but sometimes she craves something raw. During pregnancy, it stopped when the doctor prescribed her a ridiculous amount of iron supplements. She couldn’t maintain the pregnancy without them. But after she gave birth, she returned to her old habits, occasionally sneaking bites of raw meat.

When she went back to the dumpster, the man spoke to her more directly.

“I have more,” he said.

“More of what, sir?”

“Banknotes,” he said. “And you know what? I like girls with braids.”

That day Tigris told Coryo and Grandma’am she found fifty dollars on the street. They were celebrating.

Tigris tried to forget about it later, but it kept coming back to her, randomly and persistently. She didn’t do it many times—just a few occasions during the winter or summer breaks. Sometimes, while washing dishes, she could feel those disgusting, thick fingers touching her in the way that made her whole stomach churn. Sometimes, while using the bathroom, she experienced a pain that reminded her of what she had to endure back then. When walking at night, the smallest rustle would make her jump in terror, expecting to see his face again.

And she never wore braids again.

At the age of sixteen, a woman with the alias Fabricia Whatnot hired her as an assistant for the summer. Although Tigris did everything—brewing her coffee, taking out the trash, giving foot massages, or doing sewing alterations—she was grateful. Fabricia told her that in the future she would love to hire her as an apprentice designer. It was one of the nicest things that happened to Tigris.

The year before graduating from the Academy, Grandma’am invited her for a conversation.

“Tigris, my love, you know how much I care about you both,” Grandma’am said quietly, her lips thinning the way they always did when she was about to say something difficult. “But Coriolanus… he is exceptional. He has the opportunity to become somebody.”

Tigris blinked, the word somebody catching somewhere in her throat. “Somebody?” she repeated.

“Yes,” Grandma’am continued. “We must support him, dear. It’s the right thing to do.”

Tigris knew what that support meant—it meant she would have to work so her cousin could study. Sometimes she dreamed of going to university, but she told herself it was foolish. She had bad grades anyway. So she nodded obediently as she was taught to do so.

“You’re right, Grandma’am.”

Once Coriolanus came back from the Academy, he showed her his essay from Communication. “I got the best grade in the class,” he said.

Grandma’am, as usual, praised him, while Tigris only mumbled something under her breath that day. She placed a bowl of soup in front of him.

“Aren’t you eating?” he even asked.

“I already ate,” she lied.

While cleaning the kitchen, she glanced at him as he ate, the loud slurping noises filling the room.

“Good soup,” he said casually, barely looking up from his bowl.

“Glad you think so,” she muttered, rolling her eyes.

What was she? Worse than him? His servant?

It had always been like that. Crassus Snow was treated like a saint in this household, and so was his son. Tigris knew that Grandma’am essentially saw Crassus in Coriolanus, and although the resemblance was uncanny, Tigris preferred not to see Crassus in him at all. She remembered that man, the chill that followed every time he entered a room, the look in those empty eyes. Yet he was the one worshipped in the family, raised to the status of a saint, while Grandma’am rarely mentioned her other deceased son, Crispin Snow—Tigris’s father.

Perhaps it was because Crispin Snow hadn’t married an aristocrat like Julia Montclair, as Crassus had, but instead, he found love with a woman named Melanie Harrington, a receptionist who was hardly ever spoken of. Or perhaps it was because Crispin hadn’t died in glory, as a hero; he was just an accountant who perished in a building bombing, along with Tigris’s mother, leaving Tigris an orphan at just six years old.

Tigris graduated from the Academy and became an apprentice designer, though nothing really changed. Fabricia was exploiting her—Tigris was very aware of that—and paid her the smallest amount possible. But Tigris was, to her credit, clever. Whenever Fabricia ordered her to throw something away, Tigris thought about it ten times before deciding whether she really should.

And thanks to that cleverness, she managed to refurbish Coriolanus’s shirt for Reaping Day. Tigris was even pleased that during her own Academy years, no one had come up with the idea of using students in the Hunger Games—she had no particular interest in them and felt sorry that her cousin, such a good person, had to endure all of this. Later she was surprised to discover that, for the first time in his life, Coriolanus might actually be in love. She had started to doubt whether he was even interested in such things, given that even her former classmates swooned over him—which Tigris found rather disgusting—let alone his peers at the Academy.

Tigris herself had fallen in love once, with Pietrus Valefort, who was a year ahead of her. Once, when Tigris attended a party in a dress she had from her summer internship with Fabricia, she kissed him after they had too much Posca to drink. They went on a few dates, but Tigris found it difficult to hide the fact that she was poor, and she knew that keeping the family secret was of the utmost importance. On top of that, she was convinced that Pietrus could find a prettier girl than her.

“Sorry… I don’t feel it,” she told him and spent the next few weeks crying her eyes out.

In Coriolanus’s case, it was even more hopeless. A girl from District 12. Yet, her beauty was breathtaking. Tigris did everything she could to help him, though it pained her to think that her cousin would have his heart broken. He excitedly told her about kissing Lucy Gray, like a child. Tigris even cried at night, thinking about how Lucy Gray would die and how devastated Coryo would be.

The thought of new taxes also wasn’t very promising. Tigris increasingly wondered if she should try doing it again but this time, she’d probably need a full-time position. Yet, the idea was utterly revolting.

That year, during the 10th Hunger Games, the ones that were later erased from all records, Lucy Gray won. Tigris watched it on television, on edge, at work. Everyone in the entire Capitol was cheering for Lucy Gray. Tigris even naively believed that maybe they would allow her to stay. Maybe Coriolanus would be happy.

But then it happened.

They sent him away as a Peacekeeper. Her little cousin. Tigris couldn’t believe it—why was life so unfair to them? Again and again. Both orphans, poor, starving. They hadn’t even had a chance to properly grow up, and this felt like yet another cruel blow. She was already imagining herself homeless, wandering the streets, with Grandma’am singing the Panem anthem to passersby.

Still, Tigris told herself she should try to feel glad for Coriolanus. Maybe he would find Lucy Gray there and they could be happy. After all, every book she had ever read repeated that love was the most important thing and conquered all. Even her parents had died together—one could almost call it romantic.

And Tigris loved her cousin deeply. She thinks she never stopped though recently he brings her more pain than joy.

Mrs. Plinth started coming to them more often, while both—Coriolanus and Sejanus were away in District 12, though Tigris felt ashamed about the state of their apartment.

“I miss my son too… so much,” Mrs. Plinth would repeat, and somehow, they bonded over their shared longing. Mrs. Plinth always brought food with her, though Tigris found herself lacking any appetite. What she feared most was hearing that Coriolanus had been killed in District 12—just like his father.

She still remembered that morning vividly. It was early, around seven o’clock on a Saturday, when Coriolanus called. “Tigris, you have to go to Mr. Plinth and tell him they’ve captured Sejanus and are planning to execute him. Got it?”

Tigris rushed to the Plinths’ house, throwing a coat over her nightgown. At first, the Avoxes didn’t want to let her in, but when she insisted it was urgent, they finally allowed her entry. Mr. Plinth came downstairs in his robe, looking at her as though she’d lost her mind.

But when she told him everything, his face twisted into an expression she had never seen before.

When Mrs. Plinth finally came back a few days later, her expression made Tigris fear the worst—that Sejanus was dead. She hadn’t known him well, but Mrs. Plinth was one of the warmest people Tigris had ever met.

“Did Mr. Plinth… manage to do something?” Tigris asked hesitantly.

Mrs. Plinth nodded and suddenly started crying. “Sejanus is alive, but… I’m a bad mother for agreeing to this.”

“Agreeing to what, madam?” Tigris asked gently, smoothing her hand over Mrs. Plinth’s.

“Never mind, sweetheart. My husband… Strabo doesn’t really want anyone to know about it. But I… I came to say we are very grateful to you and Coriolanus. I think we can help you with the apartment,” she said, and when Tigris gave her a surprised gaze, she added almost with shame, “We know… Strabo is leading the negotiation. He always wanted us to live in Corso.”

Coriolanus came back a few days later, out of nowhere. It was like a miracle. At first, Tigris threw her arms around his neck. Plinths had also grown close to their family; Coriolanus and Tigris began visiting them regularly for dinners, though Tigris couldn’t shake off the feeling that something heavy lingered in the atmosphere of their home.

“So how did they catch Sejanus?” she asked him one day.

"He was just very reckless, that's all," Coriolanus replied. "But I tried my best to rescue him. Sometimes from himself."

“And Lucy Gray,” she added, noticing the painful grimace that flashed across his face, “you must be sad that you had to leave her behind?”

“You know, Tigris,” he said, his voice carrying a forced casualness, “some things end, others begin. Family is the most important for me,” he said, squeezing Tigris's hand. Yet, she didn’t know why that time the chills came through her entire body.

Tigris only gave him a weak smile.

“I think we both know that schoolyard romances don’t last forever. But she was… Very grateful for the help in makeup and dress,” he added at the edge of audibility.

Mrs. Plinth eventually confided in Tigris that Sejanus was in a psychiatric hospital. At first, Tigris didn’t tell Coriolanus. She didn’t want her cousin to suffer more or feel guilty. She told him a few months later and Coriolanus behaved like he didn’t care.

“Oh, really?” he said something like that, and Tigris didn’t want to believe it was him. Is he so indifferent to the fact that his friend was in a psychiatric asylum? In the Capitol it was taboo, but everybody knew deep down how people were treated there.

Once Coriolanus started working for Dr. Gaul, something changed even more.

There was less Coryo in him, and far more Crassus. Tigris sometimes had the impression that the only thing Coriolanus started caring about was money. He spent more and more time at his job.

But when the next year he offered that Fabricia Whatnot could design the costumes for the Hunger Games, Tigris accepted it. Later, she became a stylist on her own.

It wasn’t the most noble job, but Tigris Snow was very aware there were things bringing much more disgrace.

***

But now, Tigris Snow should be happy. The old days were essentially gone. She no longer lived in Corso but in a small single-family house far from the city center. She had everything she had ever dreamed of—a real family. A daughter, a husband, even a cat. She is even appreciated, but probably the problem is she doesn’t appreciate herself.

Tigris still doesn’t like looking in the mirror, though her husband is repeating to her everyday that he is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. But Tigris notices the glances of people. Hardly anyone believes that Lilianna is their daughter. She is far too beautiful to be the daughter of people like them.

She looks like the daughter of her cousin.

Benedict Crumble, now Snow, kisses Tigris on the lips every morning before heading to work. He has to get up at six, even as the bakery’s owner. Tigris, like Coriolanus, had carried on the family tradition—-in her case, the tradition of the disappointment of marrying the son of a baker, while Coriolanus was looking for the best match that wouldn’t bring Snows a shame. Eventually, he married an aristocrat, Livia Cardew, a woman whom Tigris believes he deeply despises.

Tigris met her husband while opening her fashion boutique on Corso, just two shops down from Fabricia’s, which went bankrupt a few years later. A slightly chubby, tall man with the kindest face in the world who sold baked goods. Every day, when she bought coffee from a small bakery, he always added a muffin or cupcake that matched what Tigris was wearing that day, asking about fabrics. “Amazing,” he’d say, as if he were genuinely fascinated by the clothes she designed for herself.

Tigris wasn’t used to compliments. Or attention. So, she let him invite her on a first date. Then a second. Then a third.

But when Benedict walked her home, she always lied, saying she lived closer than she did, so they’d part ways sooner. She didn’t want Coriolanus to see him. Yet, it still happened one day.

“I didn’t know you were seeing someone,” Coriolanus remarked nonchalantly. “What’s his name?” he added, and Tigris immediately knew where this was going.

“Benedict Crumble,” she replied quietly.

“Oh, I haven’t heard of him. Did he attend the Academy with us?”

“No.”

“Oh,” Coriolanus curled his lips the way he always did when deep in thought. “How long have you been seeing each other?”

“Coriolanus, is something wrong?” she asked sharply this time, placing his meal in front of him.

“Not at all.”

Tigris didn’t know if it was love—or not at all. She wasn’t particularly excited to kiss Benedict, unlike the time she was with Pietrus. But his touch didn’t disgust her either, like those from other men. He was also nice, kind, and warm. Like her.

He was the only person she had told. She felt it was only fair if he wanted something serious with her. He listened to her in silence, holding her hand.

He didn’t judge her. He didn’t criticize her. He didn’t leave her.

“I’m so sorry that this happened to you,” was all he managed to say before she broke into tears.

But Benedict had always been simple. He still is this way.

Coriolanus maliciously tried to mumble something to Grandma’am about Tigris dating a baker, but she kicked him under the table. She hated herself for it, but she never introduced Benedict to Grandma’am and waited until her death to marry him. And even then, she didn’t want to take his last name.

“My parents are gone; it’s the only thing I have left of them,” she lied. That wasn’t the reason. She was a Snow, and she never wanted to be a Crumble. What would that even mean? But she allowed him to take her name instead. Though Coriolanus, who was still her witness, was skeptical.

“Tigris, are you sure?” he asked. He didn’t compliment her, didn’t say anything nice to her on the day of her own wedding.

“And are you sure proposing to Livia Cardew is a good idea?” she snapped back, and Coriolanus only grimaced.

Tigris remembered Livia as one of the nastiest girls at the Academy, who had even made Coriolanus cry. She wasn’t much better now—always sulky, spewing venom.

“You’re the most beautiful bride in the world,” Benedict said, and in his eyes, she could see he truly believed it.

Tigris left the penthouse to Coriolanus. It belonged to Crassus Snow’s anyway, and not that she had a lot of nice memories connected with this place.

At first, she and Benedict were quite often visiting Livia and Coriolanus. However, Tigris noticed it. Those looks. When her husband talked about bread production, Livia and Coriolanus exchanged malicious glances, and her soon-to-be sister-in-law didn’t even hold back a smirk.

Tigris thought she didn’t deserve this. Not after what she had done for him.

“Could you stop treating him like that?” she finally confronted Coriolanus one day when he came to her shop for suit alterations.

“Who?”

“My husband. I see how you treat him with contempt,” Tigris said, and as she pushed a needle into a spot for tailoring, she barely stopped herself from jabbing it right into Coriolanus’s ass.

Coriolanus shrugged. “Have I said something to offend him? If so, I’m sorry…”

“Oh, Coriolanus, shut up! Talk normally with me, like a human. I know what you think about him!” she exclaimed.

“I don’t know what you expect from me, Tigris. He is now selling bread as Snow; I hope you realize that. And I want to be president, if the journalists find out about it, well, it wouldn’t be profitable for my public image,” he replied maliciously.

At that moment, Tigris saw it. She saw his face she didn’t like. But she wondered—had it always been like this, or only now?

Soon, Coriolanus began to despise not just her husband but her as well. At first, Tigris was the stylist for Districts 1 and 2. In the meantime, she became pregnant and gave birth to her daughter. Lilianna was perfect in every way. This time, Coriolanus even came to the hospital with a bouquet of roses, explaining that Livia couldn’t make it. When he held Lilianna—hesitantly, with fear—Tigris saw on his face something almost like childlike joy. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all, she tried to keep believing.

Coriolanus visited her quite often, always admiring her daughter. They looked like real father and daughter. Yet, Tigris noticed that Coriolanus didn’t seem to care much about what she was saying or how she felt. He was, however, eager to take the little girl on walks and photograph her.

He is so shallow, this thought came to her one day. It wasn’t that Livia Cardew was a bad match for her cousin, Tigris acknowledged. They were the same—judgmental, condescending, shallow.

Although it was Tigris’s first time being a mother, taking care of someone wasn’t new to her. After all, she was the one who woke up during the nights to a crying Coriolanus, the one who changed diapers at the end of her grandmother’s life—with Mrs. Plinth’s help. But now, she felt this little girl was truly a part of her, someone new and completely innocent.

But when she went back to work, she became the stylist for Districts 3 and 4. Her previous position was taken by Veronica Black—a stunning blonde with chubby cheeks, long beautiful eyelashes, and perfectly plump lips. She couldn’t have been older than twenty.

After a few years, Tigris became the stylist of Districts 5 and 6.

At first, she told herself she didn’t care. After all, she had Lilianna, her daughter, her own fashion house in the center of Corso. Did it really matter which district she styled for? But eventually, not long ago, she asked him about the reason. Coriolanus laughed nervously.

“Tigris, it’s nothing personal,” he replied with the same expression as always, a forced clownish smile. He acted like a stranger, even though Tigris had known him her whole life and could always tell when he was sincere and when he wasn’t, when he was lying. “Just listen to me… In a year, I have my presidential campaign, and everything must be absolutely perfect.”

“Perfect?” she asked, turning her back to him in her workshop to hide the tears already welling up in her eyes.

“Listen, Tigris, you… I know you have a lot on your plate, but recently you came in wearing a shirt stained with something… some kind of porridge. You know everyone knows you’re my cousin, and my image is very important to me.”

She huffed. “Your image is important, and I embarrass you?” she asked.

“No, no, that’s not what I mean…”

“So what do you mean?” she asked harshly, turning to him and handing him the jacket.

“Oh, thank you, it’s beautiful…” he said awkwardly, but when he put it on, he admired himself in the mirror with delight. “The point is… You look really tired, Tigris.”

“I am tired. I have a small child, and I don’t live in Corso but an hour’s drive from here.”

He remained silent for a while. “Do you need… Some financial help? Maybe you can hire a nanny?”

Tigris rolled her eyes. “I have money for nanny, but I want to spend as much time with my daughter as possible. Though you’re doing me no favors, because now I’m hardly promoting my work for the Hunger Games at all.”

“I know,” he said, steadying her arms with his hands. “And I promise, once I become President, you’ll go back to better districts, alright? But for now… have you ever thought about treating yourself? A little refresh—something subtle, of course. Like a…,” he hesitated. “Facelift, maybe? Livia was just showing me some impressive results from a clinic she’s been looking into.”

Tigris didn’t even remember the rest of the discussion. All she recalled was her screaming, then swearing at her cousin—Tigris Snow never swore—and throwing him out of the studio. She just lost her temper so badly she couldn’t breathe or think clearly; after all she sacrificed such words from his mouth were simply cruel.

“Do you know how much I’ve done for you? But it’s never enough, is it? Because now all you care about is image, money or power!” she yelled at the end.

Adjusting his tie, Coriolanus looked confused. “Tigris, why this outburst? I really appreciate everything, I just wanted to give you some advice…”

“Oh, call me when you’re capable of having a normal conversation! You and your damn wife!” she snapped.

After he left, Tigris looked at her reflection. This time, carefully. She stepped so close that she could see every pore of her skin. She saw everything. Every detail. The bags under her eyes, the sagging skin on her neck, the face that was far too thin and far too ugly for the Capitol's standards. The trace of a sandwich at the corners of her mouth.

She wanted to look away, as she had done since childhood, but she couldn’t. Not now. What would she think about herself if it wasn’t her, she wondered? Probably that she was ugly, old. No wonder Coriolanus was ashamed of her.

How much ashamed he would be if he knew what she was doing.

She cried the whole way home and found it hard to pretend in front of Benedict that nothing had happened. When he heard her story, he said the best solution would be to cool her relationship with her cousin.

“Look, I’m done with him insulting you and putting you in this mood, Tigris. And what about our daughter? She seemed to behave arrogantly after meeting him. I don’t want him to have a bad influence on her.”

It seemed to be too drastic, especially since LIlianna loved her uncle Coriolanus, and he was always bringing her a lot of sweets, but Tigris noticed a subtle change in her behavior.

“You’re… probably right,” she said quietly. And that day, she took the photo of her and Coriolanus from the shelf and hid it at the bottom of a drawer.

***

Now Tigris Snow feels strangely unsettled by the call. On the one hand, she should still be angry. On the other hand, it is nice to hear his voice. They hadn’t spoken in weeks, but she thought things would sort themselves out. It wasn’t the first time Coriolanus had made a stupid comment, and yet, somehow, things always worked out afterward. He’s her only remaining blood relative; she can’t just cut him off.

Coming to the bedroom, Tigris has to answer the question, "Who was that?"

There is no point in lying, so with a loud sigh, she says, "Coriolanus."

Benedict snorts but doesn’t comment for a long time. "What did he want? Finally apologize? Because if not…"

"No," Tigris replies, sitting on the edge of the bed and applying cream to her hands and feet. The tube of this cream costs a hundred dollars, but after Coriolanus’s comment, she had gone on a large skincare shopping spree. "He’s just going to dinner with an old friend," she says, though she has to admit that Sejanus’s visit had been, at the very least, strange. She had seen him before at the Plinths’ house, though more often it was Mrs. Plinth who came to Tigris’s shop—or sometimes even took care of Lilianna during the summer, as the thought of calling her sister-in-law and asking about anything makes Tigris nauseous.

"Who cares where that clown is going," her husband grumbles.

"Benedict!"

"You’re still on his side? Unbelievable."

They most often argue about him, Tigris thinks bitterly. Somehow she finds her again and again seeking the approval of her cousin, though she doesn’t understand why. It’s ridiculous.

But she reminded herself again about Sejanus Plinth, who came to her fashion house to pick up an order for his mother.

"Maybe you could sew me a suit or two? I’m starting a new job," he said. “And as you might have noticed I got a little bigger.”

Tigris couldn’t help but feel a strange pity for Sejanus whenever she saw him at the Plinths’ residence. But now, she had to admit, he looked different. She always remembered him as a sad boy with curly hair and eyes too big for his face, but now, as she took his measurements and her hands brushed against his muscular shoulders, for a moment, looking straight into his eyes, Tigris felt truly intimidated and almost blushed—which was ridiculous at her age. Not to mention the lower measurements she had to take—she thought for a moment she might lose her focus.

Sejanus smelled intoxicating—a cologne with a masculine breeze that carried a charm, just like his eyes, his smile, his carefully styled curly hair, and his olive skin. Men as handsome as him were rarely seen in the Capitol. The latest fashion trends, to put it mildly, did not favor masculinity—colorful, flashy outfits, aesthetic procedures, unnaturally smooth faces. Sejanus looked youthful, but like a human; there were faint lines visible on his forehead, pores on his skin.

"How much?" he asked at the end.

"How much of what?" Tigris echoed, dazed, feeling like she might faint.

"The money for the suits, Tigris," he replied with a smile.

"Oh, payment upon pickup…" she mumbled, jotting the order down in her notebook.

Sejanus leaned against her desk. "You know, I’m starting a new job. Maybe I will work with your cousin."

"With Coriolanus?”

Sejanus gave her a funny look. “Do you have any other cousins?”

“You’re going to work in Parliament?" Tigris asked, and her stomach twisted unpleasantly. Clearly, Sejanus might not be thinking clearly again, and she considered telling Mrs. Plinth.

"Yes, in Parliament. But don’t tell him about it, I want it to be a surprise," he said cheerfully, though there was something dangerous about it. "By the way, how’s he doing?"

Out of politeness, Tigris offered him coffee, and to her surprise Sejanus accepted. For an hour, he bombarded her with questions about Coriolanus Where he lived, did he have children, when he stopped visiting his parents. At some point, Tigris felt like she was being interrogated, but she thought, Poor man. He spent so many years in a psychiatric hospital that he completely lost his sanity.

“What about you? How have you been holding up?” Tigris asked finally, and Sejanus for a while didn’t say a word, his gaze fixed on the wall.

“It’s…” He hesitated. “It’s hard sometimes.” He finally looked at her. “There are days when it feels like the past doesn’t want to stay there. Like it’s still happening—right now, in the back of my mind.”

Tigris nodded. She understood this too well.

At the end of this unexpected meeting, Sejanus awkwardly hugged her and said, "Just don’t tell Coryo about any of this, okay? I want it to be a surprise."

Tigris shivered at the sound of the old nickname. She hadn’t called Coriolanus that in years.

She observed Sejanus more closely. He was smiling, so radiantly, but there was something dark in his eyes.

"Sure, I won’t tell a soul," she replied, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall. Sejanus was nearly at the door frame when he turned around to her one last time that day.

“And Tigris,” he said, almost as an afterthought, “thank you for taking care of my Ma when I wasn’t around.”

“It... It’s nothing,” Tigris stammered. “She’s always very kind,” she hesitated, “And you... You too were always very kind to… Coriolanus. Your whole family was so kind to us,” she started blabbering, feeling the weight of Sejanus’s gaze on her as he stood in the doorway, saying nothing.

When he finally spoke, a shiver ran down her spine.

“You know... Sometimes the kindest people are the worst.”

Chapter Text

Coriolanus, holding gift bags in both hands, tries to force a wide smile on his face standing at the threshold of his cousin's house. He still can’t understand why Tigris decided to move to Drayven, one of the most infamous precincts in the Capitol, full of identical little white houses. He rings the doorbell twice, praying it won’t be Tigris’s husband who answers, but luck isn’t on Coriolanus’s side. After some noises inside, a stocky figure with an unintelligent face appears.

“Oh, Coriolanus,” Benedict—though they call him doofus with Livia—says, not bothering to hide his displeasure.

“It’s me, in the flesh,” Coriolanus says cheerfully, stepping one foot inside. “Is Tigris home?”

Yet, Benedict instead pushes him almost outside and partially closes the door. He glances at Coriolanus with narrowed eyebrows before saying, “Listen to me carefully, if you say something like that to my wife again, you won’t be welcome here, understood? Never. You will never see our daughter, and Tigris won’t make me change my mind.”

How dare he speak to him like that, this simple physical worker, Coriolanus wonders, but he offers an even wider smile. His throat goes dry thinking about this threat. “Oh, Benedict, I appreciate that you are so devoted to my dear cousin. She deserves the world. I didn’t mean anything wrong, but I promise I won’t overstep like that again. Shall we consider this matter… closed?” he asks sweetly.

Benedict simply nods, but there is no friendliness in his gaze. He opens the door again, wordlessly inviting Coriolanus inside.

“I’ve got something for you,” Coriolanus says, handing him the first bag containing excellent cognac. Not that this nitwit would be able to distinguish it from the piss.

“Thank you,” Benedict replies dryly. “Tigris!” he calls, not even inviting Coriolanus inside, so they remain standing in the entryway.

After a few awkward moments, his cousin appears at the threshold. She looks as tired as always, and she seems to have lost more weight. But, of course, Benedict doesn’t believe in using Avoxes.

“Oh, Coriolanus… I wasn’t expecting you,” she says, visibly confused.

Benedict, sighing loudly, thankfully leaves somewhere in the background. Oh, how messy their house is, Coriolanus notes, glancing at the drawing room that Benedict disappears in.

“Tigris… I want to apologize,” Coriolanus says unnaturally, handing her the second bag with her favorite rose-scented perfume.

“Thank you,” Tigris replies, but her tone remains icy.

“Who is it?” a sweet voice now calls from another room.

“Your uncle,” Tigris says loudly, giving Coriolanus a side-eye.

Coriolanus doesn’t have to wait long before small footsteps grow louder, and she appears—Lilianna Snow. Barely eight years old, 52.5 inches tall, beautiful with a chubby face, blue eyes, and long blonde hair. Coriolanus kneels, and Lilianna throws her arms around his neck with a delighted cry, “Uncle Coriolanus!” For once, Coriolanus finds himself smiling, not just pretending to. He hugs her, stroking her hair gently, and feeling some strange warmth inside.

How he wishes he could have children, finally, after all these years. It would be profitable for his image, of course, but it would also somehow fill the void in his existence when he isn’t consumed by work. Livia can’t give that to him—he’s becoming more and more convinced of it—but divorcing her now doesn’t seem like a wise decision, not for his image as the future President. The Capitol still values tradition.

“I’ve got something for you,” he whispers, handing over a bag containing the finest handmade almond chocolate and a brand-new pink smartphone.

Lilianna’s face lights up even more when she looks inside. “It’s the one I wanted, Mom, look! The one you didn’t want to buy me.”

Coriolanus glances away, feeling the weight of Tigris’s gaze on him.

“We have plans today,” he hears doofus’s voice in the background. “A trip to the mountains, remember, Tigris?” he asks sharply.

Tigris looks like a bundle of misery, and Coriolanus regrets even deciding to visit. Yet, he needs to know why Sejanus visited his cousin, and besides, spending the weekend with his lovely wife was unbearable. Usually, Coriolanus controls himself greatly and doesn’t even raise his voice, but this time he yelled at her that she didn’t answer his calls. “You’re the one who wanted to go there, what’s your problem now? Do you think I’m your driver?” Livia said, rolling her eyes.

“Maybe we could take a quick walk?” Coriolanus says, and Tigris simply nods.

“I just need to get dressed.”

***

For a while, they walk in complete silence, Coriolanus keeping his hands in the pockets of his coat. Late September is far from generous with its weather, and the days are growing increasingly colder. He carefully considers how he might soften Tigris, knowing there’s probably no other way than to apologize. His cousin can be incredibly stubborn—he’s known this since their childhood. She wasn’t easily offended, but when she was, there was no way to appease her other than to humble himself, admit his mistake, and take the blame, even when she wasn’t entirely in the right.

At the back of his mind, a faint trace of remorse appears. After all, Tigris is the only truly kind-hearted person in his life. Weak, but kind-hearted.

"Look, I'm sorry about that comment," he says, and it doesn’t even sound entirely fake, though he still doesn’t understand why she was angry. He really meant well, but the life Tigris chose—he can’t fully understand it. She could have married better, have a better life than this. She wasn’t ever very beautiful, but with the present medicine, she could look a lot better and marry the man from the elites. "It was unnecessary," he adds under his breath, glancing at her.

"It was," she confirms, pressing her lips together.

"I’ll get us some coffee—yours, latte with one spoon of sugar, like usual?" Coriolanus says, spotting a stand at the corner of the park. Tigris nods.

Now they’re sitting on a bench, staring at a pond. Maybe this neighborhood wouldn’t be so bad, Coriolanus thinks. Lots of greenery.

"You shouldn’t buy her such expensive gifts; I asked you not to," Tigris says.

"Why? It’s good for her to know new technology."

"We want to raise her modestly."

"You or your husband?"

"Both."

"Wasn’t our life already modest enough?"

Tigris emits a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

"Why did you come, Coriolanus? Without warning?"

"To apologize. I wouldn’t want a misunderstanding like this to affect our relationship. Understand…" He doesn’t even know how to put it into words. Right now, everything matters, every detail, and she doesn’t get that. So close to the top. Coriolanus has had enough of dull meetings and false courtesy. He should be the one ruling Panem, making the decisions for the whole nation.

"I don’t, and I won’t, but… apology accepted," she says quietly, taking a sip of her coffee. "How was dinner?"

"Oh, well…" Coriolanus feels uneasy again, though he doesn’t understand why. He’s faced stronger opponents than Sejanus Plinth, who clearly isn’t in his right mind. Yet, even if Sejanus’s evidence wouldn’t destroy Coriolanus entirely, it certainly wouldn’t reflect well on his reputation. What does he want from him, for God’s sake? Coriolanus thinks, shuddering at the memory of their kiss. "I think he’s completely lost his mind, Tigris. I wanted to ask you why he came to you."

"So that’s why you came, my dear cousin. I knew it…"

"Stop it, please. It’s serious. Tigris… he’s blackmailing me," he says.

Now Tigris looks puzzled. "Blackmailing you? About what?"

"Cheating during the 10th Hunger Games," he replies nervously. That’s all she needs to know, all he can tell her.

Tigris gives him a nervous look. "Really?"

Coriolanus nods.

"But… blackmailing you for what?"

"I don’t know, Tigris," he buries his face in his hands, setting his coffee cup aside. "He’s crazy. Didn’t you notice?"

"He’s been through a lot, Coriolanus."

"I know that, damn it. But he can’t… he can’t ruin my career," he says quietly. "Why didn’t you tell me you saw him and he asked about me?"

"I told you…"

"I would have remembered that," Coriolanus hisses, and now he’s sure. He would remember any mention of Sejanus Plinth and Tigris just didn’t tell him. “What did you say to him?”

"Okay, sorry, I didn’t think it would be important to you," she admits. "He just asked about you, in general. Nothing special. About your family, life… I didn’t tell him anything interesting. And I did notice something was off with him, but are you surprised? You know how people are treated in asylums."

"Maybe I shouldn’t have made that call that day," Coriolanus says before he thinks. Because what were the gains? He certainly secured Strabo’s support for years. He got to study. But maybe he could have afforded it without Plinths. Although studying, when done right—and he did it very right—costs a lot. And well, Sejanus is alive thanks to that which now is some kind of unconvience.

"Stop it! Are you serious?" Now Tigris nudges him in the arm. "Would you rather he had died? And Mrs. Plinth? How would she have coped?"

Coriolanus’s stomach churns painfully. Mrs. Plinth. So if he destroys Sejanus one way or another, it would hurt her too. Normally, Coriolanus wouldn’t care about that, but she took care of Grandma’am. She even took care of him.

"No, I don’t want him dead," he says, yet, isn’t sure if it’s truth. "But I don’t know what to do."

"Just talk to him," Tigris says, almost softly.

"Talk to him?" Coriolanus echoes blankly. "There’s no way to talk to him."

"You used to be good friends, Coriolanus. Why would he want to hurt you? What is he blackmailing you for?"

If only she knew, she’d hate him even more, Coriolanus thinks.

"He doesn’t want the Hunger Games to continue, can you imagine? As if I have any say in that. The President wants the Games, so there will be Games," Coriolanus huffs. Tigris doesn’t look convinced. Coriolanus is very aware she isn't a fan of the Hunger Games on her own, but she doesn’t know yet that he never plans to stop them.

"Coriolanus, come on. What could he do to you?" she says quietly. "Everyone… everyone will see there’s something not right with him," she says, her voice barely audible.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean they won’t believe him. You have a good position.”

Tigris can say smart things.

"But I have to… I have to go, but thank you for coming.”

“Can we meet next weekend? We can go to the zoo with Lilianna,” Coriolanus offers.

Tigris remains silent for a while.

“I’ll try to talk to Benedict, I think we have plans.”

She lies and Coriolanus pretends he believes her. Not that she isn’t usually doing the same for him. Yet, the thought that her husband is more important to her than Coriolanus somehow doesn’t feel right.

They exchange an awkward hug, and Tigris leaves. Coriolanus stares into the distance for a moment longer.

Maybe Tigris is right; there’s nothing to worry about. He just needs to plant the seed of doubt.

Coriolanus settles on the bench, thinking about how to avoid going home. Maybe he’ll book a massage, or some spa time? And then call Festus—they could have a few drinks. He’d gladly escape the kids for a while. That would do Coriolanus good.

***

Coriolanus steps across the threshold of Parliament with a confident stride. Over the weekend, he’d calmed himself; after all, what could Sejanus really do to him? The massage had relaxed his tense muscles, and the skincare treatments left him looking radiant. He even went to the hairdresser to have his hair trimmed, and he’d had a bit of fun with Festus gossiping about Sejanus. Although, toward the end, Creed had said something along the lines of it being good that Sejanus had recovered. He’d also mentioned that Persephone had taken a cooking class, and Coriolanus’s stomach churned painfully.

But at least now, hopefully, she isn’t cooking human meat.

Today’s session of Parliament would surely include Sejanus’s introduction, and Coriolanus had decided to greet him solemnly. Of course, he wouldn’t insult him publicly, but a few carefully chosen words—ones that hinted at something—well, that is an entirely different matter.

At the entrance, he passes Quintus Draven, who pulls a face as though he’s just eaten something bad. But Coriolanus greets him with enthusiasm.

“Quintus! Good to see you. A fine day for Parliament, isn’t it?”

Quintus nods. “Wonderful, indeed,” he says without enthusiasm.

"I heard you have a new secretary. A man this time, right?" Coriolanus says, fully aware that Quintus had an affair with his previous secretary, which turned into a big scandal.

"Oh, you must have a lot of free time if you’re keeping track of everyone’s staff. Maybe you need some more policy reviews to work on?" Quintus asks, and though his tone sounds innocent, Coriolanus knows exactly what he means. He wants to remind Coriolanus of his lower standing—a fact that, for now, is still true. But not for much longer.

“I think it’s good to be informed,” Coriolanus replies. “I also heard the Alliance for Prosperity has a new leader. I have to say, I’m quite surprised that Parliament has stopped doing background checks on its employees.”

“What is your point?” Quintus asks, pressing the elevator button.

“I mean that Sejanus Plinth is an upstanding man, very virtuous, but unfortunately, he does have a history of mental illness. I’m not sure he’s the best choice for such a position.”

Quintus hums. “Fortunately, it’s not your choice, Snow. He was my student. An excellent one.”

“Oh, really?”

“Really. He had better grades than you.”

Coriolanus grimaces. What an insult.

“Perhaps I’ll take the stairs,” Coriolanus says, glancing pointedly at Quintus’s protruding belly. “But do reserve me fifteen minutes at the end of today’s session, will you?”

Quintus doesn’t reply, simply stepping into the elevator and letting the doors close.

***

Coriolanus feels some kind of internal tension. Anxiety, the doctor had told him some time ago, so he tries to take deep breaths, count to ten, or even do jumping jacks. The upcoming parliamentary session stresses him out a bit, and he can’t help it. He hasn’t had any problem speaking publicly for a long time, but he’s somewhat worried about how Sejanus will react to what he wants to say. That evening was like something out of a horror story. Coriolanus tries to suppress those memories, especially Sejanus’s fingers tracing his face and the kiss between them.

“Sir, Yago Trivane has arrived,” his secretary’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts, Coriolanus doesn’t even notice when she comes.

As usual, he’s late. Coriolanus has stopped even noticing it because, well, although it irritates him, he has to admit that out of the Gamemaker team, Yago might be the only one with three brain cells instead of two. Coriolanus hired him four years ago and did research on his family. It turned out he had royal roots, so Coriolanus didn’t even hesitate. Yago came in with a lot of new ideas, but later, he didn’t perform so well. On the contrary, Coriolanus felt that last year’s Hunger Games failed because of some of Yago’s ideas. Although it was Coriolanus's responsibility to reject them, he decided to simply observe him for now.

Yago’s trademark was always his black outfit, which gave the impression it was always the same: black pants, a black leather belt, and a black shirt that contrasted starkly with his pale, almost white skin.

“Hello, boss,” Yago greets him, and Coriolanus tries not to roll his eyes. He had asked him not to call him that.

“Welcome, Yago. Take a seat. Tea, coffee?” He handles the necessary courtesies, though Yago always refuses. Coriolanus isn’t surprised. If he weren’t himself, he wouldn’t eat or drink anything here either.

“No, thank you, I’m good.”

“Great. Do you have something… new for me?” Coriolanus gets to the point.

“Not really. A few ideas. Sketches, more like. But there’s still plenty of time,” Yago replies.

Coriolanus almost snorts. “Ten months isn’t plenty of time when it comes to the Hunger Games, and you know it.”

“I’m doing what I can,” Yago responds with a polite smile.

It’s practically your only job, you idiot, Coriolanus wants to say, but instead, he remarks, “Of course, Yago. I greatly appreciate your work. Will you present your concepts?”

“All right, the first one is a dark cave system. There are abandoned caves on the outskirts of the Capitol. Hunger Games in complete darkness.”

Hearing “outskirts of the Capitol,” Coriolanus smirks. Let’s turn Sejanus Plinth’s house into the arena and make that lunatic and his dog the main mutt.

“A bit expensive,” Coriolanus says. “And the president wasn’t happy with the last Games,” he admits reluctantly.

“We also thought about a desert…”

“And how will they fight when they’re exhausted from the heat?” Coriolanus mutters. That was the issue with the previous Hunger Games, which nearly cost him his position. The arena had wild temperature fluctuations, leaving the tributes utterly drained. Almost no one fought, viewership was at an all-time low, the Games didn’t even break even, and there was no victor.

“Right,” Yago says. “Maybe tundra arena…”

“Yago, it’s the same as for desert!” now Coriolanus can’t hide his irritation.

“Oh… That’s all I have for now.”

He is also useless, Coriolanus thinks. “I was personally thinking about something simple. Maybe a return to basics, just some maze or tunnels,” he says finally, leaning back subtly in his chair. “Not to risk too much, but the Reaping... I think we should do it differently. This year, the districts should choose the tributes.”

Yago stares at him. “The districts choosing the tributes?”

“Yes. I believe it will breed a lot of mutual resentment, and that’s exactly what we need in the districts right now. The mood is rather heavy, isn’t it?” Coriolanus forces a polite smile, but he can’t help that this also keeps him up at night. Iskander Lennox, the current president, is worse than Maximinius Ravinstill. Well, he gives Coriolanus free rein, but he’s not particularly keen on the Hunger Games like Ravinstill used to be. It’s both good and bad, but he’s so indifferent when it comes to making decisions. At this point, the parliament is much more decisive, and Coriolanus is fortunate to be the leader of the majority party, Pillars of the Capitol. Lennox also has far too light a hand with the districts.

“I’m not sure if the viewers will be satisfied with something simpler,” Yago says cautiously.

“That’s also true,” Coriolanus admits reluctantly.

“But about the tribute selection… What if they don’t choose?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if the districts refuse to choose?” Yago asks.

Coriolanus smiles.

“Oh, Yago, you’re so naive sometimes. Maybe you should join my friend’s party instead?”

“Friend?” Yago seems confused.

“Let me tell you what you can expect today.”

***

Parliament sessions are something Coriolanus Snow could not endure. Hours of life spent listening to those idiots are irretrievably lost.

Coriolanus has always believed that power over a nation should belong to a singular, extraordinary individual with absolute authority; leaving decisions to the majority, as Iskander Lennox wants, yields no results. Too many concepts, too many ideas, often nonsensical. Somehow, twenty members of the Alliance for Prosperity make their way into parliament, and they also have voting rights. Fortunately, Coriolanus's party has fifty members, so they can easily outvote them. The Union of Harmony, a more centrist party, unfortunately, numbers thirty members, and their allegiances waver. As for the Capitol Women's League—this party can easily be dismissed without comment. Coriolanus isn't a sexist—absolutely not—his party has as many as three women, including Io Jasper, his former classmate and a biologist responsible for mutts, is undoubtedly the most valuable addition to his team. She is intelligent, clinical, but lacks Volumnia’s touch of madness.

Yet Coriolanus always makes a good impression; he distributes smiles left and right, walks with a straight posture, and never allows himself even a dismissive eyebrow raise—never.

Though, if he could, he’d poison half of them. Maybe three-quarters.

He takes a seat next to Yago, who seems no less bored than Coriolanus, and Coriolanus nods to Urban Canville who sits on the third bench. They had never been good friends, and now their relationship can at best be described as alienated. But well, one couldn’t deny the influence Urban and his family have.

From afar, Coriolanus spots Sejanus Plinth’s silhouette. Today, Sejanus wears a perfectly tailored suit—damned Tigris—navy blue, as Coriolanus recalls from her palette, paired with a crisp white shirt that emphasizes his broad shoulders. A deep wine-red tie, simple yet elegant, adds a sophisticated touch. Polished black leather shoes complete the image. Coriolanus can’t deny that Sejanus looks good today. Rich, professional—not like someone who has a screw loose.

“I can’t wait. How long is it supposed to last today? Three hours?” Yago whispers toward Coriolanus.

Perhaps Coriolanus should reprimand him, tell him to show more enthusiasm, but honestly, he’s right. “That’s what I think,” he replies, not taking his eyes off Sejanus, who even now sends him a faint smile. Go kiss your own ass, Coriolanus thinks.

Quintus Draven, the Secretary of the Treasury and Resources, begins the session as usual, and Coriolanus already feels his eyes getting heavy. He's rambling on about some nonsense regarding tradition and culture. The president’s second hand, that’s what they call him. Well, considering the president doesn’t even know how to wipe himself... Thunderous applause almost jolts Coriolanus awake when he hears Quintus mention welcoming the new leader of the Alliance for Prosperity party.

Sejanus Plinth stands up and lingers in place for a moment before approaching the podium and solemnly offering his thanks.

He begins his speech. Coriolanus has to admit he isn’t the worst—not worse than the rest, but that’s not saying much. It’s enough not to spit into the microphone, lisp, or mumble. To Coriolanus’s surprise, Sejanus speaks well. The problem lies in what he is saying.

“To begin, I would like to honor my predecessor, tragically passed away Nero Falk, with a minute of silence,” Sejanus says, and Coriolanus almost scoffs but quickly disguises it as a cough. A minute of silence—how delightful. In this room, time has already come to a standstill; it feels like an eternity, and now he’s proposing a minute of silence. For that alone, they should send him back to the psychiatric hospital.

Sejanus’s speech feels like it’s never going to end. At first, he refers to the Panem like unity.

“We have to remember Panem is not only here. Panem is also in the districts, starving and poor. I’m aware that it’s important to punish the districts for the Dark Days and to prevent rebellion. But it’s also important to create more favorable living conditions. Is force the only way to achieve this?” He makes a dramatic pause, but Coriolanus can tell people are growing more bored.

“To that end, I would like to continue the work of my predecessor. We need to reform the Hunger Games in the form we are currently dealing with them. The Hunger Games are an essential tradition, a symbol of our unity and strength. But every tradition evolves. Perhaps it’s time to explore ways to ensure they are not only a reminder of the consequences of rebellion but also a testament to the strength of Panem’s people—Capitol and districts alike.”

Sejanus goes on to propose changes, of course, the same ones his predecessor had already talked about. Increasing the age of the tributes, allowing a humane end to life in the case of severe injuries, and removing mutts from the arena. All attempts that Coriolanus would describe as pathetic, because they won’t change anything anyway.

He exchanges glances with Yago, who rolls his eyes. The nervous tic—the clenching of Sejanus’s jaw—doesn’t do him any favors, but most importantly, people just seem bored.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I do not propose we abolish the Hunger Games outright, but I do ask that we reflect—deeply—on whether we are using them to create a stronger Panem, or merely perpetuating a cycle of destruction,” he ends eventually.

The room is silent at first. Then, faint applause can be heard, mostly from members of his party, but it’s audible nonetheless.

It’s not immediately Coriolanus’s turn, but as he listens to other speeches, he mentally rehearses what he wants to say, the words he carefully planned over the entire weekend. He barely pays attention to the woman from the Capitol Women’s League who talks about gender quotas, sexual harassment—Coriolanus doesn’t stop himself from glancing at Quintus for long enough that it’s noticeable, though the affair was reportedly consensual—and other nonsense.

From the Union of Harmony, they talk about the import of goods from the districts, and Coriolanus is on the verge of nodding off when, suddenly, he hears his name.

He steps to the center and hears applause. He loves the attention. He knows that most of the parliament loves him—even that ridiculous women’s party. After all, he’s always known how to win people over. He takes a longer pause, building tension, before he begins to speak.

"I’m delighted to see our Parliament becoming more open and inclusive, embracing diversity that reflects not only the citizens of the districts but also individuals who have faced challenges with their mental health. It’s a testament to our progress as a society," Coriolanus pauses dramatically, scanning the room to observe the faces around him. Half appear on the verge of nodding off, while the other half listens attentively, nodding in apparent agreement.

"I’m especially pleased to welcome my dearest friend from the past, Sejanus Plinth, as a member of our Parliament," he continues, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I will personally ensure that everyone treats him with the respect he deserves—and I would advise against crossing myself on this," he adds teasingly. "Yet, given the challenges Sejanus Plinth has faced, I ask that he be treated with both respect and understanding in our Parliament."

"That said, and with my friend’s best interests at heart, I’m obligated to emphasize the necessity of prudence and patience. After all, passion can be a double-edged sword—it inspires us, but unchecked, it can lead to danger and thoughtlessness. And we must never lose sight of what defines us. The Hunger Games are not merely a tradition—they are the lifeblood of our history, a solemn remembrance of what happened and a guarantee of what must never happen again."

"Any decisions concerning the Games must be approached with the utmost care and deliberation—never rashly, impulsively, or clouded by personal sentiments. Those who forget this risk are compromising not just themselves but the integrity of this country and everything we stand for."

As Coriolanus finishes his speech, he hears applause and the sound of clapping hands filling the room. Coriolanus bows. And then—he gives just one look in his direction. Sejanus Plinth isn’t clapping, doesn’t say a word, but that familiar twitch appears on his face. He stares at Coriolanus the entire time, unrelenting, barely blinking. His gaze doesn’t leave Coriolanus until the end of the session.

Chapter Text

Coriolanus feels the sweat pooling on his back, and he nearly bolts from the parliamentary chamber, glancing over his shoulder several times as he goes.

Good, it worked, Coriolanus thinks, taking nervous, shallow breaths. Everyone will think Sejanus is a madman—even if he exposes him, even if he did record something, then what? Coriolanus can claim he was tortured, that it was fabricated, that he wasn’t the one who brought that damn wine. People would buy everything if they just found out Sejanus Plinth is crazy. They will start digging into his past, asking him questions.

Yet, Sejanus Plinth was looking at him as if he wanted to kill him.

Coriolanus strides into his office and tells Veronica not to schedule any meetings. He sits at his desk, trying to focus on the paperwork in front of him, but his thoughts keep drifting elsewhere.

The phone rings, but Coriolanus doesn’t answer. Shortly after, there’s a knock at the door.

“Come in,” he mutters.

"Mr. Plinth wants to schedule a meeting," Veronica says, peeking out from behind the door, but Coriolanus doesn’t even look at her.

“I told you to decline all meetings, didn’t I?” Coriolanus snaps with irritation in his voice. He hears her slightly contemptuous sigh but couldn’t care less.

He has to get rid of him. To hell with Mrs. Plinth, to hell with everything—he has to get rid of Sejanus. But what now? What time should he leave work to avoid running into him? That lunatic could be waiting outside his door.

Coriolanus calls his driver and ultimately decides to leave at a time he never leaves work—around three o’clock.

He goes out of the room and asks Veronica to look around the corridor. He even mercifully tells her she can leave work early too if she wants to. The entire way to the exit, he keeps looking around, practically jumping when a colleague, Maximus Pristain, greets him in the hallway.

Slowly, Coriolanus makes his way down the staircase. It’s empty. Just a few more steps, and he’ll be free.

But as he steps outside, Coriolanus sees it. The exact same car, the exact same damn Porsche that came to pick him up for dinner at the Plinths’. His driver, waiting nearby in a black Mercedes, spots him, and Coriolanus almost sprints in that direction, but suddenly, a tall man steps in his way.

"Mr. Plinth wants to talk with you," he says.

Make a scene or not? After all, this is nothing less than an attack in broad daylight. He could shout “help” or try to run. But Coriolanus can’t behave like a lunatic.

"I'm afraid I'm very busy today," he says, trying to step around him, but then he feels a grip on his shoulder.

“It’s not an offer,” the brute says, and meanwhile, Coriolanus hears footsteps. He blinks nervously and reluctantly turns his head, spotting the equally broad figure of Sejanus.

“Get in the car, Coryo,” Sejanus whispers.

“Oh, Sejanus, nice to see you. But I’m afraid I have to come back home, Livia called me, something urgent… My driver is here to pick me up,” Coriolanus says, trying to sound confident.

“I was thinking… Wouldn’t it be interesting if Quintus Draven heard your recording?” Sejanus murmurs into his ear.

Coriolanus swallows hard. “Sejanus, come on, why would he be interested in listening to it?” Coriolanus's heart nearly stop.

“To the car. Now,” Sejanus repeats.

Coriolanus feels his pulse quicken, but his face remains impassive. This is not the time for panic. He scans the area, calculating his next move. As Sejanus’s grip tightens, Coriolanus fixes his gaze on one point. Or one person.

“Victor!” he calls out to the passing official. “Victor Larcene, meet Sejanus Plinth. We’re heading out for a quick ride. Don’t you want join us?.”

Victor stops and looks at him visibly confused. “Excuse me?”

“Meet my friend, Victor. We’re just going for a ride. Don’t you want to come along with us?” Coriolanus knows he’s making a fool of himself, but desperation drives him.

“I’m heading home early,” Victor replies, puzzled.

“Well, what a coincidence, we too. Maybe we can give you a lift. What do you think, Sejanus?”

Sejanus is now looking at him as though he wants to strangle him right there with his bare hands. Yet, Coriolanus smiles widely.

“Why not,” Sejanus replies with a loud sigh.

For the next fifteen minutes—Victor lives quite far, too—Coriolanus endures the most awkward time of his life, feeling as though even his backside is sweating. He rambles on about the weather, Parliament, and other inanities, while Victor smiles politely, and Sejanus stares out the window in silence. When there’s nothing left to say, Coriolanus clears his throat loudly, though he knows they’re nearing Victor’s residence.

“Well, thanks for the lift,” Victor says, visibly confused.

“Don’t you want to drop by Sejanus’s place for tea?” Coriolanus asks. This time, Victor doesn’t even bother to hide that he thinks Coriolanus is a complete idiot, his eyes widening in disbelief.

“No, thank you,” he replies dryly.

When they’re finally alone, Coriolanus considers whether he should just fling the door open and make a run for it.

“Why are you making such a fool of yourself?” Sejanus asks calmly.

“Fool?” Coriolanus echoes, trying to keep his tone light.

“Fool,” Sejanus confirms. “I won’t hurt you. At least… not permanently,” he adds with a faint, chilling smile. “We had an agreement. You broke it. And now, you’ll remember what happens when I’m crossed.”

Coriolanus lets out a short, nervous laugh, hoping to dispel the tension, but Sejanus’s expression remains deadly serious.

“What happens when you’re crossed?” Coriolanus echoes.

“I promise you will find out, Coriolanus,” Sejanus replies.

“Sejanus, did I offend you in some way?” he asks casually.

“I don’t know, maybe by implying in your speech that I’m lunatic?” Sejanus retorts.

“I didn’t mean to offend you! I know how people are in the Parliament—I only wanted to protect you.”

“Now you’re insulting my intelligence,” Sejanus notes dryly.

“I don’t…”

“Oh, be quiet!” Sejanus raises his voice, shifting his gaze to the car window.

Coriolanus considers several options. Jump out of the car. Start flirting with him—maybe that would calm him down. In the end, he blurts out something stupid, “Haven’t you thought about moving closer to the center?”

The corners of Sejanus’s mouth twitch slightly. “Sure, I’ll move in with you and your wife, Coriolanus.”

“Livia would be thrilled.”

Now Sejanus even laughs briefly.

“Don’t think you’ll get away with what you did today, because you’re charming,” he says, suddenly serious again.

What happens when Sejanus is crossed? What Sejanus has in mind—Coriolanus has no idea—but with each passing second, he feels the lump in his throat growing larger. Will he whip him? Pull out his nails? What is he planning to do to him? Maybe write to Livia, but that bitch probably wouldn’t even pay attention. Maybe he can call Tigris, but why to be so dramatic and well, how she is supposed to help him with this skinny body of hers…

When they finally approach Sejanus’s estate, this time bathed in daylight, it looks even more majestic. Coriolanus doesn’t know if he feels relieved or not. He wonders whether to try running off into the forest—something that would be both pathetic and desperate—or to attack Sejanus, which isn’t entirely in his style, and, let’s face it, he doesn’t stand a chance.

Sejanus steps out of the car as if nothing is happening.

“Out,” he says.

“Sejanus, let’s be reasonable,” Coriolanus says, attempting a charming smile. His fingers gripped the car seat, knuckles white.

Sejanus leans in slightly. “Reasonable? Like your little speech today?”

“I apologize, all right? Just take me home, and I’ll make sure it never happens again,” Coriolanus says, though using this tone is beneath his dignity.

“I’m supposed to ask my driver to make you do it, hm?” Sejanus asks, raising his eyebrows.

The driver is anyway getting quite the show, Coriolanus thinks, so he simply rises from his seat. When he does, the driver speeds off almost unnaturally, and Coriolanus nervously glances at Sejanus, who crosses his arms.

"Inside," Sejanus commands.

"No," Coriolanus protests.

Sejanus narrows his eyes with irritation. "Don’t make me repeat myself, Coriolanus."

What is Sejanus thinking now? That Coriolanus will be afraid because Sejanus took some steroids and did a few push-ups? He’s still just as weak as he always was. Sejanus Plinth, who was too scared to shoot people. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. His little room with plastic whips changes nothing.

“I said no,” Coriolanus says, stepping closer to him and saying it directly to his face. But then, without much effort, Sejanus… simply lifts him into the air and slings him over his shoulder. At first, the shock is so overwhelming that Coriolanus is speechless, but after a moment, he asks, “What are you doing? Is it supposed to be funny?”

“I’m helping you with walking.”

”Let me down, Sejanus, or… I will show you!”

“Uh-huh, I’m so scared,” Sejanus says.

“You’re making a grave mistake, Sejanus, put me down at once," Coriolanus repeats coldly, staring at the ground, feeling the blood drain from his face. He can’t let himself be carried into that room, so he starts pounding on Sejanus’s back with his fists. “you'll regret this, I promise.”

Sejanus stops just in front of the door, his grip tightening slightly as he glances down at Coriolanus, the corners of his mouth twitching in a smirk, “I will regret it, hm? No. You will regret your little performance.”

“No… No, Sejanus, this is beneath us both, let’s talk like adults,” Coriolanus says.

Yet, Sejanus doesn’t even listen to him now. He opens the door, and Coriolanus sees the familiar hallway, then the floor of the living room, and he knows exactly where they’re headed. Somewhere in the background, there’s the sound of a dog barking.

"End this show and put me down, I can walk myself," Coriolanus says, trying to sound calm.

"Too late."

“Put me down!” Coriolanus says more angrily. He struggles, but Sejanus’s grip remains unyielding. Each step echoes in the hallway, like a march toward the inevitable.

The world tilts as Sejanus hoists him higher, and Coriolanus’s stomach churns. He claws at Sejanus’s back, but his hands meet unyielding fabric.

Soon they’re in the room—his playroom, though Coriolanus would describe it as a torture chamber. Dimly lit, a single lamp casting long shadows over walls lined with ominous implements. Paddles, whips, and restraints gleamed faintly in the low light. Coriolanus almost senses them on his skin.

Once Sejanus closes the door, he sets him down on the floor, and Coriolanus, breathing loudly, tries not to waste any time; with all his strength, he charges at him with his fists, but his attempt is futile. Sejanus simply grabs his fists in his hands and pushes them down.

“Sejanus,” Coriolanus says, forcing a laugh. “This is absurd. Let’s sit down and discuss whatever it is you’re upset about.”

Sejanus says with an unreadable expression. “What is the point? You don’t listen when people talk, Coriolanus. Tell me, do you want it the hard way or the easy way?”

“Sejanus…”

“Tell me!” now he yells, looking absolutely furious.

Coriolanus hesitates, his pride doesn’t allow him to comply so easily. Yet, he knows he has no choice but to submit—for now. “Easy,” he mutters under his breath.

Sejanus pulls him by the arm, and when he sits on the bench in the middle of the room, he holds him by the hips and, with a slow motion, unbuckles his belt, yanks down his pants… and his underwear, placing Coriolanus over his knee. One of Sejanus’s legs locks Coriolanus’s legs between his own. Coriolanus’s face is just a few inches from the floor. Coriolanus blinks a few times, not believing what is happening.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asks, trying to sound as calm as possible, but the trembling of his voice betrays him.

He feels Sejanus’s hand aim right at the surface of his ass and hit it with such force that the sound of the smack echoes throughout the room.

“Sejanus, would you care to explain to me what you are doing?” he snaps.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sejanus asks.

“Don’t be ridiculous, put my… My pants back on. This is absurd. We aren’t children, let’s talk,” Coriolanus says.

Is it really happening?

“"I'm getting stick out of your arrogant ass."” Sejanus replies.

“Sejanus, we can talk,” Coriolanus repeats.

“I’m done talking with your dirty mouth; let’s talk with your ass,” Sejanus cuts him off, slapping him again.

“You think this is how you win, Sejanus?” Coriolanus spits. “By humiliating me? How petty.”

Another smack lands, harder this time, and Coriolanus has enough. He twists, trying to free himself. He pounds his fists against Sejanus’s back, his it’s completely ineffective. His pride screams louder than the sting on his skin.

“Let. Me. Go!” Coriolanus growls. “You’ll regret this, I swear.”

Sejanus laughs briefly. “Oh, you’re so, so, so threatening right now.”

This can’t be real, Coriolanus thinks. Maybe it’s just a nightmare. He tries to free himself, but the next hard smack cuts him off. Tears are pricking his eyes.

Coriolanus buries his face in his hands. “Sejanus, stop it now,” he says, trying to sound commanding.

“No,” Sejanus simply replies, his hand again landing squarely on Coriolanus’s ass. Coriolanus glances around to find something to hit Sejanus in the head with, but there’s nothing within reach. All the BDSM equipment is too far away, and the worst part is the mirror to their right. Coriolanus does everything he can not to glance at his reflection.

“Sejanus!” he protests again. “Sejanus!” this one sounds more desperate, but Plinth doesn’t reply to anything. “You know how absurd it is?” he asks and then a pathetic, painful moan escapes his mouth. Coriolanus tries now to bite his cheek to suppress any other sounds. He can’t give him this satisfaction.

“I don’t care,” Sejanus says.

Frantically wondering how to stop this, Coriolanus decides to give Sejanus what he wants.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Too late,” Sejanus says.

“Be serious!”

“I’m very serious.”

Coriolanus squeezes his eyes shut. This is really happening. Sejanus is doing this to him. He just put him over his lap, and now he’s spanking his bare ass, and Coriolanus can’t do anything to stop it. He tries to hit Sejanus with his fists again to end this madness, but nothing works.

“Sejanus, stop it!” he yells, feeling he has completely lost any compsure, but Sejanus doesn’t pause for even a moment. His hand keeps striking Coriolanus’s backside, relentlessly. It’s excruciating. It’s humiliating to his core. Coriolanus tries again to hit Sejanus’s back, but this time, Sejanus grows even angrier.

“Do I need,” Sejanus hisses, punctuating each word with an even harder slap, “to tie your hands with handcuffs? It would be unpleasant for you to have them tied behind your back, and you’d have marks someone can notice,” he says.

Someone can notice. At least this madman is planning to let him go eventually. But this kind of humiliation is just too much.

He needs to say whatever would appease Sejanus.

“Sejanus… I understood your point, stop this. I wasn’t thinking about what I said,” Coriolanus pleads and shivers, hearing how hoarse his voice has become.

“Oh, you thought about it very thoroughly, I know you did, you fucking bastard.”

Sejanus pauses for a moment, and now he’s just brushing his fingers over Coriolanus’s burning skin. Coriolanus fights the urge to curse him.

“Sejanus,” Coriolanus says instead, “If you stop now, I’ll forget this ever happened. In fact, I might even be willing to find a position for you in my party. Something... significant, so you don’t have to stay trapped at the head of a minor faction. What do you say?”

Sejanus hums. "A very tempting offer, but... No."

Coriolanus sighs loudly. "No? A shame," he replies quietly. "I suppose I’ll just have to think of something else, then."

“Yes, Coriolanus, think about something else… You see this?” Sejanus grabs his hair and tilts his head to the left. “Those paddles? Floggers? Whips? Next time, I’ll use one of those on your ass if you disobey me. Understood?”

All the pride Coriolanus feels stifles the voice in his throat, but when Sejanus shakes his head, he takes a deep sigh and decides to speak.

"Understood," he replies. There’s no point in arguing with this psycho—for now. But this? This will never happen again. Coriolanus’s mind races, already calculating. He’ll kill him if he has to, or find another way to get rid of him. Quietly, efficiently. And besides, no one else will ever know about this humiliation—not ever. It will stay locked between them, buried where it belongs.

“Good. You’ll get twenty more, and after each one, you’ll count and thank me. Is that clear? If you mess up the count…” Sejanus whispers, still stroking his burning skin, “We’ll start over.”

“Got it,” Coriolanus says through clenched teeth, because what other choice does he have? Humiliated to his very core, he says mockingly, “One. Thank you, Your Majesty,” trying to win at least with this mockery, suggesting to Sejanus how ridiculous it is, but somehow it still feels like failure. Sejanus doesn’t react to his words, and Coriolanus gives up, just counting twenty times. Each smack is painful, degrading, and by the middle, his voice breaks, growing quieter.

Yet, in his mind, he plots a hundred different ways to get rid of Sejanus.

Coriolanus senses tears streaking down his face, which he quickly wipes away, desperate to maintain some reminiscences of control.

But the real humiliation lies in what’s happening between his legs. Horrified, Coriolanus feels his body responding to the touches. His erection fades with the sting of the harder smacks, only to return when Sejanus’s hand brushes over him in between. Sejanus must notice, as he lets out a low, mocking laugh a few times. Coriolanus gripped the edge of the bench, furiously willing himself to focus on anything else, to suppress this humiliating response—but no matter how hard he tries, he fails.

“Twenty, thank you,” Coriolanus whispers, barely audible, Sejanus finally stops. Now he’s again gently stroking Coriolanus’s burning skin, and Coriolanus can feel his cock pressing against Sejanus’s thigh.

“Oh, this was supposed to be a punishment, but we got a little excited, didn’t we?” Sejanus says mockingly, but he helps him to stand up. Coriolanus fights the urge to slap him in the face.

“You’re sick, Sejanus,” Coriolanus mutters, trying to avoid looking at the wet precum stain he left on Sejanus’s pants with his embarrassingly leaking cock.

“Let me help you with that,” Sejanus says like he doesn’t hear him at all, and Coriolanus dreads what those words might mean.

Sejanus stands, pulling Coriolanus into an embrace and pressing a kiss to the top of his head, then trailing down to his neck and collarbone. Coriolanus remains motionless, unresponsive, his mind racing as he tries to decide what he should do next. Before he can come to any decision, Sejanus drops to his knees before him.

Coriolanus is shocked to realize Sejanus is taking him into his mouth. A loud “No!” escapes his mouth, but it weakens as he feels the warmth and the soft suction around the tip of his cock. Coriolanus struggles for a few moments, but Sejanus holds him firmly by the hips. Finally, feeling the back of Sejanus's throat against his cock, Coriolanus moans, maybe not too loudly, but loud enough to be heard by Sejanus. It has been a long time since anyone has done this for him.

“Should I stop?” Sejanus asks teasingly, looking up at him. Coriolanus turns his head to the side, trying to hide his tear-streaked face.

Why should he tell him to stop? Livia wouldn’t do this for him, not now, and Sejanus had already humiliated him to his core. If Sejanus finishes him off now, on his knees, like a servant, like a mere whore, it won’t be Coriolanus who’s degraded—it’ll be Sejanus. Let this psycho believe what he wants. Let him think Coriolanus secretly enjoys it. A man who feels victorious and complacent is a man less vigilant, and a less vigilant Sejanus will be far easier to eliminate when the time comes.

“Continue,” Coriolanus commands as he sharply tugs Sejanus’s hair, tilting his head in the direction of his groin.

Sejanus laughs. “As you wish,” he murmurs before leaning forward again.

Coriolanus closes his eyes, trying to block out the warmth, the sound, the shame. He feels Sejanus’s lips move around him, and with every passing second, a single thought pounds in his mind: This will be over soon.

But the knot of humiliation tightening in his chest tells him otherwise. He knows he will never forget about it.

Yet now, he firmly presses Sejanus’s head closer to his cock, guiding it decisively in that direction. “Faster,” he demands. Coriolanus feels the warmth of Sejanus’s mouth envelop him, and a pitiful whimper escapes his lips. It had been years since he’d experienced this, and he’d nearly forgotten how much he enjoyed it. Sejanus hums softly, the vibrations sending shivers through Coriolanus’s body and making him even harder.

Coriolanus catches a glimpse of them in the mirror. He can’t tear his eyes away from his reflection. The mirror seems to magnify every detail: the flushed skin, the tear-streaked cheeks, the grimace twisting his mouth in ways he can’t control. But it is the sight of Sejanus—kneeling, utterly focused—that stirred the deepest humiliation.

Plinth’s movements are swift, yet he uses only his mouth; his large hands rest gently on Coriolanus’s backside, stroking it tenderly. Each delicate touch of Sejanus’s hands on his heated skin contrasts with the frantic, desperate pull of his mouth. The sharp suction sends jolts of heat coursing through Coriolanus’s body, his breaths turning into short, ragged gasps.

Sejanus glances up briefly, his mouth never faltering, and Coriolanus could swear he sees a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. His hands move slightly, brushing over the edges of the tender skin, as if he wants to remind Coriolanus who holds the reins in this moment. But Coriolanus isn’t one to back down entirely, even in the face of current humiliation. He grabs Sejanus’s hair harder, yanking his head slightly, and fixes him with a piercing gaze—the same one he reserves for subordinates or those he seeks to crush.

The fury is rolling inside Coriolanus to be reduced to something like that, but he can’t suppress the pleasure. His body is betraying him in every possible way—the sweat on his forehead, his moans echoing the room, his hard dick.

When Sejanus lowers his hand and grabs his balls, pressing them slightly while looking up at him provocatively, Coriolanus tilts his head back slightly. Now, Sejanus focuses on sucking just the tip of his cock, his hand gently massaging Coriolanus’s balls. The suction grows firmer and faster, and Coriolanus instinctively tangles his fingers in Sejanus’s hair again, tugging sharply. For a brief moment, his mind goes completely blank, and he feels himself reaching his climax, trying desperately to stifle any sounds of pleasure.

Sejanus sucks the last drop of semen from his cock.

Coriolanus closes his eyes, unwilling to even look at Sejanus, but he doesn’t have to. He hears footsteps retreating, and when he finally opens his eyes, he is completely alone in the room.

Yet, the door is open.

***

Splashing his face with cold water in the bathroom, Coriolanus struggles to catch his breath. What just happened? It was pure madness. The rage rising within him is almost uncontrollable; he could strangle Sejanus with his bare hands right now.

He steps out of the bathroom, and the first thing he hears is the blaring noise of a sports channel coming from the Capitol network. Sejanus. The audacity. Coriolanus clenches his fists as he walks toward the living room, but what he sees only sharpens his irritation.

Sejanus lounges on the couch, a glass of brownish liquid in his left hand, a cigarette in the other, his shirt unbuttoned—completely unbothered. Coriolanus feels heat rising in his chest, his body reacting before his mind can catch up.

“You don’t smoke indoors,” he snaps. He wants to say something more, something that would show the control he so desperately clings to, but it eludes him.

Sejanus gives him a funny look. “You know this is my house, right?”

"Is that alcohol?"

"Mm-hmm. Whiskey. A fine one. Want some?"

“You told me you don’t drink.”

Sejanus, unfazed, calmly takes a drag on his cigarette. “Well, surprise. I lied.”

Coriolanus now stands before this lunatic, but Sejanus tries to look past him at the screen.

“You know you’re not transparent, right?” Sejanus mutters.

“You’re just… Sitting here… After you humiliated me?!” Coriolanus says, feeling himself losing control. In truth, he hasn’t had control over anything since he came here.

Sejanus sets his drink down and takes a slow drag on his cigarette, his gaze steady on Coriolanus. "Humiliated you? Please. Isn’t ‘dramatic’ what you always called me? Try spending every day in the asylum, where they watch you shower. Standing there, naked, like you’re nothing. Before every visit with my mother, they’d search me like I was smuggling something. What do you know about humiliation? What I gave you—that wasn’t humiliation. That was just… a little lesson."

“I don’t care about your sob stories or whatever twisted history you think excuses this! You don’t get to treat me like that. Do you understand?”

Sejanus sprawls out on the couch with a contemptuous smile.

“Funny, isn’t it? Seems I can treat you however I like.”

Coriolanus groans in frustration.

“You don’t know who you’re messing with,” he says.

“Threats? Really? They’d carry a lot more weight if you weren’t so... compromised.”

Coriolanus's breathing is shallow. His pulse is hammering in his ears. “Shut up.”

“Sure,” Sejanus shrugs. “Anything else you need?”

Coriolanus crosses his arms but says nothing, glaring at him with a fierce gaze.

"I don’t know… You're offering something, Coryo?" Sejanus asks, grinning. "Though honestly, I’d have to decline. I value my… assets too much to risk your bite."

"I wouldn’t lower myself to that," Coriolanus hisses.

“Really?” Sejanus raises an eyebrow skeptically. “Today has shown us both that there aren’t many things you wouldn’t stoop to.”

Coriolanus clenches his fist so tightly now that even his short nails dig painfully into his skin.

“But my gardener will do that for me today,” Sejanus adds almost dreamily.

“Your gardener?”

“Yes,” Sejanus replies lightly. “My driver’s picking him up now. He’ll also give you a ride back to the city. Unless, of course, there’s something else you’d like me to handle?” he asks innocently.

“You’re... You’re the same weak boy you’ve always been,” Coriolanus says. “You think a little strength gives you the right to treat me like this? We’ll see about that. Don’t forget who I am—what I am—and the power I hold.”

Yet, Sejanus only laughs, but the sound is devoid of humor. “Oh, Coryo… That’s adorable.”

Coriolanus, groaning loudly, storms out of the room.

He waits in the cold for two-quarters of an hour, feeling that this must be done. He has to kill Sejanus, preferably as soon as possible. But how to do it without getting caught, he wonders.

Finally, the Porsche arrives. A young man steps out, around twenty-five years old, blonde. Coriolanus glares at him unpleasantly and says nothing. So, that’s who Sejanus will be screwing tonight. Fantastic.

Offended to his core, he gets into the car and tries not to hiss when his burning backside touches the leather seat.

“To Corso,” he says to the driver, noticing his smirk in the mirror.

***

Coriolanus, with a thousand swirling thoughts in his head, enters the Snow penthouse. Outside, it’s already dark, and this absurd situation has made him get home even later than usual. From the doorway, he hears the loud sounds of the television. Taking off his coat and stepping into the living room, he spots Livia sitting across from the TV in a red slip dress, filing her nails. On the screen, he sees some trashy show about the rich wives of the Capitol. On the table lie some olives, a glass of wine, and, of course, an entire bottle beside it.

She’s so useless, he thinks. But at the same time, something else stirs inside him. He should have control—over Parliament, over Sejanus fucking Plinth, over his own wife—and yet, what’s happening? She doesn’t have control over anything.

Coriolanus stands in front of the TV, almost as he did at the Plinth estate.

“Oh, you’re back,” Livia says with a smile, popping an olive into her mouth.

Coriolanus silently grabs the remote and turns off the television.

“Hey, I was watching that!” Livia protests.

“I don’t care,” Coriolanus says.

“What’s gotten into you?” Livia asks, but Coriolanus sits beside her on the couch and, somewhat awkwardly, somewhat too roughly, begins biting at her neck.

“What are you doing?!” Livia exclaims, pulling away from him.

“Livia, darling,” he murmurs, brushing her hair away from her face. “You know how much I’ve missed you?”

“Missed me? Are you drunk? Did you hit your head?”

“I have to be unwell to miss my dear wife?” Coriolanus whispers, softening his gaze just enough to maintain the illusion of affection.

“Miss your dear wife? Oh, that one… You want fuck me?” Livia says, and Coriolanus fights not to grimace. “Fine, you can, though I’m not fertile right now. Just don’t interrupt my show,” she adds, casually flipping the channel back on.

Coriolanus’s hands instinctively clench into fists, and he feels such a surge of fury that he fears he’s about to lose his temper. For a brief moment, the thought of snapping, of letting his anger explode, flickers in his mind. But no—aggression won’t do him any favor. Livia would sense it immediately, and worse, she’d use it against him, as she always does.

Still, the thought of her denying him now is unbearable. He wouldn’t survive it—not after the humiliation he’s already endured today.

He calmly grabs the remote from her, turning off the TV again.

“Your ‘show’?” he asks coldly. “How dare you speak to your husband like that?”

Livia gives him an irritated look. “Husband? And what, you think you can ignore me for months, and then suddenly demand sex? I’m not your whore,” she says.

Coriolanus sighs loudly. He knows that she’s the one with the real power. He won’t touch her if she doesn’t want to. But he really needs this.

“That’s exactly what I think,” he says.“You’re my wife. When I want you, you’ll spread your legs, and you’ll like it,” he adds firmly, trying to sound as authoritative as he can.

Livia observes him more closely.

“Why would I do that?” she asks.

It’s a crucial moment. He can’t let her walk over him.

“Because we both know you’re little, dirty slut, Livia, and you don’t want anything more than this,” Coriolanus says. He doesn’t like speaking like that, but he knows this kind of talk is turning her on.

Livia looks like she is hesitating, but she smirks.

“Fine,” she finally replies.

No need to tell him twice. Coriolanus grabs her by the hair, tilting her head back, and biting her neck, his grip a bit too strong, but Livia doesn’t make a sound. He alternates between kissing and nibbling her neck, tasting the bitter tang of her perfume mixed with a light, sweet floral scent. Livia chuckles briefly when he kisses the nape of her neck.

“You’re mine, understand?” he whispers into her ear, nibbling on the lobe.

“Yes,” she replies with a quiet moan. “Yours.”

“Good,” Coriolanus says.

Without bothering with prolonged foreplay, he lifts her hips so her head is pressed against the back of the couch, placing her on all fours. He pulls up her red slip and sees red lace panties. Who does she buy these, are they for him? he wonders. Livia’s body is perfect, he has to admit. Coriolanus doesn’t understand why he usually doesn’t feel like having sex with her. Livia is slim, but she has rounded hips and breasts that are just the right size—not too big, not too small. When they started dating, every argument would end with rough sex in the bedroom. Back then, she’d even started being nice for a while, but somehow he got bored of it, though he doesn’t fully understand why.

Now, though, he gives her a spank on her backside hard enough that Livia jumps, then squeezes her right buttcheek.

“I’m going to fuck you hard… So hard,” he whispers, tracing the fingers of his other hand down her spine. “Spread your legs wider,” he commands. When she doesn’t react, he delivers another quick smack. “Now,” he adds. Livia glances back at him, turning her head. Coriolanus leans in, grabbing her hair.

“I said now. If I have to repeat myself again, I won’t be so nice.”

She obediently spreads her legs wider. For a moment, Coriolanus teasingly runs his fingers along her folds—just enough to feel how wet she is, how much of a slut she is for him—until Livia starts moaning quietly.

“Fuck me now,” she says.

“I decide when,” Coriolanus says sharply, delivering another harsh smack to her wonderful ass.

When she starts moving her hips even more for him, he feels his own erection. He tries to pull her panties down with his teeth, but when that doesn’t work, he uses his fingers. She’s perfect for him, arching so much that he can see her swollen clit. Sighing loudly, he unzips his pants. The burning sensation on his own backside still lingers, but he doesn’t care.

He slides into her smoothly, almost immediately, though he hears her painful cry. One good thing about her not having given birth is how tight she is, incredibly tight, and Coriolanus can feel the walls of her pussy clenching around his cock.

He starts thrusting quickly, so fast that all he can hear is the slapping sound of skin against skin filling the room, along with her moans. Livia is good at sex. She knows how to tighten and relax around his cock, and Coriolanus feels it especially at the tip, though now it brings back memories of what happened at the Plinth estate. He tries to suppress them, focusing instead on how Livia arches her back even more for him, moaning louder and louder. But the memories persist—Sejanus, completely in control, kneeling, his mouth around him... Coriolanus shuts his eyes tightly, but the image lingers, vivid and… Arousing.

“Oh yes, fuck, oh yes, fuck me like that,” she cries out, but her moans barely reach him.

Coriolanus grabs her hips and starts thrusting so fast that he’s out of breath. He hears her moans turning into almost screams as he fucks her, but his mind betrays him—coming back to Sejanus, kneeling, his mouth enveloping him, this heat, this control. The thought pushes Coriolanus over the edge, and he comes inside her, his whole body trembling, a shiver of shame trailing down his spine.

Breathing heavily, he stays in that position for a moment before pulling out.

Livia almost immediately sits up on the couch, looking at him this time with a spark in her eyes.

“I didn’t finish,” she says with irritation.

“Don’t worry darling, we’ll take care of that,” Coriolanus replies, trying to catch his breath.

“If you say so,” Livia says, curling her lips. “Maybe we can take… a bath together?”

She doesn’t suggest this often, but why not? It might be a good idea—drink some champagne and forget the world in their jacuzzi. He’ll make her finish with fingers so she won’t complain.

“It would be my pleasure to join you tonight,” he says, starting to take off his pants completely, but he freezes when he notices Livia staring at him.

“Why does your ass look like that?” she asks loudly.

Coriolanus flinches. If she says it out loud, he’ll have to strangle her with his own hands.

“What do you mean, my dear?” he plays dumb.

"I mean it looks... bruised? Or something?" she says, giving him a second glance.

“I fell… on the stairs at Parliament,” he replies quickly. For a moment, they stare at each other in tension.

Livia raises her eyebrow. “You fell on the stairs?” she asks skeptically.

“Yes, I was walking next to… Maximus and fell down,” he deliberately uses the name of someone Livia has no idea about. “I tumbled down ten steps. He laughed like crazy but helped me get up.”

Livia observes him for a moment, and Coriolanus almost feels drops of sweat forming until Livia claps her hands.

“You fell on your ass? Hilarious!” she bursts into laughter but drops the subject. Coriolanus watches her tensely for a moment before joining in with a fake laugh.

Livia takes off her slip entirely at the doorway to the room and asks, “Coming?”

In moments like this—standing in the soft glow of the lamp that outlines the subtle curves of her body—she looks almost like a goddess. Yet, despite her attractiveness, Coriolanus feels nothing more than a fleeting spark of desire when he sees her naked. Usually, he’s not moved by her presence, not the way Livia might expect.

But she doesn’t know he married her because he hates her.

Sometimes he feels almost sorry for her. Almost.

“Of course, my love.”

Chapter Text

Present

Sejanus, preparing himself for the job the next day after this incident, feels a flicker of remorse. Yesterday, after Coriolanus stormed out, he hadn’t even had the energy to make out with his gardener. At least, he has a very well-mowed lawn. 

The rage he felt when he heard those words from Coriolanus’s mouth in the Parliament was too great to control. The anger hadn’t disappeared even hours later, as he kept replaying that sly expression on Coriolanus’s face, that confident voice that insulted him so casually in the middle of Parliament. In truth, Coriolanus didn't even have any reason to do it. Not yet.

Still, as Sejanus looks at his own reflection in the mirror, today he can’t bring himself to meet his own eyes. He went too far. He had wanted to humiliate Coriolanus so badly that he had definitely crossed the line. He hadn’t meant to hurt him, after all. Maybe only put him in the place. Prove him something, perhaps. 

Sejanus has better methods to control him. And ones that can be far more pleasant for Coriolanus. For both of them.

As he turns back to his briefcase, a faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He reaches into a drawer, retrieving a set of vibrating anal beads and carefully tucking them into the leather case. His fingers linger briefly over the smooth surface of the toy, his smile widening slightly.

“It will be perfect,” he says to himself with a soft chuckle.

After all, he can’t lose control; when he does, very bad things happen.

***

Past

Sejanus was sitting in the dimly lit gentlemen’s club located on the outskirts of the Capitol. He had struck a great deal—bought a large estate from one of the billionaires at a bargain price. He had already informed Quintus Draven that the estate could host their future conspiracy meetings, but Draven didn’t seem convinced. Lately, Sejanus felt more like Draven’s secretary than someone of true importance. He didn’t even suspect that at this age he would be so useless. 

Sipping his third beer at the bar, he lazily scanned the room. His gaze didn’t land on anyone of interest that day. He had even messaged Yago Trivane, but Yago replied that he was busy. The awkward exchange left Sejanus feeling utterly foolish.

“Sejanus Plinth?” His thoughts were interrupted by a loud call. Cautiously, Sejanus turned to see who had addressed him. His jaw twitched when he recognized none other than Dennis Fling.

During his Academy years, Sejanus remembered being ignored by most, bullied by some. And Dennis Fling had been one of the worst. Once, Dennis tripped him while he was carrying a tray full of food, sending Sejanus face-first into his stew. Another time, Dennis had stolen his Academy uniform, forcing Sejanus to spend nearly an hour in the locker room only in his underwear until Professor Sickle fetched a dusty spare from the storage room. Dennis had shouted across the hall, “Plinth, you stink!” Sejanus still recalled Coriolanus Snow’s glance of faint sympathy during that humiliation. He even let him sit next to him during lunch, speaking so politely and cheerfully for the whole time like nothing happened. 

“Dennis,” Sejanus muttered. Dennis Fling looked entirely different from his Academy days—colorful hair, leather pants, a pink-striped shirt.

“Long time no see,” Dennis said. “What are you doing here?”

“Drinking beer,” Sejanus replied curtly, leaving no room for further conversation. He turned his back on him.

“Come on, Plinth, you’re still mad? Let me buy you a drink, huh?” Dennis asked with a fake smile.

Sejanus sighed loudly and slid slightly to the right. Dennis launched into his monologue—it seemed he had been studying fashion design and was now working as one of the stylists for the Hunger Games. Not for the prominent districts, though—8 and 9, the lower ranks. He dreamed of becoming a stylist for 1 or 2, but those positions were tied up. Coriolanus, Dennis explained, was keeping them for his cousin and now for some young floozy he was probably sleeping with.

Listening to this, Sejanus felt his fingers tightening around his beer mug.

“Must feel good, huh? To come from a district so eager to throw its hat in the Hunger Games,” Dennis said.

“Immensely,” Sejanus replied dryly.

Not only did this idiot’s mouth never stop moving, but he also scared off a potential partner for Sejanus. Finally, rolling his eyes, Sejanus stood up and left a hundred-dollar bill on the bar.

“I said I’d pay,” Dennis protested.

“No need,” Sejanus cut him off.

“Oh, yes, the famous Plinth fortune,” Dennis remarked with mockery. Sejanus felt his fists clench but instead walked out of the bar with a quick stride.

He didn’t drive off immediately. For a moment, he just sat in the car, trying to breathe. He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag, flicking cigarette ash out the window. Although this was nothing compared to the psychiatric hospital, the echoes of those words still lingered in his mind. “Plinth, go back to your district if it’s so great there.” “District freak.” “Plinth looks like an orangutan.”

Sejanus kept his eyes on the club entrance until Dennis’s colorful hair appeared in view. He opened the car door and crushed the cigarette under his shoe. Plastering a smile on his face, he offered, “Dennis, maybe I’ll give you a lift?”

Dennis hesitated for a moment. “Oh, I don’t live far from here...”

“I thought,” Sejanus said casually, “we could drink something at my place.”

He watched Dennis carefully.

Dennis laughed nervously. “Why… why not?”

In the limousine, Sejanus, suppressing his disgust, rested his hand on Dennis’s knee.

“You’re doing something… weird with your face,” Dennis remarked.

“Yeah, I’ve got nerve damage,” Sejanus explained slowly.

“It looks funny. Like this,” Dennis said, twisting his own face into an exaggerated grimace. Sejanus closed his eyes and started counting to five.

“Do you live far away?” Dennis asked, now sounding slightly nervous.

“Six minutes, and we’ll be there.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Dennis added suddenly. “I think you look great,” he said, almost lecherously, leaning closer. “You know,” he murmured, nearly licking his lips, “I’ve always wanted to try a district dick.”

Sejanus smiled faintly, thinking what a pity that Dennis would never have the chance to taste one. He tried to simply get rid of this thought—he wasn’t like that, he didn’t ever want to hurt people. 

Yet, with every word Dennis uttered, Sejanus’s nails dug deeper into his palms. Dennis babbled on about people from the districts, how hard his job was, and how difficult it was to maintain a top position in the Capitol. He lamented that his family wasn’t proud he was gay. How sorry I feel for you, Sejanus thought sarcastically as they finally arrived at his estate.

Dennis flitted around—ironically, like a monkey—marveling at the luxury and gulping down Sejanus’s expensive whiskey.

“What’s in this room?” Dennis asked.

“Don’t concern yourself,” Sejanus replied.

“I heard something about… a gay man with a real palace who keeps a BDSM room in his house,” Dennis said with a sly grin. “That you?”

Sejanus chuckled briefly. “Maybe,” he replied. “More whiskey?” he offered, gesturing toward the bottle.

“You know what’s funny?” Dennis said, a lot sharper.

“What?”

“That someone like you, born in a pigsty of a district, thinks they’ll ever belong here. You can buy all the mansions you want, Plinth, but you’ll always stink of the dirt you came from,” he said with sudden hate. 

“What did you say?” Sejanus asked.

“You thought I really wanted…” Denis said and he burst out the laughter. “You really thought I wanted to sleep with you? I will tell them in the club you’re from the district.”

“You know…” Sejanus slowly approached him. “What’s funny, Dennis?”

“Hm?” Dennis replied, his smug expression faltering.

“That your filthy mouth won’t ever say another word to anyone again,” Sejanus hissed, snatching the glass from Dennis’s hand and setting it down on the table.

“Plinth, what are you… I was just messing with you…” Dennis stammered, his nervous smile fading as he backed away.

Sejanus didn’t let him finish. He struck without thinking—a fist aimed directly at Dennis’s face. The cracking sound echoed through the room, and Dennis stumbled back, clutching his nose as blood spilled between his fingers.

“You’re crazy! What the hell are you doing?” Dennis cried in disbelief, staring at the blood on his hands. He glanced back at Sejanus, panic filling his eyes, and bolted toward the door.

But Sejanus was quicker. He lunged at Dennis, throwing himself onto his back and slamming him to the floor with his full weight.

“I’m crazy?” Sejanus growled, his whole body trembling. “I’m crazy?”

“Plinth, I’m sor—” Dennis tried to stammer, but he never had the chance to finish. Sejanus grabbed a fistful of Dennis’s hair and slammed his head against the floor. Once. Twice.

Dennis groaned in agony, but Sejanus didn’t listen. Each blow was fueled by years of suppressed rage—rage at the Capitol, at people like Dennis, at himself.

Finally, Dennis’s groans stopped, his body going limp. The room fell into an oppressive silence.

Sejanus sighed loudly, standing up and wiping his hands on a napkin. His expression was eerily calm now.

“You really should’ve learned when to shut up, Dennis. Long, long time ago,” he muttered, turning toward the bar to pour himself another drink.

But just as he raised the glass to his lips, a faint whimper broke the silence. Turning around, he spotted his dog sniffing cautiously at the bloodied body.

“Churro,” Sejanus muttered, setting the glass down with a sigh. “For the love of… Don’t even think about it.”

***

Present

After his morning coffee, Sejanus barely glances at the newspaper before realizing he can’t focus. He has already tried to schedule a meeting with Coriolanus, but his secretary insists that he isn’t at work. That can’t be true—Coriolanus Snow never takes days off.

By midday, Sejanus heads to the office himself. Knocking loudly on the door, he hears an irritated female voice respond, “Come in.”

Coriolanus’s secretary, Veronica Fontaine—as the nameplate on her desk declares—is an exceptionally attractive woman. Sejanus knows this, though he’s never been interested in women. Trying to muster a charming smile, he approaches her desk.

“Mr. Snow still hasn’t come to work?” he asks, and the woman gives him a tired look.

“No.”

“Miss Fontaine… Are you absolutely sure he’s not in his office?” Sejanus presses, leaning slightly over her desk, though not enough to make her uncomfortable.

“He’s not,” she mutters. “He called in sick this morning—very suddenly. And now I have even more work than usual because of it.”

“Does Mr. Snow often call in sick?” Sejanus asks innocently, straightening up.

Veronica gives him a suspicious glance. “I don’t think Mr. Snow—”

“Oh, we’re very good friends. I’m just worried about him,” Sejanus interrupts quickly.

The woman shrugs. “Usually, no. But let’s hope it’s not… anything serious,” she replies coldly.

Sejanus glances around the office. Even this waiting area is stylish, every piece of furniture in the understated decor speaking of wealth, though not in an overt way.

“Yes, let’s hope… Miss Fontaine, it’s lunchtime. Maybe you could use a break?” he asks, smiling as charmingly as he can. In the past, only his mother ever called him handsome, but lately, Sejanus has noticed that women sometimes look at him with interest.

The woman stiffens slightly. “I usually… I’m not supposed to take too many breaks during the day,” she says, but her cheeks redden slightly.

“How about lunch at a nearby place? The cafeteria here… It’s awful. You like sushi, I imagine?” he asks carefully.

Veronica hesitates. “Oh, Mr. Snow really doesn’t like it when I leave the building during working hours…”

“But he’s nowhere nearby, is he?” Sejanus counters with a knowing smile. “I promise I won’t tell him a word.”

“I don’t know…”

“But I know—Veronica—may I call you that? I’m Sejanus. I’d be happy to have lunch with someone; I don’t have many friends here yet,” he says. “And I’m sure you could use a break from looking at that stack of papers. Besides, Mr. Snow might be back tomorrow, and there won’t be another chance.”

Seeing the doubt on her face, Sejanus smiles charmingly. “I’m his friend, so if you run into any trouble with him over this, just let me know—I’ll happily step in and claim I kidnapped you for a little while,” he says, winking. 

Veronica smiles eventually, and replies quietly, “Fine.”

Sejanus helps Veronica with her coat, holding it out for her as she slips it on. As they walk down the corridor of Parliament, he feels the eyes of others on him. Good—let them talk. Maybe Coriolanus will hear about it and get even more irritated that Sejanus had the audacity to invite his secretary out for lunch.

He decides to treat Veronica to a large sushi platter at the nearby restaurant and even offers her wine.

“I can’t drink at work,” she says, though she doesn’t protest too much.

Sejanus barely wets his lips with the Chardonnay, watching her reaction instead.

“So, Veronica, tell me—what kind of boss is Mr. Snow? I bet he’s a real pain in the ass,” he says provocatively.

“No, he’s… okay,” she replies hesitantly.

“Really?”

Veronica nods.

“I’m his friend, but I know sometimes he can be awful,” Sejanus says slowly, pouring her the next glass. “But being impolite to such a charming woman? It would be a crime.”

Sejanus checks her face to check if he didn’t overdo it, but she doesn’t seem intimidated—she smiles, and blushes slightly. 

“You won’t tell him, will you?”

“I’m not the gossiping type,” Sejanus reassures her with a faint smile.

“Oh… Sometimes I think he doesn’t even like me. Constantly micromanaging, giving me ridiculous tasks when there’s nothing to do,” she says, exhaling.

“Does he?” Sejanus asks with false surprise, and clicks his tongue. “It’s rare these days to see someone as competent as you in Parliament. Does he even appreciate what you do?"

“Not really,” Veronica admits.

Yet, Sejanus needs to know more. Whether Coriolanus is rotten to the core or not, if it’s merely arrogance, or perhaps something more.

“Does he,” Sejanus lowers his voice, “ever behave… inappropriately?”

Veronica looks at him, narrowing her eyebrows. “You mean… Oh, no. Never. There are a lot of… Sometimes I feel very uncomfortable—I mean, I don’t mind dating in the workplace,” she emphasizes, glancing at Sejanus, “but these old men… But no, Mr. Snow… He controls himself.”

“So, no… romances?”

Veronica seems to think for a moment. “Why are you asking if you’re his friend?”

“Just curious.”

“No. He’s faithful to his… wife. Though, honestly, she’s a total shrew,” Veronica adds. “Oh… I didn’t mean to say it.”

“It’s fine. I know Livia. She’s definitely a shrew,” Sejanus comments. “I bet he comes to work early just to see something as nice as you, and get a break from his lovely wife.”

Veronica giggled, "Oh, you're a charmer Mr. Plinth. But true, he comes to work very early, which is why I’m never late… He usually has lunch in his office. Schedules a ton of ridiculous meetings. But he almost always prepares the coffee and tea for his guests himself.”

Of course. Probably because he’s afraid of being poisoned.

“Do you think Mr. Snow gets along with everyone in Parliament?”

Veronica shrugs. “People like him,” she replies.

“And who does he meet with most often?”

“I don’t think I should provide you with such information,” Veronica says, a little colder but still friendly.

Oh, so he is overdoing it.

“That’s fine, I just want to schedule a meeting, and I’m not quite sure if he’s busy…” Sejanus smiles as if it is not a big deal.

“He mostly meets with members of Parliament and high-ranking officials. You know, the usual,” Veronica replies. “Also Gamemakers. But he’ll be absent until Friday… caught some flu or something,” she adds. Then, narrowing her eyebrows slightly, she says, “You can check for yourself—as his friend.”

“Friday, you’re saying?”

“Yes, in the morning his calendar is empty, so I can pencil you in.”

“I’d be eternally grateful… But there’s a chance he might not be on Friday, right? He doesn’t call in sick often?” Sejanus asks, leaning an inch closer to her.

“No, practically never. But he has an important speech on Friday, so he won’t miss this occasion… It’s very unlikely he’ll miss work,” she says and picks another piece of sushi. Sejanus mentally marks that taking her there was the best decision—she looks relaxed and talkative enough for him to get some more intel.

“What kind of speech?”

“The quarterly review, he’ll have to plan…” the woman grimaces slightly, “to present the first draft of the Hunger Games.”

Sejanus nods, taking a sip of water. He needs to ask about it, he desperately needs it. Why did Coriolanus even decide to marry Livia? He remembers Coriolanus didn’t use to hate a lot of people. No, he was always polite. But if he hated anyone it was for sure Livia Cardew that was mocking him all the time.

“And Veronica… does Mr. Snow often come to parties with his wife?”

Veronica looks at him, puzzled. “Yes.”

“They look happy together?”

Veronica freezes, her hand tightening around her chopsticks. “I—why would you ask that?”

“Oh, just a general question.”

“I don’t think it’s my business,” she says coldly, pushing her wine glass aside.

He shouldn’t have asked that question at all, Sejanus scolds himself silently.

“Forget I asked. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”

Veronica exhales quietly, visibly relieved, and reaches for her water glass.

“To make it up to you,” Sejanus says lightly, picking up the dessert menu, “allow me to order something sweet. Do you like chocolate soufflé? Or maybe tiramisu?”

Veronica smiles hesitantly. “Soufflé sounds good.”

“Perfect,” Sejanus says, flagging down the waiter.

The dessert arrives, and they finish their meal. As they walk back to the office, Sejanus slows his pace to match hers, glancing at her with a faint smile.

“You’ve been a great help today, Veronica,” he says.

“Me? I don’t think I’ve done much,” she replies, surprised.

“Sometimes just having someone to talk to is enough,” Sejanus says smoothly, holding the door open for her as they re-enter the building.

Veronica blushes faintly, murmuring, “Well… I’m glad I could help.”

Sejanus watches her figure as she walks away. He hasn’t really learned anything particularly important, but it will have to suffice.

He has a mission to fulfil and so far he is doing it brilliantly.

***

Past

Sejanus felt a wave of unease as Quintus Draven issued yet another invitation to his sprawling estate. On the television, breaking news echoed through the room: Nero Falk had passed away. The reported cause of death—cardiac arrest.

It seemed rather unlikely, given that the leader of the Alliance for Prosperity had appeared to be in excellent health just weeks ago, practically glowing with energy and vitality. Of course, not entirely impossible.

To his surprise, Quintus wasn’t alone to greet him this time—seated beside him was Yago Trivane, and Sejanus felt his face grow hot. They had, after all, only one encounter, and Sejanus had invited him over to his new house one time later, but that was it. Still, he wasn’t used to running into his former dates.

“Hello, Mr. Plinth. You’ve met my nephew, haven’t you?” Quintus asked, and Yago, smirking, shot Sejanus an almost provocative look.

“Y-yes,” Sejanus replied.

“Please, take a seat.”

For a moment, the room was filled with an almost funeral-like silence, and Sejanus could only hear his own loud breathing. He had no idea what this was about.

“Shall we begin?” Yago said almost cheerfully. “Tea?” he asked Sejanus, who shook his head.

“So maybe something stronger?”

“Yago!” Quintus admonished him. “Not today, we have... serious business to discuss,” he said, taking a deep breath.

“Of course, after your last public appearance, I definitely think you shouldn’t mix alcohol with anything serious, dearest uncle,” Yago said, winking at Sejanus.

“You’re insufferable. I told you someone spiked my drink,” Quintus said irritably. “Anyway, Mr. Plinth, the Alliance for Prosperity has lost its party leader, and, well, the official cause of death doesn’t convince me. Unofficial sources say it was multi-organ failure... Nero woke up in the morning, started vomiting, and his hair began falling out. Clearly poison, but we have no idea what kind.”

“And last night, he had dinner with Coriolanus Snow,” Yago added.

“Exactly,” Quintus sighed loudly. “It shows that, ultimately, none of us are safe.”

“Well, I’m quite safe. There’s not much reason to poison me,” Yago shrugged.

“Wait until he finds out what you’re doing with his wife,” Quintus noted. “And by the way, I’m starting to worry you’re enjoying it too much,” he muttered.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Yago snorted a little too quickly. “It’s not my fault my dearest uncle made a whore out of me.”

Quintus stiffened. “I never ordered you to sleep with her.”

“Well, I guess then we both have something in common,” he replied.

Sejanus listened to their conversation with growing unease. What did they want from him? His gaze darted back and forth between Quintus and Yago.

“Enough,” Quintus said. “Apologies, Mr. Plinth. It’s always like this with my nephew... Perhaps we should have a drink?”

This time Sejanus didn’t decline, and soon the three of them were sitting with glasses half-filled with brandy. Sejanus wasn’t a fan of it, but he took a sip, and the strong taste of alcohol spread through his mouth.

“Here’s the thing,” Quintus said. “We need a new party leader, and, well, it seems to us...” He exchanged a meaningful look with Yago, “that you’d be an excellent candidate, Mr. Plinth.”

Sejanus almost choked. “Me?”

Quintus nodded. “I don’t have anyone else to appoint, and the truth is...” He looked away.

“You know Coriolanus Snow,” Yago said. “You’d be perfect.”

“But I...” Sejanus felt a rising sense of panic. “I’ve never... I haven’t written legislation, I haven’t really given speeches... I’m not sure if... Party leader? Couldn’t I start as a member?”

Quintus and Yago exchanged glances again, something Sejanus didn’t fail to notice.

“What do you think of this party, Mr. Plinth?” Quintus asked.

“That they’re trying... to do something good in Panem, even if only partially...” Sejanus replied quietly, and Yago let out a short laugh.

“I told you he’d be perfect,” he muttered.

“For what?” This time, Sejanus didn’t hide his irritation. They were making fun of him?

“Sejanus, how can a party with 20 members do anything? The purpose is... different. It’s meant to distract Coriolanus. So he doesn’t focus on what’s really happening behind the scenes, understand? Let us handle things, and you just focus on diverting his attention.”

Quintus nodded. “Besides, we think... Since he knows you... Snow is unpredictable, but he might be more hesitant to poison you. Your presence could throw him off balance.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready...” Sejanus mumbled. “Why not someone else?”

“Sorry, I’m already his lapdog and sleeping with his wife. I don’t have room for more jobs,” Yago quipped.

“We truly believe, Mr. Plinth, that you’re not in any danger. We’ll just announce you as the new party leader, and your job will be to distract him,” Quintus said. “We need you. Panem needs you. Do you believe in everything you wrote?”

Sejanus didn’t hesitate. “Of course, sir.”

“Then think about it—this year, the Hunger Games could end.”

“Are you serious?” Sejanus asked.

“Of course. He’s out of ideas for them,” Yago commented. “And I’m trying to sneak him the worst ones. If the president notices how crazy he is… Well, they will be cancelled.”

Sejanus hesitated, the weight of the moment pressing on him. He wasn’t naive—he understood the game Quintus and Yago were playing. But if there was even a sliver of hope to make a difference, to undermine the Hunger Games, it might be worth the risk.

“You think I can do it?” Sejanus asked weakly.

“Totally,” Yago said, and even quickly squeezed his knee. “If not you then who? You knew him, you were his friend. Who will distract him better?”

“Is that all I’m supposed to do? Distract him?”

Quintus nodded. 

Sejanus hesitated for a moment and his stomach churned, but he forced a tight smile. “If this really has a chance of ending the Games... Fine, I’ll do it.”

Quintus commented. “It’s the real chance. I promise.”

Yago raised his glass in a mock toast. “To Sejanus Plinth, our newest distraction. Don’t worry, you’ll do great.”

Sejanus felt a lump in his throat as he clinked his glass reluctantly against theirs.

“But you know… You just want to… Remove him from his position?” Sejanus asked casually, as though he didn’t particularly care.

Yago and Quintus exchanged that familiar glance again, the one that made Sejanus’s stomach twist in suspicion.

“Of course. Remove him from his position,” Quintus replied slowly. “Ban him from pursuing any further political career.”

Sejanus raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “That’s all?”

Yago smirked, swirling the liquid in his glass. “What else could we possibly mean, Sejanus?” he asked. “That’s all.”

Sejanus nodded, not believing a word they said.

Ma, as usual, bustled back and forth from the kitchen to the living room, even though she still had Avoxes. But Sejanus thought that sometimes she served them more than they served her, especially after Pa passed away.

“Eat a little more meat, Sunny, I know you exercise a lot,” she said, holding a roast under his nose. Sejanus put a piece on his plate, though he could barely force down the last portion, feeling like it was stuck in his throat. She couldn’t find out from television.

“Thank you, Ma,” he replied, wetting his lips with wine to clear his throat. “Ma, I need to tell you something.”

She looked at him questioningly.

“Look… I graduated with great results. They offered me a job in Parliament, and… I accepted it,” he said slowly, and Ma’s expression shifted rapidly from happiness to pure fear.

“Parliament?” she asked weakly, sitting down.

“Yes, Ma,” he said, reaching out for her hand.

“As… an intern?” she asked cautiously.

“No. As the leader of the Alliance for Prosperity party.”

The silence in the room was suffocating. Ma already had tears in her eyes, and Sejanus stared at her face. Over the last ten years, she had aged at least twenty. Back at home, they used to call her the most beautiful woman in the entire District 2. Now, only a faint shadow of that remained.

“The party where that man died? That party? Sunny… why…” her lips began to tremble.

“Ma, calm down. Yes, that party. It’s an honor for me.”

“Why… Please, don’t do this to your old mother. Don’t do it again, Sunny,” she pleaded, desperately squeezing his hands. “You don’t have to… We have money…”

“It’s not about the money, Ma.”

“Please, I can’t lose you again.”

“Ma, calm down. Nothing bad is going to happen…

His mother pressed her lips together. “You might think I’m naive, Sunny, but I know these deaths aren’t accidental. Please, don’t do this.”

“It’s too late. I already agreed.”

Ma let go of his hand.

“Sunny, why don’t you…” she swallowed hard and looked at him again with those tear-filled eyes. “Why don’t you try to find a nice wom…” she sighed loudly, interrupting.  “A nice man, and start a family? You’re not meant for politics, Sunny. You’re too good for that.”

Sejanus leaned back from the table and muttered, “Ma, who would want to be with a freak like me?”

“Don’t say that, you’re not a freak…”

“I am. I spent ten years in a fucking mental hospital, Ma. I still have nightmares, this tic…” Sejanus stood up and tried to take deep breaths. “Even if it’s suicide, I’ll do it, Ma, and there’s nothing you can do about it. You should have thought of that before you and Pa packed me off to that madhouse.”

He knew how unfair these words were. He knew that Ma, poor Ma, hadn’t had much more power than he did. Strabo had loved her dearly; Sejanus had never doubted that. But his father had always tried to protect her, treating her like a child.

Behind his back, Sejanus heard her loud sobs. Sighing heavily, he turned to face her.

“Calm down, Ma, please, calm down,” he said, pulling her into a tight hug. “I’m sorry I was so harsh. Nobody is going to hurt me,” he added softly, though he didn’t believe in it on his own.

Yet, in her arms, he felt almost like a boy again—helpless, small, and afraid.

He kissed her forehead, whispering once more, as much for himself as for her. “Nobody’s going to hurt me, Ma. Nobody. Not this time.”

“P-promise?” she stammered, her breath coming in shaky gasps.

“I promise,” he said.

And at that moment, Sejanus decided. Nobody would hurt him.

And he wouldn’t let anyone—not even himself—kill Coriolanus Snow.

Chapter Text

Yago Trivane wears the same style of clothes every day, but a different face. "Black makes you look elegant," his mother had told him—the only piece of advice she managed to give before slitting her wrists in the bathtub. And so, he sticks to it. Because, for fuck’s sake, who has the time to ponder over what to wear?

He always starts his day the same way: watching the morning news, reading the newspaper, drinking two cups of coffee, and smoking five cigarettes before leaving the house. It's a filthy habit, but Yago doubts it will be the thing that kills him. His life is pretty stressful. In truth, he’s acutely aware that any day could be his last—especially if Coriolanus Snow somehow uncovers what he’s been doing. And if it comes to execution, Yago has no doubt that his beloved uncle cares the most about his own ass and would sacrifice him without a second thought.

Every morning he can’t help but have Livia Snow on his mind—though Yago prefers to think of her as Livia Cardew ever since she revealed her maiden name to him. Or, in his more embarrassing moments—usually when he’s drunk—he even thinks of her as Livia Trivane. It isn’t his real surname, but who cares? It sounds good.

He sends her something simple. “Have a great day, my queen.” He wouldn’t call her any pathetic pet name. No kitten, babies, honey, sweetie. She is his goddess, queen, love, beauty.

He had wanted to fuck her from the moment his eyes first landed on her. A woman with ashy blonde hair, not the ridiculous bleached tones that adorned most of the Capitol’s women. She has an adorable side-swept fringe, is always dressed in black or red, her lips painted a blood-red shade, and wears pearls or a delicate gold necklace around her neck. Livia is a real lady, not dependent on the tacky Capitol’s fashion.

Yet, Yago hadn’t liked her at the start. What a shallow idiot, he had thought after their first conversation. Her husband is nothing short of a murderer—not the kind who would end up behind bars, but a killer with finesse, reveling in the art of ending the lives of district children in the most elaborate ways possible. Though Yago wouldn’t have called Coriolanus Snow a sadist—no, his true goal is always to captivate the audience, to draw in as many viewers as possible. And Yago is more than certain that Snow is insane. Yet, Livia seems not to care at all.

Generally speaking, Livia doesn’t seem to care about anything, but Yago hopes she cares a little bit about him.

Yago Trivane had hated the Hunger Games ever since he was forced to watch them every year in the orphanage. He couldn’t end in any other place after his father was punished for his betrayal of the Capitol, becoming Avox, and his beloved mother decided to end her life. After the Dark Days, the Capitol’s orphanages were overcrowded with children. Once, Yago overheard two staff members whispering that they ought to send the orphans to the arena since nobody wanted them anyway. He had nightmares for an entire year after that. By the time he was ten, he was mature enough to tell himself they couldn’t possibly do it to him—but the fear stayed with him, and he never watched the Hunger Games in any other way than imagining himself at the arena.

Livia probably doesn’t care about it. She told him once she was the mentor and she didn’t remember the name of her tribiute.

Still, something about Livia Cardew began to stand out. Most people in the Capitol are hiding behind masks of pleasantness, feigning kindness. Livia Cardew, however, is different. She doesn’t bother pretending to be nice. Instead, she always pretends to be mean. Yet, lying in his arms after a few orgasms he had given her, smoking a cigarette—always in a holder so her hands wouldn’t touch it—with her eyes glistening, she lets that mask slip, if only for a moment. In those rare instances, she becomes the kindest woman in the world. She even compliments him then. “You have the most perfect body I’ve ever seen.” “You smell incredible.”

Yago has never been in love, but more often than not, he fears he is closer to it now than ever before.

Livia has the smoothest legs he's ever touched and always a perfectly groomed pussy that tastes the sweetest in the world. She has a perfect body and such an adorable little face, with beautiful, shapely lips—not too big, thankfully, as when he told her not to get them enlarged, she abandoned the idea—with almond-shaped eyes, prominent cheekbones, and a defined jawline. He loves planting kisses on her slender neck, on her collarbones, and loves being between her thighs.

Yago knows there are more important things to focus on, and that they don’t have any future together. She is the wife of Coriolanus Snow. And he doesn’t have anything to offer her. Yet, sometimes he daydreams, like a foolish teenager, that they could run away together. He is certain he wouldn’t be as much of a fool as Snow. If he had a wife like her, he’d ensure she was satisfied every single day. He’d take her on dates, shower her with gifts, and fuck her hard enough to both pleasure her and remind her, for all her mockery, exactly who is in control.

Like he had the first time they met at the hotel. She was half an hour late, and he’d already started on the wine he’d bought for them. Quintus had given him a simple instruction: learn as much as possible about Coriolanus Snow from his wife and find a way to infiltrate his home. Yago couldn’t think of a better way to do it than seducing her.

Ever since he was fifteen, he’d discovered that the best way to avoid being caned for smoking behind the orphanage was to sleep with the headmistress. From then on, life at the orphanage had been tolerable—even comfortable, in its own twisted way. People are way more willing to give you what you want if you fuck them good.

But Livia came. Wearing a long beige coat that he remembers vividly to this day. Yago swallowed hard, trying to mask his nervousness. Then, without a word, she shrugged off the coat and let it fall carelessly to the floor. He was hard almost immediately.

A lace bra, lace panties—cut scandalously high—a garter belt, stockings, black stilettos. And, of course, those red lips. She looked at him provocatively.

At first, Yago didn’t know what to do. He had slept with countless women—fat, skinny, old, young. Women who liked it gently and delicately, women who preferred it roughly, and even women who tried to dominate him, though he usually bolted before they could. But Livia Cardew? He had no idea what kind of lady she was.

But he approached her slowly, his gaze locked on hers, not faltering for a second. He leaned over her, his lips brushing close to her ear, and whispered in a low, steady voice, “Being late is not tolerable.” He almost brushed her neck with his lips, but instead he blew on it, and heard her muffled moan.

"Oh, Yago," she purred, "if I knew punctuality was such a turn-off for you, I’d have been even… Later,” she said with a smirk.

He stepped closer, his hand reaching up to grab her hair gently but firmly, tilting her head back to meet his gaze. Her eyes gleamed with amusement.

“You look gorgeous. Worth every second of waiting,” he said.

She laughed—a sound that might be irritating to some, slightly high-pitched and unapologetically smug—but Yago loved it from the moment he heard it.

“Really? Maybe you should try being late sometime,” she teased, glancing up at him from head to toe, which wasn’t that easy because he was still holding his hair.

“You don’t like the way I look?” he asked.

It was a mistake to say something like that. It sounded insecure.

“I didn’t say that,” she replied, her smirk widening.

“But it's a shame… Because you are in trouble,” he said. “I don’t tolerate lateness.”

“Oh, really?” she challenged, leaning in slightly. “And what will you do about it?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, in one smooth motion, he pulled her down and unbelted his trousers, guiding her mouth to his hardened cock. She gagged at first but quickly adjusted, sucking him with such intensity it made his head spin. Her hands massaged his balls, and at one point, she sucked them gently, driving him to the brink of madness. Still, he knew that if he came in her mouth, she probably wouldn’t be impressed.

What would a woman like her truly enjoy, he wondered.

He grabbed her hair and pulled her back up, meeting her gaze. Her pupils were blown wide, her lips wet and slightly parted, her lipstick smudged. She looked absolutely fucking perfect. For a fleeting moment, Yago imagined Coriolanus Snow—the arrogant bastard—walking in and seeing what Yago was doing with his wife. Later, though, this fantasy always turned into a burning jealousy: that Coriolanus had Livia every day, that he could touch her whenever he wanted, that he spent mornings with her. And yet, he was too blind to appreciate her.

He kissed her. "You’re amazing at this," he said. "But lateness is still lateness," he added with mock disapproval.

He instructed her to bend over the couch, her hands on the cushions, her hips arched perfectly for him. Most women he’d met loved a little spanking, and Livia had the kind of apple-shaped ass he loves to sink his teeth into.

"Four belts, huh?" he teased, pulling her panties down and lightly smacking her ass with his belt, barely brushing her skin. Now they are playing harder, but back then he wasn’t sure how far he could push her. Still, he noticed her glistening wetness, so he ended it with one hard one.

“Yago!” she hissed, glancing at him.

“It’s only the beginning.”

They had been playing for hours. He tied her hands behind her back with the belt and slipped off her bra. Gently, he sucked on her nipples, occasionally biting them lightly. Her breasts were perfect—not too small, not too big, firm. What a fantastic body, even better than he had imagined, watching her in her silks dresses.

Yago moved lower, teasing her relentlessly, letting his tongue wander across her entire body before finally reaching her swollen labia. Livia was already moaning softly.

“Fuck, just do it!” she said, but he only smiled, savoring her reaction when his tongue finally touched her. Slowly, he slipped a finger inside her, licking her folds with deliberate slowness. But just as he felt her nearing the edge, he pulled back.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” she snapped, glaring at him with outrage.

He only laughed and stepped back. “I’m going to step out onto the balcony for a smoke. Want one? Oh, wait… you’re tied up,” he said with a grin.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” she shouted.

“Nope. I’m a helpless smoker,” he said with a shrug, and he actually did it. For the whole time, he watched her through the glass, taking slow drags as her furious gaze burned into him. Once he finished, he popped a mint into his mouth and stepped back inside.

“All right, all right,” he whispered, placing his hands on her thighs, “don’t be mad anymore.”

And then, without teasing her further, he simply took her from behind and she came within minutes, cursing so loudly that probably the whole level in the hotel could hear them. He joined her with relief that he wasn’t the first one, though it demanded from him imaging very sick things to stop himself from coming earlier.

Untying her, he left a soft kiss on her shoulder.

“Hungry?” Yago asked. “I will order something, they have a nice restaurant downstairs.”

“So, you’ve been coming here quite often, haven’t you?” Livia asked, straightening her clothes.

Yago narrowed his eyebrows. “Sometimes.”

“Oh.”

He couldn’t suppress his smile.

“Already jealous?” he whispered. “You are the one that has a husband.”

Livia scoffed in that high-pitched voice, "Don’t flatter yourself. I’m just... worried about STDs, that’s all."

"But we used a condom," Yago replied with a smirk. "Besides..." He reached out, gently grabbing her chin, tilting her face toward his. "I get tested regularly. I can show you if you’re that concerned."

“If we want to continue this,” she said, lighting a cigarette, “I want to be the only woman in your life,” she stated firmly.

At the time, he thought it was a ridiculous demand, but he nodded. What difference did it make? It was just a cover. Yet, Yago caught himself that he didn’t even consider, for a moment, using her to extract information, for these hours. He was simply thinking about fucking her. But he found an excuse for himself. He couldn’t rush these things, right? Livia wasn’t an idiot; she’d sense something was off immediately. So, he decided to stay quiet about it and ordered burgers for both of them.

She hesitated for a while before eating, but when she finally started, she got completely messy in the most adorable way. It was probably the moment he started liking her, just a little bit. Who would have imagined any other woman in the Capitol behaving so unabashedly? In their majority, women here ate caviar, washed down with champagne, and swallowed their laxatives.

“You got dirty,” he noted.

“Where?” she asked, narrowing her eyebrows.

“Everywhere,” he said, smiling, and wiped her face with a napkin. She even blushed slightly.

“Thank you.”

He is always a little bit anxious if he gets any answer from her. Maybe Coriolanus will notice, because Livia isn’t careful, and God only knows what he would do. People say that Coriolanus Snow's real wife is politics, but if you want to lose your life, start flirting with his wife.

Now Yago stares at the phone, reading the message on the screen. "I can’t meet today… This dumbass stayed at home, called in sick :(."

He called in sick? Yago shook his head in disbelief. Coriolanus Snow calling in sick? It is laughable. Once, he came to work with a stomach flu, pale as if he were on the brink of life and death. He ended up infecting half the floor, and, well, using the bathroom at this level became impossible.

He has to admit, though, Coriolanus had shredded Plinth beautifully in his speech yesterday. Absolutely destroyed him. But now? Calling in sick? What did Sejanus do to him, beat him? He really looks like he is strong… Yago can’t help but smirk.

Yet, he won’t see Livia today.

“You don’t even find an hour in the evening? Tell him you’re meeting some friends for cocktails.”

They were supposed to meet in Snow’s penthouse around lunch time, and Yago preferred to meet there, because he had his explanation for Quintus why he is even meeting Livia. In their house he could potentially gather some valuable information.

"That idiot is behaving more erratically than usual… Apparently, he’s terrified of being left alone in his own home. Perhaps I should call the asylum and reserve a room."

Yago smirks.

“Probably room wouldn’t be enough. Reserve the whole facility.”

Still, now Yago thinks he didn’t appreciate Sejanus. Plinth has to do something right.

But Livia hasn’t revealed anything useful to him, and he doubts she ever will. She’s completely clueless, and even for this matter—useless. But Yago wants to ensure that when they finally catch that scumbag and execute him, she will be cleared of all charges. She didn’t know anything, he’ll say.

Sometimes, he dreams that in return, Livia will throw her arms around his neck, though he knows that’s impossible. Livia is far more likely to spit in his face and tell him to leave, that she could never forgive him for playing her like that. Because Livia has her standards.

And maybe, because of this, he desires her even more.

Finishing his third cigarette, Yago hears the doorbell. Of course, he already knows who it is.

“Hello, dearest uncle,” he says with a forced smile, cracking the door open.

Quintus steps in, immediately scanning the apartment. Naturally, Yago hasn’t cleaned. Of course, there are empty alcohol bottles piled in a corner, and it’s obvious he hasn’t tidied up in at least two weeks. But why should that matter? Yago is turning thirty this year. He’s no teenager anymore, and when he was one, Quintus wasn’t there anyway.

“I told you not to call me that,” Quintus mutters.

“Forgive me. I want to take advantage of this private moment to cultivate our familial bond,” Yago replies.

The truth is, Yago isn’t exactly a fan of his dear uncle. For most of his life, he didn’t even know he had an uncle or any family at all. At eighteen, when he left the orphanage, he had nothing. So, he relied on the one thing he’d learned there: sex.

He’d been lucky—he was handsome, still is, they keep repeating him he looks boyish. Women in their forties were still attractive and more than willing to pay for his company, his practiced tongue, his cheap compliments, and, of course, his cock. Sometimes, he didn’t get to be picky and would take on men as well, but he never let anyone fuck him. Thought that somebody could get even close to his butthole is terrifying.

Then, one night after another "exciting" evening, he was scooped up outside a club by a burly bodyguard. No way, sex trafficking? he thought. But the mysterious man waiting in the limousine introduced himself. “Quintus Draven.” A moment later, he added, “I’m your uncle.”

Yago laughed in his face and nearly jumped out of the car right then and there, but Quintus bombarded him with a long-winded family history. How Yago’s father—incidentally, a traitor now living as an Avox—was Quintus’s half-brother, though the family couldn’t acknowledge him. How Quintus had desperately wanted to pull Yago out of the orphanage but hadn’t been able to. But now, he could finally take care of him.

Take care of him. Right. Yago is painfully aware that his entire life belongs to Quintus. His apartment, his shoes, even the damn lighter in his pocket. And that Quintus chose him purely for practical reasons.

Quintus gave him a new identity. Yago Tobber didn’t exactly sound aristocratic, but Yago Trivane? That was a name that could open doors. He sent him to university. Never publicly acknowledged knowing him, yet privately picked apart every flaw in Yago’s essays.

“Didn’t they even teach you how to write in that orphanage?” he’d asked him, making Yago feel utterly humiliated.

They had taught him, usually with the help of a cane or other "fascinating" punishments like skipping dinner. But what they didn’t account for was Yago’s dyslexia.

Anyway, now his uncle decides to visit him, again, of course unexpectedly.

“I’ve just had coffee. Do you want some?” Yago asks.

“I didn’t come here for a social visit,” Quintus replies, carefully inspecting the armchair before sitting on it.

“Who would've guessed…” Yago says, leaning against the wall. Instinctively, he wants to reach for a cigarette, but he knows Quintus will start coughing and complaining about his asthma, so he decides against it.

“Did you find any proof that Snow poisoned someone? You were at his house recently, weren’t you?”

So, today he can expect another round of questioning.

Yago shrugs. “Not really. If he’s hiding something, it has to be in his room, and his room is… well, locked all the time.”

“Uh-huh,” Quintus replies, clearly unimpressed. “Do you think this whole thing with his… wife is still worth it? It’s been… what? A year?” Two?

Two years, three months, and twenty-two days.

“You think I should just end things with her out of the blue? That would look suspicious. Or worse, she might try to get back at me,” Yago replies smoothly. He has plenty of excuses, reasons, and explanations ready.

Quintus nods. “You’re right. Maybe don’t change anything… I just don’t want you wasting your time,” he says.

Wasting your time. Even Avoxes get breaks, but when Quintus calls, Yago doesn’t have the luxury of refusal—even if it’s the middle of the night. “I appreciate your concern,” Yago says. “By the way… Livia told me Coriolanus Snow called in sick.”

“Really?” Quintus looks interested.

“Yeah. I wonder if Plinth had something to do with it.”

“What exactly?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he beat him up. Though I doubt it…” Yago mutters, rubbing his temples. “I’m not sure if he’s the right person for this position,” he adds.

Quintus sighs. “Are we seriously going to have this conversation again?”

Yago rolls his eyes. He can’t help but feel uneasy about manipulating Sejanus Plinth. The guy spent ten years in a psychiatric hospital, and sometimes he looks like he’s seconds away from coming back there.

“You didn’t have to sleep with him,” Quintus adds, and Yago feels his face heat up. Quintus smirks, crossing his arms. “You thought I didn’t know?”

Yago is very aware that he is watched. The problem is he doesn’t know how much.

“That’s irrelevant. Thanks to that, he trusts me more,” Yago snaps without too much regret. He promised Livia she would be the only woman in his life. And something in Sejanus Plinth’s madness is even arousing. “WelI, I told you—he’s obsessed with Snow. This could end badly. If he knows we want Snow’s execution…”

“That’s not our problem. Have you suggested any ideas for the Hunger Games? I’m still working on convincing the president they’re too expensive and only bring losses.”

“I’ve tried, but he won’t listen to me.”

“Then maybe you’re not trying hard enough. Come up with some outrageously expensive idea that’s bound to fail.”

Yago snaps, “Maybe you could help me? You think I have nothing better to do than dream up twisted ways for children to kill each other?”

“Don’t pretend to be so sensitive,” Quintus hums. “It’s surely better than spending all your time between Snow’s wife’s thighs.”

Yago exhales deeply. He knows he shouldn’t say anything, but he can’t help himself. Maliciously, he asks, “Oh, really? So how’s your secretary doing? Didn’t you almost lose your job over her? Then we’d really be screwed.”

Quintus straightens. “Alright, Yago. Maybe I overstepped. It’s just a stressful time. But you need to come up with something soon, got it?”

“I know.”

“When we get rid of him, I promise you a very good position,” he adds softly.

Yago nods, “Something more? Because I have to go to work.”

Yago isn’t crazy about sitting the whole day near the people he despises to his core. Somehow, Yago can’t make himself hate Coriolanus Snow fully; he is too charming, too nice sometimes, too funny. But all the team of Gamemakers? Bunch of fucking, cruel idiots.

“No,” Quintus says. “Just next time give me something.”

Irritated, Yago slams the door shut behind him and reaches for his pack of cigarettes. A faint vibration buzzes in his pocket.

"I’ll slip out for an hour tonight… I can’t stand this dumbass"

He can’t help but smile.

***

Yago receives a call before he even manages to enter the office. It's no one else but Coriolanus Snow.

“I called your office line. You’re not at work yet?” he asks at first, very calm as always.

Yago glances at his watch. Fuck, it’s almost eleven.

“Yeah, I’m running a bit late,” Yago replies without the slightest hint of shame. “What’s this, the lateness police?”

It’s the only way to talk with him. Yago is very aware of how Coriolanus hates confrontation.

Coriolanus sighs. “Fine, that’s irrelevant, we have more serious topics to cover. Listen, Yago, I’m not feeling well,” Snow says, attempting to simulate a cough. “I trust you’ll handle today’s meeting in my absence. I need a draft ready by Friday.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Yago answers smoothly.

Coriolanus hates it when Yago calls him "boss," and Yago knows this perfectly well. But he can’t resist—it’s his favorite pastime to annoy these Capitol assholes, especially Snow. Snow always insists on maintaining an air of politeness, never losing control, never allowing even a shadow of irritation to show. At most, he’ll let out a faint, disapproving tsk.

“Push them. I need something solid. Call me immediately after the meeting.”

“No problem. Wishing you a speedy recovery,” Yago replies too cheerfully.

“Thank you,” Snow responds curtly before hanging up.

It’s going to be a great day, Yago thinks bitterly as he makes himself another coffee. The office he sits in—crammed alongside the other Gamemakers—is borderline claustrophobic. Honestly, they wouldn’t even need to show up every day. How much time can you spend organizing one event? But apparently, there’s always something to do: finding sponsors, organizing the arena, inspecting it, sending escorts to the districts, and then hosting competitions to choose the escorts because, of course, it can’t just be anyone.

Yago considers himself lucky that Coriolanus included him in his party—a privilege most Gamemakers don’t share. When Snow first noticed the mistakes Yago made in some legislation drafts he’d been tasked with, they’d had an embarrassing conversation. But instead of chastising him, Coriolanus had simply said, “Don’t worry, just bring it to me. I’ll correct it before submission.” It was of course in his style to say something like that, polite on the surface, but deep down there for sure was contempt. Anyway, he behaved better than his uncle.

“Cor… Mr. Snow won’t be in today,” Yago announces, leaning against the doorframe with a casual smirk. Another privilege—though he usually calls him “boss,” Coriolanus, almost from the beginning, had allowed him to use his first name. “But don’t worry, I’ll run the meeting,” he adds and with pleasure listen to their sighs.

They gather in the small conference room. It’s a tight, stifling space that always seems to make Yago's hatred for his colleagues burn a little brighter.

First, there’s Aphrodite Frown, a silly but undeniably beautiful woman in her thirties with strawberry-blonde hair. She rarely contributes anything useful, though Yago predicts Coriolanus hired her because of her look.

Then there’s Panagiotis Kostas, a man Coriolanus often dismisses as someone who had good ideas years ago but has since become obsolete. Rumor has it that he might not even have a job next year.

Thanos Xenokrates is, without a doubt, the worst of them all. His ideas are the most repugnant Yago has ever heard—sick, twisted things that no sane person should even dream of.

And finally, there’s Publius Longinus, fresh out of the University of Panem, who seems perpetually overwhelmed and completely out of his depth.

Yago hates every single one of them. He wasn’t a perfect kid—he once almost knocked another boy’s teeth out at the orphanage, and he started sneaking whiskey at fifteen. But he couldn’t imagine somebody would order him to kill anybody. It disgusts him deeply.

Somehow, Sejanus Plinth is the only person Yago believes might share his opinion. As for Yago’s great-uncle, Quintus Draven, there’s no question in Yago’s mind that the man isn’t driven by morality. Quintus doesn’t want to get rid of the Hunger Games out of the goodness of his heart. He wants Coriolanus gone because he knows that once Snow becomes president, he’ll get rid of him too. And, quite frankly, because Quintus can’t stand him.

Yago stands over them and asks, "Well, well, so what are your ideas?"

But he barely listens to it. Instead, he tries to plan what exactly he will tell Coriolanus.

***

Yago calls him from home, no one can hear him, and he really couldn’t stand these imbecile faces anymore. Coriolanus answers immediately.

“And what are the results?” he asks, but Yago hears his voice trembling slightly. Impossible. Since he has known Coriolanus Snow, he maybe was nervous from time to time, but now he sounds like he is shitting his pants. Yago decides to contact Plinth right after this call, obviously, from another phone.

“Listen, Coriolanus, I know you didn’t like my idea, but it's the 25th Hunger Games. We can’t do something ordinary; we have to try harder,” Yago begins, speaking so quickly that Coriolanus doesn’t have a chance to interrupt. “Sink or swim. So… all the Gamemakers were thrilled with the cave idea. I know you’ll say no, but think about it—total darkness, night vision goggles, all the bells and whistles,” he adds, reaching for a cigarette. “It’ll be like a real-life horror show. People will absolutely fucking love it.”

It’s expensive and ridiculous. The cave system doesn’t even have a reliable signal, and Yago knows it.

There’s a pause on the other end of the line.

“Everyone was thrilled?” Coriolanus asks.

“Yes, they love this idea!”

In reality, they couldn’t have cared less.

Coriolanus exhales. “Very well, Yago. But understand this—if it fails, the president will not tolerate another misstep,” he says, his voice low and even, with an undercurrent of warning. “And if I fall, you’ll fall right alongside me.”

And God grant us that this may come true.

“I’m confident in this idea.”

“Excellent,” Coriolanus replies, though his tone suggests his focus is elsewhere.

There’s a brief silence before Yago speaks again. “How are you feeling?” he asks suddenly.

“What?” Coriolanus replies sharply.

“I’m asking how you’re feeling. You said you were sick.”

“Oh, that’s right. I must have eaten something bad,” he replies, and Yago notes how strange this all is. In the morning, he had pretended to cough, and now it seems he’s forgotten about that entirely. What’s more, he’s just admitted to having made-up diarrhea, and normally he’s so careful about his image.

“Get better soon. We’re all waiting for you,” Yago says, trying not to laugh at his own joke.

“Great. See you, Yago,” Coriolanus replies before hanging up.

Next, making himself sound as enthusiastic as possible, he can’t wait to dial Sejanus’s number.

“Sejanus, how are the first days? It's a shame I can’t say hello to you in the Parliament, but you get it…”

Sejanus, as usual, clears his throat before speaking in that low voice, “Yes… It’s fine.”

"I suppose your greeting didn’t go as planned," Yago notes.

Sejanus sighs. ”You were there. You heard Coriolanus’s speech yesterday.”

He sounds so sad that it squeezes Yago’s throat.

“Yes, don’t worry, he’s an asshole. Most of the people are sleeping during these meetings anyway,” Yago says, and he even feels a little guilty about how hilarious he finds it. Coriolanus Snow excels at insulting people with white gloves. To be honest, even just one piercing glance from those icy eyes of his is enough to shut anyone up.

Sometimes, Yago imagines Coriolanus with Livia. What do they talk about? How do they spend their time? Do they… do it? Livia says no, but come on, fuck, they’re both so attractive. Yago is even surprised they don’t have children, though it would complicate everything. When he once asked Livia about it, if she ever wanted to have them, she replied “Not with him.” So why did she even marry Coriolanus in the first place?

Well, Yago had always wanted to have children, but he got used to not getting the things he wanted.

“But he called in sick. Did you do something to him?” Yago asks, smirking slightly.

“Hm… I just told him I didn’t like it,” Sejanus replies, his tone clipped and quiet.

“Only talk?” Yago probes. “You didn’t threaten to strangle him?

“What? I wouldn’t…”

“Relax, I’m joking. Mostly I’m saying the guy is shaking in his shoes today, I’ve spoken with him.”

“Do you think so?” Sejanus asks, but simply he corrects himself, “I mean, I don’t care…”

Sure you don’t care. Maybe they met in person only twice, but Sejanus’s mouth couldn’t shut up about Coriolanus Snow, and Yago is more than certain that Plinth is secretly loving him. But Yago finds himself any better.

“Yes… If he actually called in sick! He never does that. Once, he gave an entire floor stomach flu. Be happy you didn’t work back then. I have to tell you it was a challenge to find the toilet.”

Sejanus forces a laugh, though it comes out strained. “Listen, Yago, this really isn’t a good time… I’ve got a lot going on. Do you have something important to tell me, or can it wait?”

“Sure, don’t worry about it. I just wanted to tell you… I convinced him about the Hunger Games in the caves. You know, complete darkness, night vision goggles… Madness. But you should act like you’re completely against it—I think that’ll just push him further,” Yago says.

“Thanks for letting me know. I’ll keep that in mind,” Sejanus replies. “But… what if the idea actually goes through? What if the president approves it?”

“Unlikely,” Yago shrugs casually. “There’s terrible signal in the caves—it’ll be a disaster either way. Whether they happen or not.”

“Let’s hope they don’t,” Sejanus says firmly.

“Let’s hope they don’t,” Yago echoes, though with less conviction. “Anyway, I won’t keep you. Have a good day, Sejanus.”

“You too. Talk soon,” Sejanus says.

When he hangs up, Yago feels a strange emptiness. Maybe he could have been friends with Plinth in another reality, he is a really nice guy, but now, it’s all just a game. He knows what plan Quintus has. If something goes wrong, Sejanus Plinth will be the first to go. It even fits—his origins are from the districts, and he has a past stained by rebellion. Very likely, Yago would be next in line. His whole identity is fake, something that, if Coriolanus Snow weren’t such an arrogant bastard, would be easy to uncover.

Probably they would make him an Avox, and well, considering the kind of mistakes he makes in writing, Quintus would eliminate any chance of Yago betraying him.

But Yago notices the message and forgets about everything.

“I will be at our place at 8 PM.”

Our place.

So instead of making himself a drink, he decides to hit the gym—something he only started doing after he began sleeping with her. It would be a real shame to show up with a belly in front of her, so he even made some changes—he mostly started eating proper meals and swapped beer for hard liquor.

***

After intense training, Yago lies down on the bed in the hotel room, the only one where smoking is allowed. He stares blankly at the ceilling.

He finds it pathetic that he was waiting the whole day to meet Livia. To be honest, it’s the brightest moment of his day.

During days like these he thinks about her. His mother. The moment he found her in the bathtub. He isn’t sure if she was scared she will be arrested like her husband. Or simply depressed. Or maybe loved his father so deeply.

Yago saw his father once doing groceries. Probably, because he can’t be sure. Yago turned around his face.

He smokes and waits for her. Livia is a little late, as usual, but when he glances at her, she looks a bit different.

Yoga pants, tousled hair, her face slightly flushed.

“I told him I went out for a run,” she says, audibly struggling to catch her breath. She immediately jumps onto the bed. “I fucking hate running.”

Yago smiles faintly and sits up to wrap his arms around her. She has no makeup today, and also seems not in the best mood.

“You look so pretty,” he says, and he really means it. She has small freckles on her nose, usually they are covered.

“Please. I look like shit,” Livia comments.

“Hey, don’t dare say that ever again,” he says, biting her neck and making her gasp, “You look amazing.”

It astonishes him that Livia never protests when he bites her, ties her, leaves any marks on her body. Like she is waiting for her husband to find out about her affair.

“Sure, darling. Amazing. You’d say anything just to fuck me, wouldn’t you?” she says mockingly, like always.

“Actually today… I’m a little tired. I just…” Yago lowers his gaze. “I just wanted to see you, and… Maybe we can just spend some time together?”

They look at each other. Yago expects Livia to burst out in her characteristic laughter, to tell him he’s wasting her time if he doesn’t want to fuck her, to mock him. That never happened that he didn’t have strength to fuck her.

But instead, she says softly, “Okay.”

“Okay?” he asks, amused.

“Okay,” she repeats, snuggling into him and leaving a soft kiss on his cheek. “I’ve had a terrible day too.” She hesitates. “Something bad happened?”

“Nah. I’m just… sad.”

“Be happy you didn’t have to deal with that moron at work. I had to stand him at home the whole day,” she says.

“Yeah,” Yago echoes, though his tone lacks the bite of agreement. He thinks he should probably ask her more about Coriolanus—pry, dig for something useful—but the thought of him feels heavy.

“Maybe we will order something to eat?”

“I’ve already ordered pizza.”

“Oh, I lo… “ she starts saying, but corrects herself, “you always think about everything.”

Love him. Did she want to tell him she loves him? They told this to each other once, a year ago, when they drank too much champagne.

Don’t be so fucking stupid. How cliché—nobody dreams about love. She has no idea who you are.

Yago inhales the scent of her hair, familiar and comforting. It’s that almond shampoo, sweet but at the same time subtle. They lie here in silence, and he strokes her soft hair.

Another question lingers on the edge of his lips, desperate to escape. Would you run away with me? Would you leave it all behind for me?

But deep down, he knows he doesn’t want to hear the answer.

He clings desperately to the illusion that someone, anyone, might care about him in this lifetime—that he isn’t just a nobody, devoid of family, history, or even a real name to call his own. He can’t fully understand why he’s fallen so hard for Livia Cardew—is it loneliness or something more? To be honest, there aren’t many people in his life. His position isn’t particularly good for making friends, and for some time he isn’t even able to look at the other women.

Yet, at this moment he pretends it’s real.

Now silence feels safer.

Chapter Text

Sejanus Plinth had been hearing whispers about himself ever since he started working at the Parliament of Panem.

It all began in the work canteen.

"No one wanted this position, but that freak... He won’t last long if even Nero couldn’t survive it."

Sejanus did what he’d done most of his life: he pretended he didn’t hear it. Parliament was full of people from Coriolanus’s party, so no wonder that somebody could be against him. But then, at the bench of his own party, he saw the face of the man who said it, and it became pretty obvious to him that in fact, his employees were the ones who had something against him. When Sejanus was passing the room where the members of the Alliance for Prosperity were gathered, he could also already hear the murmurs from the hallway that confirmed his suspicions.

"Did you hear how Snow humiliated him?"

"Max a week—that's all I give him."

“This tic… Why is he clenching his jaw like that?”

Sejanus should have been used to it by now. He had heard whispers his entire life. Well, maybe not his entire life. Because there was a time when he was actually liked though it was hard to believe. No, it felt more like a distant dream than reality.

But Sejanus Plinth before his eighth birthday used to be a happy boy. When he looks at photos from his childhood, he still remembers it. A little chubby—especially compared to other children in District 2—but always smiling, dimples marking his full cheeks. He still keeps a yellowed photograph of himself with his classmates, taken a year before his family left the district. When his eyes land on Marcus’s face in the photo, the pain resurfaces, sharp as ever—of that day when he saw his bloodied face in the arena, dying in agony. It wasn’t the suffering that was the worst; it was the burning sense of injustice for all those lost lives—lives that no one ever even avenged.

His peers had once adored Sejanus. They used to call him witty, funny, clever. Sejanus remembers playing hopscotch with them, always bringing treats from his Ma that everyone eagerly took. He often helped her with cooking, even making dumplings, though they usually fell apart, yet, his Ma and Pa pretended they were the tastiest things they'd ever eaten. In the evenings Pa smoked a pipe and sat in his chair, calling Sejanus over. He would sit on his father’s lap, listening to stories and sometimes dozing off, resting his head on his father’s chest. He remembers how Pa would kiss him on the forehead with those rough, tobacco-scented lips before carrying him to bed.

He was the favorite of his grandparents on both sides—“such a joyful, handsome boy,” they used to call him. Sunny—that was his nickname within the family, because they said he could brighten any room. Sejanus had always wished for siblings, but his mother’s sister had—maybe still has—five children, and he often spent entire days playing hide-and-seek with them until dusk fell, and it was time to return home for dinner—usually bread with butter and a glass of goat’s milk. Simple, but it tasted better than anything Sejanus would ever eat in the Capitol.

Yet, one day everything changed. Sejanus came home from school, and Ma was bustling about the kitchen as usual. He ate lunch—he still remembers it was roast chicken with potatoes and cabbage—and then went to his room for a nap.

When he woke up, he heard shouting. His parents had never yelled—neither at him nor at each other. At least, not when they were in District 2, because everything changed in the Capitol. He rushed to see what was happening, just as a loud thud echoed—like someone had hit something—right before he stepped into the kitchen.

"Madeleine, you told me to do everything to save him, so why are you angry?" his father asked. When Sejanus went inside, he saw Pa holding his face. Even then, he understood that Ma must have hit him. It seemed so strange—Ma wouldn’t do something like that. She was always beaming at passersby, planting flowers in the garden, and cooking. She was the last person that would hit anybody, especially his father, because well, if Sejanus is sure about something, it’s the fact that his parents loved each other deeply. And they even loved him, he didn’t doubt it.

Maybe this is the thing that makes this whole situation even more tragic. WIthout love it would be easier.

"What’s going on here?" Sejanus asked. His father, with a falsely cheerful tone, told him. He explained that Sejanus would have new classmates, a new house, a new life.

Ma turned away and kept washing the dishes.

"But I like this house and my classmates," Sejanus protested, but his father, still having that fake smile on his face, insisted that it would be better for all of them.

It never was better for any of them.

Sometimes, Sejanus visits the cemetery to talk to his father, to even yell at his grave. But he can’t bring himself to hate him. He can’t hate the man with those weary eyes, always shadowed by dark circles, his overworked hands, and his calm, measured voice. He just can’t. Sejanus knows Strabo Plinth wasn’t ever truly happy either.

But there was no point in arguing back then. His father had to stay behind to wrap up business, while Sejanus and his mother left for the Capitol the next day. They traveled at night to avoid being seen. Sejanus remembers how Ma turned her face to the window of the big limousine, sobbing quietly, trying to hide it from him. Her whole body was trembling.

Even though Sejanus wanted to cry too, he didn’t. Instead, he buried his small hand into hers, gripping tightly as if the warmth of his touch could anchor them both.

"Ma," he said, "everything will be alright. I’m excited to meet new friends,” he added with a forced smile.

Ma looked at him with tear-filled eyes and gently stroked his cheek. "Really?" she asked softly.

"Yeah," he beamed. "I'm happy. Everything's gonna be fine."

Ma's lips trembled before she pulled him into a tight hug. "Oh, Sunny... I'm scared. So scared."

"It’s okay, Ma," he murmured against her shoulder. "You don’t need to be. I’ll protect you, I promise."

She gave a small, wavering smile and brushed a hand through his hair. "Protect me? You’re my little champion?"

"Of course!" he grinned, trying to sound confident. "Remember how I crushed that hammer throw in PE?"

"I remember," she said softly.

Sejanus didn’t fully understand what was happening—the large mansion, the servants that couldn’t speak. He was terrified when one of them yawned, revealing the inside of his tongueless mouth. A week later, he was sent to school—The Academy. He was both anxious and excited. But what could go wrong? Everyone had loved him in District 2. Him and his treats. So he brought a pack of gumdrops to school.

To this day, Sejanus has mostly suppressed this one memory. All he recalls are the shouts, the insults, a kick to his stomach, and the pack of gumdrops falling from his hand. He remembers the teacher calling everyone inside and how she looked at him indifferently as he cried.

And he remembers those eyes—someone watching him. Piercing blue eyes. Maybe with disdain, but also with a trace of sympathy.

When everyone else was gone, he came back. Sejanus could barely see through his tears, but the boy introduced himself.

"Coriolanus Snow."

He picked up a gumdrop from the ground and tasted it. "Delicious," he said before disappearing again.

Later, of course, Sejanus’s father intervened. The bullying stopped in its most brutal form, but the whispers—they stayed.

Now, Sejanus doesn’t want to tolerate them anymore. He enters the room where his party members are gathered, walking confidently. He had taken two Xanax pills beforehand. They had already tested him for drugs, but anyway, he could claim a doctor prescribed it. "You’re in good health, but may I ask about that… tic?" the doctor had asked. Of course, he did. Always that damn tic. His jaw clenching on its own, the muscles tight as if they might snap, and that familiar copper aftertaste blooming on his tongue. Blood. Fear. Tension. Sometimes Sejanus dreams of tearing it out—wrenching his jaw apart—just to finally be rid of it.

Now Sejanus feels his jaw clench involuntarily, that familiar tightness creeping in again. He tries to will it away, focusing on his breathing, his posture, anything to maintain composure. But he can feel the eyes—so many eyes—boring into him, observing him, judging him. The weight of their stares presses on him like a thousand needles.

Yet, Sejanus keeps his expression neutral, masking the storm he is experiencing inside. He doesn’t allow his gaze to waver or his lips to tremble. Not now.

He stands in the center of the room, and the whispers don’t stop. Neither does the laughter.

"Silence!" he commands. There's a snicker, but when he repeats more firmly, "I said silence," no one dares to speak anymore.

The room is filled with people, young—most of them not even thirty, perhaps not even finished with their studies. Some exchange mocking glances with one another.

Sejanus scans their faces, unflinching.

“If anyone has a problem with me becoming the leader of this party, the door is right there,” Sejanus says calmly, not even blinking. People glance at one another, but no one moves. “Does anyone have a problem with me leading this party?” he asks again. After a moment, a few of them shake their heads in silence.

“Good. So instead of wasting time gossiping, I suggest you focus on doing your jobs. By tomorrow, I want to see legislative proposals aimed at improving Capitol policy toward the districts. And also… ideas regarding the Hunger Games. Is that clear?”

He’s met with silence.

“I asked, is that clear?” Sejanus repeats firmly.

Finally, a young man speaks up loudly. “It’s pointless. Snow will just reject everything.”

“What is your name?”

“Tubero.”

“Okay, Tubero. Let me be the judge of what’s pointless,” Sejanus replies, watching him closely. Classic Capitol’s boy, hair cut like a peacock, a colorful T-shirt, and a stupid smirk on his face. “I advise you to focus on the job and well, you can expect a cash reward for your creativity.”

Tubero sniggers. “A cash reward? They pay us starvation wages here…”

Sejanus fixes him with a cold look. “I'm Sejanus Plinth. Does that name mean anything to you? Heir to one of the largest fortunes in Panem. Do you think I can’t afford to fund a cash reward?”

“N-no… I didn’t mean that, sir...” the man stammers.

“Good. Then put that audacity to work,” Sejanus says, his voice sharp. “And hear this—I will not tolerate hearing rumors about myself. Not in the canteen, not in the hallways. If I hear anything again… I wouldn’t want to be at your place. Understood?”

A low, murmured "yes" echoes through the room.

“Great,” Sejanus says, turning and heading to his office. Only when he closes the door behind him does he feel the tremble in his entire body.

But since then the whispers stop.

***

In the evening Sejanus, pouring himself a large glass of whiskey, dials the number of Snow’s penthouse. He can hear his own heartbeat as he nervously twists the phone cord between his fingers.

“Hello?” a high-pitched voice answers after a few rings. It’s very likely Livia Snow, though she doesn’t bother introducing herself.

“Uh… It’s Sejanus Plinth,” he says, pausing when he hears a slight hum, like she’s processing the name.

“Sejanus… Plinth?” she echoes with faint amusement.

“Yes…,” he pauses, hearing something like a long sigh on the other end. “And it’s Livia, right?”

“Yhym,” she confirms, and he can practically hear the smirk in her voice. “What do you want, Sejanus?”

“I’m calling for Coriolanus,” he says.

“Of course you are,” she replies, but she says nothing more.

“So is he there?” Sejanus asks with irritation.

“Yes,” she says, and again does nothing.

“Can you please get him in?” Sejanus adds, sounding a little bit irritated.

“Of course,” Livia replies sweetly. Then, raising her voice, she calls out, “Coriolanus, sooomebody wants to talk to you! Hurry up—this is a rare opportunity!”

For a long moment, there is silence. Sejanus takes a few sips of whiskey, the warmth spreading through his mouth before trailing down his throat.

“Yes?” the voice finally responds, polite and measured. Even in those three simple syllables, it sounds so refined.

“Hello, Coriolanus. It’s Sejanus,” he says, and hearing an irritated sigh crackling through the line, he adds, ”Don’t… Don't hang up.”

“How dare you call my house?” Coriolanus hisses in a muffled whisper, like he’s afraid somebody may hear him.

“You didn’t give me your mobile number. I assume you have one?” Sejanus asks.

Coriolanus exhales audibly, clearly nettled. “What do you want?”

“You weren’t at work yesterday. And today.”

“I’m not feeling well. Why are you calling?”

“Look… Okay… Maybe I went a little too far,” Sejanus says slowly.

“Too far? Do you really think that’s what you did, Sejanus?” Coriolanus says coldly. “You’re…” his voice tightens, “there’s really something wrong with you. I really recommend you getting some professional help. Again.”

“I apologize for this,” Sejanus murmurs, though the words carry little sincerity. Coriolanus Snow sprawled across his knee, his skin flushed crimson, legs kicking in defiance. Unforgettable memory. He only regrets that the thought of slipping between those sore, reddened cheeks remained confined to his fantasies, a vision he had revisited more once since it happened. He shouldn’t be enjoying this. Yet, he does. “But now we're even?”

Coriolanus sighs. “Wait, I will call you from my… Private number,” he says, and hangs up.

Sejanus waits, not moving, and finishing his whiskey. To his surprise, he hears the ring a few minutes later.

“We aren’t even!” Coriolanus snaps, now his voice is sharp with anger. “What you did… Let’s not talk about it, Sejanus, but it was… I didn’t deserve it.”

“Oh, right, because you never betrayed me,” Sejanus retorts quietly.

“I…” Coriolanus clicks his tongue in irritation. “Okay, fine. Believe me or not, but I’m not exactly proud of that one thing. But back then, I didn’t have bad intentions. You don’t need to punish me for it. It was years ago.”

Sejanus hums thoughtfully, still debating whether he should trust him with this one. “I didn’t punish you for that,” he replies with amusement. “I spanked you,” he emphasizes, hearing Coriolanus’s low growl in response, “because you humiliated me in the parliament. Don’t insult me in your speeches again.”

Coiolanus sighs loudly.

“Fine. I won’t,” Coriolanus mutters.

“And… I think you liked it a little,” Sejanus teases, winding the phone cord around his finger.

“What are you even implying here? No, I didn’t!” Coriolanus snaps. Sejanus can practically hear his teeth clench.

“Sure, Coryo… Look. Maybe sometimes I have too much of a temper. But I promise, if you just listen to me… Just listen, and nothing like that will happen again. Only pleasure. I swear.”

“Pleasure? Sejanus, are you… I want nothing from you! Is it clear to you?”

“Really, it didn’t seem so…”

“It was accidental,” Coriolanus says officialy.

Sejanus smiles to himself. Accidentally you get hard and come into my mouth? Accidentally you returned my kiss? he wants to ask, but he lets it go.

He can almost picture Coriolanus’s face now—those lips curling slightly, eyebrows narrowing, the purposeless efforts to mask his tensensess.

“I’m sorry, okay? Let’s start over,” Sejanus says. “I heard you’re giving a little speech about the Hunger Games… So, let’s say, try to keep yourself under control during it. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to do anything that might make me angry, would you? I will present you some ideas you can introduce this year.”

Coriolanus says politely, “Goodbye, Sejanus.”

The line goes dead, but Sejanus smiles to himself. That tone—it almost sounded affectionate, that carefully pretended disdain.

***

Sejanus drinks strong black coffee that leaves a bitter aftertaste on his tongue. He woke up just before dawn, only to make it to work before Coriolanus. His office is perfectly situated above the street—what might be a nuisance to someone, for him, an excellent point for observation.

You’re losing it completely, Sejanus thinks to himself. Father was right, you’re not normal. It’s… It’s sick.

His employees laid out several drafts for him. Higher taxes for the Capitol on goods imported from the districts. A higher age for tributes. No animals in the arena. No mutts in the arena. Termination in the event of severe injuries.

All of it is really nonsense because what difference would it make? But at least they did some work. Coriolanus has been rejecting all the party's ideas for years, but Sejanus is sure that today he will actually consider one of them in parliament. Does it have any meaning? Not really—except that Sejanus will prove something to himself.

Sejanus pats the pocket where he keeps a vibrating toy, a remote control, and obviously lube. After all, he doesn’t want to hurt Coriolanus.

But the hours are passing, and Sejanus, out of boredom, watches more and more people entering Parliament. But not Coriolanus Snow. Veronica penciled him in around nine, and the parliamentary session is at ten. Will Sejanus manage to do it in time? Maybe Coriolanus will go straight to the chamber?

Finally, Coriolanus arrives. In a black, classic-style Mercedes, Sejanus immediately recognizes the model. He must be so proud of himself, owning a car like that. He doesn't even get out of it on his own; the driver opens the door for him. Today, he's wearing something classic: a black, tailored suit that Sejanus suspects is the work of Tigris. A crisp white dress shirt and a striking red tie complete the look, exuding authority.

Sejanus desires him so badly.

Behind him, some bodyguard steps out but doesn’t enter the building. Well, he got himself a guard dog, Sejanus thinks, but unauthorized personnel aren’t allowed inside. Maybe he even plans to sic him on Sejanus—it’s not very unlikely.

Sejanus waits fifteen minutes. Let Coriolanus drink coffee, let him have a moment to breathe.

When the clock strikes nine, Sejanus sneaks into Coriolanus’s office, moving silently through the hallways. Veronica, the secretary, glances up as he approaches her desk. She twirls a pen between her fingers, smiling at him.

“Hello,” she says, almost blushing. Sejanus truly doesn’t understand whether she really likes him. If she does, it’s quite odd.

Yet, he says confidently, "I'm here for a meeting with Mr. Snow."

“Oh, Mr. Snow isn’t here,” she replies.

Sejanus nods casually, putting on his most innocent grimace on his face. “Oh, that’s alright. I met him in the corridor. He told me to stop by. He said he had something for me,” he lies effortlessly. Veronica nods, and gestures toward the office door.

“You can come in,” she says before going back to her work, but still a small smile is playing on her lips.

Sejanus slips inside the office, quietly shutting the door behind him. The room is elegant, refined—each detail carefully curated, just like Coriolanus himself. Dark wood furniture polished to a gleam, red curtains framing the tall windows, and shelves lined with neatly arranged books. Everything mirrors control and perfection.

For a moment, Sejanus closes his eyes and inhales deeply. The faint scent of rose cologne lingers in the air, very subtle. It’s the same scent that clings to Coriolanus's skin, and the memory of it sends a shiver down Sejanus’s spine. His pulse quickens, heart pounding in his chest.

He stops just by the door. Will Veronica tell him or not? Probably not—she’s not too bright, Sejanus judges with a hint of amusement.

A few minutes pass before he hears footsteps—measured, echoing lightly off the floors. The door opens, and Coriolanus steps inside, completely unaware of the presence hidden in the shadows nearby. He glances around briefly, then moves to close the door behind him.

"Hello, Coryo," Sejanus says, stepping out of the shadow.

Coriolanus jumps, a sharp gasp escaping his lips as he stumbles back in surprise. His usually composed face twists into shock and then pure fear. His hand instinctively goes to the handle of the door, but he regains his composure rather quickly. He turns to Sejanus, and puts a forced smile on his face.

“Sejanus! It’s very nice to see you, but it’s quite surprising,” Coriolanus says. “Who let you in?”

“Your secretary. I had a talk with her. Very nice lady,” Sejanus says casually, a teasing edge to his voice.

“You can’t just barge in here unannounced...” Coriolanus mutters, rubbing his temples.

“Oh, but I did make an appointment. Check your calendar,” Sejanus replies with a smirk, folding his arms and leaning slightly against the doors.

Coriolanus sighs, glancing at his watch, his whole body tense. "Do you need something from me? I have a speech to give in less than an hour."

“That’s exactly why I wanted to talk,” Sejanus replies, stepping closer. Coriolanus tenses even more, and Sejanus can tell he is trying to hide his panic.

Sejanus moves even closer, lowering his voice. “You’re under a lot of stress, aren’t you, Coryo? You need to loosen up a little before you go in there.”

“What are you talking about?” Coriolanus asks calmly, but then makes a sudden, sharp movement towards the door.

It happens in a flash. Coriolanus reaches for the door handle, but Sejanus blocks him effortlessly, swiftly catching his wrist. "Relax," Sejanus says gently. "I don’t want to hurt you."

Coriolanus tries to free his wrists, struggling to break away, but Sejanus's grip remains firm.

“Sejanus, what you…”

Sejanus smirks, reaching into his pocket. “Oh, you’ll see.” He pulls out a small toy—sleek and discreet. Coriolanus’s expression shifts from confusion to horror as he slowly realizes what it is.

“You can’t be…”

Sejanus turns him around and, still holding his wrists with one hand, pushes him toward the wooden desk. “Sh-sh, relax,” he says. “I just noticed last time you can’t quite control yourself, so I brought a little help.”

Coriolanus tries to jerk away, even kicking him from behind, but Sejanus barely feels his hits as he presses his wrists against his back, not allowing him to lift himself.

“I thought we were… going to start over,” Coriolanus says. "Sejanus, don’t do something you’ll regret.”

He tries hard to sound calm and reasonable, but his nervous, short breaths mercilessly betray him.

“I said sh-sh,” Sejanus replies, sliding his hand under Coriolanus’s stomach and unbuttoning his trousers before pulling them down.

“Sejanus,” Coriolanus hisses through clenched teeth, “stop it. Not here—this is my… Our workplace.”

“Relax. It’ll be over before you know it.”

“Sejanus, whatever you’re planning… You don’t think clearly. Stop this, it’s enough.”

Sejanus hesitates for a moment, exhaling deeply. That tone—almost pleading—gives him a second of hesitation. Coriolanus Snow, the only boy who ever showed him mercy during schooldays. His only friend. The two of them, serving as Peacekeepers, drinking cheap alcohol, having fun in The Hob.

But this same boy betrayed him without batting an eye.

Sejanus can’t stop. Not now. He grips Coriolanus’s wrists even tighter, and now Coriolanus raises his voice, "Sejanus, what are you doing?!"

Both of them likely hold their breath as the loud clatter of heels echoes through the office. A knock on the door follows.

"Everything is okay... Mr. Snow? Mr. Plinth?" Veronica asks.

Coriolanus turns his head and exchanges a glance with Sejanus. "Be quiet," Coriolanus hisses under his breath. Then, raising his voice, he calls out, "Yes, Miss Fontaine. Thank you. Everything is fine. Mr. Plinth just... spilled some tea. He is very clumsy," he adds, glancing at Sejanus.

There is a pause of silence from the other side of the door.

“Okay,” the woman finally replies, and there's another clatter—this time, the sound of retreating heels.

“You didn’t want her help?” Sejanus teases, brushing a hand through Coriolanus’s hair.

Coriolanus violently jerks his head to the side. “Didn’t it cross your mind that it would be a scandal also for you?” he asks maliciously.

“I don’t care. I’m crazy, remember?”

Then he slides his fingers under Coriolanus’s underwear, revealing his pale backside, marked with fading bruises. Coriolanus holds his breath.

“Don’t you dare…” Coriolanus protests, his voice cracking, sounding dangerously close to tears, though he tries to hide it. “Put my underwear back. Now.”

“Maybe it’s surprising for you… but you're not the one to give me any orders,” Sejanus says, his tone almost sing-song.

“It can’t be real…” Coriolanus mutters, now hitting his face against the desk.

“Sh, don’t hurt yourself,” Sejanus whispers. “Calm down. I will only put this little toy inside you,” Sejanus says softly. He gently strokes the curve of Coriolanus’s lower back, almost tenderly. Leaning in, he whispers close to his ear, “Don’t fight it, Coryo. You’re so tense… Just breathe.”

“Sejanus, don’t…”

“I was a little bit harsh on you, huh?” Sejanus asks, now moving his hand to stroke the skin of his backside. “I can still see the marks… But don’t tell me you didn’t deserve it,” he adds, patting him lightly.

Coriolanus remains silent, he stares down at the desk, and makes nervous gasps. His breathing is steady but strained, as though he's trying to suppress any reaction.

"Ok, just stay calm..." Sejanus says, pulling a bottle of lube from his pocket, and Coriolanus gasps. He pours it directly onto Coriolanus’s tensed butthole. “Calm down,” he repeats soothingly as Coriolanus starts jerking, trying to squirm away. Sejanus holds him steady and begins massaging the sensitive area with his finger, entering inside with greater ease.

At first, Coriolanus lets out a quiet sound, almost like a wince of pain, but after a moment, it shifts into something more like a soft murmur—reluctant, but undeniable.

“Sejanus, you’re insane!” Coriolanus says again when Sejanus puts one finger inside, his voice tense as he glances back at him.

“Calm down,” Sejanus replies smoothly. He starts to tease Coriolanus by running the small toy over his buttocks and between them, sliding it back and forth until he finally attempts to insert it. Coriolanus instinctively tenses, resisting.

“Relax your muscles.”, Sejanus instructs.

“No Sejanus, I will—”

“Relax your muscles!” Sejanus orders more sharply, punctuating it with a light slap on Coriolanus’s rear.

Coriolanus gasps, his breathing becoming louder and more erratic. Sejanus senses the moment his resistance starts to fade—his body gradually loosening. Sejanus smirks as he gently but steadily presses the toy inside, sliding it in with ease now.

“There we go,” Sejanus murmurs, watching Coriolanus’s trembling form. “See? Not so bad…”

Coriolanus doesn’t reply this time. He looks as if he’s completely given up, though Sejanus knows him far too well. It’s just an act. Coriolanus knows he won’t achieve anything by protesting or fighting back. But in his mind, he’s undoubtedly already planning Sejanus’s execution.

Yet, Sejanus notices that his dick is slightly hard. But mercifully, he doesn’t comment on that. He pulls his underwear and pants back up before finally releasing his wrists. Coriolanus whirls around as if burned, and fastens his pants quickly. His face is flushed and his expression filled with pure hatred.

“Sejanus…” Coriolanus closes his eyes briefly, gathering himself. When he opens them again, they’re cold and piercing. “You truly are a monster,” he says quietly.

“Me? I’m not killing children. Or betraying my friends,” Sejanus replies casually.

“What do you want from me?” Coriolanus asks, sinking into the chair behind his desk. He buries his face in his hands, and sighs with frustration.

“This little toy has a few modes," Sejanus says, holding up the remote. He clicks the first button, and Coriolanus's body jerks for a moment but quickly regains composure, his face a mask of forced calm.

“Two,” Sejanus continues, pressing the next button. This time Coriolanus exhales more sharply, but doesn’t move.

“Three,” Sejanus says with a smirk. Coriolanus shoots up from his chair as if burned, his eyes blazing with fury. He glares at Sejanus, jaw clenched tightly.

“And four…” Sejanus presses again. This time, Coriolanus can't suppress a soft, involuntary sound—something between a gasp and a weak “Damn you, Sejanus”—escaping his lips before he bites down hard.

“Not too bad, is it?” Sejanus teases. “But okay… It’s going to be like this,” Sejanus explains slowly. “My party has prepared a few proposals. You will choose which one you want to introduce in this year’s Hunger Games,” he continues, putting the paper on Coriolanus’s desk and watching him closely.

Coriolanus sits again behind his desk and says nothing. He doesn't move, his eyes staring almost lifelessly at Sejanus, the toy is still working inside him. “I'm not interested in your papers,” he says coldly.

"You really think your perverted games can control me, Sejanus? What do you even think you're doing? Is this payback for all those years when everyone bullied you? Well, let me remind you—I wasn’t the one who did it. I never… I never… I never did anything bad to you!" he says, swallowing hard, and closing his eyes. "And this has no effect on me. So your attempts are futile and pathetic,” he says in a muffled whishper.

"Calm down, Coryo. Just listen to me," Sejanus says. "You have your safe word.”

"What?" Coriolanus echoes sharply, this time without any courtesy.

"It’s what you use when you want the game to stop. Like with the whipping. Remember? So your safe word is these regulations. Introduce three of them, and I won’t touch this," Sejanus briefly holds up the remote control. Coriolanus’s eyes widen, and for a moment, he looks like he might lunge at Sejanus and snatch it away.

"Fine," Coriolanus finally says. "I’ll read it. You can leave me now. And be polite enough to turn it off—we wouldn’t want it to run out of battery, after all," he adds with forced politeness, trying so hard to maintain his composure, yet constantly shifting in his chair.

"I charged it before I left."

"Oh, exquisite." Coriolanus exhales sharply. "Thank you for the meeting."

Does he think Sejanus is so stupid?

“No. You don’t really think I’d leave you alone, did you?” Sejanus replies. “You’d just pull it out. No, we’ll go to the chamber together. We’ve still got an hour. In the meantime, maybe I’ll make us some tea and we’ll have a little chat. What do you say, Coryo?”

Coriolanus presses his lips into a thin line. Sejanus tries to slip into his thoughts. What is Coriolanus feeling right now? Fear? Hatred? Is he silently regretting that there isn’t arsenic in the sugar? Or maybe he even has some. Still, Sejanus holds on to a foolish hope—hope that Coriolanus wouldn’t kill him. Deep down, he knows he could never kill Coriolanus. Not even if his own life depended on it.

They sit in silence, locked in a battle of gazes. Sejanus doesn’t say a word, and Coriolanus doesn’t even bother to protest. He just stares at him with those piercing eyes—eyes that always seem to see through him—and flinches from time to time, covering his mouth with his hand. Yet, he pretends it doesn’t affect him at all. Coriolanus barely blinks, and time drags on as they continue their unspoken standoff. Yet strangely, the silence isn’t awkward. It’s heavy but oddly bearable.

Finally, Coriolanus exhales sharply, a short, nervous breath, and snatches the papers from the desk with barely concealed fury. “I think I will check them,” he says.

Sejanus turns off the toy.

Another victory.

***

“Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to present to you today my proposal for next year’s Hunger Games.”

Coriolanus Snow’s voice echoes throughout the chamber. He is speaking with his usual elegance and composure, though deep down he has to be in a state of desperation. He had tried, multiple times, to remove the infernal toy Sejanus had inserted. He had pretended to need the restroom, even gone so far as to fumble around while seated, attempting to discreetly free himself from the device. What a disobedient brat he is. But Sejanus had thwarted every single one of his pathetic attempts.

Somehow, he didn’t try to cancel his speech. He could have simply said he was ill. But he didn’t. It’s peculiar.

Sejanus feels completely relaxed, a sense of satisfaction washing over him as he notices the faint sheen of sweat forming on Coriolanus’s forehead. He has to be scared as hell, Sejanus thinks, a wide grin tugging at the corner of his lips. Coriolanus is doing everything he can to maintain control, but the subtle signs of his discomfort are becoming harder to hide.

He’s lucky, Sejanus muses, that the podium conveniently obscures the area below his waist.

Coriolanus offers a wide, polite smile before he starts speaking.

“Next year marks the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Hunger Games, and in celebration, this edition must be… special,” he declares, pausing dramatically. “The districts,” he adds, letting the words hang ominously, “will choose their own tributes. In the districts, a vote will be held to decide who will be reaped this year. The boy and girl with the most votes will participate in the 25th Hunger Games.”

A wave of stunned whispers sweeps through the chamber. Sejanus clenches his jaw, irritation bubbling beneath the surface. He hadn’t been informed of this plan—how could Coriolanus think stoking further division between districts is a wise move? His finger taps the remote, subtly activating the lowest vibration setting.

Coriolanus clears his throat, the faintest tremor in his voice betraying him. “The second point…” He glances briefly at his list, forcing the next smile. “Next year’s arena will likely be located in the Capitol’s caves. In total darkness.”

Another ripple of murmurs spreads through the room. Sejanus’s eyes narrow. What a cruel, sadistic idea. Yago had mentioned something about it, but Sejanus still isn’t sure what the purpose was in planting such a thought in Coriolanus’s already twisted mind.

He subtly increases the vibrations, watching with satisfaction as Coriolanus tenses. Suddenly, the microphone picks up an involuntary gasp—sharp and unmistakable. It echoes awkwardly through the chamber, drawing a few curious glances before Coriolanus quickly masks it with a feigned sneeze.

"I apologize for not being in the best condition today," he explains smoothly, though his voice wavers slightly. He clears his throat again, regaining his composure before continuing, forcing a tone of effortless nonchalance. “Obviously… this information is highly confidential.”

Coriolanus wrinkles his forehead and glances at his notes. Sejanus had always heard that Coriolanus was a smooth speaker, effortlessly charismatic, but today he isn’t doing so great.

The way Coriolanus reacts… He’ll be a great bottom, Sejanus thinks with no small amount of satisfaction. He crosses one leg over the other and rests his hands casually on his knee, feeling a surge of heat rush through his body. His own cock hardens at the thought of having him.

“A-anyway,” Coriolanus continues, clearly struggling to maintain his composure. Sejanus increases the vibration intensity.

It’s subtle at first—just a sharp inhale between words, the barest hitch in his voice. The room doesn’t notice. But Sejanus does.

“I… It’s still a very preliminary project. We don’t have all the details yet, but the upcoming Hunger Games will be a culmination of Panem’s traditions and... it’s shaping up to be very exciting. Truly... exciting,” Coriolanus says, his voice wavering slightly. “We plan to utilize the latest te-te-technology from the laboratory,” he adds, stumbling on his words before abruptly coughing loudly.

“Excuse me,” he mutters hoarsely. “Forgive me, everyone. I’ve been unwell, but I did everything to be here today,” he says with calmness. “Anyway, as I was saying… It’s really going to be… very exciting.”

Sejanus smirks, clicking the vibration to its highest setting just as Coriolanus finishes this sentence.

Coriolanus tenses for a moment, his expression faltering as if he’s on the verge of losing it completely. His knuckles grip the podium tightly, and his gaze darts downward, though he quickly corrects his posture. He clears his throat, steadies his breath, and continues as if nothing is happening.

The room stirs in whispers, though no one seems to realize what’s really happening beneath Coriolanus’s polished façade. No one besides Sejanus.

Maybe even Coriolanus wants to end his pathetically short speech now, but he can’t—Sejanus knows that all too well. He notices Coriolanus’s expression when he glances down. His cock must be hard as hell with the toy continuously striking his prostate. Coriolanus looks as though he might cry, his eyes slightly glassy, and Sejanus feels a fleeting glimpse of remorse. But only a glimpse. He knows exactly what Coriolanus needs to say to end this torment.

Sejanus even suspects what Coriolanus was trying to achieve. Show him that something like this can't affect him. That he is above his own physiognomy.

“In fact,” Coriolanus begins, his voice strained but maintaining a thin layer of politeness, “today I had a conversation with my good friend, Sejanus Plinth, leader of the Alliance for Prosperity. We agreed that… perhaps we should refrain from using mutts this year. The experiment is still under refinement,” he announces loudly.

Not enough, Sejanus thinks.

“And,” Coriolanus continues after a hesitant pause, swallowing hard, “we are opening discussions regarding the age of tributes. It’s difficult to ignore the fact that the youngest children… Well, they don’t fare particularly well. And after all,” he barely manages to force the next words out, his face tightening with every syllable, “the spectacle is meant to be… exciting,” he repeats, his voice cracking on the final word.

The chamber is silent for a moment, likely trying to process his words. Sejanus, however, feels nothing but satisfaction.

“How did you do it?” Sejanus hears the surprised voice beside him, belonging to Tubero.

“It’s my sweet secret,” Sejanus whispers more to himself.

“Thank you for your attention,” Coriolanus says, but he doesn’t move. He takes the sheets of paper in his hands, flipping through them aimlessly, yet he still stands at the podium. It lasts long, definitely too long.

“Mr. Snow, thank you for this… Very original speech,” Quintus Draven says, “but do you have something to add?”

Coriolanus smiles politely. “No, I thank you for hearing me out,” Coriolanus says, but he stays at the same place, again glancing down.

“So… Can you give up the podium for the next speaker?” Quintus asks with irritation.

“Yes, I’m going,” Coriolanus replies, but still, he doesn’t budge. Sejanus wouldn’t dare turn the toy on now—he’s not that cruel—though the idea of Coriolanus parading around with an erection is amusing.

Coriolanus parading with a cum inside his briefs would be even better.

But for now, it was enough.

Coriolanus is now clearly struggling to get rid of his hard dick anyway, but everyone is staring at him with genuine bewilderment.

“Why is he still standing there?” Sejanus hears someone mutter nearby.

Sejanus catches a glimpse of Yago, who’s watching Coriolanus with barely concealed amusement.

“Mr. Snow,” Quintus reminds him, this time way more firm, “please clear the podium. Now.”

“Yes, yes, I was just going to add… that we’ll return to the topic of the Hunger Games... And I wish everyone a pleasant weekend,” Coriolanus says. He truly sounds like a madman. Finally, he steps away from the podium, and fortunately for him, his cock is no longer erect. But Sejanus still feels Coriolanus’s glare boring into him—a look that promises murder.

However, when Coriolanus takes his seat on the bench next to Yago, he seems to relax and starts breathing more steadily. As a heavyset woman from the Capitol Women’s League begins her speech, Coriolanus looks like he’s about to fall asleep.

Sejanus reaches into his pocket and turns the toy to its highest vibration setting once again. Coriolanus practically jumps in his seat, his eyes widening in shock as he shoots Sejanus a piercing glare.

Sejanus simply gives him an innocent smile and switches the toy off.

The session comes to an end, and Sejanus walks out of the chamber with confident strides. In truth, he has accomplished everything he wanted.

Sejanus hears footsteps behind him but doesn’t stop. He strides directly toward his office. Just as he touches the handle and opens the door, the uninvited guest follows him in without hesitation.

Sejanus says nothing, silently observing as Coriolanus greets his secretary—Lucrecita, an older woman with sharp eyes—offering her a polite and charming, "Good morning." Without waiting for a response, Coriolanus steps inside Sejanus’s office right behind him.

Sejanus closes the door and leans back against it, his gaze fixed on Coriolanus. He expects an outburst—accusations, demands, anything—but Coriolanus says nothing at first. His eyes are wild, his face flushed red. There's a crack in his usual image. Sejanus prepares himself for unavoidable conflict—accusations, yells, maybe even a slap on the face. He can handle this, though he doubts Coriolanus would allow himself to attack him physically. It would be beneath his dignity. The old Coryo chose violence with a purpose. The new Coriolanus chooses violence through the hands of others—and will still convince himself that it serves some greater purpose.

“It was very… Hot, Sejanus,” Coriolanus says slowly, his piercing opal eyes locked onto Sejanus, unblinking and assessing.

“Seriously?" Sejanus asks, raising an eyebrow. This is something new. After all the fit Coriolanus was throwing just a few hours ago… Sejanus clenches his jaw, trying to hide his shock, even though he knows it’s nothing more than Coriolanus’s play.

“Absolutely,” he confirms, a strange, twisted smile on his lips.

Sejanus shakes his head. “Stop with your games, Coriolanus. I know you didn’t like it, no need to pretend,” he measures him with his gaze. If this snake decides he can fool him easily like this…

"I'm not playing," Coriolanus says seriously, his eyes don’t leave Sejanus even for the second.

"You came here just to tell me this?" Sejanus leans against his desk and crosses his arms.

“No… I…” Coriolanus stumbles as if trying to find the proper words, "Today I feel something…” he takes a step closer finishing in almost a whisper, “something I haven’t felt in a long time."

What? Erection? Very sad news for Livia. Sejanus wants to say, but bites his tongue. Does Coriolanus really think that little of him? That he’d be stupid enough to fall for this?

“What exactly?” he asks doubtfully.

Coriolanus comes closer to him and extends his hand toward him. Sejanus almost flinches, expecting a slap. Perhaps a grip around his neck. Or for Coriolanus to claw out his eyes. But instead, Coriolanus's icy fingers with meticulously groomed, neatly trimmed nails slowly glide over his face. Sejanus's jaw clenches again in a strange reflex. However, instead of any act of aggression, Coriolanus presses his lips to Sejanus’s, leaving something that Sejanus would call a very passionate kiss.

This tenderness is so pleasant, even if feigned, that Sejanus allows himself to sink into it completely—into the softness of Coriolanus’s lips, the coolness of his mouth, even if he might strangle him right after this gesture. He pulls Coriolanus closer by the nape of his neck with even greater intensity, his fingers tangling deeply in the strands of his soft hair.

Sejanus heard that Coriolanus’s breath is supposed to smell like a riot, but he doesn’t sense it. For him, it’s pure sweetness.

"Coriolanus steps back slightly, his breath ghosting over Sejanus’s lips as he whispers, 'I must admit… there's something strangely pleasant about surrendering control. You were right.'" He holds Sejanus’s gaze, dragging his teeth lightly over his lower lip—a gesture that probably means to be seductive, though it lands just shy of convincing. ”'And I want more.'"

“More?” Sejanus echoes, arching a brow. Yeah, right. There’s no way this is sincere, but fine—he’ll play along. Let Coriolanus show whatever tricks he’s got up his sleeve. Or up his ass. Either way, it’s bound to be entertaining. Sejanus bites back a chuckle.

"Yeah, I was thinking… Do you have any plans for the weekend?" His fingers briefly brush through Sejanus’s hair—with a surprising kindness.

It’s a game, you idiot. Just another one of his twisted games, Sejanus tells himself. And besides, he’s disgusting. The same hands touching him so shamelessly are the ones sending children to the arena without a second thought.

Yet, his breath comes heavier.

“Not really,” he replies.

“Hmm… So perhaps we should make use of the weekend... together. What would you say, Sejanus?"

So this is the plan of this praying mantis. For a moment, they stare at each other, and surely Coriolanus can't believe that Sejanus is so foolish as to fall for it. And yet, he still tries.

Sejanus lightly brushes Coriolanus's cheek, now feeling some kind of melancholy. He hates everything that Coriolanus Snow stands for—the Hunger Games, the Capitol's hypocrisy, the façade of perfection. And yet, he doesn't hate him.

Sejanus is even curious about how Coryo is planning to kill him.

"Great idea. What exactly do you have in mind?"

Coriolanus's smile sharpens. "Oh, perhaps you could show me how to shoot in the forest behind the house. My father-in-law’s always reminding me what a lousy shot I am. But you..." He pauses, lifting his head slightly. "You’ve always been exceptional. How did they call you? Bullseye?"

Sejanus gives a crooked smile. So that’s his plan.

“What time should my driver pick you up?"

"Oh, I’ll need to make use of my own. After all, he gets a monthly salary. Don’t take away his job," Coriolanus says with a brief laugh.

Sejanus shrugs. What a difference? With the driver, he wanted only to build tension, but in reality, he isn’t even a real threat. He is a former cook from a school canteen. "As you prefer. And what does your wife have to say about it?"

Coriolanus tilts his head slightly, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Oh, Livia is pretty understanding. She encourages me to spend time with friends,” he says smoothly. “Also why worry about her? It’s not her company I’m seeking for this weekend.”

Sejanus knows he can’t trust him, but the situation is so absurdly amusing that he can’t help but play along.

“Well, I can’t wait to see you this weekend,” he replies.

“Oh, so am I,” Coriolanus says, turning sharply on his heel to leave.

Sejanus clears his throat. “Didn’t you forget something, Coriolanus?”

Sejanus turns his head, confused, “Like what?”

“To give my back my toy?” Sejanus asks provocatively.

“I think I’ll keep it for a while. A little reminder of the wonderful time we had today,” Coriolanus says with a half-smile, turning away.

As soon as Coriolanus approaches the door handle, Sejanus activates the vibrating toy once again.

Coriolanus halts mid-step, his shoulders stiffening for a fraction of a second. Slowly, he turns back, his expression caught between a glare of fierce irritation and a forced, polite smile.

Their eyes lock, and for a fleeting moment, the carefully constructed mask Coriolanus wears almost slips—just a flicker of something raw beneath the surface. Vulnerability? Discomfort? Perhaps. But just as quickly, it’s gone, replaced by a smirk.

“How generous of you, Sejanus. It’s not every day I get such… undivided attention.”

Sejanus lets his gaze drop lower. The bulge in Coriolanus’s pants is small but noticeable. He bites his lip to stifle his laugh.

Coriolanus tilts his head ever so slightly, his smirk widening to the point he looks unnatural. Well, Sejanus thinks, maybe he isn’t the only one who's crazy.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, Coriolanus adds, "Oh, Sejanus… You have no idea just how much I’m looking forward to this weekend."

Chapter Text

Sex had never been something Coriolanus Snow was particularly keen on.

During his teenage years, when his peers were constantly horny, commenting on the girls from the Academy, he usually stayed on the sidelines. Back then, Sejanus Plinth’s company seemed helpful, as he could pretend to be engaged in conversation with him. Of course, he noticed that some of the girls were quite pretty—like Clemensia or Persephone, despite her rather eerie past—but when Festus blabbered about Clemensia having a nice ass, Coriolanus found the remark incredibly low.

Festus had always been a bit crude, after all. Once he challenged Coriolanus to make out with a girl a year older from the Academy, on the abandoned tracks, while they were drinking Posca after class, Coriolanus knew he couldn’t lose. The experience was, to say the least, rather unsuccessful. He had drunk far too much Posca himself, but he didn’t have to try too hard to draw her attention. Women had always found him attractive. All his classmates, and all female teachers loved him. But this one encounter felt more like going through the motions. Her plump, sour lips, his dry lips, her soft breasts, his bony body. His hands were wandering here and there clumsily, but stopped before hips. He probably disappointed her, but he simply couldn’t bring himself to touch her lower areas.

Maybe a few times after that, he found himself in situations where he masturbated in the shower, thinking about her breasts. They were rather small but shapely and soft. He hadn’t done it very often before. Hunger kills horniness, and then...

Sometimes, Coriolanus, though never for long, thought about that girl from the districts—the one who had stolen his heart, even if only for a moment. But he didn’t think of her with passion. More with disgust toward himself for allowing himself to be so vulnerable. But he knew he could never possess her, not in the way he had possessed Livia Cardew.

When they started seeing each other, there was quite a lot of sex, and Coriolanus wasn’t afraid to treat her badly. Not in the way he would ever treat his songbird. Taking her from behind, pulling her hair, slapping her ass, or even placing his hand on her throat when that bitch pissed him off too much. He wasn’t exactly brutal, but their banter, which at first ended in moments in bed, was quite thrilling. But as quickly as it began, it ended. Because what was sex if not an attempt at control? And what was it? Just a few minutes of pleasure, of animalistic release, for Coriolanus to finish and feel blissful? The less sex, the clearer the mind.

Since then, sex has been supposed to serve a function. Procreation, to be clear. But no matter how much sperm he poured into Livia, it still wasn’t happening, so over time, he started losing the urge to do it at all. Coriolanus was somewhat afraid to get examined himself—he preferred to send Livia to the doctor instead. Because if it turned out that he was the problem, that perhaps years of malnutrition had made him incapable of having children, what a humiliation that would be. Who would want an infertile president?

One time in his life, he even saw a strange video from the Capitol underground—Livia had said it would turn them on—but Coriolanus watched it with disgust. Some couple, a broad-shouldered man taking a woman from behind, her breasts and ass grotesquely large, the room filled with moaning, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh.

"Turn it off," he hissed at her, disappearing into his room and nearly vomiting. It was worse than the Hunger Games.

But now, here he is. Coriolanus doesn’t know what’s happening to him. After all, what Plinth did to him was utterly humiliating. He... Coriolanus prefers not to think about it as he splashes freezing water on his face, staring into his own eyes. Coriolanus Snow cannot be treated this way.

But why was he aroused by it? Why, no matter how much he hated it in his mind, did he get aroused? It shouldn’t work like that. His body should listen to his brain.

He even decided to find out why it did happen. Of course, he could have just taken time off after what Sejanus did to him—punished him and—he sucked your cock, you idiot, because you allowed him to do so, Coriolanus hisses to himself—but a medical leave seemed more convincing.

His trusted doctor asked him the standard questions about appetite, sleep, and eventually, libido. Coriolanus had always been answering this question saying good—why would he discuss such things with a doctor? But this time, he decided to use the opportunity.

"I've noticed that lately I'm... I have a bigger libido," he said.

"Oh, good," Dr. Alexander Vrantis replied.

"But," Coriolanus pressed, "I'm wondering if it's normal," he said, barely moving his lips.

"What do you mean, sir?" The doctor looked at him over his glasses with noticeable amusement.

"I mean...," Coriolanus swallowed hard, "I'm aroused recently, more than usual. Could this be a symptom of some mental or physical condition?"

The doctor cleared his throat, but Coriolanus could sense that he was masking his laughter.

"No. It’s a sign of health. I suggest, sir... visiting your wife more often."

Coriolanus quickly ended the conversation, and the doctor wrote him a few days off after Coriolanus told him about his imaginary stomach issues.

He left the office, feeling utterly humiliated.

This visit didn’t provide him with any answers. What Sejanus did to him was unforgivable. Sejanus had always been reckless. But this? This was lunacy. Still, Coriolanus could afford to forget what had happened in his house. It wasn’t public. It hadn’t weakened him in the eyes of anyone who mattered—perhaps only Sejanus Plinth, but Coriolanus didn’t care what he thought of him. And yet—somehow—his mind kept returning to it in the shower.

Not with anger. Not with disgust.

With something far worse.

Maybe the doctor is dumb and wrong. Maybe there is some reason for it—some mysterious illness that clouds his mind. There has to be a reason for it. Snow shouldn’t behave like this.

But parliament…

Coriolanus stares into his face, into his own eyes. This is not the gaze of someone who surrenders easily. He had already tried to protect himself with a bodyguard, but he hadn’t expected that Sejanus was so mentally unwell that he would decide to do something at his workplace.

This game was becoming more and more dangerous, and Sejanus—his madness—was an opponent Coriolanus had clearly underestimated. Pride had already led to his downfall more than once; he is aware of that. So he definitely shouldn’t underestimate Sejanus Plinth.

Coriolanus needs to get rid of him, it’s the only reasonable solution. First, because of what Sejanus had done to him. And second, because Coriolanus once again senses that feeling—vulnerability—crawling through his body.

And he had never felt more vulnerable in his life than when he stood before a full parliament, his body betraying him in the worst possible way. At that moment, Coriolanus wasn’t sure whether he despised Sejanus Plinth more—or himself. Either way, from every possible angle, the situation was sick and repulsive.

Good thing he had the entire Capitol Women’s League in front of him—one look in their direction was enough to make the erection disappear.

But now, Coriolanus is perfectly prepared for the weekend.

Goodbye, Sejanus Plinth—no one would particularly miss you.

Well, maybe only your Ma, but Coriolanus could always perform a charitable act, visiting her from time to time, sighing over her poor son who had left this world too soon. Or, rather, Coriolanus thinks, too late.

Ma has to be so alone, probably no friends, and soon no family. How sad.

“You’re going somewhere?” Livia’s voice cuts through the quiet. “Again?” she adds, a hint of irritation creeping in.

She’s standing in the bathroom doorway, arms crossed, just as he cracks it open to air out the lingering scent of his cologne.

“Yes. I made plans…” Coriolanus hesitates for a fraction of a second, then finishes, “with Sejanus Plinth.” There’s a slight pause, just enough to register as an almost imperceptible embarrassment.

Livia lets out a dry laugh. “What? You were at his place a week ago.”

“Well,” Coriolanus shrugs, offering a practiced, pleasant smile. “We’re trying to rebuild our friendship.”

Livia scoffs. “You? Friends with Sejanus Plinth?” She shakes her head, watching him carefully now. “Are you serious?”

Even when she says nothing wrong, Coriolanus feels a rising, internal irritation. Why is her voice so high-pitched? His head is already aching.

Once he becomes president, he really needs to get rid of her. Instead, he should find a young, fertile woman. Not too young—he doesn’t want to give people a reason to gossip. Maybe someone just under thirty.

Obedient. Well-mannered. Easily controlled.

Her gaze lingers, full of doubt. She doesn't believe him at all. Coriolanus holds her stare, his expression unreadable.

“Absolutely.”

***

“I need you for the whole night,” Coriolanus says to his driver, pulling a crumpled hundred-dollar bill from his pocket. “Stay in the woods. You’ll get the rest after the job is done.”

The driver hums, eyeing him with mild curiosity. “Something dirty?”

“Let’s hope not,” Coriolanus replies with a smile, and gets out of the car.

He hasn’t made a final decision yet, but he has two ideas.

First—the hunt. The perfect occasion to shoot Sejanus. Even if he doesn’t kill him outright, it will put him out of commission for weeks, long enough for all the final Hunger Games arrangements to be signed. He could always claim it was an accident—after all, what motive would he have?

Everyone, including his wife, believes they are friends. And besides, Coriolanus has to admit—with some embarrassment—that he’s not a good shot. Ever since his time as a Peacekeeper, he’s gotten even worse, and his eyesight probably isn’t perfect either. But wearing glasses would be humiliating. It would make him look weak. And it would strip him of some of his charm.

If that plan fails, he’ll simply poison him the traditional way.

Nydroxyne. Coriolanus came up with the name himself. It’s a brand-new substance still in development by Io Jasper—if she was only a little bit more attractive Coriolanus probably would choose her instead of Livia. Unfortunately, there is something repulsive in her, but her devotion to him is obvious.

Anyway, the substance is so new that the coroner won’t even think to look for it.

A calm death. Sejanus will simply fall asleep.

Coriolanus might even hold his hand. Let him die with the illusion that somebody cared about him.

Everything will go according to plan.

Coriolanus plasters a smile onto his face and rings the doorbell.

The door opens, and as usual, Sejanus Plinth greets him in a bizarre state.

This time, it’s a sleeveless shirt, soaked with sweat, clinging to his broad shoulders and muscular chest. Short black shorts, barely reaching above his knees, exposing his strong, well-defined thighs.

"Sorry, I just finished training, thought you'd be here later," Sejanus pants, breathless. Churro suddenly darts out from beneath his legs and starts sniffing Coriolanus, who stiffens instantly.

"Relax, he just wants to smell you," Sejanus reassures him.

"Sure," Coriolanus mutters, recoiling slightly.

"Come in. Sorry, I can't greet you more… intimately," Sejanus smirks, "I'll take a quick shower, and then we can head into the woods while there's still daylight. What do you think?"

"Great idea, Sejanus."

Coriolanus follows him inside, glancing around the house. Today, he feels an odd sense of calm, though as the dog refuses to stop sniffing him, irritation starts creeping in.

Then suddenly, Sejanus stops in the middle of the living room and says, "Make yourself comfortable," before… stripping. Completely. Everything.

Coriolanus' eyes widen in disbelief. He’s really mentally unwell. But despite himself, he steals a glance.

What a body, Coriolanus thinks with a flash of envy, his gaze lingering on Sejanus's stomach. Defined abs, a nearly perfect six-pack…

"What?" Sejanus asks with a grin.

"Nothing… You have… an impressive stomach," Coriolanus mumbles.

Sejanus steps closer. "Want to touch?" he asks seductively.

Coriolanus wants to say no, thank you, but reminds himself that he needs to play along as much as possible. "Sure," he says, and when he presses his fingers against Sejanus’ skin, it’s firm. Very firm.

"You have to exercise a lot," he comments dryly.

His own stomach isn’t fat, of course—Coriolanus controls his figure with his belt. If he ever has to loosen it by two holes, he simply eats less. But compared to Sejanus, his stomach is soft.

"You really should move that nice booty of yours sometimes," Sejanus purrs, unexpectedly slapping him on his backside. Again!

Coriolanus forces a faint smile. He can’t show he doesn’t like it. "Are you suggesting I don’t look good?" he asks. "Not everyone dreams… of muscles like that," he says smoothly. But in the back of his mind, he thinks—who wouldn’t?

"Oh no, Coryo…" Sejanus leans in, and Coriolanus fights the instinct to step back, noticing with alarm that his erection is hard and nearly brushing against him. "You look… divine. Always. Perfect. I took a good look recently, and honestly? Even better than I remember. Just sport does good for your health. For your head."

Sure, I can see it makes wonder for yours, Coriolanus thinks.

"Maybe we should go for a run tomorrow morning?" he suggests casually.

"Why not," Coriolanus replies, thinking that by tomorrow, Sejanus will either be wounded or dead, so he might as well agree to an orgy with him and his gardener.

"Fantastic. So, do you have anything to change into?" Sejanus asks, now walking towards the bathroom.

Coriolanus's eyes briefly flicker to his backside.

"Not exactly," he replies.

"Well, you’re not going hunting in a tie, are you?" Sejanus shouts from the other side of the house. "I’ll find you something."

"Great," Coriolanus says, feeling like an idiot for not thinking of that.

And now, Churro is staring at him with those black, predatory eyes.

With hostility, Coriolanus would say.

That dog needs to disappear, too.

***

"Sejanus, you don’t have to rush!" Coriolanus can barely breathe, struggling to keep up.

Sejanus, dressed in some ridiculous military-style outfit, marched ahead confidently, his dog trotting beside him.

The forest was already unpleasant—damp, eerie, and full of unseen things. Coriolanus was certain at least two mosquitoes had bitten him, despite it being autumn.

And, of course, Sejanus had let go of a branch too quickly, sending it snapping straight into Coriolanus’s face.

"It’ll be dark soon," Sejanus explains calmly, without even looking back.

"Sure," Coriolanus mutters under his breath.

On top of everything, Sejanus had handed him some hideous, swamp-green jacket and, worse, one of his own shirts—oh, Coriolanus Snow, wearing Sejanus Plinth’s hand-me-downs.

The shirt hung well past his waist, practically swallowing him.

He must look completely ridiculous.

Coriolanus sighs, exasperated.

The dog wags its tail cheerfully beside Sejanus—the two of them practically glowing with happiness. Like idiots.

“We’re here,” Sejanus announces.

Coriolanus looks around. Just a simple clearing. In front of them, ten soda cans sit neatly lined up.

“Cans?” Coriolanus asks skeptically.

“Yeah, I set them up just for us,” Sejanus replies confidently as if this is some grand event.

“I’ll go first.”

Sejanus pulls out his gun from his bag and starts shooting.

Effortlessly. Like it’s nothing.

Coriolanus flinches at the sound of the first shot.

The cans fall one after another, each hit dead center.

It’s honestly impressive.

A shame it’s so wasteful. Sejanus would never actually shoot a person.

Coriolanus smiles politely, not letting on how genuinely impressed he is. He oversees Peacekeepers from time to time, and even they don’t shoot this well.

Sejanus walks over to the fence, setting up a fresh row of cans. Once satisfied, he returns and hands Coriolanus a different gun.

Slim. Sleek. Small barrel. Lightweight. It’s not a real gun.

It’s an air rifle.

"You're giving me an air rifle?" Coriolanus asks, narrowing his eyebrows, his fingers tightening around the gun.

Sejanus chuckles. "And what did you expect? I saw you shoot back at the base. I wouldn’t give you a real gun. I don’t want you to hurt yourself,” Sejanus says.

"You told me I wasn’t bad," Coriolanus says quietly.

"I wanted to be nice."

Coriolanus snorts. Liar. But what is he supposed to do now? Complain? Refuse?

Irritated, he steps up to the clearing and takes aim at the cans.

His first shot goes clean between the two of them, hitting nothing.

The second barely improves—it knocks over the sixth can instead of the first, completely out of order.

The third? It flies into the air, disappearing uselessly into the trees.

Laughter. Sejanus is laughing.

And then—the unexpected warmth of a hand on Coriolanus’s back.

"Here, let me show you," Sejanus whispers near his ear, voice low. "First, relax your shoulders." Sejanus's hand presses lightly against Coriolanus’s back, and next his fingers wrapping around Coriolanus’s hand.

He guides him effortlessly, repositioning his grip, and adjusting the angle.

His hands are strong. Warm.

And his scent… clean, almost pleasant.

Sejanus presses the trigger using Coriolanus's fingers.

Crack.

The pellet hits dead center.

"See? Not so hard." Sejanus’s breath brushes against his skin as he murmurs the words, his lips just barely grazing Coriolanus's temple.

Coriolanus stiffens. Something strange twists in his stomach.

"Try again," Sejanus says gently. "But this time, do it right."

His voice is low, and instructive, as if Coriolanus is some novice who needs his guidance.

"And relax," Sejanus says again rubbing quickly his back.

Coriolanus clenches his jaw but forces his shoulders to loosen.

"Keep both eyes open, then close one just before the shot. Don’t jerk the trigger—just squeeze it smoothly. A slow pull."

Coriolanus rolls his eyes. He feels like a damn schoolboy being lectured.

"Hey, I saw that, you brat," Sejanus teases.

Coriolanus's fingers tighten on the rifle. How did he just call me? Ridiculous.

"Do you actually want to learn how to shoot well?" Sejanus asks.

Coriolanus exhales sharply. "Yes." His voice is quieter than he’d like to admit, but he does want to. Remus Cardew, Livia’s father, always mocked him for it. „You’re shooting like a little girl, have you really been a Peacekeeper?”. And that cackle-the whole Cardew family cackles like a herd of toads.

"Then focus. Loosen up. Aim at a specific point on the can—see that logo?" Sejanus nods toward one of the cans.

"Fine," Coriolanus mutters.

This time, he actually tries to follow Sejanus’s advice. Relax. Both eyes open. One eye closed.

His shots improve. Better and better.

He even hits the logo again.

"Bravo!" Sejanus says enthusiastically.

Coriolanus barely reacts, his grip tightening on the rifle. What if he aimed for his artery instead? He isn't a good enough shot for that. Maybe the ankle—just enough to wound him, claim it was an accident.

But Sejanus is wearing high boots… That would make it harder.

The eye?

Coriolanus stares at Sejanus as he bends over his bag.

Or maybe…

Maybe he could shoot him right in that thick, muscular ass.

It would be more like a stupid revenge than strategy, and hard to frame as an accident, but still he can say it was only a joke…

His fingers twitch on the trigger, as he points the gun at his new aim.

Then—a blur of movement.

Something slams into him.

Coriolanus hits the ground hard.

What the fuck?!

"Sejanus!" he shouts.

Churro’s face is inches from his own, panting, drooling on him.

Coriolanus’ heart stops for a second. If he bites me…

But Sejanus reacts quickly.

He turns, voice sharp—"Churro! Bad dog! Leave Coryo! Now!"

The dog obeys immediately, jumping off him.

"Hey, Coryo, are you okay? I'm so sorry… He never does that," Sejanus says, looking genuinely concerned.

Coriolanus almost feels remorse.

Almost.

Then he remembers what Sejanus did to him recently.

"I'm fine," Coriolanus mutters. "Just... keep him away from me, okay?"

"He wouldn't hurt you, but sure," Sejanus says, offering a hand.

Coriolanus hesitates, then takes it.

He stands up, dusting himself off. "I think I've had enough shooting for today," he says with a polite smile. "I’m a bit hungry. Maybe we should make dinner?"

Sejanus brightens. "Great idea."

***

Coriolanus sits at the kitchen table, Nydroxyne in his pocket. He wonders how he should do it.

Sejanus moves around the kitchen cheerfully, humming something under his breath. He seems relaxed, completely at ease.

What to poison? The wine? The food?

Sejanus is making some kind of beef stew, stirring the pot lazily as he sings. He looks so carefree, so unaware.

Coriolanus clenches his fingers against his thigh.

They even took a shower together.

He exhales sharply, disgust twisting inside him. He was filthy after that damn dog, but still—Sejanus had taken the soap and actually started washing him.

Coriolanus draws in a slow breath, then exhales, as if that could erase the memory.

And then—Sejanus kissed him again.

Deep. With tongue.

Coriolanus closes his eyes for a brief moment.

Why? Why is he agreeing to this? Why did he open his mouth and let him do it? Slip tongue inside his mouth? Stroke his hair?

Yet, it’s necessary.

Sejanus is obviously… strange.

He cares about Coriolanus. It’s visible, and it’s both sad, insane, and—perhaps—a little flattering. If this will make him happy… He’s been through a lot. Let him have a nice time before death.

Yes, poisoning the beef stew would be the best option.

Coriolanus had already been microdosing the poison and was fairly resistant to it by now. Besides, he could always feed some of the stew to the dog first.

He’ll tell Sejanus to pick out a good bottle of wine, and while he’s distracted—he’ll do it.

"You know," Sejanus suddenly giggles strangely, "I didn’t want to tell you… but we’re going to have a guest."

"A guest?" Coriolanus repeats, his eyebrows raising.

Sejanus turns around, smiling. "Oh, my Ma… It’s her birthday today."

Coriolanus fights the urge to hit his own forehead. Ma. Obviously. It couldn’t be any different.

"I invited her. Normally, I go to visit her on Sunday, but since you wanted to spend the whole weekend with me…"

Coriolanus freezes. "Your Ma is coming here?" he asks carefully, hoping he only misheard it.

"Oh, just for dinner and some wine. We’ll have a slice of cake, and then…" Sejanus winks. "We’ll still have some time… for ourselves."

Coriolanus clenches his fists so tightly that the palms of his hands ache. Ma Plinth. Sejanus is doing this on purpose, testing him, almost daring him to poison her—Coriolanus is convinced of it.

Because, of course, he won’t poison her. A kind—now nearly elderly—woman. Always a little tacky, and Coriolanus had found it strange that a man of Strabo Plinth’s status never decided to… replace her. And when Sejanus was locked away in the psychiatric hospital, year after year, Mrs. Plinth seemed to fade before his eyes.

Besides, it would be suspicious. Two corpses and one living person after a shared dinner.

“Oh, Sejanus, you should have warned me,” he said slowly. “I didn’t bring a gift.”

“I didn’t want to put you in an awkward situation,” Sejanus replies politely. He is now wearing a black shirt and black trousers. He is barefoot again. A strange custom. “Besides, your presence alone will be a gift for her. She adores you,” he says.

Coriolanus smiles politely, but cold sweat appears on his forehead. This really doesn’t look good. But maybe it’s for the best, he thinks. Sejanus will spend the day with his Ma, and he—Coriolanus—will be charming and polite as always. And this will be it. The last day of his life.

“Do you want to try?” Sejanus asks.

“What?” Coriolanus asks abruptly, pulled from his thoughts.

“The stew,” he says.

“Why not.”

Sejanus, thankfully, takes a clean spoon and scoops up some of the stew, blowing on it. He holds his hand under the spoon and moves toward him. He’s not going to feed me, is he? Coriolanus thinks. But Sejanus slides the spoon straight into his mouth, looking him directly in the eyes. The meat is tender, delicate, the sauce slightly salty, but with a hint of carrot and onion.

“Delicious,” Coriolanus says.

“Ma taught me a thing or two,” Sejanus shrugs. “You know…” He suddenly seems to hesitate.

“What?” Coriolanus asks.

Sejanus looks away. „I had nice time today.”

“Yes, me too," Coriolanus confirms, because it isn’t the worst. Sejanus hasn’t yet tried to put something in his ass—or touch it more than once. That alone makes the day a success.

"Once, we were different people, Coryo," Sejanus says sentimentally, and Coriolanus tries not to laugh. Maybe that’s true. Sejanus Plinth was definitely someone different—or at least, he used to keep his madness more in check. And Coriolanus? Well, he used to be poor and powerless. It’s a good thing that’s no longer the case.

“Everyone changes,” Coriolanus replies enigmatically.

"For the first few years in the asylum… I kept hoping you’d visit me," Sejanus says, though not with reproach—and perhaps that’s the worst part. Instead, there’s a kind of sadness, a quiet disappointment. His eyes glisten slightly, and there’s something so deeply sorrowful about him that it’s almost unbearable.

Coriolanus blinks. A tightness creeps into his chest.

“I…” He starts, but for once, he finds himself at a rare loss for words. “I…”

“I know,” Sejanus interrupts, shaking his head. “I know you had no reason to do it. Why visit a traitor?” His lips curl slightly, but it’s not a smile—more a bitter grimace.

Coriolanus exhales sharply and buries his face in his hands. “Sejanus, I warned you. Over and over,” he says. “And I think… maybe I did feel—” He hesitates, inhaling deeply before forcing the words out. “I did feel guilty. I thought about visiting. But then what?”

Sejanus studies him for a long moment, then shrugs. “It just would’ve been nice,” he says simply. “To get a letter. To see you.”

Coriolanus sighs. What a foolish sentimentality.

"I'm sorry," he says, barely above a whisper. And for a brief moment, maybe—maybe—he actually means it.

After all, it was Sejanus who put the Academy diploma in his hands. It was Sejanus’s father who saved his family fortune from being seized. The truth is, in some ways, the Plinths helped put him where he is now—at the top.

"Now, I would visit you," he adds, and even as he says it, another thought forms in his mind.

What if he framed Sejanus for treason?

He would end up back in the asylum, most likely. With his history, they’d declare him unstable, and unfit for trial. Just another unfortunate case of madness.

It would be so easy.

The doorbell rings. Of course—Ma Plinth. But Coriolanus is still somewhat surprised to see that her dress is probably one of Tigris’s creations. A classic red. She doesn’t even look bad, though she’s aged since he last saw her.

Still, Coriolanus forces a smile, kisses the air near her cheeks, and remains as polite as ever.

Sejanus moves between the living room and the kitchen, serving the stew.

“I haven’t seen you in so long, Coriolanus,” Mrs. Plinth says warmly. “You look gorgeous.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Plinth, but the real gorgeous one—” he smiles as he slides a glass of wine toward her. He, for sure, will be sticking to just one, but he really needs some alcohol to get through this.

“Tigris was at my place the other day,” Mrs. Plinth remarks.

“Yes, Ma plays at being a babysitter,” Sejanus mutters as he returns with the dishes.

“Was she?” Coriolanus asks. His cousin keeps insisting she doesn’t have time for visits.

“Yes, the little one had a slight cold… Nothing serious, but they sent her home from school, so I looked after her. She’s such a sweet girl, isn’t she?” Mrs. Plinth says as she cuts into her meat.

“Yes,” Coriolanus confirms, curling his lips. He doesn’t remember the last time Tigris wanted to see him, let alone visit with Lilianna—and, though it’s hardly a loss, taking into account her insufferable husband.

“Do they come often to you?” he asks.

“Oh yes, every Wednesday for dinner,” Mrs. Plinth says cheerfully. “And sometimes Tigris asks me to watch over Lily.”

A slow, simmering rage rises in Coriolanus’s chest.

His cousin has the audacity—the sheer nerve—to tell him she’s busy, that she has plans, yet she leaves her daughter with a woman from the Districts? Perhaps not the worst woman, but had she seen Sejanus? How could she possibly think Mrs. Plinth can raise a child? Does she want her daughter to be a barefoot psycho, running through the forest with a hell dog?

"How charming," Coriolanus comments dryly before steering the conversation elsewhere.

Some meaningless chatter—how wonderful that you two are close again, oh, poor Strabo—Coriolanus nods and smiles so much that his face aches from it.

“I’ll get the cake,” Sejanus says at one point, heading to the kitchen.

Coriolanus throws out a stupid joke—“So how old are we turning? I wouldn’t give you a day over forty”—which is, of course, a ridiculous lie, but Mrs. Plinth seems flattered and smiles.

But Sejanus doesn’t return. And he doesn’t.

Irritation creeps up Coriolanus’s spine.

“I’ll check on him,” he says smoothly, pushing back his chair. He is a little bit afraid of what he can find in the kitchen but he hopes Sejanus is at least clothed.

This was supposed to be a quick murder. A problem, gone. Not… this, for God’s sake.

But when he steps into the kitchen, he stops.

Sejanus is standing by the cake, fumbling with the lighter. His hands are trembling—so badly that he can’t light the candle.

Coriolanus narrows his eyes. What the hell is wrong with him? He’s shaking like a drunk, or a junkie.

Sejanus looks up, their eyes meeting. “I just… I’m trying…” he mutters, his voice strained.

Coriolanus hesitates for a moment before sighing. “I’ll help you.”

He steps forward and gently takes Sejanus’s hand, steadying it, guiding it toward the candle.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks, almost irritated.

“Sometimes… It’s the second…” Sejanus swallows. “Aside from my jaw, it’s the second side effect from the electroshocks.” His voice is barely audible.

For a moment, Coriolanus just looks at him.

And just for these fractions of a second, he remembers him as a child—only eight years old, holding out gumdrops in one hand and a swept-up notebook with mountains on the cover in the other, desperate to share, desperate to give something to the world, desperate to find friends—only to be met with cruelty.

What does the world do to people like him?

Killing him… would almost be mercy.

But instead of doing it right now, in what wouldn’t be his smartest move—yet Coriolanus only imagines running to Ma and yelling that Sejanus unfortunately hit his head and is lying unconscious on the floor—Coriolanus simply guides his hand to each candle, holding it firmly until they are all lit.

“There,” he says at last, almost tenderly. “All done.”

***

Now they are sitting on the couch, and Coriolanus only pretends to be drinking wine. He had two glasses and ate a lot of beef stew—which was delicious—but he kept encouraging Sejanus to drink.

Sejanus seems relaxed, sprawled out on the couch.

In the meantime, while helping clean up after dinner, Coriolanus let Churro outside through the back doors.

The dog shouldn’t be here when Coriolanus… does it. He seems very protective towards Sejanus.

Sejanus, looking relaxed and satisfied, turns his head toward Coriolanus, his eyes slightly hazy from the wine. He smiles faintly, stretching out on the couch.

“Oh?” he hums, tilting his head. “About what you think so intensively, Coryo?”

Coriolanus forces a small, casual smile, keeping his movements slow, and gentle. He lightly runs his fingers through Sejanus’s hair again, feeling the warmth of his scalp beneath them. Sejanus closes his eyes briefly, almost purring in contentment.

“You liked having control over me, didn’t you?” Coriolanus murmurs smoothly. “You enjoyed it.”

Sejanus chuckles softly. “I won’t lie, it was... fun.” He smirks, opening his eyes again, looking at Coriolanus with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. He truly looks so young like that, these big eyes, plump lips, little freckles. “Are you saying you liked it too?”

Coriolanus tilts his head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Maybe,” he muses, his fingers trailing down to Sejanus’s shoulder. “But maybe I’d like to try something... different.”

Sejanus raises an eyebrow. “Different how?”

Coriolanus leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “This time... I think I’d like to be the one in control.”

Sejanus hums. “Why not,” he says, taking a sip of wine. “But I don’t like… You know, I’m not a fan of hitting, I hope you understand.”

“I would never hit you, Sejanus,” Coriolanus says, again brushing his finger through his hair.

“I also didn’t want to hurt you,” Sejanus says quietly.

“Oh, don’t worry. You didn’t.” Not in the way I’m going to hurt you.

Sejanus hums thoughtfully. “Did you see my dog?”

“Dog? No,” Coriolanus denies smoothly. “But you have a big house. He could be anywhere.”

“Yes, but he is usually near me in the evenings…” Sejanus slowly says, “unless…”

Then, suddenly, Sejanus jumps up and shouts, “Churro! Churro!”

Nothing happens.

Fuck.

He’s going to figure it out soon—what Coriolanus did—and then he’ll probably drag him to that room. Again.

“Maybe he slipped out when my Ma was leaving?” Sejanus asks, glancing at Coriolanus nervously.

“Oh, let’s check the house first,” Coriolanus says, barely moving his lips.

Sejanus is now frantic, struggling to catch his breath, running from room to room, practically tearing through the house.

“Churro!”

Coriolanus pretends to call out too, but he’s mostly just watching Sejanus closely. He’s nearly crying, and after a moment—not nearly. He is crying.

“He’s my only friend…” Sejanus whispers.

Utterly pathetic—a grown man, in his thirties, looking like that, with tears in his eyes over a dog.

“Even if he went outside,” Coriolanus says cautiously, “it’s not like anything will happen.”

“Nothing will happen?!” Sejanus snaps. “There are wolves. Bears. I…” his voice breaks.

Great.

Now, not only is Sejanus definitely not going to agree to be tied up—this is not the moment—but he’s hysterical, and the sound of his crying is somehow unpleasant.

“Check the front, I’ll check out the back,” Coriolanus suggests politely and heads toward the kitchen.

Since when is he such a wimp? But these tears, this hysteria… Sejanus will die, thinking his dog is gone too.

Coriolanus opens the door, peering into the darkness. Nothing.

“Churro!” he calls out that pathetic name, but silence follows.

“Churro!” he repeats louder, his irritation growing.

Annoyed, he storms back into the kitchen, grabs a piece of beef, and calls again, “Churro!”

Suddenly, in the darkness, a flicker of white fur catches his eye—black eyes gleaming from the shadows.

Churro snatches the beef straight from Coriolanus’s hand.

Coriolanus eyes him carefully—doesn’t seem injured.

“There, get inside already,” he mutters, giving the dog a pat on the back. But Churro lets out a low growl.

Coriolanus swallows hard.

“Sejanus, I found him!” he calls.

Sejanus appears within seconds, rushing toward the dog, pulling him into a tight hug. Churro licks his face enthusiastically, and Sejanus, still sniffling slightly, whispers, “Churro, don’t go outside. It’s dangerous.”

Then he turns to Coriolanus, his voice soft. “Thank you for finding him, Coryo.”

“No problem,” Coriolanus replies politely.

He returns to the living room and pours himself a glass of wine.

Fucking Churro.

***

Coriolanus listens to Sejanus's loud snoring.

"I think I’ll stay the night," he had suggested earlier to him.

In the meantime, he had snuck into Sejanus’s bedroom with a snatched coil of jute rope.

Tying his wrists to the bedframe had been somewhat challenging, but he managed. Sejanus was so lulled by the wine that he hadn’t even stirred. Coriolanus had advised him to take his sedatives, and Sejanus himself had consumed hectoliters of wine.

He would stage his disappearance—strangle him, and later, with the help of his driver, bury him deep in the forest, deep underground. And the press? Well, Sejanus Plinth simply vanished. Disappeared. No surprise—he was a bit unstable, fond of solitary trips to the woods. So many things could have happened...

Everyone would buy it.

Perfect. Well, maybe not perfect, but not the worst. A little too brutal for his own liking, but Coriolanus feels as if the tension is about to crush him—like if he waits another second, he’ll break down himself.

He’s solving a problem, he tells himself. And Sejanus… Sejanus had a nice day. A really nice day with him.

He’ll go happy.

Earlier, he had asked Sejanus to lock the dog in another room—because Coriolanus felt uncomfortable. Now there are only two of them, no Ma, no dog, no other interruptions. Nobody and nothing will spoil his plan now.

As Coriolanus takes slow, deep breaths and stares into the darkness, he finally does it.

He straddles over Sejanus’s unmoving body and wraps his hands around his throat.

Tightly.

He’s never strangled anyone before, but it can’t be that difficult.

But it takes only seconds for Sejanus to wake up almost immediately.

The whites of his eyes shine in the darkness as he looks around, something like fear flashing through them. He tries to move his hands but quickly gives up.

"Stay calm, Sejanus," Coriolanus whispers, tightening his grip.

Sejanus makes a choking sound, coughing, but Coriolanus presses harder, tighter, gritting his teeth.

Sejanus’s face turns red.

But he… doesn’t fight back. He doesn’t even try to move his hands. He just stares at him, those huge brown eyes locked onto his face, not even attempting to speak.

Why isn’t he fighting back?

Does it even matter?

Coriolanus strengthens his grip.

Why is this taking so long? Why is it taking so damn long?

"I waited for you to visit me."

That small boy with curly hair, a little stocky, holding out his damn gumdrops to anyone who would take them.

Something tightens in Coriolanus’s throat.

As Sejanus’s face is getting pale his own breath becomes heavier.

Ten years in a psychiatric hospital.

You have to be strong now. You have to do this. You’re Snow.

His pale face, and tears in those enormous brown eyes.

Coriolanus clenches his hands tightly around his throat. It would be good to put the pillow on his face, it would be easier then. But he can’t stop doing it now. Sejanus doesn’t even move. His legs don’t kick, his hands don’t resist.

Now Coriolanus wonders whether he and his driver will even be able to move the body to the forest. And why is he killing him in the first place? Wouldn’t it be better to send him back to a mental asylum? There, Coriolanus could still visit him, maintain control, perhaps. But now, Sejanus will be gone forever.

Forever.

Sejanus is the only person who still uses his old nickname. He called Coriolanus divine. He still cares about him, though Coriolanus has no idea why—because even his own family doesn’t. His wife hates him, and Tigris? Tigris prefers Ma Plinth over him.

"Fuck!" Coriolanus suddenly shouts. "Fuck!" he repeats. "Why aren’t you even… fighting back?" he whispers maliciously.

It doesn’t even feel now like a victory when Sejanus gives up so eaisily.

Sejanus only blinks—he can't speak, after all—but Coriolanus can see the sadness in his eyes.

Those eyes.

Those big, miserable eyes.

Sejanus’s mother saw Coriolanus. What if she suspected something? What if she thought he had something to do with her son's disappearance? What if they arrested him because of it? He would almost certainly end up in prison. Ma Plinth may not be the sharpest, but she has more than enough money to hire a private investigator…

Coriolanus jumps off him, and a pitiful, broken sound escapes his throat.

And then he starts sobbing, which is so pathetic that he wants to strangle himself instead. A whimper escapes his throat, almost animalistic—he doesn’t use to cry. Crying is for weak ones.

Behind him, he can hear Sejanus coughing—loud, hoarse gasps for air.

“Fuck!" Coriolanus curses under his breath again, yanking at his own hair. He’s finished. Why didn’t he do it? It was so close. So close. He could have buried the body, burned it, whatever.

But maybe because of that It’s quite understandable he didn’t do it. He’s never killed someone this directly before. He isn’t that kind of murderer. It’s easier to poison someone. Or shoot them from the distance. Coriolanus is simply above killing someone with his own hands, and that’s a good thing—it means he still has some trace of humanity in him, he thinks to himself, even letting out a short laugh under his breath.

This was just too personal.

Coriolanus pants, still shaking, but when he hears footsteps behind him, he almost jumps.

He turns around and swallowing hard, looks at Sejanus. Sejanus is standing in front of him, his throat red, the imprints of Coriolanus’s fingers visible on his skin, his face flushed.

This is it. Coriolanus’s end.

Sejanus could go to the doctor and get examined, or, worse, Coriolanus could be dragged back to that room and destroyed.

Coriolanus cries even harder.

"The knot wasn’t very good," Sejanus remarks calmly. "Jute rope is tricky."

“What?” Coriolanus asks between sobs.

“I’m saying the knot wasn’t very good,” Sejanus says, rubbing his wrists.

“You could… You could free yourself the whole time?”

Sejanus shrugs. “I think so.”

Coriolanus observes him, he doesn’t look like he is angry which is quite odd.

“Sejanus, I…” he starts, but what can he even say? That he didn’t mean to kill him? That he didn’t want to? That it was just a nightmare? That he was sleepwalking? He’d make a fool of himself, babbling nonsense like that. They both know what almost happened.

“What now?” he asks. He feels panic rising in his chest. He can predict what will happen now. “Don’t take me to this room, I won’t survive more, I…” He sounds utterly pathetic.

Coriolanus Snow isn’t weak. Coriolanus Snow doesn’t have trouble getting rid of people. Yet, now he does.

Sejanus’s wide smile looks haunting.

"I won’t take you to that room anymore… unless you ask me to," he says gently, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from Coriolanus’s forehead.

Ask him? So it won’t ever happen.

"You’re not…" Coriolanus averts his gaze. “Angry?”

“Not at all,” Sejanus says quietly.

“Why?”

"Because I knew you wouldn’t do it," Sejanus says simply, tilting Coriolanus’s chin up, making him look into his eyes. "You won’t kill me. I know you aren’t able to do it, Coryo."

He says it with that stupid naivety.

And then he smiles even more—soft, sweet.

He cups Coriolanus’s face.

And kisses him.

Coriolanus, his entire body trembling, doesn’t resist. He feels the salt taste of his own tears.

There’s a roaring in his ears, and the air feels too thick, his breaths coming shallow and heavy. He should push Sejanus away. He should grab the rope, finish what he started, and do something.

But he doesn’t.

His hands, his limbs, his body—none of it moves.

“You won’t go to the police?” Coriolanus asks, stepping back.

“No. Why would I?” Sejanus snorts. “Nothing happened… Maybe I’ll just need to start wearing slightly higher collars for a while,” he says, running a hand over his throat. “I’ll get some ice, and you—come back to bed,” he mutters into Coriolanus’s ear.

Coriolanus knows this is the perfect chance to run. But maybe it’s not the best idea—he might irritate Sejanus, and he could change his mind, and go straight to the police station.

Coriolanus stares into the darkness, panic clawing at his chest so fiercely that he can barely keep it under control.

What if Sejanus brings the dog to tear him apart? What if he grabs a whip and turns his back and backside into a massacre? What if he takes a knife and kills Coriolanus right here?

Coriolanus nearly bolts from the bed—but then he sees Sejanus’s stocky silhouette standing in the doorway. Sure enough, Sejanus is holding a handful of ice in one hand, and putting it to his neck… and a small bottle of something in the other.

He comes closer to the bed and sits down near Coriolanus, who shifts to make room for him. He’s still watching him.

"Come here, Coryo," Sejanus says, suddenly pulling him into an embrace, pressing him against his bare chest. His breath is uneven, almost feverish, as he threads his fingers through Coriolanus’s hair. He inhales deeply, as if savoring the scent. "It’s okay now. Everything’s okay."

“I just tried to kill you Sejanus,” Coriolanus says, puzzled.

And in an exceptionally humiliating way, you idiot, Coriolanus thinks to himself now. His mother could testify with whom she saw her son last time. And police would very likely search the area near Sejanus’s house.

Shame washes over him. He has never been this reckless before.

"I guess we both have our fair share of sins, huh?" Sejanus mutters, almost amused. "But it’s night now, and we’re together…"

His fingers find a loose curl in Coriolanus’s hair, twisting it absently before trailing downward. Then a hand slips beneath Coriolanus’s shirt, fingertips drawing lazy circles against his skin.

"You’re still so tense," Sejanus murmurs, his breath warm against Coriolanus’s ear. "Maybe a massage?"

“What?” Coriolanus asks.

"You’re stiff, Coryo," Sejanus says softly, kneading at the skin just below his shoulder blades. "You’ve had a rough day, haven’t you?"

A rough day. A laugh bubbles up in Coriolanus’s throat. A rough day.

“It must be exhausting trying to kill me all this time,” Sejanus clicks his tongue, and Coriolanus laughs nervously. "You sobered me up a little," Sejanus continues, his thumbs pressing more firmly against the muscle. "Let me take care of you for a bit, okay?”

Sejanus can’t be serious. Coriolanus’s throat still feels tight. Is it some kind of trick? His hands ache from what he almost did.

He wants to laugh so badly. He nearly murdered him, killed him with cold blood, and what, Sejanus is offering him? A massage?

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. I picked up a few things from the physiotherapist who massaged me. You'll like it," he says cheerfully.

Coriolanus sighs with resignation. What is the difference, it can’t be worse anyway. Nothing went according to plan. He simply nods and, becomes completely submissive—so unlike himself—when Sejanus whispers, “Lie on your stomach,” and starts kneading his shoulders.

At first, feeling this touch, he wants to protest, to tell him to fuck off, to yell at him—You idiot, do you realize what I’ve just done? Hate me. Hit me. Destroy me. Yet, his exhausted body gives up.

"So tense…" Sejanus murmurs, sliding Coriolanus’s shirt off.

He rubs something between his hands and spreads it over Coriolanus’s shoulders, pressing firmly into each muscle. Oh no, it must be acid… Coriolanus stiffens, but then he catches a faint scent of roses. He glances back. Sejanus didn’t lie, it’s just oil, and Sejanus doesn’t even look angry. He’s completely focused on the massage, and he probably got aroused, Coriolanus notes with disgust, observing the bulge in his briefs.

At first, Coriolanus’s heart is still pounding in his chest like a drum, a sharp burn rising in his throat. But somehow, with each deliberate press of Sejanus’s hands, the pain dulls just a little. He’s actually… doing it quite well. He presses the right points, adjusting Coriolanus’s arms to reach the proper muscles. His body begins to relax, even though his mind remains as tense as ever.

How could Coriolanus be so weak? How could he not go through with it?

The question loops over and over in his head, relentless, but the quiet hum of Sejanus behind him—low, soothing, almost pleased—somehow begins to pull him further into a haze of exhaustion.

"You’re not breathing," Sejanus murmurs, his thumbs pressing circles into the dip of Coriolanus’s back. "Relax."

Relax.

That’s something Coriolanus Snow has never done in his entire life.

"Tomorrow, I’ll show you a few exercises to help you stretch your muscles," Sejanus offers, continuing the massage.

Then, after a moment, he reaches lower. "Can I?" he asks, fingers hovering near the waistband of Coriolanus’s underwear.

"You didn’t ask last time," Coriolanus notes dryly.

"But I’m asking now," Sejanus says.

"Do whatever you want," Coriolanus sighs, resignation in his voice. Can it be worse?

"But what do you want?" Sejanus asks. It’s actually a good question. Perfect one.

Coriolanus glances back at him. "I don’t know. But you can… You can take it off," he says, already feeling himself stir below.

And Sejanus takes it off, starting touching him… At first, he only brushes skin on his backside, but then his fingers slip in… Here. In the place, no Snow should be touched.

It’s surprisingly pleasant, and Sejanus keeps doing it. Pressing his soft spot.

As if nothing had just happened.

As if Sejanus wasn’t almost murdered.

As if Sejanus had known, all along, that Coriolanus would never be able to do it.

The most terrifying thing is that maybe he is right.

Yet, at that moment, Coriolanus is only doing it to have control over Sejanus? If he lets him satisfy himself, Sejanus will surely forget about that pathetic murder attempt. Besides, Coriolanus will think about it tomorrow.

Now, he closes his eyes, stifling his moans in the pillow, and lets Sejanus touch him.

Chapter Text

A few weeks later…

Livia Snow had never been jealous of her husband. There was no reason to be. Coriolanus Snow had always been nothing but polite to everyone, his self-control so absolute that even in the presence of the deepest décolletage, Livia had never once caught him stealing a glance—though her own neck had nearly twisted just trying to see where his secretary’s neckline ended. But Coriolanus? He would never allow himself such a base indulgence.

Lately, something unsettling is happening.

At first, it seemed harmless—she caught him smiling at his phone a few times. Perhaps, she reasoned, he had just received news of the death of one of his many opponents. But then it escalated. While watching television together, she noticed him mysteriously slipping away after glancing at his screen. And when he returned, there was something new in his expression—a faint flush of excitement, something disturbingly foreign.

One evening, in the sweetest voice she could muster, she asked, "Who are you writing to?"

“Oh, someone from work, my love,” he replied enigmatically, not even sparing her a glance. Moron.

Her heart nearly stopped one morning when Livia was certain she heard the sound of the front door opening. When she walked into the kitchen earlier than usual, Coriolanus looked up and asked, “Coffee, my dear?”

She only nodded and poured it into a flowerpot when he wasn’t looking. But she was sure of one thing—her husband had not spent the night at home.

“Where have you been?” she asked, but he didn’t even blink.

“What do you mean, where I’ve been?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t make a fool of me, Coriolanus,” she hissed. “You didn’t sleep at home.”

Coriolanus let out a hollow laugh. “My dear, what are you talking about? That’s ridiculous.”

“I heard you open the front door.”

“Oh, this.” He didn’t even blink. “I was running.”

“You? Running?” she echoed mockingly.

“Yes, I decided I need to take care of my physical fitness if I want to become president. You know how appearances are important,” he said.

In the laundry room, she did find his T-shirt, soaked with sweat. But he could have gotten sweaty doing something else.

Coriolanus started disappearing on weekends. Sometimes, he claimed he was visiting Sejanus Plinth. Ridiculous. What an idiot Plinth was to still cover for Coriolanus after all these years—after he had ended up in an asylum.

Back then, Livia had been quite satisfied to see him put in the one place he had always belonged. And she knew her husband far too well to believe he had nothing to do with it.

Now, stupid Plinth was covering for his little affair. Once Livia even called him, and he simply replied “Coriolanus will call you back”, and he did after a few minutes, but Livia knew such a call could be easily fabricated.

Livia should be glad. After all, she had been cheating on him too—for how long now? She had lost count. But she couldn’t allow some fling, some wretched woman who had decided to sleep with someone as insufferable as Coriolanus Snow, to take away her chance to be the First Lady of Panem.

Since the day she married him, Livia had been convinced there wasn’t a woman on this earth who could tolerate his coldness, his peculiarities, that eternal stick up his ass. And yet, somebody was interested in him. It’s for sure, Livia thinks, some young, naive woman. Who else would want him?

But what frightens Livia the most isn’t that Coriolanus is cheating on her—but that he is in love.

At first this thought was absurd, unreal. Livia would sooner believe that pigs would take seats in Parliament than that Coriolanus Snow could feel anything for anyone. He isn’t capable of it—never had been. The last time she could recall him feeling anything was with that filthy gypsy, his mentee, during 10th Hunger Games, but it was ages ago.

If he had left for her in the districts, if he had somehow—Livia still didn’t know how—helped her win, if he had kissed her in front of people from the Capitol, then he must have felt something for her. Sometimes, Livia was even jealous that she had never been able to awaken such an emotion in him. But she told herself it was his fault. He isn’t able to feel love, so he doesn’t love her. It’s so simple, so logical.

And now, it seems that’s no longer true. Even if it isn’t love, somebody actually makes him happy.

Livia hates when her husband is happy. She wants to see him sad, irritated, suffering, in pain. He doesn’t deserve anything else, and definitely not happiness.

Now Coriolanus Snow sits in the limousine, dressed in his burgundy suit, in which—Livia has to admit—he looks incredibly attractive. But lately, he hasn’t even come to her bedroom on her fertile days. And he seems so pleased with himself.

Today, he picked out her dress and told her she looked nice, but that was it. Livia feels old and ugly today, despite wearing a red gown and lipstick in a matching shade. She even feels fat, bloated with water retention because it’s been fifty-five days since her last period, yet every pregnancy test came up negative. But she recalls a few moments when her pills could fail her. When she had too much wine and ended up vomiting. She had borrowed Clemensia’s pills, and, well… they had certainly kept her digestion active.

And she is doing it with Yago every time without a condom. On top of that she and Coriolanus also had this pathetic sex weeks ago.

"Livia," she hears Coriolanus’s measured voice, "just remember, don’t drink too much. And be nice, alright? To everyone."

"Sure," she replies, barely moving her lips.

"I mean it. To everyone. Tigris will be there," he glances at her now. "I just managed to... restore relations."

As if anyone cared about his hideous cousin, with that pointed nose and gaunt face.

"And, of course, to Sejanus Plinth," Coriolanus adds. "I don’t want to give the impression that we bear any hostility toward anyone, understood?"

Livia only nods.

What an asshole.

But today?

Today, at this party, she will find out who Coriolanus Snow is having an affair with.

***

Tigris Snow didn’t know what had happened to her cousin recently, but one evening, out of nowhere, when she arrived with her family for dinner with Mrs. Plinth, she found not only Sejanus Plinth—who wasn’t an unusual guest—but Coriolanus as well.

Her husband wasn’t particularly happy about it, but after that dinner, Tigris had to admit that she was reminded of just how charming Coriolanus could be.

He tossed out jokes and compliments as usual, but this time, without a trace of irony. He even started asking Benedict about his work and what he was working on, without allowing himself so much as a hint of condescension when Benedict explained his latest bread recipe.

After dinner, he spent half an hour giving Lilianna piggyback rides—until Tigris finally protested, worried about his spine.

Tigris never truly understood the nature of the relationship between Coriolanus and Sejanus—her cousin always seemed irritated with him, and she did not doubt that Coriolanus had something to do with getting him placed in the mental asylum.

But now? Now, things felt strange. Because Coriolanus was actually being nice to him.

Even when Sejanus started getting nervous, his jaw twitching with that familiar tic, Coriolanus barely, almost absentmindedly, brushed his hand. A fleeting touch—so quick—that Tigris wasn’t sure it even happened.

After dinner, as they were saying their goodbyes, Coriolanus stopped her in the doorway and whispered, “Tigris, I do hope you know I was only joking with this facelift. You know you look wonderful.”

It might not have sounded particularly sincere, but it also wasn’t entirely fake.

What was happening to this world? She didn’t know. But she couldn't say she didn’t like it. Especially since he had arranged a fashion show for her during the parliamentary reception, which was both stressful and a nice payback for taking away her main districts.

Now, Tigris stands backstage and does last adjustments.

Clemensia Dovecote looks stunning in a green dress that mimics snake scales, revealing one arm and one leg. The scars on her décolletage blend seamlessly with the fabric, as if they were part of her costume. Her black, sleek hair is tied back in a ponytail, and her slightly slanted eyes add a striking intensity to the entire look. Tigris couldn’t have dreamed of a better model to showcase her animal-inspired collection.

“You look perfect,” Tigris says to Clemensia.

“Thanks,” she replies nonchalantly, but then adds warmly, “It’s all thanks to you. Your designs are my favorite,” she says, swishing her long ponytail.

Somewhere in the back, Twiggy, a thin, barely sixteen-year-old model, flits around, dressed as a canary—a look carefully crafted by Tigris, ensuring it wasn’t too sexualized, though she knew they love to sexualize children in the Capitol, which makes her nauseous.

Glitzee, a Victor from District 1—for her, Tigris chose an outfit inspired by a butterfly. When she spreads her wings, her dress will shimmer with a thousand shifting colors.

Tigris—oh, how improper it was—she had cried with joy on the day of her victory. Somehow, with those blue eyes and bright hair, she resembled her own daughter.

Artemis, tall and quite stocky for a model, is dressed in contrast as a doe, wearing a tight bodysuit in warm caramel and cream tones—and Tigris had even prepared a special makeup look, with tiny white freckles and golden highlighter to mimic the delicate patterns of a fawn.

The last is Sophie—Tigris usually used her to practice designing outfits for the Districts because she is so tiny. For her, Tigris chose the fennec fox—an extinct species, with a cap mimicking its long ears and gloves designed to resemble its paws.

Yet, nobody knows one thing—not even her husband, who is bustling around the hall somewhere, and Tigris fervently hopes he won’t embarrass her by being too familiar with people—that the last model is supposed to be Tigris herself. She isn’t sure whether Coriolanus will approve of it, but she needs this. She wants this. To feel beautiful again.

Her creation is a true tiger.

Her tight bodysuit gives the impression that she is almost naked—perfectly fitted to her skin, accentuating every protruding rib. The cape trailing behind her, with its striped pattern, is designed to imitate a tiger in motion. And the makeup—blood-red lips, golden and copper contouring, and black smokey eyeshadow—gives her a truly predatory look. Her nails are long and pointed like claws, and her shoes are so high that at first she could barely walk in them, but now after a few weeks of practice it’s better.

Today, Tigris Snow will be seen.

***

Yago feels utterly bored, and the party hasn’t even started yet.

At the entrance, he stops a waitress and immediately grabs a glass of sparkling wine.

He passes Quintus without even giving him a second look—because, of course, that’s how it always has to be. As if a simple "good evening" could give away their entire plan.

But the truth is, Yago is starting to not give a damn about their plan anymore.

Livia Snow had been ignoring him for weeks. She didn’t reply immediately to his messages as she used to, she had canceled their meetings more than once. Maybe she had invited him over for an entire weekend, and Yago—while snooping around the Snows’ bathroom—found a syringe and stole a sample.

But when he sent it for testing, it turned out to be fucking plain testosterone. Coriolanus Snow doing himself a testosterone injection—interesting but completely useless.

Yet, Livia had been sitting on her phone ignoring him all day. She only acknowledged him when he stood up and said he was leaving.

"Sorry… I’ve had so much on my mind lately," she said.

What could she possibly have on her mind, he thought maliciously. Whether to drink a kale smoothie or kiwi? Or what to wear today? Because deeper thoughts certainly didn’t pass through that beautiful head.

Yago doesn’t even know why he fell for her so hard, but lately, he’s been thinking about something else. Maybe becoming a Peacekeeper wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

His orphanage buddy, Miles, had gone to District 2, and even wrote that he had plenty of gin, cigarettes, and a whole den of foxes to keep him entertained. That was their code for easygoing dames, the kind that didn’t ask questions.

Maybe just walking around, flashing a gun a few times, and having nice nights without any commitment is life for him? Far away from these Capitol’s assholes? Wouldn’t it be nice?

Especially since Coriolanus, of course, knows something is wrong.

Every test in the caves ends in a complete disaster, and Yago is sure Snow blames him for that. It’s starting to get really unpleasant, and Yago doesn’t even know what exactly Quintus is planning. He keeps talking to the President, but Yago has a bad feeling that the first head to roll won’t even be Plinth’s—it’ll be his.

His heart nearly stops as Coriolanus and Livia step into the party.

He, in a perfectly tailored burgundy suit, declines champagne.

Livia will take it, as always, though Coriolanus throws her a very brief, but meaningful glance.

She looks stunning.

A red dress, and when she turns, Yago sees the bow tied across her beautiful, slender back.

Black heels with red soles, and crimson lipstick on her lips. Her hair tied into a bun, her bangs falling almost into her eyes.

They both look gorgeous, to be honest. Perfect. Maybe they are the most beautiful couple in the entire Capitol.

Snow even brushes his fingers over her bare skin for a moment as he guides her forward—and Yago feels a tight squeeze of jealousy.

But why?

She’s his wife.

Snow waves at him, and Yago, giving him a fake smile, waves back.

Of course, Coriolanus won’t waste his time on him. There are bigger fish to catch here.

Livia nods in his direction, and for a brief second, their eyes lock onto each other.

Yago sighs and looks away. Just more of the same. Boredom, boredom, boredom.

Yago makes small talk with Thanos Xenokrates, who goes on about how unfortunate it is that there won’t be any bloodthirsty mutts in the arena this year. The Hunger Games will be dull, he complains—just a bunch of kids wandering around with nothing to tear them apart.

Yago watches his fingers and notices a wedding ring. Who the hell would marry a guy like that?

And now, as if things couldn't get worse, the lights dim, and they announce a fashion show. Tigris Snow’s collection. Great, Yago thinks, it’s already not boring enough.

Who even came up with this idea? A fashion show—on the roof of the Parliament building? At a party? Could anything be more tedious?

Taking advantage of the unlimited alcohol, Yago heads to the bar for something stronger.

But his gaze lingers a little longer than expected on the first model walking down the runway. Dark-haired, in a dress with scales that catch the light, illuminating the scars on her skin. There’s something both soft and sharp about her facial features.

A perfect figure, slender, but the dress sticks out just enough where it should.

Yago nearly jumps when he hears a whisper.

"Come for a smoke."

He raises an eyebrow, turning to see Livia.

He follows her with a shrug. Coriolanus is busy talking to some official, and besides, Yago has the strange feeling that Livia has stopped caring so much lately about whether her husband catches them.

But Yago definitely hasn’t stopped caring.

When they’re finally far from the crowd, out back where everyone smokes, the area is empty. This time, Livia lights her cigarette herself, not even bothering with her holder. She looks at him and states, just like that, "I’m afraid I might be pregnant."

"Well, it would be nice to start a conversation with at least a hello," he says, but the weight of her words hits him slowly. What did she just say? That she might be pregnant? And she’s telling him? So she wasn’t mad. She hadn’t had enough of him. She could be pregnant.

Pregnant with his child, because Livia told him she doesn’t sleep with Coriolanus.

"But wow," he turns away, running a hand through his hair. "I thought you were on the pills."

"I must have forgotten one or two," she says quietly.

“Did you do the test?”

”Nothing’s showing yet, but my period is fucking late. Almost three weeks. And it’s never late.”

”Then why are you smoking? Drinking?" he asks, criticizing her without thinking.

Livia shrugs. "It doesn’t make a difference. I wouldn’t keep this pregnancy anyway," she says slowly, staring into the distance.

Yago hums, feeling strangely touched. "Then why are you even telling me?"

"I don’t know," Livia says, and Yago realizes he hasn’t put out his own cigarette either.

"Of course, I’ll respect your choice, but… think about it. We could… we could run away," he finally says in a muffled whisper. He even allows himself to brush her hand briefly.

But Livia laughs almost immediately.

"What are you talking about? Run away, Yago? Don’t be ridiculous," she says. “Where?”

“Anywhere,” he says. “Just together… Look, you aren’t happy with him, you know that,” Yago notes. “He doesn’t treat you right. He doesn’t treat you as you deserve to be treated.”

Livia lowers her gaze for a moment, but then she tilts her head.

"I want to be the First Lady," she says simply.

That’s it. That’s how shallow she is. First Lady.

Yago almost wants to shake her, to yell in her face—Do you even know what your husband is doing? Do you know what he’s capable of? And you still want to stand by his side? To walk over corpses with him on his way to power?

For what? For waving at cameras? For dull political rallies? Is that really what Livia Snow wants?

“That’s it? That’s your grand ambition?” he snaps.

“Yes,” she confirms without blinking.

Yago feels disappointed, but really, what else did he expect? They’ve been seeing each other for so long—this was never going to last forever.

And what is he even doing, anyway? Chasing after Coriolanus Snow, trying to catch him slipping—when deep down, he knows the bastard doesn’t make mistakes. He’s too careful, too calculated. Always one step ahead.

Yago should just tell them all to go to hell and disappear. Find some normal, attainable woman. Maybe even try to be happy for once.

But then Livia says sadly, "I just… Fuck, I’m scared. Coriolanus can’t know."

"Yeah, because… if he found out you were cheating on him," he says.

But Livia makes a face.

Just for a second, but she makes a face like she is ashamed and says nothing.

"Oh. So it’s not such a white marriage after all, huh?" Yago says, watching her carefully.

"It’s not like that…" Livia starts, but her voice lacks conviction.

"You lied," he accuses her almost immediately. "You lied about not sleeping with him, didn’t you?"

Livia fixes her gaze on the shoes. "I… just once, a few weeks ago," she admits.

Yago feels his stomach drop. For the moment this picture in his head is too vivid, Snow fucking Livia… And what else did he expect? How he could be so naive?

His fingers curl into a fist. His jaw clenches so tight it aches.

"Oh, so what? If it were my baby, you’d get rid of it, but if it were his—?"

He can barely control his voice.

Livia doesn’t reply.

A wave of white-hot anger surges through him.

"You can smoke at the bar too," he mutters coldly, turning away, not waiting for her to say anything else.

His feet move fast. He doesn’t look back.

Today, he fucking hates her.

***

Coriolanus Snow slowly observes the fashion show. Tigris put effort into this, perhaps. It was a good decision to reconcile with her. He even notices a journalist snapping a picture of him while he takes Lilianna out for ice cream. The perfect uncle, a good family man.

Even tonight, he spared three minutes for Tigris’s husband, allowing him to cater the event. A risky choice, but thankfully, he didn’t serve sandwiches stuffed with some cheap meat paste but rather elegant, well-arranged appetizers.

In political circles, Coriolanus's name is circulating more and more. People whisper that Coriolanus Snow will receive the President’s endorsement. Lately, he visits him several times a week. The cave project might not have been his best move, but Coriolanus feels he will figure it out. He has to.

Tigris’s designs aren’t bad, he thinks, looking at the runway. An animal-inspired collection—he doesn’t understand it himself, but it’s gaining popularity in the Capitol.

Then, a familiar scent hits his nostrils and he notices his lovely wife by his side.

"Did you smoke?" he asks Livia, irritated. Leave her alone for five minutes, and she already finds a way to disgrace him.

Not that Coriolanus minds much when Sejanus Plinth lights up a thick cigar and uses the same hand to— No. Now is not the time for those thoughts.

Livia rolls her eyes and puts this annoying smile on her face. Coriolanus sometimes wants to grab her by the neck and slam her head against a wall.

But instead, he says, "Wash your hands."

She sighs dramatically but obeys.

In the dimly lit crowd, Coriolanus catches sight of Sejanus and swiftly lifts a hand in a subtle wave.

Sejanus smiles immediately, bright and wide.

It should be pathetic.

But it isn’t.

Sejanus Plinth is a fool. Coriolanus knows that. A traitor, an idealist, a man who believes in things Coriolanus scoffs at. And yet—he is also the only person who smiles in this way only looking at Coriolanus. Always the same smile, ever since they both were children. His big brown eyes light up, and even the sadness disappears from them. The dimples in his cheeks give him an almost boyish look. And his lips, slightly plump, are gently parted.

Coriolanus Snow isn’t the kind of man to have an affair.

Although Livia Snow doesn’t deserve anything else. Lately, Coriolanus thinks more about how awful bitch she is to him. Sejanus is…

Sejanus is nothing like that.

Yet, Coriolanus knows it can’t last forever.

One day, he will have to kill Sejanus Plinth, and this time, his hand will not hesitate.

But for now, he keeps him close. Of course, only because he wants to control him. Or at least it’s something Coriolanus repeats to himself so he can look at his own reflection in the mirror. It’s not that he enjoys it, not in this lifetime. Though it can be quite pleasant. Sex can be quite pleasant. Physical touch can be quite pleasant. He has forgotten about it for years.

Maybe it’s not about the act itself, but about control—about the strange power Sejanus holds over him in those fleeting moments. No one controls Coriolanus Snow. And yet, when Sejanus grips his wrists, pins them down effortlessly, and whispers orders into his ear—Coriolanus obeys, even if he hates himself for it afterward.

Day after attempted murder Sejanus had strapped his wrists down, his touch firm but measured, voice low as he murmured instructions. The first sharp slap across his skin had sent adrenaline surging through Coriolanus’s veins. And yet, what had shaken him wasn’t the pain—but what had come next.

"Be good for me and handle a little more," Sejanus had whispered, laying Coriolanus across his strong thighs, pinning him down effortlessly.

Coriolanus had told himself it was the pain he should despise.

And yet, after every strike, the slow, lingering touch that followed, brushing over his heated skin, left something else behind.

One evening, he had mocked the idea that electric stimulation could bring pleasure.

"Please," he said to Sejanus. "You just want to take your revenge again, don’t you?" This time, there was no playfulness in his voice. They were just sitting on the couch. Talking. They had been talking quite a lot recently.

"Then check for yourself, Coryo, and you’ll find out whether you like it," Sejanus simply replied. “You aren’t afraid, are you?” he even asked. The cheapest trick ever, but it worked every single time.

When the current surged through Coriolanus, deep and consuming, the orgasm it triggered had left him gasping, on the edge of fearing for his life—and, perhaps worse, craving more.

Each time, after their games, Coriolanus feels dizzy with pleasure, his knees weak to the point of collapse.

He hates himself for this too.

Yet, he lets Sejanus pull him back against his chest, whispering nonsense about how well he’s doing. His good boy. He keeps calling him that, and normally, Coriolanus would strangle anyone for it. But well—he already tried that once, and it didn’t work, did it?

Maybe this tenderness is even the best part of it, after being treated so rough to get something soft. Coriolanus lets him run his fingers through his hair, soothing him as though he were some pampered pet. He allows him to lead him to bed, to kiss him, to take care of him. No one had ever truly taken care of Coriolanus before. But then again, he shouldn’t be the kind of person who needs to be taken care of. He had wanted to protest, to push Sejanus away, to lash out. But his body, exhausted and trembling, betrayed him every time. Maybe everyone needs a little tenderness now and then, Coriolanus tells himself. Something to hold on to.

After all, people are rarely tender with him. Not like Sejanus—devoted to him for years. A few weeks—that’s all it took for Sejanus to soften toward him again. Who else would forgive an attempted murder?

"Rest," Sejanus whispers after their encounters, running his fingers through Coriolanus’s hair.

The intimacy of it makes Coriolanus’s skin crawl.

"You’re only doing this to have control over him, remember," Coriolanus repeats to himself, muffling his own cries of pleasure into the pillow. "You’re only doing this so he stays quiet about your past," he convinces himself, letting Sejanus hold him at night. "You don’t even like it, he is making a fool of himself," Coriolanus tells himself, listening as Sejanus reads him mythology at night, slowly drifting off to sleep against his shoulder. "You despise him," he insists, leaving passionate kisses on his plump lips.

Obviously, Sejanus isn’t allowed to invite anyone else to his house—Coriolanus made sure of that. Sejanus even fired his gardener, though not without a snide remark.

"What, are you going to landscape my garden naked?" Sejanus had asked, but Coriolanus simply told him to hire some old geezer instead—someone no one would drool over at first sight.

Without turning, Coriolanus knows Sejanus is beside him. He recognizes the scent of his cologne—classic but with a sharp edge

"Hello," Sejanus says now. Even in the darkness, Coriolanus can see his smile widening, his white teeth gleaming in the shadows.

"Hello," Coriolanus replies simply, and involuntarily, the corners of his lips twitch.

As always, Sejanus is impeccably dressed, his classic black suit flawless. He can even stop wearing high-collared shirts now—the marks from the strangling have faded.

"Interesting show," Sejanus says.

"Very interesting," Coriolanus agrees.

"So, see you later?" Sejanus asks.

Coriolanus suppresses his smirk. "Definitely," he says.

As he walks past him, Sejanus subtly brushes his hand over his ass, and Coriolanus nervously glances around. Has Sejanus lost his mind? Well, that’s a rhetorical question…

But at least, Coriolanus has to admit, he never feels bored with him. Sejanus has the most ridiculous ideas—like cooking pasta in the middle of the night, walking around the house completely naked, randomly putting on music and insisting they dance, or waking him up at dawn just to watch the sunrise.

Coriolanus Snow watching the sunrise. It sounds both ridiculous and absurd.

Coriolanus has even started exercising with him—and, occasionally, without him—just to prove that he’s making progress. That he isn’t weak.

But now this hand on the ass in public… Yet, nothing happened, it’s dark, Coriolanus reassures himself. No one will notice. He tries to focus on the show—after all, it’s his cousin’s work, and he should at least pretend to be interested. So he shifts his gaze to the woman dressed as a deer. What the hell is this?

Livia, coughing, comes back. “Is this still going on?” she mutters.

Coriolanus rolls his eyes. “Livia, please, keep your voice down,” he says, scanning the room.

Yago stands by the bar, as always, but Coriolanus has to admit, he holds his liquor well. Never once has he embarrassed himself publicly—because if he had, Coriolanus would have long forbidden him from drinking so much.

Tigris, he judges quickly, put in effort. The designs aren’t perfect, but they’re passable. But how much longer is this going to take? Livia is right, he can’t deny it.

But when the fox-looking woman disappears, Coriolanus’ eyes widen in disbelief as he sees who steps onto the stage.

Clad in a bodysuit mimicking bare skin, she appears almost naked, her thinness starkly exposed. On impossibly high heels, she walks without grace.

Her face is painted like a tiger—almost like a clown. A cape with stripes billows behind her.

It’s his cousin.

It’s Tigris, in the flesh.

He can see her body as if she were naked. The costume is so tight against her skin that every shape, every rib is visible—especially under the glare of the spotlights. The eyes of the tiger stare out from the place where her...Coriolanus closes his eyes. From where her nipples should be. Her boyish figure is exposed for everyone to see.

Coriolanus feels his breath catch, his pulse hammering as he glances around the room, scanning people’s reactions.

Some laugh.

Others stare in shock.

"Is that Snow’s cousin?" he hears someone whisper.

How dare she…

Coriolanus forces a smile, but inside, he burns with rage.

Oh, she didn’t like being a stylist for Districts 5 and 6?

Let’s see how she enjoys Districts 7 and 8.

But today? He will wear a polite smile and pretend nothing is wrong.

***

Livia tries to suppress her laughter. She knows Coriolanus is furious, even though he doesn’t show it. Right after the show, he went straight for a drink. What was Tigris even thinking, doing something like that?

It was disgusting.

But Livia’s gaze keeps drifting back to Yago. He wanted to... run away with her? Was that even possible? Livia had always thought that for him, this was just fun. A little romance. No real feelings.

And yet, running away… For a brief moment, she actually considers it. But run away where exactly? Outside of Panem? No one even knows what’s out there. To the Districts? Never in her life.

Stay in the Capitol? Coriolanus would kill them both.

And maybe their little affair is the reason why Livia finds Yago so exciting. Because they aren’t truly together. She knows the moment you really belong to someone, the spell breaks. Just before Coriolanus, she had lived briefly with Felix Ravinstill. Even Avoxes didn’t have time to keep up with his dirty socks and underwear.

At least Coriolanus is tidy, she has to admit that much. Though something is definitely rotting in that mouth of his because his breath reeks more and more often. Livia can’t even imagine kissing him on the lips.

But if it was Coriolanus’s child would she keep it? It would be very profitable. He wouldn’t leave her then, she could be sure about it. Yet, Livia knows nothing about motherhood, but they have plenty of money, enough to hire ten nannies, so she wouldn't even have to get her hands dirty.

And yet, somebody wants to kiss this smelly breath. Who exactly? Livia shouldn’t allow this, all this sacrifice is supposed to be in vain? Her gaze sweeps across the party again.

Veronica. His secretary. Beautiful. Not very smart. Young. Perfect for him.

She looks incredible in that tight, revealing dress. A huge chest, perfect curves, and long legs. But no—Coriolanus wouldn’t. He wouldn’t allow himself something like that. If it’s anyone, it’s someone higher up. Or at least at his level.

Livia thinks about this ridiculous women's party, but it’s not possible. One more repulsive than the other.

She catches a glimpse of Clemensia approaching them. She does look exotic, Livia notes—not without jealousy. And that body… Even with those scales, she still looks good.

At first, Clemmie greets her with a kiss on the cheek, and Livia nearly chokes on her sweet, overpowering perfume. Then she turns to Coriolanus, and for a split second, an absurd thought crosses Livia’s mind.

Could they be having an affair?

Coriolanus watches Clemensia closely, though Livia can’t quite tell what he’s thinking.

"Spectacular show, I really enjoyed it," Coriolanus compliments her with a smile. "You were excellent."

"Thanks," Clemensia flips her hair. Oh, Livia thinks bitterly, if only I could take a pair of scissors and cut off that damn ponytail.

How is it that even scarred, she still manages to be so damn attractive? Desirable for a man without any effort?

"Listen..." Clemensia lowers her voice. "Do you know that man in black?"

"Could you be more specific, Clemmie?" Coriolanus asks charmingly. "There are plenty of them here."

But Livia already knows who she’s talking about.

"I mean that one." Clemensia tilts her chin toward the bar.

“Oh, Yago? He’s one of my Gamemakers,” Coriolanus replies.

"Is he… single?" Clemensia asks. “I mean… He is quite handsome, and I noticed he was looking at me.”

Yes, everybody is looking at you, you mix of viper and woman, Livia thinks spitefully.

"With a boss like me? You know well he doesn’t have time for a personal life," Coriolanus jokes half-heartedly before adding, "Definitely he is an attractive man. Though I’ve never seen him with any woman." He pauses, then smirks slightly. "Would you like an introduction? He comes from a good family, and I can assure you I pay him quite well."

The moment those words leave his mouth, Livia feels her heart stop.

"Great idea," Clemensia says. "Just let me powder my nose first."

The moment Clemensia disappears, Livia grabs Coriolanus by the front of his shirt and hisses, "What the hell are you doing?"

Coriolanus narrows his eyes. "Something wrong, my dear?"

"Don't introduce them."

Coriolanus looks momentarily thrown off balance, and Livia realizes just how her voice sounded—too sharp, too desperate.

"Such a strong reaction, Livia. I must admit, I’m curious—why does this bother you?" he says smoothly.

"I… It doesn’t bother me at all. I just want the best for Clemensia. He smokes a lot…" Livia mumbles, grasping for an excuse.

Coriolanus chuckles lightly. "I despise that filthy habit myself," he says pointedly, casting her a meaningful glance, "but it’s not as if people in the Capitol don’t indulge in far worse. And I’ve seen Clemensia with a cigarette more than once."

"He’s… I don’t like him," Livia says quickly.

"That’s your right. But why shouldn’t I introduce two acquaintances?" Coriolanus counters smoothly.

"He’s a Gamemaker. Clemensia doesn’t like the Games," she blurts out.

Coriolanus’s expression hardens slightly. "Don’t say such nonsense in public, Livia. Clemensia has no issue with the Hunger Games," he says, lowering his voice to a near whisper. "Just like everyone else here."

Then he levels her with a gaze that chills her to the bone. "Lately, your behavior has been... concerning, my dear. Perhaps you should speak to someone about it?" he asks, his tone as innocent as it is condescending.

Livia boils inside. Is he suggesting…

"Go to hell," she snaps at him, a little too loudly. Someone nearby turns to glance at them.

Coriolanus shoots her a look so sharp she swears it could kill, but the moment Clemensia returns, his charming, practiced smile is back in place as he leads her toward the bar.

Livia watches from a distance, gripping another glass of champagne from the Avox waitress, not even thanking her for that.

Yago’s eyes light up the moment he sees Clemensia. He moves gracefully, taking her hand with effortless charm. She immediately bursts into a sardonic laugh—he really can be amusing—and rests her hand on his chest.

Today, Livia can live with the fact that her husband is fucking someone else.

But not that her lover is.

Chapter Text

Clemensia Dovecote is a charming woman, that can't be denied. Yago would even call her extremely beautiful. What’s more, she definitely knows how to flirt. She has already asked him to call her “Clemmie.” “Everybody used to call me that when I was young,” she said, obviously expecting one thing—for him to deny that she isn’t young anymore. So Yago did just that—he denied it.

“Not young? You can’t be more than… twenty-five?” he suggested. Maybe he overdid it a little, but the truth is, she is stunning and has something special about her. Something… demonic.

The atmosphere between them is heating up. They’ve both had a few drinks, and her hand has landed on his chest more than once. Clemensia mentioned she has a big swimming pool and excellent champagne at home. What is that if not an invitation?

Yet, Yago thinks, pouring himself another whiskey, there’s one problem. A stupid one, a sentimental one, a hopeless one.

She isn’t Livia.

Yet, Yago can feel Livia’s gaze on him the entire time. Not just on him—on both of them. She is standing near the wall, watching them constantly, and the champagne glass in her hand is an inseparable accessory.

That makes him feel so desirable right now. One beautiful woman in front of him, Livia somewhere here, dying from jealousy. But he refuses to lower himself to go over to her. She should come to him. She should apologise. Or even beg.

The alcohol is buzzing in his head, and the things Livia told him… In this case, he is the one that was stupid and naive. Even if she is pregnant, what else did he expect? That they would run off into the sunset? That she would leave Coriolanus Snow for him? Bullshit.

But suddenly, when he glances at the same place, Livia isn’t standing near the wall. The loud sound of clearing throat interrupts their conversation—specifically, Clemensia, who is busy examining his biceps.

"You must work out a lot," she murmurs.

Livia steps right next to them and casually drapes an arm across Clemensia’s back.

“Yago, Clemmie… You look so cute together,” she chirps, and Yago swallows hard.

What is she even doing? Yago glances around the room, but Coriolanus is nowhere to be seen. That doesn’t mean they’re safe. Sometimes, he can sneak like a wild animal.

This is going to be a disaster.

“Livia, honey, thank you, but… what if you slow down with the drinking a little bit?” Clemensia asks cautiously, gently taking the glass from her hand.

Livia cackles in a way that could break glass. “Oh, Clemmie, you always care so much about appearances. Almost like Coryo. I wonder why the two of you never ended up together. You always had your eye on him, didn’t you?”

Yago presses his hand over his mouth, struggling to suppress a laugh. Livia is clearly very drunk. He catches the briefest flicker of irritation on Clemensia’s face, tightening her features.

“Oh no, Livia, I think you two are a perfect match,” she says coldly, and it doesn’t sound like a compliment at all.

Yago would find it amusing if he weren’t so worried that Livia was about to have an outburst—that she’d say too much, spill everything.

“Oh, really?” Livia slurs, her speech already starting to sound messy. She’s barely holding herself up in her heels.

Yago exhales loudly. "Are you feeling all right, Mrs. Snow?" he says, a bit too sharply, sinking his gaze into hers, trying to convey something with just his eyes, something that seems almost threatening, but it’s all in vain.

“Mrs. Snow? Where is this formality coming from?” Livia laughs and raises an eyebrow. “I’m not that old. Call me Livia.”

“Well, we don’t know each other that well, so I didn’t want to offend you… Livia,” he replies, and Yago notices a spark of amusement in her eyes.

This isn’t a game, he thinks, setting his whiskey glass down.

“Maybe I should get some water for both of you?” he asks, turning to Clemensia, who nods before helping Livia into a chair.

Irritated, Yago grabs two glasses of water from the bar and scans the room.

Off to the side, he spots Coriolanus Snow walking alongside his cousin before disappearing behind the backstage curtains. Good. He will be busy with that… The poor thing didn't inherit her brother’s beauty, and this tigris costume was horrendous, to put it modestly. Yet, Yago regrets not seeing Snow’s face when he was watching this show. Probably, as usual, he had that haughty look, with his eyebrows raised, and that stupid smile playing on his lips. He thinks he can hide so well his emotions, though it’s a big bullshit. Lately, Snow has also started behaving at least odd. This one speech in the parliament was strange as hell. Maybe Plinth is spraying some mind-losing germs, because, to be honest, Yago also feels like a crazy person lately.

And Livia also doesn’t seem to be in her best condition. Now she is drunk, but why did she even drink so much in the first place? Usually, during public events, she was tipsy but not so wasted. It would be best if she just went home and sobered up because in this state… she’s truly unpredictable.

He returns and immediately notices that the atmosphere between the two women has gotten even worse.

"Livia," Clemensia’s voice is cold. "I don’t know what your problem is. But I’d rather slit my own throat than marry Coriolanus. Or have an affair with him."

"Oh, thank you, Yago, how it happens that the best men are strangers," Livia slurs, holding onto his arm just a little too long as he hands her the water.

Yago can already feel cold sweat forming on his back. This is starting to look bad. He tries to give her again a warning glance, but Livia completely ignores it.

She looks awful now—flushed face, smudged lipstick, and that drunken slur. Yet, all he really wants to do with her is take her away from here. To treat her like a slut, but then, afterward, just hold her gently in his arms.

“You’re welcome,” he says. “Maybe Livia needs some fresh air?” he suggests.

“We’re already outside, Yago,” Livia laughs. “You’re so funny,” she adds, patting her knee.

Clemensia gives Yago a meaningful look, and she clears her throat. “Livia…” she says carefully, “maybe… your driver should take you home? Coriolanus probably wouldn’t be happy seeing you in such state.”

“You know…” Livia grabs Clemensia’s champagne glass. “You know where I have Coriolanus' opinion? I have it deep up my ass,” she says crudely. “And what, you want all the men for yourself?”

Clemensia stiffens. “I came here for work,” she replies dryly.

“Oh yeah? And hitting on men is part of your job?” Livia taunts.

Livia turns to Yago, who recognizes this teasing facial expression. “Did you know Clemensia was the most beautiful girl at the Academy? The most beautiful, as they used to call her. But then some flu came along and…” Livia gestures toward Clemensia’s décolletage, where the shimmering scales disguise old scars.

Yago had always assumed they were burns, but now he swallows hard, not sure how he should react.

“And unfortunately, Clemmie wasn’t the prettiest anymore. But she’s doing great, isn’t she? You’re so brave, darling, showing us this,” Livia purrs, her fingers gliding over Clemensia’s arm. Yago averts his gaze, but even from the corner of his eye, he notices the perfect composure on Clemensia’s face falter. She blinks rapidly, her posture stiffening.

“I… I should go,” she says quickly.

For a moment, Yago even wants to run after her, to comfort her, but it should be Livia doing it, it should be Livia reflecting what just left her mouth. But Livia does nothing. She just sits there as Clemensia abruptly stands up and vanishes into the crowd.

Yago looks at Livia now with something very close to disgust.

Is this the woman he thought he loved?

Even Coriolanus usually isn’t this cruel, he thinks. Or rather—he is, but at least for a purpose. He doesn’t just walk around and humiliate people for the sake of it.

“Jesus, Livia, you’re such a cruel bitch,” he blurts out, unable to stop himself.

But she only smiles.

“Didn’t you notice that earlier?” she asks, crossing her legs and slurping her champagne.

***

Tigris Snow doesn't know if the wetness on her cheek is makeup remover or tears.

She had been planning this ever since Coriolanus proposed organizing a fashion show during parliament’s event to mark 200 days to the Hunger Games. She had always designed her own costumes, but she had never shown herself in any of her projects. But when she was on stage, proud of herself, people didn’t admire it. On the contrary. She heard jeers. She heard a few stifled laughs. She heard “did she really put it on herself?”. And when she returned backstage, even her models were looking at her strangely, as if she had no right to do this.

Yet, the worst disappointment came from her husband.

"What was that, Tigris?" he simply asked, avoiding her gaze.

"You always liked my clothes," she said.

"But this? You were almost... Naked, and what if some of Lilianna's friends' parents were there? Do you want them to laugh at our daughter?"

So the people of the Capitol wanted to see nudity, but not when it belonged to her.

"You can go. I will come back alone," she said.

"Tigris, I didn't mean to hurt you. I just thought you could have consulted with me..." he started, but she only huffed.

"I don't seem to be ashamed that my husband serves sandwiches," she said coldly, and she didn't like it. It was something Coriolanus Snow would say, not something that Tigris Snow should ever say to her own husband.

But now Tigris anxiously waits for this one person to come. He had already caught her in the main hall.

"Tigris, what was that?" he hissed warningly and announced he would come in a few minutes.

When the knock comes, Tigris’s stomach twists painfully. Wrapped in her bathrobe, barefaced and vulnerable, she opens the door. Without her heels, she feels smaller, almost fragile next to Coriolanus. In moments like this, she can’t see the small boy she once cared for—only the cold, man he has become.

He looks furious, and that alone means something because Coriolanus Snow never allows himself to show his true emotions. No, her dear cousin is the embodiment of composure. It’s Tigris who sometimes loses her temper, throwing objects, swearing at drivers on the road, or even arguing with her husband. But Coriolanus can insult anyone with white gloves. He can make anyone look crazy.

"Well," he starts, and without an invitation, he sits in the chair by the small table next to her vanity. "I believe you must have some explanation for what that was?" he asks, accusation already painted on his face, as if he is scolding a child.

You bastard, Tigris wants to yell at him. I wonder who washed your sheets, who fed you—not with that tone.

"What do you mean?" she asks sweetly, setting herself the goal not to lose her composure first. Not this time.

"Tigris, do you feel all right?" he asks. His face even arranges itself into something that probably is meant to convey concern—narrowed eyebrows, slightly downturned corners of his mouth, and perhaps his forehead would be wrinkled if it weren’t so full of Botox. "I’m worried."

Tigris shakes her head and sniggers. “No, no, no. You won’t do it to me,” she says, throwing her things into her bag and stacking the costumes into a neat pile.

"Do what?"

"Gaslighting me."

Coriolanus stiffens. "I’m not doing..."

"Stop. Speak plainly. You didn’t like my costume? Just tell me," she says, now turning to face him and leaning against her vanity.

"No," he admits quietly. "It was vulgar. The Parliament building is not a place for vulgarity."

Tigris now lets out a humorless laugh and breaks her resolve. "Not a place for vulgarity? And the Hunger Games? You don’t protest when children are nearly naked on those damn performances on television!" she says, waving her hands.

Coriolanus shifts uncomfortably, though the rest of him remains perfectly still. “Well, I’m not a stylist. I don’t design costumes for the tributes. I don’t decide who wears what."

"Unbelievable how you can excuse yourself. Every fucking time. As we see, you can manipulate the stylists as much as you want, and your new recruit for Districts 1 and 2 designs clothes like for prostitutes," Tigris says and flinches, hearing her own words. Yet, Coriolanus's face remains a mask.

"I explained to you that my decision was influenced by your maternity leave," he explains. "Today, did you want to get back at me for that?"

Tigris hates this—she is already trembling, at first only internally, but soon her hands are shaking too. She looks like a lunatic compared to him.

"No."

"So what was it? Tigris, let me understand why you were parading naked in that pastiche outfit in the middle of a serious ceremony," Coriolanus asks, resting his elbows on his knees and looking at her expectantly. When he puts it like that, Tigris feels like she is wrong, and he is right. He doesn’t even flinch, as if talking to her doesn’t interest him at all.

"I wanted to show my project,” she says quietly.

"You were almost naked," he spits through clenched teeth.

"So what?" Tigris raises her eyebrow. "Children are very often almost naked in the arena! I didn’t show my intimate parts!"

Coriolanus now stands up and makes a circle in her small dressing room, running his hand through his hair.

"The Hunger Games... It's a different circumstance, do you understand? Here, we have... Civilization," he explain.

Tigris senses tears in her eyes. "I understand that you didn’t like my project, but are you suggesting that it wasn’t civilized?"

"That's exactly what I'm suggesting," Coriolanus replies confidently, looking at her with his icy eyes. Tigris had always seen the difference between their eyes, though both were blue. Hers were always warmer.

"Good to know. Anything else, cousin?" she asks.

Coriolanus looks like he is hesitating. "I don’t want any more surprises like this. Maybe this time I’ll turn a blind eye—I need to think about it," he says coldly. "But don’t expect that next time I’ll let you lead such an important ceremony. I want to be president, and I can’t allow such antics to affect my support."

Now it seems he said fully what he wanted, Tigris judges. He already looks like he's preparing to leave.

"Is there anything that matters to you? Other than this presidency?" she asks him coldly.

Coriolanus clears his throat. “Naturally, Tigris. I would even say…” he watches her carefully, “I don’t care only about my career. It’s important, but family… Being a Snow. You know how I value this. Don’t disgrace our names,” he finishes, and hearing that, Tigris wants to attack him with her bare fists.

Tigris hums. "No worries. I won’t want to lead any event related to you again."

"Good," Coriolanus simply shrugs. "Just let me know in advance about the Hunger Games. I’ll find a replacement," he replies politely. "And now, excuse me..."

"Yes, just get the hell out," Tigris interrupts him vulgarly and sees that a shadow of unease appears on his face.

"Sorry... I didn’t mean to curse," she adds.

"You’re very emotional today, Tigris. You need to take a rest," Coriolanus concludes politely.

When he leaves, Tigris only cries for a few minutes, but she puts her sweater and jeans back on and sneaks out through the back exit. For a moment, walking by the park to her car, it seems to her as if she hears Livia’s voice. Alerted, she even peers into the park, and indeed she spots a red dress in the distance, and above it stands one of the Gamemakers. Tigris recognizes him very well because, in her opinion, he has a mediocre sense of style. Simple black, but how he wears it.

It’s strange, but she decides to let it go. When she goes to pick up the next set of costumes, Benedict is standing backstage.

"You were supposed to go," she says to him almost coldly, but inside, he feels something warm.

He reaches out to grab her hand. "How could I let you move those costumes to the car alone? Besides... I’m sorry," he says warmly. "You looked... Stunning as always. I was just jealous that others could see you like that."

Maybe he’s lying, maybe not, but Tigris only gives him a smile and decides to leave this evening behind her.

***

Lately, Sejanus Plinth has come to terms with the fact that his life will probably end soon, and one good thing about it will be that he wouldn’t need to participate in the parties like this one.

Sejanus was close to death before, obviously. A few times. The arena. District 12. The mental asylum. Rejection from Ophelio. But he had never been closer to death than under the pressure of his hands, the slender fingers of Coriolanus Snow tightening around his throat. The world nearly stopped, his vision blurred to black. Sejanus thought he was about to take his last breath. Could there be a more beautiful way to leave this world than from the hands of the love of your life?

Because he has no doubt Coriolanus is nothing less for him. And nothing more.

The fact that Coriolanus didn’t kill him, Sejanus interprets as a sign of affection, which makes him feel like the most desperate person in the world.

Taking the glass of champagne, Sejanus solemnly thanks the Avox servant. Avoxes. The only people that didn’t seem to hate Plinths once they come to the Capitol. Silent observers of their misery.

The father had taken him to dozens of these parties before. Sejanus, in a small suit meant to hide his true origins. In vain. Ma stood awkwardly near the table, unsure of how to behave, only relaxing after drinking three glasses of wine. Strabo, meanwhile, was thriving somewhere in the company. He never kissed anyone's ass, no, but he always knew how to make small talk and get to the point. But the three of them never truly belonged here, like foreign visitors desperately trying to fit into their surroundings.

Turning the champagne glass in his hand, Sejanus thinks that he has never been happier than he is right now, and it’s truly pathetic. He isn’t delusional enough to believe that whatever exists between him and Coriolanus can be called a relationship. Yet, when it’s just the two of them—alone—he allows himself to pretend it’s real. When he holds his hand, when he caresses his bare back, when Coriolanus screams his name in ecstasy, Sejanus thinks that if it’s not entirely real, it isn’t entirely a lie, either. And even Coriolanus Snow isn’t such a perfect actor that he can play his role flawlessly all the time, Sejanus is more than sure about it.

But Sejanus shouldn’t be fucking with monster. For this one, he would even find an excuse. They ordered him to distract Coriolanus, and what greater distraction is there than sex? But loving him—loving a monster—is something Sejanus can’t excuse, and he hates himself for it.

All of this is like a ticking bomb, one that is bound to explode sooner or later, but somehow, Sejanus is calm. This will be the end of Coriolanus Snow, and Sejanus is slowly coming to terms with the fact that he may not be able to stop his execution when the time comes. But he can poison him. Or poison them both. When he's optimistic, he thinks he can rescue them both and run away. But Coriolanus wouldn't want to run away with him. Coriolanus Snow wants to be the President of Panem and continue the Hunger Games for the rest of his days.

But Sejanus can't shake off the impression that Coriolanus Snow isn't the man he watched on the television or the man he even sees during parliamentary sessions. In fact, he is lonely and miserable. A wife he hates, with the feeling mutual. His cousin, his only living relative, has turned her back on him. He has no friends, only contacts. He is paranoid and anxious. His life feels like a constant torment, as if he's searching for something that will satisfy him, but nothing like that exists.

But when Sejanus asked, “Have you ever thought about things turning out differently?' Coriolanus was clueless. He replied “no,” but he closed his eyes, and although he didn’t make a sound, Sejanus was very aware of how he enjoyed—always enjoys—it when Sejanus strokes his bare skin, which breaks out in goosebumps. He knows how Coriolanus likes to be complimented. Appreciated. Cared for. But Coriolanus would rather die than admit it.

“No tricks with me from now on, Sejanus, understood?” he taunted him, and Sejanus gave up. Since that moment, he decided he would give Coriolanus only pleasure. But sometimes, he has to stop himself before turning on the electricity so hard that he could hurt him. He holds himself back from shoving his cock deep into his ass without preparation. When giving him a slap, he stops his hand from making it just a little too hard, so it wouldn’t really hurt, hurt him to his core.

The truth is, Sejanus doesn't want to hurt him. It’s just that sometimes he’s reminded of what Coriolanus Snow does. What he organizes. Who he is. He’s not Coryo anymore, though Sejanus can't stop calling him that.

Sejanus notices his silhouette in the courtyard. His blonde hair is visible even in the darkness, and he is leaning over the railing. One move and he would fall straight down, splattering like a red stain on the street.

The problem is Sejanus would have to jump on him, though he’s not sure if he could. Wanting to kill yourself and actually killing yourself are two different things, he acknowledges it only one. Lately, Sejanus has been thinking about Ophelio more and more. It was when Coriolanus asked greedily if there had ever been anyone in his life who mattered to him. He asked in such a tone that Sejanus was sure of the answer he wanted: “No”—as if Sejanus were just an object, still his possession, even if unwanted. But Sejanus answered, “Yes.” Coriolanus pretended he needed to leave a few minutes later.

The next day, Sejanus found his grave. In the Capitol, there are only three cemeteries, and Ophelio lies in the one where Strabo Plinth is buried. Sejanus brought his old lover primroses. For a moment, he wanted white roses, but he felt it would be an insult. Besides, roses didn’t suit Ophelio. He was too gentle, too delicate for this world. Just like Sejanus, who, although physically he could probably defeat half of this reception, deep down has no doubt that he is still gentle. Loving. Devoted. He was surprised when he discovered that on the day of his death, Ophelio was thirty years old. He thought he was much younger. His white marble tombstone and the black-and-white photo. Sejanus shivered, looking at his face. What would have happened if they had escaped then?

But Coriolanus—Coriolanus is like those roses. Not just the scent. Sejanus thinks Ophelio didn’t resemble him at all, though back then he saw the resemblance. They were both blondes, but Coriolanus’s facial features are sharper, more defined. His face only seemingly has delicacy—it transforms into something almost terrifying at certain moments. But it can’t be denied, he is beautiful. Inappropriately beautiful.

“What, you're even tired of the commotion?” Sejanus asks him. Coriolanus almost jumps, but when he turns, his expression softens when he sees that it’s Sejanus.

“I just needed a moment,” Coriolanus replies, though there’s something sad in his voice.

Sejanus says, “Oh, so I should go...?”

Coriolanus gives him a small, barely noticeable smile. “You can stay,” he says.

For a moment, there is silence between them, and Sejanus can hear the noise from the party in the distance, even the sound of his own swallow. He hesitates, unsure whether to break the quiet, but finally asks, “It’s about the fashion show?”

Coriolanus buries his face in his hands, letting out a frustrated sigh, before glancing at him. “Yes. I just don’t understand... How could she humiliate me like that, Sejanus?” His voice sharpens. “I’m so close, and she had to ruin it.”

Sejanus feels a slight, almost guilty twinge as he speaks, but he doesn’t back down. “Don’t worry. This won’t affect your chances of becoming president.” He says it, though part of him feels like the devil for offering that assurance, but it’s the truth. They had promised each other no lies. “I can’t tell you everything about me Sejanus, but fine. Considering the current nature of our relationship, let’s not lie.” So it’s not a lie. Coriolanus Snow will never become the president, but not because of his cousin.

“But it was… Did you see it?” Coriolanus asks like it was something scandalous.

Sejanus shrugs. “I think it was brave,” he replies.

“Brave? It was stupid. Come on, Sejanus, even you…” Coriolanus starts, but he stops in the middle of the sentence.

“Even I’m not that crazy? That’s what you mean?” Sejanus asks, looking at Coriolanus, who glances back at him, his expression unreadable. “It was quite... original, and that’s all.”

“She could’ve discussed it with me,” Coriolanus says now, his icy eyes locking onto Sejanus.

“Oh, surprise, not everything revolves around you,” Sejanus retorts.

“Really? You’re the living contradiction to that theory,” Coriolanus says, his lips curling into a smirk. He enjoys making comments like that, but if it makes Coriolanus feel better, he doesn't even care to argue. Anyway, Coriolanus is probably right.

“You really want to spoil your relationship with her because of that?” Sejanus asks gently.

Coriolanus lets out a frustrated sigh, his frustration barely contained. “I was already... She just has to understand it’s not about her and me. It’s about me, my image. She’s the cousin of the future president, she can’t just do whatever she wants without consequences. She doesn’t get to dictate how things go.” He tries to control his voice so much, as always, but he doesn’t sound calm, not at all. The tension in his voice betrays his growing anger.

“Things go good,” Sejanus comforts him.

“And you’re happy about that?” Coriolanus asks doubtfully.

“Well, you promised to cancel the Hunger Games once you become the president,” Sejanus notes.

“Naturally,” Coriolanus says too quickly, with a stupid smile. What about don’t lie to each other, Sejanus thinks, and it’s one of the moment when his hand would add more ampers to his anus. Yet, it’s not relevant, it won’t happen, so Sejanus tries to focus on something else.

“You know what?” Sejanus says, stepping closer. He can feel Coriolanus’s breath quickening, slightly rattled by his approach. “I think you need to relax a little.”

Coriolanus’s eyes fixate on him, sharp and piercing, like a spear. “Sejanus, we’ve already talked about this—no funny business at work…”

“Come on, Coryo, who’s going to be here after eleven? In your office? A little quickie?” Sejanus teases, now almost whispering in his ear. “Don’t make me beg. I’m so, so thirsty for your nice ass.”

“Sejanus!” Coriolanus hisses, glancing around, but then straightening up with a cold demeanor.

“I will do this one thing you like,” Sejanus smiles, winking.

Coriolanus rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “After midnight,” he corrects him firmly.

“Great,” Sejanus smirks, quite satisfied with the response.

Another victory.

***

“I’m sorry,” Livia wipes her mouth with a tissue and now looks so innocent as they sit on the bench in the park nearby. Yago is scared to death that somebody will catch them, that somebody will tell Coriolanus he left with his wife. It was reckless and stupid, but she felt sick. “For everything,” she adds.

Yago plunges his hands into his pockets, standing over her. He had been holding her hair for the last hour and a half while she emptied the contents of the champagne, yet it still didn’t stop him from wanting to kiss her. “You don’t have to apologize, and… that agreement, that I should only sleep with you… Let’s forget about it,” he tells her. He doesn’t even intend to follow through with that, but another tear on Livia's cheek is something that now gives him a sadistic pleasure.

"Why?" she asks. "I don’t want you with other woman,” she adds childishly.

"And I don’t want you with your husband."

Livia lowers her head in a gesture of absolute desperation. Her crying grows louder. “I don’t want to be his wife too.”

“Really?” Yago asks skeptikally, though his heart breaks hearing it, “You told me you want to be First Lady,” he reminds her mercilessly.

“He wants it, not me! He fucking wants it. I’m miserable, didn’t you notice?” she asks bitterly.

“So why won’t you simply divorce him? It’s not that you need him. You’re from Cardews family, you’re rich as fuck.”

“Things are complicated,” she adds. “I married him… For fuck’s sake, I wanted to prove something to my parents and guess what? It was stupid. I… I don’t love him, and he definitely doesn’t love me,” she says quietly. “But I didn’t work a day in my life. I don’t know even…” she sighs, “who I am. What to do. They won’t accept me divorcing him.”

It’s drunk babbling, or no?

“But I think he is cheating on me,” Livia continues, curling her lips. “If I discover it… I can divorce him,” he says, and Yago freezes.

“Divorce him?” he echoes carefully. Livia confirms it with a simple nod.

“Livia… My queen…” Yago is almost kneeling by her side, holding her hand. “You would do it?”

Livia nods again.

"You said you don’t love him. But do you love… Do you love me?” he asks directly, a sudden wave of courage washing over him, though he feels as sober as ever.

Livia glances away. “Stop it, I hate such talks…”

“Do you?” He takes her face in his hands and directs her gaze back to him. “Tell me, do you love me?”

She bites her lip and nods again.

“I love you too,” Yago whispers frantically, and his chest is suddenly a lot lighter.

“At least I think so… Clemensia, oh lord,” she rubs her temples, “how could I say something like that to her? I made a fool of myself. If he hears about it…”

“Does he hit you?” Yago asks sharply.

“I would prefer him to hit me than to listen to his endless blabbering,” Livia complains. “We can’t stay in this park all night. It’s already midnight,” she adds.

Yago exhales, trying to gather his thoughts. What to do now? What would be the wisest move?

“Go back to the party. I’ll pretend I left earlier because I wasn’t feeling well,” he suggests.

“I can barely walk, and I smell like vomit. How am I supposed to go back there?” Livia cracks.

Yago closes his eyes and breathes even deeper. The cold air doesn’t sober him up. “I’ll go and tell him… that you felt unwell and went home. Does that work?” he asks.

It’s risky. Unwise to draw attention to this situation. But it seems necessary.

“Don’t sit here alone. Head to the Parliament building first,” he says. “We’ll call a cab from there, okay?” He rubs her arms gently. Livia hesitantly says, “Okay.”

Yago sits on the bench and watches her retreating silhouette while smoking a cigarette. In his mind, he’s already rehearsing what to say. He was talking to Clemensia, and Livia joined them, and she seemed unwell. Yes, that sounds plausible. He won’t mention she was drunk; Coriolanus would be furious.

With a weak step, Yago returns to the building, avoiding Livia, to whom he gives a three-second glance. He almost jumps into the elevator, only to find it out of order. Oh fuck, they shut it down around midnight, and the external elevator is somewhere else... Shrugging, he chooses the stairs. The building is almost silent, void of sound, but on the sixth floor, Yago hears something. He steps into the corridor and notices a subtle beam of light coming from nowhere, as if from Coriolanus Snow’s office. He sighs almost in relief—this workaholic even slipped away from the party, and it's better to confront him privately. Yago adjusts his black shirt and black tie, and strides toward it. To his surprise, he finds the door to the room open, with no sign of his secretary at this hour, but Snow didn’t close doors behind him? It doesn’t sound like him. Yago hears some strange shuffling noises.

He knocks on the door. “Coriolanus?” he asks, but in response, he hears some moans. Maybe something happened to him, Yago thinks. “Coriolanus?” he repeats, but still nothing. Without thinking, he grabs the doorknob.

Yago’s eyes widen as the scene unfolds before him. It’s probably one of the last things he could have ever imagined seeing.

Sejanus Plinth thrusts into Coriolanus Snow against the creaking desk, the sound of their bodies slapping together, Snow’s muffled gasps filling the air. Sejanus Plinth really does it. He fucks him right in the ass, squeezing his hips bones, and Coriolanus leans against the desk where Yago is usually sat by him.

For a few seconds, they don’t even realize he’s there, and in that moment, Yago has the chance to retreat, to disappear. But instead, what escapes his mouth is, "Oh fuck! Holy shit!"

Both of them turn to look at him at the same time. Plinth reacts first, jumping back, hurriedly pulling off his jacket and tossing it over Snow to cover him. He doesn't care that his own ass is very visible in its glory. Well, maybe it doesn’t matter, not that Yago hasn’t already seen it.

"I... I just wanted to say that your wife left, Coriolanus... I… She asked me to tell you… She didn’t feel well," Yago stammers, not knowing why he is even still standing in this room. Why didn't he leave yet? It’s at least awkward. He swallows hard, “But I see you’re busy, so nevermind.”

Shut up, you fucking idiot, Yago thinks to himself, but he adds, “I didn’t expect… I’m sorry… I…”

Shut up, you idiot, and leave.

Yet, he can’t move. A sense of vertigo washes over him, as if the room itself is spinning. His hands grow so sweaty that he has to wipe them repeatedly on his trousers.

Coriolanus clears his throat, and Yago can hear the smile hidden in his calculated tone. “It’s very… nice of you, Yago, though I would have preferred you knocking first,” he says coldly before slowly rising, still keeping the jacket wrapped around himself as he fastens his trousers. He turns toward Yago, and for a moment, Yago feels like a true predator is watching him.

“I knocked,” Yago says desperately, “but you… I think you didn’t hear,” he says, and fights the urge to slap his face. Why he is saying these fucking nonsense?

“Sejanus,” Coriolanus’s voice is low, “did you hear knocking?”

“No,” Plinth replies, without sparing Yago a glance.

“I also didn’t hear,” Coriolanus says calmly, now turning to face Yago fully. “Are you implying we’re liars, Yago?”

Yago's stomach twists in panic as Coriolanus’s icy gaze locks onto him. He stands here, awkwardly frozen, trying to make himself as small as possible in the overwhelming presence of the man who commands so much power.

“Of course not… No, Coriolanus,” he says, feeling now even his back is sweaty.

“So what is the function of knocking if you don’t wait for somebody to confirm you can come in?” Coriolanus asks calmly.

“I… I’m sorry…” Yago repeats, squeezing his eyes shut. Now Coriolanus is so close to him that he can hear his rapid breath.

“At this age, you should already learn some manners, shouldn’t you?” Coriolanus, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, yes, I’m just… I should have known better,” Yago admits quickly.

A few hours ago, he'd been preoccupied with Livia’s drunken antics and Clemensia’s flirtations. How small those worries seemed now, with Coriolanus’s gaze fixed on him like a predator assessing its prey.

"Good. So, if you value your position, Yago, I suggest you forget what you just saw. Immediately,” Coriolanus says at the edge of audibility.

"O-Of course, Coriolanus. I didn’t see anything. Anything," Yago gasps, breathless, but he feels like his feet are sinking into the floor, and he can’t move.

Sejanus doesn’t bother to dress quickly, but he finally also looks at Yago, and says quietly, but firmly, “I think you should leave.”

And then Yago finally snaps out of his daze and stumbles out of the office, closing the door behind him. He had no idea that Sejanus Plinth could distract Coriolanus Snow so much.

He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself, and heads back to leave the building

Livia is waiting for him by the entrance.

"And?" she asks, her tone sharp.

"Coriolanus... He’s busy in his office. I’ll take you home," Yago says, lighting a cigarette almost immediately.

Livia lowers her voice. "Was he with some... woman?"

Yago exhales a long stream of smoke, his lips curling slightly.

"Oh no. No woman," he says, and, well, he isn't even lying, he thinks with irony.

"Good. Fuck, my stomach hurts. I think I'm getting my period," Livia complains, and Yago feels somewhat disappointed, but he has more important things to care about right now. "I would kill for some pizza."

"We'll get one, and I'll take you home," Yago says quietly, stopping himself before touching her.

One thing is certain.

By seeing that he has just signed his own death sentence.

Chapter Text

The room is cramped and suffocating. Yago keeps his hands under the table, and tries to present himself as calm as possible. In front of him lies a portion of a big steak, cooked medium-rare, and mashed potatoes. He doesn’t know why Coriolanus Snow invited him to this dinner, but now, in this dim light, Snow’s face, only slightly lit by the candle, looks truly terrifying.

Or maybe Yago knows exactly why Coriolanus Snow did it.

“Why don’t you try your dish, Yago? The steak is excellent,” Coriolanus says, placing a piece of meat in his mouth. A bit of blood drips onto his lips, and he leisurely licks them.

“I just… I’m not hungry,” Yago says, and his hand instinctively moves toward the glass with red liquid, probably wine, but he stops himself. He shouldn’t eat or drink anything in that company.

“So try the wine at least,” Coriolanus taps his own glass with his knife. “Exquisite. Velvety. And with such a finish in the mouth…” he says slowly, watching Yago closely.

Yago swallows hard. “I don’t feel like drinking today.”

Snow cackles. “Why? I know you enjoy a good drink. Shouldn’t we make a toast? For the Hunger Games,” Coriolanus says, raising his glass in expectation. When Yago does nothing, he raises his eyebrow.

Yago feels cold sweat trickling down his forehead. “I…I…” he stammers.

“You won’t toast with me?” Coriolanus persuades.

Yago glances at his watch. It was probably around eight a moment ago, and now it’s already ten.

"I have to go now," he says, panicked, and tries to stand up, though his legs don't move.

“Yago. It’s still early. It's the weekend. You don’t have a wife or children that need your care, do you?” Coriolanus says, holding the glass in his hand. He stares at him, his piercing icy eyes cutting through Yago so intensively that he feels it in his bones.

“No, I don’t,” he replies.

”So make a toast with me.”

Finally, Yago hesitantly raises his glass and clinks it with Coriolanus’s.

“For the Hunger Games,” Yago echoes numbly.

"Cheers," Coriolanus says slowly, taking a sip, then letting out a satisfied "Ahhh." "You’re not drinking? It’s a shame when good wine isn’t shared."

Yago smiles faintly, knowing he has no choice. He dips his lips into the glass. That’s enough. He feels the fire sear down his throat, his larynx tightening, and then he collapses, convulsing on the floor.

Coriolanus stands over him, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “Yago, you really should learn to knock,” he says with a mock sigh. “Such a pity. I used to enjoy your company.”

And then darkness. Nothingness, and…

Only then does Yago spring up from the bed, his hands frantically searching his body. It’s just a dream, he tells himself, just another nightmare—he tries to convince himself desperately. It didn’t happen. But his body refuses to calm, his pulse racing, and he can barely catch his breath.

Coriolanus Snow hasn’t contacted him yet, but it was the weekend. Now, dawn is breaking, and Monday is relentlessly approaching. Yago will have to face him soon.

He didn’t dare to leave his apartment for three days. Livia called the next day after the party, though Yago had to admit that this one time he didn’t think about her at all.

“I feel like I’m about to breathe my last,” she greeted him weakly.

“Are you alone?” Yago asked nervously.

“Yeees,” she yawned. “That idiot left early this morning…” she sighed. “Listen… I’m… I feel stupid after yesterday.”

“Don’t worry your pretty head about that,” he told her, twirling the lighter between his fingers. Yet, he needed to ask. “Listen, about the divorce… the escape… were you serious?” he asked.

Livia sighed. “Don’t you have any other questions for today, Yago?”

“I have to know. We can run away… Today,” he said.

Livia laughed. “You still haven’t sobered up?” she suddenly grew serious. “We need to… think this through. But I’m not closing myself off to the possibility.”

His last chance was gone.

Think it through. Think it through. What will he have a chance to think through if he’s dead?

“Sure,” he replied, not even trying to hide his biterness.

“Will you come to me today? I would kill for your tongue between my legs now,” she said suddenly.

“And what about Coriolanus?” This name almost burdened his tongue.

“I told you he left. He will come back tomorrow, he took his bag with him. Right now he is fucking some whore.”

Fucking. The word almost caused a heart attack for him.

“I… I don’t feel well,” Yago replied. It would be unwise; he thought that probably Coriolanus has him in his sights, even if he hasn’t contacted him directly. He’s probably tracking every move and contact. He had no idea only about this one phone.

Livia took a deep breath. “Are you so angry at me?” she asked, suddenly in an unusually soft tone.

“No. Not angry at all. And…” he bit his lips nervously and finally took a cigarette from the pack, lighting it. “I can’t do this weekend. I have to go to my family. But… I have twenty minutes free. What are you wearing?” he started.

“Oh, my nightgown…”

“Red?”

“Yes.”

“Without panties?”

“Have you ever seen me sleeping in my panties?”

“So imagine that I’m near you, now I’m slowly kissing your neck, and…” he began saying, almost intuitively, though not focusing on any detail, even when Livia started sighing through the phone and made a noise that definitely meant she had finished.

He had only one person in his mind.

Coriolanus fucking Snow.

***

Yet, Monday comes quicker than he would want it to come. He didn’t dare to be late today, to do anything to draw attention to himself, and had already prepared a few versions of scenarios he could follow. Beg Snow? That would be pathetic. Blackmail him? It would be unwise to push him so much, and he might start digging too deeply. Shoot himself in the head? That’s probably the best option.

But sitting at the desk at eight o'clock, Yago already feels dead inside. Maybe he had felt that way for some time; now, only his body needs to catch up with his mind.

He doesn’t have to wait too long for Snow’s move, the phone rings at eight two, when the office is still empty.

“Yago Trivane,” he says into the receiver.

“It’s Veronica,” he hears that damn voice. Of course, his secretary. A good piece of work, but that’s the last thing he cares about now. “Yago, Mr. Snow wants to schedule a meeting with you. Does nine work for you?”

“I can come now,” he says, because why prolong this agony.

“Mr. Snow insisted on nine.”

“Then let it be nine.”

The rest of the time, Yago spends trying to control his trembling hands. What has gotten into him, to go to his office, to… Oh Lord, when he remembers the clap of their bodies, it makes him nauseous. Plinth fucking him in the ass… He laughs under his breath like a lunatic, but then Aphrodite Frown walks in and gives him a surprised glance, not sure if it’s because he looks like he lost his mind, or because he has never been so early in this damn office. Fuck her anyway. Metaphorically, of course, because surprisingly, the last thing he is thinking now is fucking.

The hands of the clock move toward the inevitable. Yago begins nervously pacing around the office, keeping his hands in his pockets. He steps outside briefly and smokes a whole cigarette in forty seconds. Five minutes to nine.

His legs feel so heavy as he heads to Snow’s office. He keeps reminding himself why he is so nervous. Can Snow kill him for this? For something so trivial? But after all, he used to kill people for smaller things…

“Hello,” Yago says to Veronica, not even glancing at her. He stares at his shoes and thinks he should have polished them in the morning.

Veronica taps her heels on the floor, and finally he gives a glance at her moving hips, but the sight does not stir him today.

“Yago can come in,” he hears his voice and almost vomits on his shoes. So good that he didn’t polish them.

“Mr. Snow says…” Veronica begins.

“I heard him,” Yago interrupts her with a forced smile.

When Yago enters the office, he doesn’t even dare to look at Snow for a moment, but when he walks up to the desk, he has no choice.

“Good morning Yago, how good to see you so early in the workday. Please sit down,” he says with his almost cheerful voice. “Coffee? Tea?”

“No, thank you,” he declines, now looking at Coriolanus. His expression is a mystery.

“You always refuse drinks. Why?” Coriolanus asks.

“I just… I prefer coffee from our coffee machine in the Gamemaker’s room,” he explains.

“Oh, how can you know that? You’ve never drunk mine,” Coriolanus pretends to be curious, so convincingly that Yago almost believes he really doesn’t care about anything in this world more than why he isn’t drinking his coffee.

“I only drink one coffee a day. I have to watch my blood pressure,” he lies quickly.

Coriolanus hums. “So maybe you should smoke less?”

“Maybe I should. Terrible habit,” Yago admits. "But you know how it is. A person can't resist," he spits out, knowing how offensive it is to say something like that now. Yet, Coriolanus doesn’t even flinch.

“Anyway… I was wondering… This year’s Hunger Games… Still worrying me, you know Yago. I know our team is checking the terrain, but…” Coriolanus slouches casually in his chair, “I believe only in what I can touch and see.”

Yago waits for him to continue, trying to control his own face.

“I think we should go there tomorrow. You and I. What do you think? Check the terrain, examine it,” Coriolanus suggests, and though Yago doesn’t look directly at Snow, he feels those piercing icy eyes locked on him.

“Why?” he simply asks.

“What do you mean why, Yago?” Coriolanus asks coolly.

“Is it punishment?” Yago can’t stop himself, and he hears his voice trembling.

“Excuse me?” Coriolanus asks, as if he’s genuinely surprised. That facial expression, those slightly open eyes, those parted lips. What an idiot.

“Stop playing with me,” Yago says, barely audible.

Yet, Coriolanus dismisses it with a laugh. “Punishment for what?” he asks, a bit menacingly.

“For nothing. I didn’t see anything.”

“Exactly. That’s in your job duties, right? Organizing the Hunger Games?”

“But usually… Last year we didn’t visit the arena,” Yago says quietly, though he knows the battle is lost.

“Well, when I was a beginner Gamemaker, I checked what was under every stone,” Coriolanus says, leaning over the table. ”Maybe we should come back to the old practices.”

Yago fiddles with his fingers. “Did you?”

“Yes. And to prove I’m not such a terrible boss, today you have the day off. Relax, you look… tense, Yago, and I don’t see any reason for that,” Coriolanus says. “And tomorrow, I’ll come to pick you up. Where exactly do you live?”

Yago is sure he knows it, but anyway, he freezes. “Do you want to know my address?” he asks quietly.

Coriolanus shrugs. “Why not? The ride will take some time one way, so why should you come here?” he asks, as if genuinely curious. “I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

Yago almost laughs. What a humiliating game. He grabs a pen and a piece of paper from Snow’s desk and writes the address with trembling hands. “Here you go.”

“Great,” Coriolanus says with a smile, taking the note. “Rest today. Tomorrow, we have a long, long day ahead.”

“Should I prepare for something special?”

“Oh, no need, Yago. Just wear comfortable shoes, maybe something more… casual, since we’ll be in the caves,” Coriolanus says with a polite smile. “And bring a good mood! I will be around six in the morning.”

Yago isn’t sure whether he wants to cry or laugh more, so he waves him off with a smile.

He had never been so terrified in his entire life.

***

Yago has been circling around his room since he came to the apartment. Smoking an entire pack of cigarettes, he is considering his options. Maybe he could just request to be a Peacekeeper? It wouldn’t be the worst choice, yet, the application takes a few days to process. Coriolanus would definitely find out in the meantime. Maybe now he is monitoring his building. Snow will have multiple occasions to kill him tomorrow. An accident, he will say. After all, an accident in the cave is nothing extraordinary. Just slip and fall into the abyss.

Finally, he decides on a desperate step. He dials his uncle’s number. It’s picked up after a few rings.

“Quintus Draven speaking,” he says, like always, as if he’s checking who’s calling. As if Coriolanus Snow would just slit Yago’s throat and start picking numbers from his phone.

“It’s me, Yago. Listen… I have troubles.”

“Oh, what exactly?”

It’s not to time to play in politeness. “I may… I may have big troubles, because I saw,” Yago lowers his voice, “how Plinth is fucking him.”

“Who?” Quintus asks, audibly puzzled.

“Plinth was fucking Coriolanus fucking Snow. I saw it at a party on Friday. I came to this office and… And they were fucking,” Yago says through clenched teeth.

There is a bit of an awkward silence on the other side. “Oh,” Quintus finally says. “Thank you. I was supposed to eat lunch, but somehow, I lost my appetite. Oh…” he pauses. “Do you all really need to fuck each other?”

Yago tries to count to five in his head before he speaks. “Does it bother you now? You know he will now… He will fucking kill me!” he yells into the headphone, hitting his fist on the table.

Quintus hums something. “Well… It’s on the cards…” he admits reluctantly.

“It’s on the cards?!” Yago echoes him.

“You prefer me to lie? If you saw something like that… He will want to silence you,” Quintus says carefully.

“And what are you going to do with that? I’m risking… I’ve been risking everything for years, and you’re going to let him kill me?!” His voice breaks suddenly, though internally, he curses himself. He really was delusional enough to believe his so-called uncle cares about him?

“Obviously, I don’t want this, Yago. Calm down. No need to be so dramatic,” Quintus says.

“He invited me for a little journey into caves. Tomorrow. To check terrain for the Hunger Games,” Yago says.

“Oh,” Quintus repeats this annoying sound. “Maybe… Listen. Don’t worry, he can’t risk his position now. There are gossipers behind the scenes that he is getting rid of people. Maybe he won’t kill you.”

“Maybe?” Yago repeats. “You know how easy it is for him to fabricate some accident in these circumstances?” Yago lights a cigarette. “Can you provide me some… protection?”

Quintus sighs. “No. It wouldn’t be reasonable. Take a little wire; you remember that thing from the lab, right? Stick it... in your pocket. If he kills you, at least... you know.”

Yago’s eyes widen, and he feels like a vein in his forehead is about to pop. “You know what, Quintus?” he says spitefully. “Fuck you. And no… No with your secretary. Fuck you with some disgusting, old hag! Fuck you!” he says, and regrets he can’t throw the receiver because they’re talking on the cell phone. Anyway, disconnecting, he throws the phone to the floor, but after a moment, he picks it up, checking in panic to see if it still works, because after all, this asshole isn’t the only contact. He is also using this phone to contact… Her.

He will never see Livia again.

Sweat is pouring down his back. He doesn’t want to die like this, for fuck's sake, not at the hands of this psychopath.

Breathing heavily, Yago smokes a cigarette under the filter and immediately lights another one. One thought comes to his mind. It’s stupid, but… He dials Plinth's number. His rapid heartbeat mixes with the signal in the receiver. But Plinth doesn’t answer.

“Fuck!” he yells, and slumps back onto the couch. “To hell with this…” he whispers to himself. He can run away now, but where to? To the Districts? They’ll stop him. Maybe he’ll try to kill Snow tomorrow before he has a chance to kill him… Why was he so stupid to even get involved in this mess in the first place? He could have had a calm career as a gigolo, sleeping with old women. Why did he even agree to do this? He has no chances. Finally, he drifts off into these thoughts, from exhaustion and lack of sleep. Everything around him seems half-awake, and for a moment, it even feels as if Coriolanus Snow is standing in the corner of his apartment. Yet, he jumps up, startled by the ringing of the phone. He glances, barely conscious, at the display. Plinth.

"Hello," Yago mutters.

"Oh, hi," Sejanus says cheerfully. "Sorry... I didn’t hear you calling. I was in the garden."

"Garden?" Yago echoes.

"Yes. I had to fire my gardener, and now I have to take care of the garden myself," Sejanus says, sounding like a child. To be clear, a very mentally unstable child. "I got some beautiful rose seedlings, I don’t want them to go to waste."

Yago has so many questions, but he stops himself. "Are you alone?"

"With Churro."

"Churro?"

"You remember my dog."

Yago sighs. "Yes. Listen, Sejanus… What I saw…”

Sejanus starts giggling and it sounds at least disturbing.

“Yeah, funny,” Yago says.

“Oh…” Sejanus stops. “It was a little bit compromising. But you told me to disturb him, didn’t you,” he says.

“Yeah, you took it very seriously,” Yago can’t stop himself.

“Well, are you doing anything different with Livia?” Sejanus asks, and Yago chooses not to reply. “It was quite reckless to just storm into his office, you know,” he adds, with a hint of reproach in his voice, so unlike him.

“I know, but… Oh Lord, why didn't you lock the doors?”

Sejanus laughs again. “I thought Coriolanus did it. But you know, in the heat of the moment… you can lose yourself.”

“Of course,” Yago replies gloomily.

“Hey, I’m just doing my job,” Sejanus says.

"Yes, and you do it greatly,” Yago says, and then hesitates. How much can he trust him? Maybe it was Sejanus’s whole purpose, fuck Coriolanus in the ass, nothing more. “He will kill me now, right?" he asks quietly.

Sejanus hums. "I hope not. I asked him not to make hasty decisions," he says carefully. "But you understand," he adds sadly, "I couldn’t suggest to him… that I care too much about this.”

And do you care at all, do you care, Yago wants to yell. "What did he say?"

Sejanus mutters something under his breath. "Not much. He said that we should get rid of you, but I told him it’s a little bit rushed. I told him he shouldn’t risk suspicions..."

"And?" Yago continues impatiently.

"He promised me he wouldn’t do it," Sejanus says.

He promised him, how great! That guarantees them everything—world peace, seas of vodka, and the best whores.

"He wants to take me to the caves tomorrow," Yago says desperately.

Sejanus chuckles softly. "Oh, Coryo likes to make a show," he says.

Who? Coryo? No, it’s completely pointless.

"Enjoy your time in the garden," Yago says before hanging up.

He might as well dig his own grave now, he thinks. Going to his bar, he pours himself a glass of whiskey and drinks it in one go. However, the bitter taste on his tongue offers no relief. Tomorrow is the last day of his pitiful existence.

“Fuck!” he curses to himself again, and acknowledges one thing.

There is nothing more he can do.

***

After an almost sleepless night—filled with nightmares of Coriolanus murdering him in various ways involving pushing him into an abyss, choking, poisoning—Yago stands in front of the building of his apartment. He hasn’t even had coffee today. At six o'clock, a black Mercedes pulls up in front of his building, and to his surprise, the driver is none other than Coriolanus Snow. He can see it clearly when Coriolanus rolls down the window. He’s never seen him dressed like this; while he’s not wearing jeans—what an insult that would be—he’s in black fabric trousers and a blue pullover, with a black coat draped over it. And sunglasses, though God knows why, because it’s December.

“Hello,” he says.

“Hello. You gave the driver the day off?” Yago asks.

“Well…” Coriolanus shrugs. “I learned to drive during my university years, why not refresh it? Get in. I bought you coffee,” he says, pointing to a cup next to his seat. “Unless you’ve already had some, and the next one would be bad for your blood pressure?” he says, as if challenging him. “But if you want to smoke… please do it now. Not inside the car.”

“I’ve already smoked enough,” Yago replies dryly, taking the seat next to him, fastening his seatbelt with trembling hands, and closing the door. For a moment, they drive in complete silence. He has no intention of pretending to drink what this madman bought him. Or rather poison for him.

“You seem tense, Yago,” Coriolanus says. “Why?”

“I don’t know… I don’t feel well. Maybe some flu,” Yago says under his breath.

“You should give up smoking. This lowers immunity,” Coriolanus notes. “Maybe we will turn on the radio to make our trip more enjoyable?”

Yago thinks that a lot of things can be said about their trip, but it couldn’t be more enjoyable.

Yet, he nods and forces a smile. “Great idea.”

Coriolanus reaches out and idly switches between stations. Finally, he stops on some classical boredom. Yago thinks he hears violins, though he's not sure. His heart pounds in his ears.

They listen to music, not speaking to each other. The Capitol buildings, lightly dusted with snow. The Parliament. The Corso. The outskirts. Yago feels like his head starts to ache with every mile they pass. Once they reach the outskirts, it will be the end for him. He almost wants to grab the door handle and jump out.

“Do you like music?” Snow asks out of nowhere.

It is so hot inside this fucking car.

“Yeah, I… I like,” Yago babbles. “Can I open the window?”

“If you’re sick, I don’t know if it’s reasonable,” Coriolanus says.

“Maybe not sick, just… It’s hot, you know,” Yago explains.

“Yago, Yago, I have air conditioning,” Coriolanus says with a pleasant smile. “Feel free to set the temperature that suits you.”

Yago wipes his sweaty hands on his trousers, and starts clicking something on the device, not sure what he is even doing. How will Coriolanus do it? Will he drive into a ditch? Too risky, he wouldn’t kill himself. Push him off the edge? Brutal, but effective, as he always is. Poison? Well, it wouldn’t be reasonable for him, not now, not after all the gossip.

“My mother liked music,” he hears Snow’s voice in the background.

“Did she?” Yago asks without any interest. He had never heard him mention his family before, but honestly, he couldn't care less. Livia once told him that Coriolanus had been an orphan from a very young age. How sad. It almost explains why he's the most fucked-up man in all of Panem.

“Oh yes. I tried to share her passion, but…” he shrugs, changing the gear on the display, “somehow I lost my heart to it.”

Yago decides to remain silent.

“And my first sweetheart was a vocalist,” in Coriolanus’s mouth these words sound unnatural, like some curse. “She had a beautiful voice.”

“Did she?” Yago asks quietly.

“Oh yes. She even wrote a song for me,” Coriolanus replies with pride. “Sometimes I wish I could hear her singing again.”

And you can’t?

“Anyway, sometimes I’m sentimental,” Coriolanus adds.

Are you, Yago feels like laughing, but it would make this whole situation even worse.

“Like the situation when you caught me,” he mutters.

“I didn’t see anything…”

“Yago,” Coriolanus interrupts him. “You know who I truly hate?” he asks.

“Districts?” Yago says weakly.

“No. Why would I hate districts? My dear friend, Sejanus Plinth, is from a district. And his father, Strabo Plinth… I admired him. Sometimes I even forgot his origin. Did you hear about him?”

“Something. The only man that bought his way to the Capitol,” Yago mutters.

“Yes, impressive, isn’t it? He had class. And what I appreciate the most, he wasn’t ever a liar. He didn’t talk about his origin very often, but he never, never lied about it,” Coriolanus says, and Yago doesn’t understand the purpose of it. “Liars. I hate liars,” he lowers his voice, and glances at Yago again, and the fact that Yago doesn’t see his eyes is even worse. Yago feels like he will soon take his last breath on this seat. Does Coriolanus imply something, or is he just paranoid?

“But I'm a very understanding person. I was a liar myself,” Coriolanus says quietly.

“What do you… mean?” Yago asks cautiously.

“Well,” Coriolanus smiles, “I used to be ashamed that I was poor.”

“You were poor?” Yago asks incredulously.

“Yes. I treated it like an offense. A great Snow dynasty and such a fall… But now I treat it as a blessing,” Coriolanus laughs, almost softly, “because it gave me everything. It gave me strength of character, which others don’t have. Take my wife Livia, for example. A rich woman from birth. Beautiful, right?” he asks provocatively, and Yago swallows hard, deciding not to answer. “Right?” Snow persists.

“Yes, your wife is beautiful…” Yago admits.

“Useless, yes, but beautiful. I wasn’t born rich, though. But I understood my mission. To restore the Snow family’s greatness. To make us rich again. That has always been my mission. And tell me, how do you think I'm doing?”

“You’re doing it great,” Yago replies.

“I don’t know if that’s sincere, but—thank you,” Coriolanus says politely. “Anyway, I know how it feels to pretend to be someone you’re not,” he says, and suddenly he stops the car. Yago looks at him in horror. Why is he telling him all this? This only means one thing.

Yet, Snow’s words surprise him.

“We’ve arrived,” Coriolanus announces.

***

The inside of the caves is terrifying, to put it modestly. Coriolanus prepared two headlamps and announced that today the crew has the day off, they are completely alone here. The damp smell of earth and stone filled his nostrils as Yago's boots crunched on the loose gravel beneath him. The headlamps illuminated the cold, jagged walls around him, casting long shadows that seemed to move with his every step. The air felt heavy and wet, and every breath he took seemed to be too heavy.

Maybe he could just hit him on the back of the head with a stone, anything, and escape, pretend he fainted. But Coriolanus somehow is never in front of him, always behind.

"Oh Yago, I remember my first Hunger Games that I organized," he starts speaking, and Yago wishes he could finally shut up. "Do you remember yours?"

"Yes," Yago simply replies. Of course he does, though it's nothing to be proud of. But he had to come up with a great idea, something incredible to gain Coriolanus's trust. The abandoned circus of the Capitol. Creepy in itself, and the tributes were terrified to the bone.

"I walked on every arena like today," Coriolanus says. "And I checked everything. Every possibility. Do you see those tunnels?" he tilts his head towards the back. "A great opportunity for the tributes to hide.”

Yago reluctantly looks around the area. Indeed, with every step, there are tunnels—dark, probably hiding… What’s even in caves? He did a quick bit of research. Spiders, some amphibians? These kids would have to be terrified here. Not only the Hunger Games, but total, overwhelming darkness. And there’s nothing worse than darkness because you don’t even know who or what is watching you then.

He can’t get to the Hunger Games, because even if he survives today, and they happen, he will have to kill himself.

“Yes, sure, great opportunity,” he replies.

“Yago, I was wondering… What do you think, what are the Hunger Games for?” Coriolanus asks him out of nowhere.

Yago feels like the wrong answer could cost him his life. “To punish… Districts?” he replies, offering a banal response. Coriolanus starts laughing, but when Yago shoots him a fierce look, he quickly regains his composure.

“Oh no, I’m not laughing at you,” he says. “It’s just… something I said to my mentor, Volumnia Gaul, when she asked me about it for the first time. But it’s more… Let’s just say, it’s deeper, Yago,” he notes, his tone shifting slightly.

Volumnia Gaul. Yago barely remembers her from the television. A terrifying woman with a crazed look.

“Yeah, so for what?” Yago asks, watching his surroundings closely. Seeing an enormous spider at the wall of the cave, he swallows hard.

“Not exactly to punish,” Coriolanus says calmly, “more to… Control them. The Capitol needs games to survive. And everybody wants to survive, Yago.”

But only one of them can leave this cave alive.

“People need to watch games if we want to achieve this. So it’s important to build suspense, you know? My mentor, Volumnia Gaul, didn't understand it. She liked cruelty."

“Well, so good that the Hunger Games are in better hands,” Yago notes dryly.

"But as they say, a person dies, but their ideas live on, right?" Coriolanus turns to him and shines the headlamp straight into his eyes, blinding him. "Though we owe the Hunger Games to..."

"Casca Highbottom," Yago ends the sentence for him. It’s repeated every fucking year.

"Oh," Coriolanus says, and a smile is audible in his voice, "not exactly."

"What do you mean?" Yago asks, now really interested.

"Shall I tell you a secret?" Coriolanus asks.

No, don't tell me any more of your secrets, Yago thinks, I don’t want to know any of your secrets, I don’t want to know anything more about you.

But instead, he replies, "Why not?"

“My father was the one who came up with the idea… Along with Casca,” he says, a note of pride in his voice. Must be something to be fucking proud of, Yago thinks. “So I thought… Actually, being completely honest with you, because today let’s be honest with each other, Yago, I didn’t plan on such a career. But now, I see it’s an honor. It’s like I’m continuing the dynasty, right?”

Yago gives a short hum of acknowledgment, not sure how far Coriolanus intends to go with this. It’s already claustrophobic here, and Yago hates small spaces. It reminds him of this one day… No, not to think about it, not now. His heart is beating so fast, he feels it thumping in his chest.

"But you never acknowledge your father during speeches," Yago says.

"Oh, I wouldn’t want to take that honor away from Casca Highbottom. A very respected man, it’s a shame he passed too early, but well... Addictions," he says, and Yago almost immediately wants to light a cigarette, but he doesn’t know if he’s even allowed to do it here.

“So here,” Coriolanus says to him, and Yago looks to the side. In front of him is nothing but an abyss, with a ladder leading down. “I wonder if… I saw this on the surveillance, but I want to check how strong the signal is from below. So…” he rummages through his leather bag and hands Yago something that looks like a more advanced walkie-talkie. “I want you to go down there and check the signal.”

Yago blinks. Is this a joke?

“Coriolanus… It’s… are you serious?

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It’s dangerous,” Yago says.

“No. It’s not that deep. And you have a ladder, and… Limbs,” Coriolanus says with a smirk.

“Can’t we just… send a rat?” Yago babbles nonsensically. The vision of going down there, into the depths of who knows what, is terrifying. Snow can’t be this cruel.

“How am I supposed to talk to a rat, Yago? How can I tell it to stand in a specific spot while I check the signal?” Coriolanus probes, stepping closer. Yago has the abyss right behind him.

Does he have any other choice? He sighs, his chest hurting so much that he can hardly breathe.

“Fuck, Coriolanus, I swear I won’t tell anyone!” he yells, and his scream echoes in the cave. “I don’t care who you fuck, really, I…”

Lighting his face, he knows it was a mistake.

“Yago, go down,” Coriolanus simply says, his face cold.

At this moment, Yago doesn't know what’s worse – standing with him here or going down. He feels tears pricking at his eyes. "Coriolanus..." he says.

"I wouldn’t want to have to ask again, Yago.”

So Yago does it. His trembling hands grab the ladder and he descends slowly, not looking back. Why doesn't he just kill him, this is pure sadism, he thinks.

His fingers tighten on the metal rungs of the ladder, which seems to be a very fragile structure. It may not be thick, but he wonders if the ladder will hold his weight. Or maybe Coriolanus will suddenly kick it out from under him and he’ll fall with it. He’s never liked heights and darkness, darkness especially, particularly after the punishment he once received at the orphanage and... Don’t think about that now. He even closes his eyes for a second and simply moves slowly down.

"Everything alright?" Coriolanus asks sweetly.

"Yes, great," Yago says sarcastically. Once he opens his eyes, the flashlight reflected off the wall now is blinding his eyes.

"Don’t panic, Yago. Panic is your enemy.”

Get stuffed, you dick.

After every Hunger Games, Yago got wasted to the point where he nearly forgot the course of the Games. Because he felt for those children. For their families. But now he knows he feels shit. That he wasn’t in their place, he wasn’t locked in a claustrophobic space like when... He won’t think about that now. He can’t think about it now.

Yet, he knew shit about the Hunger Games. About fear. About the vision of impending death.

Cigarettes weren’t supposed to kill him, he has always known that. But why Coriolanus Snow? The worst thing is that he won't experience his fall.

But finally, Yago’s feet touch the ground. Coriolanus is right, it’s not deep. When he looks up, he can see his silhouette still above him. When he looks around, he swallows hard. Here is another branch and he sees bats hanging; he tries not to look at them instantly, so he won’t wake them.

After a moment, he touches his own headlamp. It seems... to flicker. The light is growing weaker. And then he hears it.

A sudden, jarring noise cuts through the silence—something scraping against the metal. Yago’s heart stops as he looks up, his breath caught in his throat.

The ladder is moving.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" he shouts in terror, trying even to jump to catch it, but it’s already too high.

"Oh, we were supposed to have fun today, weren't we, Yago?" Coriolanus says. Almost cheerfully.

"Stop, I... Why isn’t the headlamp working?"

"Well, I guess I forgot to change the batteries in it. But we still have mine, so don’t worry," Coriolanus says.

"Stop this..." Yago holds his breath, he needs to keep control. "Coriolanus, I really, I promise..."

"Promise? What do you promise me, Yago Trivane..." Coriolanus taunts, "or rather I should say…” he lowers his voice, ”Yago Tobber?"

Chapter Text

Irritating little water droplets strike the stone floor in a maddening rhythm, each echoing through the cave's darkness.

They are the only sound that follows Snow’s words.

Yago has the distinct impression that his heart has stopped. He hadn’t heard anyone call him by his real surname in... what? Ten years? Maybe more. He doesn’t even think about himself as Trobbe anymore. No, he is Trivane, though it means nothing. Yet, Snow knows. He knows his real surname. He knows his true identity. The only question is how much more he discovered about him.

“If you prefer it this way…” Snow whispers, yet his voice echoes through the abyss in a haunting way.

Soon, the darkness is total. Yago desperately reaches out his hand, brushing against the cave’s rough and coarse wall. Snow must have turned off his headlamp. Even though Yago cannot see, he knows what lies ahead—the claustrophobic maze of tunnels. Now, a deeply suppressed memory from his childhood forces its way to the surface of his mind.

Most of the time, children in the orphanage were punished with a cane. It was never that painful, more humiliating because there was no other way than to submit, and Yago has always hated submitting. Listening. Obeying.

Yet, when he turned fifteen, it started to get... amusing. Yago always had a well-deserved reputation as the clown. So when Mrs. Calloway, the Math teacher, decided to cane him and his mates again for smoking, he made exaggerated sounds every time the thick cane tapped his jeans. “Oh, how much it hurts, Mrs. Calloway, please, have mercy!” he would yell, laughing between the hits. One day, he decided to try something a little different. When he stood up from the table after six canes, the bulge in his jeans was very visible. His mind had to imagine a lot of different things to achieve it, but he succeeded. Mrs. Calloway looked at him with disgust, thrilled. “I can’t help that I got a little bit aroused, Mrs. Calloway,” he said with a dramatic flourish. “I just can’t stop imagining you in a completely different scenario...” he added, winking.

She was disgusting, an old hag, but the next time he was smoking in the boys' toilet and she caught him, she grabbed him by the ear and dragged him to the corridor. This time, she didn’t take him to her office. Oh no. She opened one of the doors, pulled him inside, and suddenly locked him in some kind of hallway closet, dark and claustrophobic. "Maybe now you’ll learn some humility, Trobbe," she said, closing the door with a loud thud. His first instinct was to laugh it off. Closing him in the room was supposed to be punishment? Yet, when he tried to find the light switch and finally fumbled for it, it turned out to be useless. The bulb must have been burnt out. What difference would turning off the lights even make? For a moment, he considered jerking off and moaning through the door, but he didn’t want the younger children to witness something like that—so he gave up.

How boring, he had thought back then, settling onto the floor. Minutes passed, and though nothing around him changed, his heartbeat quickened. Then, that sensation crept over his skin—the eerie feeling that something was crawling on him. Goosebumps rose along his arms. He lazily scratched at the itch and sighed. How long could she possibly keep him here?

But the itch wouldn’t go away.

Frowning, he pulled a lighter from his pocket and flicked it on, bringing the flame close to his arm. Nothing. Just his own skin, unmarred. But then, in the dim glow, something shifted in the background. A white shape—no, a draped sheet. And beyond it, a strange, white sculpture.

A woman. No arms.

He swallowed hard, forcing out a laugh. It’s just a statue, idiot.

Yet, something gnawed at him. Slowly, he flicked the lighter again. The flame sputtered, casting jagged shadows.

The sculpture was closer.

It’s only your imagination, he thought to himself, embarrassed about his behavior. From all the boys here, he was the bravest. The loudest. And the most liked by these old hags, though they would never admit it. Yet, Yago noticed their suppressed smiles when he was joking.

Gossip that the orphanage was haunted was pretty popular. Yet, Yago had never believed in ghosts. Or monsters. The only monsters he had always known had real faces and real bodies. But he checked again, flicking the lighter with trembling hands. This sculpture seemed to be even closer to him.

Silence. Darkness. Stuffiness. Soon, his chest grew so heavy that he wasn’t able to breathe. First, he delicately knocked on the doors. “Mrs. Calloway, I’m sorry,” he said. She had to stand in front of these doors, he was convinced, only waiting for him to show repentance. Not enough? “I’m really sorry, I won’t be smoking again,” he lied. But still, there was nothing.

Stupid old hag. Fuck it.

He began pacing in the claustrophobic space, though he couldn’t see a thing. Suddenly, something brushed against his hand, and he let out a loud scream. He fumbled for his lighter, trying to flick it on again, but it seemed to have run out of gas—it had barely worked before.

“Mrs. Calloway, I’m really sorry,” he replied seriously, but still, on the other side, there was only silence.

With each breath, the air seemed to grow thinner.

Don’t panic.

But suddenly he heard squeaking. Some guy had recently been bitten by a rat and had his leg amputated, he remembered. Fuck, what if there were more rats here, closed with him in that one room?

He started banging on the door.

“Let me out!” he shouted, but still no one answered. “Let me out!” he repeated, hitting the door harder and harder, but all he got was the deafening silence. A cry escaped his throat, and he sank to the floor, hyperventilating after a few moments. “Let me out, please!” he added, humiliating himself to his core, but no one came out. There was no one. Crying on the floor, he couldn’t steady himself.

After what felt like an eternity, the door creaked open. Standing there was Mrs. Tremaine, the headmistress—a pretty, chubby blonde woman, far too young for the job. Behind her, a crowd of children stared. And there he was—snotty, crying on the floor.

“Yago, what happened?” she asked, shooing away the curious kids. She took him to her office and handed him a tissue. “I will talk with Mrs. Calloway,” she promised. “These kinds of punishments aren’t allowed here.”

After that, he visited her office more and more, and, well… they never punished him for smoking again. Nowadays, they’d call it grooming. But back then, he didn’t care. He still doesn’t. She bought him new shoes and trousers. And she had taught him a few tricks.

Somehow, this darkness never left him. Yago can’t quite explain it, but when he is alone, he always sleeps with a night lamp turned on. It’s ridiculous at his age, but his world can be radically changed by the simple fact of the lights being turned off.

Now the darkness is total.

He didn’t ever suspect he would experience this again. He is the inside of fucking mountain’s lungs, in the complete darkness. Yago imagines his lungs have to look the same. Yet, this time, there is no Mrs. Tremaine to rescue him. But he isn’t a teenager, is he? He is an adult. His fears can’t materialize. Nervously, he feels around his pockets but doesn’t find the pack of cigarettes. Nor in the front pocket, nor in the back.

“It took you longer than I expected to find out the truth,” he yells provocatively. If there is nothing left, he wants to keep at least his dignity. No begging, no pleading, no apologizing. He won't give Snow the satisfaction of seeing him broken.

"Ah, still so insolent. As always," Coriolanus says, savoring every word. "It’s not about how long it took me to find out. It’s about what happens now that I have."

Now, the words he could have answered with seem to disappear somewhere. Because that bastard is right. Yago reaches for his pack of cigarettes again, this time searching through his jacket, but they are nowhere to be found. He is sure he had them in his back pocket.

He’s certain he had them there, right alongside his phone.

“Are you looking for something?” he hears Snow’s mocking voice.

“Where do you have my fucking phone and cigarrets?” he doesn’t play in curtesey no more.

Coriolanus laughs briefly, and the sound grates on Yago's nerves like never before. “I would ask you to show a bit more composure. I know good manners aren’t exactly a hallmark of your background, so I’ll overlook it—for now. But do try to restrain yourself,” Coriolanus says in that honeyed tone. A moment later, Yago hears the flick of a lighter and looks up. Only the dim glow of the cigarette pierces the darkness.

“Disgusting,” Snow comments. “I tried doing this in college to socialize, but how can you enjoy it?” he asks but keeps smoking anyway.

“Why don’t you just kill me?” Yago asks, hopelessly. He slumps to the ground and sits on the hard stones.

“Do you want to smoke?” Coriolanus completely ignores his words. “I assume you do... So go ahead, Yago. Smoke.”

He throws the cigarette butt into the abyss, and it falls to the ground, and Yago fights with himself. How humiliating this would be. Smoking a cigarette straight from his mouth. But his body is so stressed… No, he won’t do it; he can’t. He feels like something moved in the darkness—are those bats? He grabs the cigarette butt with trembling hands and finds a lighter in his pocket.

All he hears is Coriolanus’s laughter again echoing in the cave. Contemptuous. Victorious.

"Just kill me, Coriolanus," Yago repeats, blowing the smoke from his mouth and grimacing at the repulsive flavor. Maybe it’s just an illusion, but it feels like Snow’s mouth is still on it.

“We need to check the signal. We'll be using the walkie-talkie,” Snow instructs. “Go deeper into the cave. Then, we’ll have a little chat. There’s so much to discuss. For example, why did you think it wise to lie to me about your identity?”

Hearing that, Yago acknowledges that Coriolanus can’t know too much. Well, he knows about his identity, but he can’t suspect betrayal. He wouldn’t be so calm about it. Or maybe he would? How did he react when he caught him with Plinth…

Yago sighs heavily, then forces himself to stand. The familiar sensation of something crawling on his fingers returns, but when he flicks the lighter—which is pointless because it barely illuminates anything, only burning his fingers—he sees nothing. However, the screen on the walkie-talkie offers a faint glow, casting weak light on the interior. There’s nothing to be afraid of, Yago tells himself. There are only stones in this darkness, nothing more.

"Halo, halo, Yago, are you all right?" Snow’s taunting voice echoes in his ears.

“I’ve never felt better,” he replies sarcastically.

Snow crackles. “Funny. I always thought you were funny. But this sarcasm of yours… It’s getting boring. I’ve been turning a blind eye to it for a long time, but do you know what I think? Why are you doing it all the time?”

“I don’t give a damn,” Yago replies, continuing to walk. He reaches out his hand, trying to find the wall. The bats were high up by the ceiling, he tries to comfort himself with that thought. Finally, he steps into a space that seems to be a tunnel. He checks the ground to his left and right.

“I think it’s a sign of your weakness. That it’s just your mask. Just like your aristocratic identity,” Coriolanus continues, yet, Yago decides not to reply. He goes further, now trying not to touch the walls of the cave. He feels the hard, uneven ground beneath his feet and the smell of damp hangs in the air, which is so sharp it irritates his throat. “Do you hear me?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Yago says, walking deeper. He doesn’t hear any noises besides them talking and his own steps.

“Why did you lie to me?”

“How did you find out?”

“I’m the one asking the questions.”

Yago doesn’t even need to look far for excuses. “I knew you wouldn’t hire me if I showed up with my real surname. I’m… Nobody. I changed it before university. I didn’t want anyone to know about my father, the traitor. And Trivane sounds aristocratic.”

“It does.”

"So I changed my surname, but why are you calling it a lie, Coriolanus?" he asks smoothly. "I never told you I was from an aristocratic family. You assumed that yourself. And does it really change anything?" Yago even tries to laugh. "I was a good Gamemaker, wasn’t I? Didn’t I give you the best ideas for years?"

"You didn’t deny it," Snow says. "And besides, I remember how you took a day off to visit your father in the hospital."

"Oh, I had a hangover—is that a crime?" Yago asks, trying to play it cool, even though he feels the hairs on his arms stand on end. And that's not true. He was fucking his wife that day.

"The phone code," Coriolanus says.

"What?"

"The phone code."

Not that he’d find anything there—just his official contacts and a game of Snake.

"Seven, eight, four, two," he replies quickly.

Coriolanus hums. “How did you manage to study after the orphanage? It’s quite… Expensive.”

Yago breathes heavily, feeling the air getting thicker. “I slept around,” he admits.

“Oh, naturally,” Coriolanus comments. “So you had a lot of clients?”

“Yes.”

“Women?”

"Yes, old hags. Listen… I’ll tell you everything," Yago declares. "Just let me get back to the surface. Coriolanus, come on, we've known each other for years. I was ashamed of my last name, but that doesn’t make me a different person. We like each other, don’t we?"

Yet, Snow doesn’t seem convinced.

"It changes everything. I am not to be lied to."

Who doesn’t lie to you? Yago wants to yell. Your wife? Your lover? Probably your cousin too, if she even pretends to like you. Everyone lies to you at every fucking turn, and you’re not even half as clever as you think you are.

"Coriolanus… just let me get back to the surface, and we’ll forget about all this. We’ll laugh about it one day," Yago says.

Yet, Coriolanus is laughing right now. “We’re checking the signal and having a nice little chat. No need to rush things,” he says softly, and then he changes his tone to the point that he doesn’t even sound like him anymore. A quiet, low, almost sinister whisper rings in Yago's ears, “Go deeper.”

Emitting an irritated huff, Yago moves forward, this time more quickly. His steps echo through the space, mingling with the steady drip of water.

“Do you hear me?” Snow says, his voice a little less pronounced, as though the words were almost slipping away.

“Yes.”

“I hear you worse,” Snow announces him. “Did you think, suggesting this arena, about technological aspects?” he says.

“I’m not an engineer,” Yago says casually.

“We both know that,” Snow says with such superiority that, in that moment, Yago’s anger burns hotter than his fear.

“Maybe you’ll come down here?” he hisses.

Coriolanus clicks his tongue. “Still no manners.”

“And what? Do you think you’re my teacher?”

It sounds like a grunt, but Yago can already picture that polite smile plastered on his smug face. “If I were you, I’d rethink my attitude,” he says. “So… If you can’t behave properly, I’ll hear from you in ten minutes.”

“What?”

“Bye.”

“Coriolanus!” Yago says almost immediately, “Wait, don’t hang up…”

All he hears in response is silence. He is left alone. But what does he need from him, Yago wonders frantically, feeling like with each step, his hands are getting sweatier and sweatier. It’s just a cave. Rocks. Nothing more. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Unless... Unless Snow let some mutts in here. He could have kept that from him. Yago’s body is now paralyzed. Snow could have let mutts in here; that would just tear Yago apart within seconds. Or maybe worse, because some of them don’t kill right away.

Yago’s eyes dart around the darkness, but all he sees are shadows, shapes that shift and flicker at the edge of his vision. The walls feel like they’re closing in, and every small sound echoes too loudly in his ears. His imagination runs wild, conjuring images of eyes watching him from the dark—those eyes are too big, too hungry, glinting with malice.

He turns back and starts running toward the space he was in before. Forgetting about bats, he reminds himself about them again, hearing the fluttering of their wings, and falls to the floor, clutching his head. He doesn't know if it's true that they can get stuck in your hair, but fuck, the bats in the Capitol carry nasty diseases. Rabies, and it’s over for him. The salty taste of his own tears is sharp on his tongue.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself. He just wanted to at least make it to fucking thirty. Maybe even forty, if luck was on his side. The squeaking of the bats becomes quieter. How much time has passed? He raises from the stone-ground. His hands are shaking so much, more than when he took some weird drugs in college. Desperately, Yago looks for something pleasant in his mind. One nice memory. Livia. Her soft hair. Her smile. Her smooth legs. Her laugh. He feels the urge to shout the whole truth to him. I fuck your wife. More often than you do. I know every spot on her body. I taste her, and she gets on her knees for me. I do it every week.

Coming back to the space—he hears his fucking steps from above—he decides to sit down and lowers his head, hiding it between his knees. One of his knees must have torn, just like it did when he was a boy, riding that broken bike from the orphanage—because the pain is just as sharp. But it’s good. The pain grounds him. Because everything else—everything else feels like a nightmare.

“Coriolanus!” he calls out but sees no one above. Did he leave him here alone for good? Maybe these steps from above are only wind. Yago senses how chilly it is here.

Yet, he said ten minutes.

Yago will tell him someday. If he survives, he’ll make sure Snow finds out he is fucking his wife.

Suddenly, a shiver runs through him as the sharp sound of a cigarette being lit cuts through the silence. He jerks his head up, eyes wide, searching the darkness. A moment later, the cigarette butt drops to the ground beside him—nearly whole, still smoldering. How pathethic it would be if he snatch it now, but he does it anyway. His fingers fumble with the lighter, the flame sputtering as he brings it to the cigarette, desperate for the harsh comfort of smoke in his lungs.

If he gets out of this, he swears he’ll quit smoking.

The walkie-talkie crackles to life.

"How are you?" Snow asks, and now the voice of this imbecile reaches Yago’s ears from two sources—above and from that damn device, which he wants to smash against the wall.

“Great,” Yago replies, trying to hide that he was crying.

“Why did you come back?”

“I just got lost.”.

“Go back there. We’re checking the signal,” Snow says. “I strongly advise you not to talk back to me.”

“I won’t,” Yago says, and he hates himself for this obedience.

For a moment, they don’t speak to each other. Yago is still smoking, and he can hear his own breath on the walkie-talkie.

“It’s pretty exhausting, isn’t it?” Snow says.

“What?” he asks sharply.

“Playing the role of clown all the time,” Coriolanus notes. “It’s the way you try to fit into society?”

“I don’t give a damn about society,” Yago replies.

“Oh yes, of course,” Coriolanus taunts, “you’re so unique, right? Above it all. I will tell you something. Life has its hierarchy. Now I am at the top, and you—well, you’re at the bottom.”

Yago bites his tongue so hard it hurts. He doesn't want to listen to him, but on the other hand, Snow's insults are the only thing that can distract him from the terrifying darkness. He moves forward, this time keeping one hand against the wall. His mouth feels parched, especially after the cigarette. A harsh cough forces its way out of his throat.

"You really should quit smoking," Coriolanus lectures him.

"What does it matter if I'm going to die today anyway?" Yago mutters.

"So far, we’re doing well," Coriolanus says. "We still have a signal."

Suddenly, Yago hears something squeaking from the side. He jumps, unable to suppress a scream. Almost immediately, he hears laughter on the other end.

"Did you let mutts in here?" Yago pants into the walkie-talkie.

"Oh, Yago, why would I do that? The Hunger Games haven’t started yet," Coriolanus replies calmly.

Still, Yago notices something scurrying over his feet. Bloody hell.

"Relax. It's probably just a rodent," Coriolanus says cheerfully. "Why are you so afraid of the dark?"

"Who isn't?" Yago responds dryly.

“But why are you so afraid?”

“I don’t know.”

“Stop lying to me.”

Yago shrugs. Maybe it’s the way to soften him. Just tell him some embarrassing memory. “Fine. One woman from the orphanage…She…” he closes his eyes, “punished me this way. She locked me in the dark room.”

“For how long?”

“I have no idea. I lost track of time.”

“And what do you think, how long you’re here now?”

Yago swallows hard. “An hour?”

“Thirty minutes.”

“How long I will be here?” Yago asks, but Snow ignores him.

"I don’t mind darkness. Not at all. But do you know what kind of people don't like darkness?" he asks instead.

"Hm?" Yago mutters without interest, trudging forward.

"Those who hate themselves," Snow says. "Because darkness... It works like a mirror, doesn't it?"

What a psycho. Yago isn’t sure what makes him feel more nauseous—Snow’s endless rambling, the dryness in his mouth, or the faint smell of rot lingering in the air. The rocks grow damp under his touch, and he gets the impression that the ground is sloping downward.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“I mean that in the darkness, it’s only you... and your thoughts. Nothing more,” Snow says. “You must really hate darkness. I heard you crying.”

“I wasn’t crying...”

“Shh, it’s all right,” Snow soothes. “I won’t tell anyone. We keep our secrets, don’t we?”

His voice now sounds sweet, almost charming; how can someone be such a snake?

“Yes, we do.” Yago closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He has to try once again. “Coriolanus…, I can give up job, and just… Let me free, please. I won’t tell anybody.”

Now Coriolanus laughs; not only laughs. He cries with laughter.

"I’m glad you’re having fun," Yago snaps, unable to stop himself. But then—anger. Again, anger. And anger is better than fear. Anger makes him want to survive. Anger makes him dream of hitting him. Preferably hard enough to knock out those perfectly straight, fucking teeth.

“Oh no. You would want it so easy? No, Yago,” Snow suddenly becomes deadly serious. “Do you believe in something? If yes, pray. Pray that this year’s Hunger Games go well because I feel they won’t. They will be disaster, and you know who will be blamed for it?”

That sentence carries hope. It means he might not kill him. But Yago knows Snow. He knows that sometimes, Snow likes to play with his meals. He remembers the poor, struggling student, Ellias, who found himself in the Gamemaker’s line of sight. Snow didn’t torment him directly, of course—he was above that. But he assigned more and more ridiculous tasks until, in the end, a dog mutt bit Ellias. He spent days in the hospital, and Yago is sure Coriolanus had something to do with it, though, what did Ellias do so bad that Coriolanus was so pissed, was still a mystery. Maybe he was simply weak in his eyes.

"Think about how you will bring light to this darkness... Or darkness to the light, because the Capitol’s night-vision technology isn’t advanced enough to carry this transmission," Snow says.

“Come on, we can do it, Coriolanus,” Yago pants to the walkie-talkie. “Did I disappoint you in the previous Hunger Games?”

He knows he doesn’t.

“No, but the question is why you decided to offer me this one idea,” he says. “Are you trying to sabotage me?”

“No, never…”

“Do you want to take my place?”

“I…” Yago starts to say, and then he first hears a rustling sound, like something flowing, but before he can react, it’s already too late. He feels his boot slip just under the rock, and he falls straight into the water—cold, fairly shallow—and a sharp pain in his left ankle flares up almost immediately. He gets up right away but can’t put weight on that foot. Fuck. It’s sprained. Maybe even, judging by the pain, broken. He grips that damn device tightly in his hand.

“There’s water here!” he shouts to him.

“Hmm,” Snow responds indifferently, “I assume you know how to swim, right?”

“Fuck, I think I twisted my ankle… Coriolanus, please,” he forces himself to say. “You hear that the signal is good, right? We can fix the transmission, I swear.”

“Go straight ahead. The tunnel continues northeast,” Snow taunts, then corrects himself. “Oh, sorry, that probably means nothing to you. But I believe you’ll figure it out.”

Darkness. The freezing, bone-chilling water. And what if there’s…

“I’m putting the earpiece in my pocket,” Yago says.

“Then I hope to hear from you soon,” Snow replies.

Yago shoves the walkie-talkie into the inner pocket of his jacket and zips it up.

What the hell is that supposed to mean? Yago doesn’t know, but every step fucking hurts. It’s definitely sprained. But Snow is right—swimming is probably the better option because the cold is so intense it physically hurts. What if his limbs go numb? But where to swim? Maybe it would be better to just give up at this point.

After all, Snow is playing some sick game with him, and Yago is dancing to his tune.

He pushes forward, now feeling the weight of his soaked jacket, and with every movement, his ankle reminds him of its pain. It’s so cold… So cold that he can barely feel his skin anymore.

To fall asleep here. To never wake up again.

But no—no, he can’t die. Not like this.

He kept his secret for so many years, and now he’s supposed to die just because he saw Snow getting fucked in the ass? Ridiculous.

As if things weren’t bad enough, he smacks his head against the wall. But he clings to it desperately, hopping through the water on one foot. The tunnel has to continue somewhere.

He feels something biting his other leg—or maybe it’s just the cold playing tricks on him. One more hop. Then another.

This time, the pain is sharper, burning. It’s not just his imagination. There’s something… in this water.

Another hop. Still, just a wall.

“Calm down,” he whispers to himself.

There’s no way out. This is it. What a pathetic way to go.

But as he feels along the edge of the wall, his fingers brush against empty space. An opening. That’s when it finally hits him—what he’s done.

If he made it this far, he’d have to go back the same way just to escape. Escape… Who said anything about escaping?

And then—a pain so excruciating that he screams.

It shoots through his left hand, the one still submerged. He’s never felt anything this intense in his life—so overwhelming that his body reacts before his mind catches up.

When he yanks his left hand out of the water, he desperately clings to the cave wall, scrambling onto a rock, feeling a rush of adrenaline surge through his entire body. He runs his right hand over his left—and that’s when he realizes it.

His left hand has only four fingers. He checks again and again. Only four fingers. In the middle, he gropes for something that was once his finger, but now, touching it is so painful that he can only gasp.

He jumps back from the water, breathing heavily.

At first, it doesn’t fully register. He checks multiple times, touching the stump and running his hand through the air, as if expecting the rest of his finger to still be there.

He let mutts in here. That bastard let mutts in here.

“No,” Yago says to himself, laughing. “It’s impossible. Maybe I should be glad it wasn’t my dick, huh?” he calls out into the empty space, still laughing. But then, it finally hits him.

He lost a finger. He lost the fucking finger because of this psychopath.

A moment later, the laughter turns into tears streaming down his face. He could have lost something else—something worse—but he lost a finger… He’s going to bleed out here

He yanks the walkie-talkie from his pocket.

"You fucking bastard! There are mutts in here! Something… something bit off my finger! Fuck, my finger! I lost my fucking finger!" he cries out, not controlling himself anymore.

There’s silence on the other end. Yago wonders if Snow has already left him there—left him to bleed out and die.

He grips his wounded hand frantically, feeling like he’s about to pass out from the pain. That water… Infection. This is the end. Not a quick death, not an easy one. Actually, a very excruciating one.

“Hmm, I see you’ve met Io Jasper’s little fish,” Coriolanus says cheerfully.

"I’m gonna fucking bleed out here! I’m gonna—"

"Calm down," Coriolanus interrupts. "Do you have a handkerchief?"

"No! And even if I did, it’d be soaked because I was in the fucking water!" Yago shouts.

"Don’t be vulgar," Snow chides. "Tear a piece of your clothes and make yourself a bandage. Keep your hand above your head," he adds indifferently.

"Why?" Yago grits out, feeling tears streaking down his face. He takes a step and is reminded of his twisted ankle, but he ignores it now. It’s nothing compared to the pain in his hand.

"The bandage will slow the bleeding, and keeping your hand up slows the blood flow," Snow explains. "Yago, did you ever go to school? Or was that a lie too?" His tone sounds almost genuinely curious.

"Go fuck yourself," Yago spits.

Coriolanus hums. "So hear you in ten minutes.”

***

Wandering in complete darkness, stumbling forward without knowing where he’s going, Yago feels himself fading. He knows that if he stops—if he sits down—it’s over. Or maybe it’s already over.

He can feel that the bandage he tied blindly, using his lighter for dim light, is soaked with blood. Or maybe it’s just water. He’s drenched all over anyway.

He remembers the pool of blood where he found his mother. She bled out. Wouldn’t that be the perfect end to his fate? Bleeding out. How did Snow phrase it? Continuing the family legacy?

"An unfortunate accident," Coriolanus would say. Maybe they’d give him a minute of silence in Parliament. Maybe Livia would be sad for a few minutes between shopping and a manicure.

That’s how it ends. He’s not even sure how many people would show up to his funeral. Not that it really matters.

Then, through the static of the walkie-talkie, he hears that sickeningly sweet voice. The hated voice.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fantastic," Yago mutters.

"Oh, Yago, consider yourself fortunate," Snow says airily. "One can live without a finger. Had that fish developed a taste for something more... vital, well—your fate might have been far less forgiving."

"Yeah? After I bleed out?" Yago snaps.

Snow chuckles softly.

"Oh, don’t be dramatic. If you were truly at death’s door, you’d already be gone," Snow says smoothly. "Now, take a few steps forward."

"What?" Yago asks.

His eyes sting as they catch a glimpse of something… Light?

He almost runs toward it, until his ankle flares up in pain and he screams again. But he keeps going, hopping clumsily on one foot, pushing forward toward the light.

Is this it? Does this mean he’s already dead? He never believed those stories about the light at the end, about tunnels, and other nonsense. Maybe it's just hallucinations. Maybe his brain is already failing him.

But when he reaches the source of the glow and looks up, he sees Snow, standing above him, blinding him with a headlamp.

His eyes struggle to adjust to the sudden brightness.

"You’ve come full circle quite beautifully. Like a hamster on a wheel. Though, I must say, that swim was rather unnecessary," Snow remarks. "Well? Are you coming up?"

Only now does Yago see the ladder—the very one Snow had taken away. It’s actually there.

It was always this easy to get down. And now it’s not just as easy to climb back up, not when he is so close to fainting. But physical pain is nothing compared to the adrenaline surging through his body.

With a desperate gasp, he throws himself at the ladder, clutching onto it.

Only then does he truly see his left hand—completely soaked in blood.

Yago struggles to climb to the top, rung by rung, feeling his hands so wet that it’s only a matter of time before he loses his grip. He gasps every time he feels his feet. Maybe this is just his game, he thinks, as he climbs higher with each rung. Maybe when he gets to the top, Coriolanus will push him into that fucking abyss, and if he's not lucky enough, he won't die on the spot and will slowly die over the course of a few hours from bleeding out.

But there's no choice if he wants to live. And today he found out that he wants, though he isn’t sure why.

Each step up makes him panic even more, but he's too afraid to look back.

"All good, Yago?" he hears that hated voice.

"Yes, wonderful," he replies through clenched teeth.

Coriolanus reaches out his hand, and Yago hesitates, but then grabs it and lets him help him stand. Snow almost immediately wipes his own hands in his trousers, like he is disgusted by this touch. He looks at him with those piercing, icy eyes, smirking slightly. He moves in his direction, and Yago steps away from the precipice, toward the wall. But Coriolanus takes another step, and Yago steps back again. And again. Until he feels the rocky ground behind him. Yet, Coriolanus doesn’t stop. Now, he is so close that Yago can feel his warm breath on his face and a subtle scent, sweet to the point of being unpleasant. He fixes his gaze on his shoes. Why is he so close? What does he want, kiss him for fuck's sake?

Yago feels such overwhelming rage now that the physical pain almost stops mattering. That face of his—disgusting, slimy. He wants to grab him by the throat and slam his head against the wall of this fucking cave, over and over again. Why did he do all this? What was the point of it?

"Yago, Yago," Snow whispers, almost gently. "You chose to play a very dangerous game. And you might have played it well—if not for my small mistake. So, thank you. Next time, I’ll know better."

Yago simply nods, avoiding his gaze. “Coriolanus, I will bleed out,” he says quietly.

"Look at me."

He doesn’t try to resist, though now he remembers some shitty myth from the past. A gaze that turns to stone. Was it Medusa? He feels like he is about to meet the monster’s eyes. Like the psychopath’s gaze is turning him to stone. Something tightens in his stomach when his face is so close, and those piercing icy eyes are drilled into him like thousands of fucking blades. Yago holds his breath, feeling like he’s about to cry like a child. Or vomit. Or both things at once.

"Yago," he says, now taking his hand, and Yago flinches, as if expecting a slap, but instead, his cold hands caress his skin. "That was very unwise, wasn’t it?"

"I'm truly embarrassed about my little lie," he says.

"We’ll do it this way… Cross your fingers that this year’s Hunger Games are a success. Oh—wait. I suppose you’ll have to settle for your thumbs," he says with a sickening smile. Then, lowering his voice, he adds, "And after that… you will resign."

"I can do it now,” Yago assures him quickly. “I told you…”

"Oh no, no. No need for that," Coriolanus says smoothly. "Admire your own creation, Yago. Because now, I see it clearly—it was a mistake. But I won’t be the one paying for it. I won’t suffer for this failure. You will." A pause. "If these Hunger Games fail, you’ll bear every consequence. And now… do everything in your power to make sure they succeed."

The stifling scent of Snow’s breath—sweet, sickening—hits Yago’s nose, and nausea churns in his stomach.

Then, Snow’s tone shifts, dropping lower. "And don’t you dare..." He steps closer, and Yago is afraid their lips will really meet. "My wife. I’ve noticed how she looks at you. My wife belongs to me. I’ll deal with her… insubordination. But you?" He lets out a humorless chuckle. "Don’t even think about driving her home again. Don’t get near her. Don’t let her look at you again. Understood?"

He doesn’t know. The relief is so sharp it almost cuts, but Yago swallows it down, keeping his face blank.

"Yes, she was… indisposed," Yago says. "I was just trying to be polite."

"Anyway, my wife would never look at... Someone like you," Coriolanus spits slowly. "A man without a name. Without a face. Without anything. What a sad existence. Especially since you can’t even write, right?" he says now, patting his cheek lightly, making him flinch. "And that little habit of picking up cigarettes from the ground…" Snow exhales, shaking his head. "Pathetic."

"What do you want from me? I will bleed out listening to you," Yago says dryly.

"Me? Nothing." Coriolanus moves away finally but still stares at him. "Long day, right?" he says as if nothing happened. “I think a hospital visit is in order after this… unfortunate accident."

Yago watches him coldly. "It would be nice to visit hospital,” he says, barely moving his lips. He feels like he’s about to burst into tears. He steps ahead and finally finds himself in the daylight, feeling his chest become lighter.

He is alive. He is alive, maybe without a finger, and what’s worse, it’s the middle one, the most needed right now, but he is alive.

Snow will be dead.

There was a time when he felt pity for Coriolanus Snow. Not anymore. Not after this. Now, he wants to see him suffer. He wants to see him humiliated. He wants to see him crawl before he dies.

"And Yago..." Coriolanus clicks his tongue, and he glances at him one last time, "no more tardiness. Arrogance. Being late. Understood?" he narrows his eyebrows. "If you’re going to take anything from being employed by me, take some good manners. For people with no background... That can be difficult, but it’ll certainly help you."

A million things try to escape Yago’s throat, but he only says, "Of course, Mr. Snow."

"No need for such formality. I let you call me Coriolanus, didn’t I?" Snow says smoothly. "And… no one will even notice anything has changed, right?"

He pats Yago’s face again, and Yago wants to bite that hand off.

"And after the hospital, you can pull yourself together a bit. Maybe then we’ll have dinner? I know a place with the most exquisite steaks—bloody, just the way they should be."

Snow flashes a smile, looking like a true madman. "Bill’s on me, of course."

Chapter Text

“Mr. President,” Coriolanus says, keeping his tone as humble as possible, though it burns his tongue to address someone how they should address him, “I have everything under control.”

It isn’t even a complete lie. After putting Yago in his place, Coriolanus had barely slept for days, adrenaline surging through his veins. That feeling of power—he’s addicted to it, he can’t help himself. And now, he’s getting it back. The next day, he even spoke to Livia casually, suggesting rehab with a fake smile, telling her she needed to try harder to get pregnant. “There are new methods”, he told her. If she didn’t listen… well, lately, he’d been thinking that getting rid of her might not be such a bad idea.

Maybe this time, he’d have to poison himself more—after all, it’s always the spouse they blame when someone dies. But a grieving widower? That would make a good campaign, too.

Iskander Lennox, a middle-aged man with a storm of golden hair, always dressed in a ridiculously loud suit, leans slightly over his mahogany desk. He used to be one of the presenters on Capitol News, and Coriolanus thinks he’s no better a president than someone like Flickerman would be. He’s known for his long-standing charity work, and he comes from a family that helped fund the reconstruction of the Capitol. But even a prestigious name can’t buy taste. The furniture is terrible—awful colors, wholly mismatched. A mahogany desk, but the bookshelf is made of pale wood. And the décor? Just as dreadful. A cheap painting on the wall, which itself is painted a horrible shade of brown. A white carpet. Nothing matches, and the flag of Panem looks almost like blasphemy in this setting.

"Well, Mr. Snow, I appreciate your hard work, as always," he says carefully. "But I can’t help it… The expenses for the Hunger Games are beginning to worry me. After all, it’s meant to be a punishment for the districts, not our primary source of spending. And the amount you requested…” he lowers his voice, ”It's high."

Coriolanus tries not to show what he truly thinks of it. Io Jasper spends hours in the laboratory, trying to create firefly mutts that would act as a source of light. Night vision isn’t working well. Why did he even listen to Yago? He caught him in a moment of weakness—that scumbag. Not scumbag, worse, the whore. Uncovering his true identity had been easy; after all, Coriolanus still had connections at the University. Turns out, he changed his name right before enrolling. The name Tobber appeared on the list of rebels punished by the Capitol. What’s worse, the surname Plinth was there as well, but Sejanus was described as a rebel sympathizer. A little bit better. But an Avox for a father? Prostitution? What a disgrace. Coriolanus had almost felt sorry for him, but he shouldn’t. Not after what his eyes had seen. This was all Sejanus’s fault, of course, for not locking the door. And Yago’s—for not knocking. Coriolanus is under enormous pressure; no wonder he could forget about such a trivial thing when he allowed himself to feel a little bit of pleasure.

But Yago, for sure, now knows better than to challenge him. His mocking smile has shifted into a neutral expression every time he sees him, and in his eyes, Coriolanus sees the thing he loves most—fear. And Sejanus… well, of course, Coriolanus scolded him. But when he made that sad face… Like a little, miserable puppy. “Don’t worry, darling, I will take care of that,” he told him, patting him on the head.

"I'm fully aware of that, Mr. President," Coriolanus says smoothly, "but I assure you—the expense is worth it. This year’s Hunger Games will be extraordinary." He pauses, then adds with a faint smile, "Allowing the districts to choose their tributes… well, it gives them the illusion of control. And better yet—it turns them against one another."

Iskander Lennox sighs loudly. “Well, I’m not particularly eager to escalate tensions in the districts,” he notes dryly.

And then something almost unthinkable happens—Coriolanus finds himself missing old Ravinstill, who had passed away. And this time, Coriolanus truly had nothing to do with it. Ravinstill had understood how important the Hunger Games were. How they kept the districts firmly in check.

But Iskander Lennox? He’s a reckless idiot.

It’s a good thing this is his final term—he doesn’t even want to run again, claiming he’s tired.

But Coriolanus knows one thing for certain: once his ass lands in that presidential chair, it won’t leave it until the day he dies. And the first thing he’ll do is redecorate this office.

“Oh, on the contrary,” Coriolanus assures him. “It won’t escalate anything. Once they realize they have a choice—well, that should satisfy them.”

Lennox forces a smile, “Can I be honest with you, Mr. Snow?”

“Naturally,” Coriolanus replies, stiffening.

"You're very dedicated to the Hunger Games, but from my point of view, this is something that in the future we should finally let go as a gift to the districts, to calm their nerves and give them a sense of security," he says, and Coriolanus feels drops of sweat forming on his forehead. "I don't know if you should put so much attention on it every year. You're a great strategist; you organize supply chains very effectively, and you have a brilliant mind. But you focus on the wrong things."

Coriolanus feels the anger boiling inside him. The Hunger Games. The legacy of his life—the last fifteen years of it. Maybe last year had been a slight setback. That whole tundra idea hadn’t worked; it is true. How was anyone supposed to cheer for tributes who barely had the strength to fight? But still—it had been his creation. He was the one who gathered an audience for the Hunger Games. He introduced Victor’s Village. The parades. The stylists. Victors, to be fair, had become something close to celebrities among the people of Panem. The President should be grateful for that. Honestly, even the districts should be. So what if a few people died? One of them got a new life—a life they never could have dreamed of in their filthy, miserable district.

"Sir, are you aware of how the Hunger Games were orchestrated under my former mentor, Dr. Gaul? It was simple brutality, nothing more. I’ve introduced changes that captured the public’s attention—entertainment, spectacle, identity,” Coriolanus recites. He still remembers poisoning her all too well. It was only a few years ago, but to this day, he won’t eat snails. "Perhaps I miscalculated last year’s costs. But this year, I believe the Games could generate significant profit."

“I’m very grateful, Mr. Snow,” Iskander says, “but I’m just wondering—where is all of this heading?” A long, irritating pause. “You’re still very young, Mr. Snow, but from where I stand... not every decision made in the past has been a good one. And now, well—it’s hard to walk them back, isn’t it?”

Coriolanus shifts in his chair. “I don’t know if canceling the Hunger Games wouldn’t provoke the districts into another rebellion,” he tells him.

“The next rebellion will probably come sooner or later,” Lennox replies. “But you know what, Snow? That won’t be my problem. It’ll be yours.”

Those words carry a promise. So... will he have his support?

After exchanging a few pleasantries, Coriolanus finally rises with the signed budget for the Hunger Games in hand, smiling—he even offers a slight bow. And if the Hunger Games fail… well, this time Yago Trobbe won’t just lose a finger—he’ll lose his head.

Coriolanus casually pauses outside the Gamemakers’ room. Normally, he wouldn’t expect to find them here at this hour—but today, he’s making an appearance for the sake of his pitiful little team.

“Hello, Aphrodite. Thanos,” he says to the chatting pair, his tone light, but his attention shifts entirely to Yago, who tenses the moment he sees him.

“Hello, Yago.”

“Hi,” Yago replies, looking up at him from his seat.

Coriolanus places a document on his desk—signed by the President himself.

“Mr. President was feeling generous,” Coriolanus announces. “He approved our expenses. We can celebrate.”

“I’m glad,” Yago says.

“How’s your hand? Better?” Coriolanus asks, feigning concern, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly.

“Yes, much better. Thank you,” Yago replies. He’s been wearing a bandage for weeks.

“Unfortunate luck, though at least you’re right-handed, hm?” Coriolanus says smoothly.

“I’d call it extraordinary luck,” Yago answers politely.

“Well, I just wanted to wish you all a pleasant weekend,” Coriolanus says, turning to Aphrodite and Thanos. “Any plans?”

He listens to their replies with thinly veiled boredom. The woman is so hopelessly dull, he still doesn’t understand why he hired her in the first place. He’ll be more selective next time. And Thanos… There’s something of Gaul in him. He spends weekends at dog fights. Coriolanus smiles faintly.

“And you, Yago? Do take a look at the expenses, but I wouldn’t want you spending your Friday night at the office,” he says, serious now.

“Oh, um—meeting with a certain charming lady,” Yago replies, settling back in his chair.

“A lady?” Coriolanus raises a brow and shrugs. “Well then. Good luck.”

“And what about your plans, Coriolanus?” Yago asks, the mockery in his voice all too audible. Ah. Still far too comfortable with himself. Well, at first, Coriolanus had decided it would be excessive. Unnecessary. But now… As it turns out, Yago’s father is an Avox in the service of the Crane family. It wouldn’t be hard to borrow him for a formal event. Just long enough to arrange a little reunion between father and son. How touching that would be.

“I’m meeting a friend,” Coriolanus replies, barely audible, turning on his heel and walking out.

It’s time for a little relaxation. After all, he’s earned it.

***

As he packs his clothes into the leather bag, Coriolanus thinks how nice it would be to finally move into the President’s mansion. After the Hunger Games, his campaign can begin. Very likely, Iskander Lennox will give him his support—even if they don’t agree on everything, but today’s conversation confirmed it.

And once he becomes President, everything in Panem will change. Irrevocably. Perhaps it won’t change society itself, but at last, these sheep will be led by a lion.

"Off somewhere again?"

That grating voice behind him, of course, belongs to no one other than Livia.

He turns to her lazily, barely glancing at her. “Livia,” he makes his voice as sweet as honey, “Yes, unfortunately, I have to leave for this weekend.”

“Can I ask where?” She raises her eyebrow, crossing her arms.

Coriolanus shrugs. “I promised Sejanus to help with the garden.”

She can’t know about it, can she? Yago wouldn’t be so foolish as to share this information with her.

Livia laughs nastily. “You think I’m an idiot?”

Dangerous question, Coriolanus would say, but instead, he tells her, “My dear, from where is this assumption?”

“You’re cheating on me.”

Accusation. He dismisses it with a quick laugh, and it’s cheating on? He isn’t doing it with another woman. With pleasure, he watches as her entire face stiffens—a pretty noticeable even beneath the layers of Botox she’s so meticulously injected.

"That’s ridiculous, my dear. I take the institution of marriage very seriously," he says. “Did you have something to drink?” he adds sweetly—and her face tightens even more. She steps closer, and for a moment, he’s almost afraid she might slap him. And in this scenario, he isn’t entirely sure he’d be able to control his own hand. But hitting a woman—no. That would be beneath his dignity. Livia, though… She is a special kind of woman. Sometimes, he could strangle her with his bare hands.

“Stop suggesting I have a drinking problem,” she hisses. In reality, he couldn’t care less about it, but she should control herself more, not bring him shame in public. They stare at each other with hostility. Yet, the battle of stares doesn’t last long. Livia is a bitch—he knows it, and he even allows her to be. Yet, let her not forget who truly holds the power.

“I’m just concerned, my love,” he says with a malicious smile. “Speaking about the institution of marriage… Did you think about our little conversation?”

“What do you mean?”

“Remember? We had an understanding,” Coriolanus says slowly. “When we married, you knew the role you were taking on. And yet… I have no heir.”

“No? Then let Plinth impregnate you,” she snaps.

Coriolanus flinches internally at the mere suggestion, but outwardly, he doesn’t let a single crack show.

“What did your doctor say?” he asks, as if he hadn’t heard her.

“Nothing new. I have polycystic ovary syndrome and..”

“There are other methods, I told you,” he interrupts.

Yet, Livia grimaces. “Did you even brush your teeth? You reek,” she snaps.

Coriolanus sighs loudly and steps back. He brushes his teeth a few times a day. Even that damn Yago winced when he caught a whiff of his breath… Does it smell that bad? Maybe he should stop with the poisons. Find another method. A president whose breath reeks—what a joke. Then again, Sejanus doesn’t even flinch. No. He eagerly pushes his tongue into Coriolanus’s mouth, shares with him those deep, slow, passionate kisses.

“I will not be an experiment,” Livia grits out.

Coriolanus forced another smile, not too wide, but contemptuous enough. “I would strongly advise you to take this matter seriously, Livia, rather than behaving like a petulant teenager. At your age, it’s unbecoming.”

“And is it becoming of you? Who are you fucking, Coriolanus?” she sneers, crude as ever.

He exhales slowly, feeling the heat rise to his face. She may wear his family’s name, but she will never be worthy of it.

“I have no idea what you mean, my love,” he says effortlessly.

“You’re never home…”

“I’m busy working. The Hunger Games draw nearer,” he replies smoothly. “I know it’s hard to comprehend, but some of us have responsibilities…”

“Stop talking to me like I’m an idiot!” she finally snaps, hysterical now. “I know you’re screwing someone. Shall I remind you what a broke nobody you were? Half of that rat hole you lived in was renovated by my parents. The other half? Plinth’s father paid for it. That’s why you’re licking his ass now, isn’t it?”

This one cuts deep. She knows exactly where his weak spots are. And anyway, the truth is—he renovated the penthouse out of sentiment. He still loves that rose garden. But there are too many memories here. Memories from a time when he was someone else. Sometimes, the nostalgia hits him so strongly it almost knocks the air out of him—even now, with the new furniture, the shelves filled with books, the finest carpets, the riches—everything, of course, done in good taste. Somewhere beneath it all, the emptiness that once lived here still lingers.

“Well, I’d like to think I’ve built my fortune,” Coriolanus says with a forced smile. “But…” He closes the bag. “I won’t allow you to speak to me that way, my love. Let me ask again… Have you been drinking today? You're behaving like someone dragged in from a street corner tavern.”

“Fuck off,” Livia spits.

“I have to leave, but… Think it over,” he replies coldly. “Because if there is no heir… well, think it over, Livia.”

"If there is no heir, then what?" he hears her voice, but he is already at the door, putting on his shoes, and his coat, not rushing at all. "Then what?" Livia repeats, but before leaving, he only turns and looks straight into her eyes.

A grieving widower. Not such a bad idea, is it? Though… who would ever believe he was crying over someone like her? Useless. Cruel. He’d never wanted to win through pity. But a few well-timed tears for a tragically deceased wife—an alcoholic who’d washed down her medication with a generous helping of liquid? Maybe no poison would even be necessary. Just her usual cocktail of pills and a steady stream of alcohol. If it didn’t work the first time, it would eventually.

“Think it over, my love,” he says, before closing the door.

***

“You’ve done wonderfully, darling,” Coriolanus praises Sejanus, examining his seedlings in the large greenhouse.

He arrived here himself, by car. Old Plinth had taught him how to drive back when he was in university. Most people shouldn’t know how much time he is spending here.

The compliment isn’t even an exaggeration—he really had done well. The rosebeds are neatly arranged in rows, each sapling supported by slender wooden stakes, their roots carefully mulched and insulated against the cold. Tiny new leaves, tinged with winter red, had already begun to push through the soil. The air inside the greenhouse is warm, just humid enough, with the soft scent of earth and early growth clinging to every breath. Sejanus had remembered everything—spacing, drainage, even the soil pH. He had followed Coriolanus’s earlier instructions to the letter, perhaps even improved upon them. Granted, winter isn’t the best season for planting roses, but Coriolanus couldn’t resist giving them to him anyway. A test, perhaps. Or a gift. Maybe both.

“Remember, the temperature can’t drop below five degrees,” he purrs, standing up and stroking Sejanus’s curly hair delicately, like he’s petting a cat. Sejanus closes his eyes and tilts his head back slightly, as if savoring the moment. He is always behaving like that, like Coriolanus’s touch is the most pleasant thing in this world.

It’s a real pity Coriolanus would have to get rid of him one day. Or… maybe not. Lately, he finds himself thinking that perhaps he could keep Sejanus. Maybe even lock him away in the dungeons beneath the presidential palace—just for his pleasure.

“Tell me finally what did you do to him, Coriolanus,” Sejanus asks quietly, now opening his big, brown eyes. You could drown in them. There’s something in those dark eyes—something worth bleeding for. Coriolanus’s weakness for that color is strange, especially considering that eyes so dark usually belong to people from the districts.

“Nothing,” Coriolanus says with a smile, now reaching for Sejanus’s warm hand. With half-performed devotion and a touch of genuine tenderness, he even lifts it to his face and kisses it.

“Coryo, you promised not to lie,” Sejanus admonishes him, but something is teasing in his tone.

“Really, nothing. Some shenanigans. You’re making me soft, darling,” he says, though he feels amused by his own words. Not true, obviously, but good for Sejanus to think so. He kept asking him about Yago for weeks though Coriolanus can’t understand why this poor fool cares about it so much. But he always had a big heart for everybody. And if anything, Sejanus is making him stronger. That devotion in his eyes—the kind he saves only for Coriolanus—ought to be more common.

“Hm,” Sejanus hums without much conviction, but now pulls Coriolanus closer by the neck. He exhales a cool, mint-scented breath onto him just before their lips meet in a kiss. Sejanus grabs the small of his back—and even dips him slightly. Coriolanus feels his tongue, fresh and clean-tasting. Sejanus is kissing him like Coriolanus’s mouth is the most delicious thing in the world. “What are you in the mood for tonight, Coryo?” he whispers. “I brought your favorite roast from Ma… maybe dinner and a nice bottle of wine?”

“Oh, you’re spoiling me,” Coriolanus says, but it’s so nice. He can only recall one person caring about him so much, but now Tigris doesn’t want to speak with him. Again. And slowly, he begins to accept the idea that maybe it’s for the best. They’ve grown too different. Lilianna should be his daughter. Sometimes, Coriolanus wonders what would happen if Tigris had an accident. Of course, not one caused by him. Lilianna would be his. But even he despises himself for thinking that. He wants the best for Tigris, really, but the problem is that she doesn't understand it. “But maybe now…” Coriolanus lowers his voice, slightly embarrassed, “Shall we visit your room?”

Sejanus beams. “If you ask so…”

Pleasant shivers run through Coriolanus’s body—a familiar kind of tension. He even pats Churro on the head as the dog runs up to them. Lately, the dog’s been disgustingly fond of licking his hands. But well, a quick disinfectant does the job—and at least, he’s no longer a threat.

“So, you were that naughty this week?” Sejanus teases.

“Nah, I was good,” Coriolanus replies with a smirk.

“Why don’t I believe you?” Sejanus clicks his tongue, and with every step, Coriolanus feels the shivers deepen. Finally, Sejanus presses down the door handle. Thankfully, Churro isn’t allowed in this room.

“Show me that beautiful chest, darling,” Coriolanus demands, and Sejanus slowly unbuttons his shirt. His body is incredible—there’s no denying it. Those muscular arms, veins pulsing just beneath the skin; that perfectly sculpted chest and sharply defined abdomen.

What Coriolanus never quite knows is how to feel when he sees his back, all covered in scars. On one hand, it’s a symbol of devotion. On the other… something uneasy always creeps in when he looks at them.

“You’re wonderful,” Coriolanus murmurs, stepping closer and brushing his lips against Sejanus’s chest.

“Mmm,” Sejanus replies. His tone shifts suddenly, firmer now. “Strip,” he orders. “Completely.”

Then he leans in and whispers into Coriolanus’s ear:

“And bring me three things you want to try tonight. Alright?”

Coriolanus sighs, then begins undressing—slowly, deliberately, with a touch of malicious flair. He never truly liked taking his clothes off; his body has never struck him as particularly impressive. But he does like seeing himself through Sejanus’s eyes.

He folds his clothes neatly and places them on the wooden bench.

“After all that training… You always look perfect,” Sejanus says softly. “But now...”

There’s no mockery in his voice, not even a hint of a lie. Coriolanus feels a quiet sense of pride bloom in his chest.

He approaches the shelf and hesitates for a moment. Silk restraints—a safe choice. He’d never let Sejanus fully bind him, but with these, he could slip free if he wanted to. Riding crop. A candle.

He brings the items to Sejanus, who raises an eyebrow, half amused, half intrigued.

“A riding crop? Really?” he asks.

“Well…” Coriolanus looks a little embarrassed. “If someone ever did try to torture me, I should be prepared.”

“You think someone would torture you that way?” Sejanus grins wider, but then sinks onto the bench, legs spread lazily.

“You’re planning to behave tonight, Mr. Snow?”

“Not necessarily,” Coriolanus whispers.

Sejanus feigns mock offense, placing a hand on his chest. “Then you know the procedure.” He pats his thigh.

“First... over my knee.”

***

Coriolanus sits at the table, his face slightly flushed. He can never quite shake the feeling that follows moments like these. His body is loose, heavy with afterglow, a persistent hunger gnawing at him. Sejanus moves around the kitchen, humming quietly. Coriolanus takes a sip of wine—red, with a long, soft finish.

But sex isn’t even the worst thing he does. Or even with who he does it isn’t the most humiliating fact.

The worst part is that moment. The one just before the other kind of finish—when he’s not in control anymore, when his muscles are tightening and trembling, and he hears himself whisper,

“Say it.”

And Sejanus answers him.

“I love you.”

"Say it again."

“I love you, Coryo.”

The climax hits in that moment—intense, raw—and he cries out, his eyes instantly growing watery, stirred by some strange, unnameable feeling.

Somebody loves him. But only a few moments pass before the disgust sets in. He doesn’t even know if it’s aimed more at himself… or at Sejanus Plinth.

But now, beaming, he accepts everything Sejanus gives him.

The roast—perfectly prepared, made especially for him by Mrs. Plinth. Baked potatoes, asparagus with hollandaise sauce. Excellent food, paired with a good wine.

“Your Ma is truly... an artist in the kitchen,” Coriolanus repeats the compliment.

“I know. I lack her skills,” Sejanus admits.

“You cook very well too, darling,” Coriolanus says softly.

“Thank you, Coryo,” Sejanus replies, but he seems distant—more absent than usual. He chews his food mindlessly, not so much looking at the wall as picking at it with his eyes. Once again, no appetite. And when Sejanus doesn’t have an appetite, it never means anything good.

“Something bothering you?” Coriolanus asks, glancing at him nervously. The Hunger Games, perhaps. What else could trouble that innocent head of his—some injustice in the world?

“Nothing,” Sejanus says.

But then, the buzz of his phone cuts through the room. It’s already evening—almost night. Who would be calling at this hour?

Coriolanus tries to keep his face completely neutral, watching Sejanus carefully.

“You’re not going to answer?” he asks casually.

“Oh no, it’s probably Ma,” Sejanus lies without blinking.

“Mhm. So why won’t you answer?”

“I need to get her used to not calling so often,” Sejanus replies smoothly.

“You’re not even going to check if it’s someone else?”

“You or Ma. And you are here. Who else would call me?”

“Hmm…” Coriolanus shrugs, but he keeps his eyes on Sejanus.

When they finish dinner, Coriolanus helps him gather the plates.

“Go to the drawing room, I’ll take Churro out,” Sejanus says.

“I’ll go with you.”

“No need, it’s cold. And I know you don’t like that.” What game is Sejanus playing? Coriolanus feels a sudden tightness in his chest. He’s clearly hiding something. Is he sleeping with someone else?

“It doesn’t bother me,” Coriolanus assures him, though he knows he can’t overdo it; he can’t come off as too pushy in his request.

“Nonsense, Coryo,” Sejanus says, stepping closer, his hands gently trailing along Coriolanus’s back. “I know how easily you catch a chill. Go pick us something nice to watch. I’ll be right back.”

But Coriolanus only pretends to head to the drawing room. Once Sejanus pulls on his coat and snow boots and steps outside with the dog, Coriolanus slips back into the kitchen, turns off the lights, and watches through the window. Sejanus walks to the edge of the woods, but Coriolanus can see clearly that he’s talking to someone on the phone.

***

For the whole evening, Sejanus is… mysterious, at the very least.

“You know I care about you deeply, Sejanus, don’t you?” Coriolanus asks softly, showing him more affection than usual—a lingering embrace here, a gentle stroke of his hand there. “I’m glad you’re back in my life.”

Sejanus chuckles at that, and for a moment, that boyish charm returns to his eyes. But what does Coriolanus really know about Sejanus? After years? This dark room—its state of quiet neglect—suggests he hasn’t exactly been thriving. Coriolanus watches him closely, eyes narrowing. Maybe there’s someone else. A lover. A secret.

His mind refuses to rest, thoughts spiraling endlessly until they shower together. But no. He couldn’t be wrong again. Not with the way Sejanus touches him. The way he says his name. The way he looks at him.

Maybe it isn’t about betrayal.

At least… not that kind. Because Sejanus Plinth, after all, as written in the official history records, was a rebel.

Coriolanus stares into the darkness of Sejanus’s bedroom, feeling the weight of his hand at his waist like it’s burning through him.

Maybe he is still a rebel.

How did he just reappear out of nowhere—in Parliament, no less? Why hadn’t that bothered Coriolanus at first?

Pride goeth before a fall, as Grandma’am once told him after he failed a single math competition in the Academy.

Coriolanus’s breathing grows faster as Sejanus starts to snore. He waits minutes more until Sejanus’s sleep seems deeper. Only then does he carefully slip out from under his hand. He moves toward the bedroom door with slow, deliberate steps, never taking his eyes off Sejanus.

Still sleeping.

Through the long corridors of the grand house, he tries to recall where the study is. He’s never been inside—Sejanus never invited him there. Two doors down from the bathroom.

But it’s locked.

Then he remembers: every time Sejanus comes home, he puts the keyring into the cabinet in the entryway.

Coriolanus goes there now, opens it silently, and takes the keys. He checks the bedroom again. Sejanus is still in the same position, not moving an inch..

It takes him five tries—who needs this many rooms, ridiculous—but finally, the door unlocks.

The office is a mess. Just like Sejanus’s mind. Papers everywhere. Bills. Documents from Strabo’s company.

Coriolanus begins examining them neatly, placing each one back with care. But then one file catches his eye, the word Hunger Games practically leaps off the page.

With trembling hands, he picks it up. His fingers are shaking so badly that he can barely read it.

“The caves beneath the Capitol remain largely unexplored. Using this area for the arena could be risky. Night vision is still in the experimental phase, and transmission will require significant spending.

The proposal of allowing districts to vote for tributes is a dangerous idea that could shift public sentiment—and lead to rebellion.”

Who is this document for? He can’t tell. There’s no name, no signature. But worse than the mystery is the sudden noise that shatters the quiet of the night. A barking. Loud one.

“Shut up,” Coriolanus hisses through clenched teeth. But it’s useless. Churro stares at him with those wide eyes, white fur stark against the shadows, and barks again. Then—footsteps in the hallway. Almost immediate. “What are you doing here?!” Sejanus shouts from the doorway, flicking on the light. Coriolanus winces. He hasn’t seen Sejanus this angry since... his little performance in Parliament.

“How dare you… What the hell are you doing in here?!”

Yet Coriolanus doesn’t flinch.

“You tell me what this is,” he asks coldly, pointing at the documents. Sejanus strides toward him and snatches the papers out of his hands in one swift movement.

“You weren’t supposed to come in here.”

“I asked you a question. Rebellion? Again? Is that what this is?” Coriolanus presses, his temples pounding. “You’re conspiring behind my back? Sabotaging the Hunger Games? Who is this for?”

Sejanus turns away, leaning both hands against the desk, breathing heavily. “It’s none of your business, Coriolanus.”

“Who were you talking to on the phone?”

“I told you, it was Ma…” Sejanus lies again, turning toward him, not even blinking.

“Liar!” Now Coriolanus raises his voice, the fury bubbling over. “I thought that staying in the hospital might have taught you something. Ten years, right? And still, you’re doing it again. Who is it? Who got you that position?”

Sejanus swallows hard. “No one. I bribed them.”

Coriolanus lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “These documents. Are they for the President?”

Lennox used those same arguments, those exact words. What’s going on here? Had Sejanus already seen him? Behind his back? Trying to spoil his games?

“Maybe.”

“He’ll think you’re a fool, Sejanus. The President knows how important the Hunger Games are.” He steps closer, his voice growing sharper. “Do you have to be so reckless? I told you I’d cancel them as soon as…”

“Shut up, fuck!” Sejanus interrupts, suddenly shouting, hysterical. “I don’t believe a single word you say. I’m not stupid.”

“No?” Coriolanus sneers, closing the distance between them. “These papers suggest otherwise. Is this what you’re doing? You came back just to pretend? To get close and destroy me?” His throat tightens as his eyes sting.

“What? No… I… you weren’t supposed to be in here,” Sejanus mutters, cradling his head like a child. “Why did you do this? You know I’m from the opposite party. This is my job.”

“No,” Coriolanus snaps. “Your job is to pitch a few pathetic ideas that I might graciously accept. Your party is a joke, with no real power.” His breathing becomes shallow. He shuts his eyes for a brief moment, then opens them again. “Sejanus, you’ve learned nothing. You should’ve… You should’ve died in that district.”

Sejanus looks at him, eyes full of devastation. “I think part of me did,” he says softly.

Coriolanus shakes his head. “You’re a hopeless case. It’s almost a pity.”

“Coryo, you know…” Sejanus’s voice trembles. “I love you—God, I love you so much—but I hate the Hunger Games more.” His voice breaks again, that same vulnerable tone, like a wounded animal.

“You…” He reaches toward Coriolanus.

“Don’t you dare touch me,” Coriolanus hisses.

But Sejanus doesn’t stop. He still reaches out and places a hand on Coriolanus’s shoulder. “You remember, Coryo? You used to be different. Remember the 10th Hunger Games? You were good," he says frantically. "You rescued me. You helped Lucy Gray, don’t you remember? You can be good. You still can be good.” He sounds desperate, hopeless. And naive, as always.

That name hits Coriolanus like nails scraping down the glass.

“Don’t you dare say her name,” he growls. Then, looking into Sejanus’s tearful eyes, he delivers the final blow. “And you’re wrong. I was never different.” He pauses. “You were just…” A bitter smile curls on his lips. “Blind.”

***

Only once he’s parked in front of his penthouse does Coriolanus catch a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror—bloodshot eyes, pale skin, jaw clenched. Sejanus had begged him not to go. “I love you, Coryo, please don’t leave me. Please.” Liar. It was all a lie. If he has any sense left in that head of his... He’ll end himself. But if he doesn’t? Then Coriolanus will schedule a meeting with the President and explain just how dangerous Sejanus Plinth is. How he was plotting with rebels back in District 12. People like him don’t belong in Parliament. Still… who might be standing behind Sejanus now?

His hands are trembling as he makes his way slowly up to the apartment. He wipes his eyes quickly. The lights are off. Livia’s probably passed out drunk. He heads straight to his own room, locking the door behind him. Only then—only when he’s alone—does he allow himself to break. A sharp, pathetic sob claws its way out of his throat, ripping through him, unfiltered and ugly. Why do they all do this to him? Why do they all betray him? He didn’t want to hurt Sejanus. Not really. Poor fool. Poor, foolish Sejanus.

But in reality, he is the poorest one.

He pulls out another key and opens the cabinet beneath the television screen. His safe. First, he takes out a bottle of Scotch and a glass. For special occasions.

Alcohol. Weak people drown their sorrows in this poison, yet today he can’t particularly call himself a strong one, can he? He did it to himself. He allowed himself to be so vulnerable again. He forgot that Sejanus Plinth is no lamb—no. He used to be one, but now he gets himself into politics. He is his opponent, his enemy, not his lover. Lover…

He pours himself a glass and practically chokes on it. It doesn’t faze his throat, and he doesn’t even flinch, not after he’s tested so many poisons. Yet, the buzz reaches his mind rather quickly, the state he can allow himself to be in his only faithful company—himself. One mere look at the old portrait of Crassus Snow. If he could only know what his son did. Not with man, but with a man from the district, with Strabo Plinth’s son. Disgusting. Deeply disgusting.

When the buzz of the Scotch settles in—just enough to dull the shame—he reaches for the next item.

The tape.

He’d found it easily enough among Dr. Gaul’s things, tucked away in a small case. She had even dared to blackmail him with it. Pathetic woman.

He slides it into the player and lowers the volume on the television as much as he can.

He always plays that one part. To remind himself of who she really was—or maybe still is—Lucy Gray Baird.

Sometimes, in the dead of night, his mind drifts back to that dim, filthy corner of Panem: District 12. A place that should’ve been wiped off the map.

It’s unlikely she’s still alive. But not… impossibly unlikely. She taught him many things; valuable things. One of them? Never leave loose ends. Never again. He made that mistake once. He won't make it again.

His first sweetheart was a singer. A talented one. She would never allow herself to rot in the dungeons of his presidential palace. And yet… Sometimes she’s the one he still wishes he could see there most.

A bird without wings cannot fly. A singer without a tongue…

At first, he doesn’t dare look at her. He fixes his gaze on the contents of his glass. He listens only to her voice. Even after all these years, he still can’t bring himself to hate it.

But when she begins to sing that verse about living by charms, he lifts his eyes.

That rainbow dress gives him chills. Golden-olive skin, scrubbed clean. Rouged cheeks. Rouged lips. Hair piled high. She was only a girl, really. And back then, he was only a boy. But what kind of boy shoots at his sweetheart like at a bird?

He didn’t have a choice. Did he? She was the one who tried to kill him—with that snake. She couldn’t have known it wasn’t venomous. He did the right thing. He had to. And anyway, she was never truly his. She was a liar. A traitor. A predator wrapped in silk.

He knows he’s there, somewhere behind the scenes. He can see his hair. He hasn’t worn it like that in ages. Watching her. But now, with eyes that are forever different. And she glances—just once, maybe twice—as if she were looking at him. As if. But she lived by charms. He has to remember who she truly was.

And then comes that one line—the one he rewinds every time. She didn’t even sing it to him. Not really. She had the audacity to tell the whole Panem about her real love, Billy Taupe. But Coriolanus likes to pretend she did sing it to him. “You say you won’t love me, I won’t love you neither.”

It wasn’t love. He’s told himself that for years. She didn’t love him. She betrayed him.

Just like Sejanus Plinth is doing it now.

When her performance ends, she reaches out to him. A temptress. And he accepts her. How could he have been such a fool?

His eyes sting again. He doesn’t bother himself with the glass; now he is drinking liquid straight from the bottle. Only when he hears her singing about being six feet under does he feel some kind of relief. She is under the ground, very likely dead. Not a real threat. Only a haunting memory.

And he? He is the monster.

But Sejanus still knows what happened in District 12.

He has that pathetic confession...

With another gulp from the bottle, Coriolanus feels himself caring less and less. He begins to drift—disconnected, weightless—until morning yanks him back to reality with a sharp knock on the door.

With horror, he realizes the tape is still playing. Fucking snakes. He scrambles for the remote and shuts it off.

“Are you in there?” Her annoying voice.

He sighs loudly, quickly shoving the tape back into the safe, along with the half-empty bottle of whiskey.

“Yes,” he confirms, swallowing past the dryness in his throat.

Coriolanus catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror—he fell asleep in his clothes, and he looks awful. He runs a hand through his hair, smooths it back, then sprays his mouth with breath freshener.

Finally, he cracks the door open, staring at Livia with narrowed eyes.

“What do you want?” he asks flatly, skipping any pretense of courtesy.

She says nothing.

Instead, she simply holds out her hand.

“I wanted to show you something, Coriolanus,” she says softly, like she never does.

A pregnancy test. Two lines.

“Oh,” is all he manages to say before raising his eyes to her face. The face he hates. “What wonderful news, my love.”

Chapter Text

The day after the party at the Parliament, Livia Snow spends half the morning in the restroom. The memories of the previous night are still blurry, but painfully persistent. Her blabbering in public. Drunken steps. Smeared lipstick. Clemensia… As she recalls what she said to somebody, she would call her only friend, another wave of nausea hits. She blinks nervously, as if she could erase those humiliating memories — but it’s of no use. Does she care about Yago more than she even realized? He was supposed to be just a bit of fun, not… something real. And anyway, he was probably done with her now, after witnessing her unnecessary cruelty.

Livia stares at her swollen face in the mirror and doesn’t enjoy this view.

The worst part? She runs into Coriolanus in the hallway. He’s already on his way somewhere, as always. He doesn’t say a word — just looks at her, and for today, it’s enough. Those piercing opal eyes, fixed on her with contempt, are enough to make her feel even worse. She knows he doesn’t care about anything more in this world than public image. And in his eyes, she disgraced him yesterday.

"We were supposed to go to Festus and Persephone," she still reminds him, even though Coriolanus, for some reason she can't understand, always avoids Persephone at all costs.

All she gets in reply is his crooked smile.

“Oh, my dear, I’m quite busy today,” he says, already putting on his shoes. “And maybe try to compose yourself first… before we go public next time.”

She doesn’t honor him with any remark, nothing noteworthy. In her current state, it would be pathetic.

Back in her room, she hesitantly reaches for her phone to call Yago. She knows she shouldn’t. Clinging to a man, desperate for any man — if her mother taught her anything (and to be fair, it wasn’t much), it was to keep her dignity. And yet, today, Livia craves even the faintest flicker of tenderness. Yago answers her phone, though she hears his voice sounds different today, more distant. Is he so angry about yesterday? She tries to sweeten him, at all costs. But then she calms down. He suggests running away. He is still devoted to her.

Livia takes a deep breath, and in that moment, it finally hits her — she can’t run. There’s no escape from Coriolanus Snow. He wouldn’t let her go. No, they’re bound to torment each other until the end of their lives in this pathetic, miserable marriage.

Yago refuses to see her this weekend. She’s sure that “visiting family” is just a silly excuse. And then, unexpectedly, he asks what she’s wearing.

Livia closes her eyes, and for a moment, everything else fades. She just listens to Yago’s low, hoarse voice — the kind that makes her melt. God, he always sounded so fucking hot.

He tells her how his hands would glide beneath her nightgown, fingertips tracing the curves of her hips like he’s owning them. How he’d slowly slide her panties down her thighs, savoring every inch of exposed skin. How his mouth would follow, his tongue teasing its way between her legs, kissing the insides of her thighs until she’s trembling. He tells her how he’d touch her skin with the pads of his fingers, first soft, then firmer, more possessive, until she can’t tell whether she’s aching or melting. How he’d suck her until she’s gasping his name, until she’s begging him not to stop.

And then, his voice becomes even lower. How he’d press her against the wall, one hand tangled in her hair, the other gripping her waist, and fuck her for last night — for everything she said, everything she made him feel — until she breaks, crying out with a mix of pleasure and punishment.

Livia comes, muffling the sounds of her pleasure in the blanket.

They hang up, and she’s left alone — and for the first, but not the last time that day, she regrets getting her period at all.

***

Livia sits in the limousine, glancing at herself in the mirror. The swelling on her face has faded, thanks to cold water, and she’s squeezed herself into shapewear that’s painfully uncomfortable, especially considering her bloating.

She isn’t even sure which of the girls is celebrating her birthday — Melinoë or Elaris. What a stupid custom, anyway, to invite adults to children’s parties. At first glance, Festus and Persephone’s daughters look the same. They both have thick, warm brown hair like Persephone’s, and eyes the color of amber. But Elaris is probably the less lucky one, having inherited some of Festus’s features. He’s not exactly ugly, but he’s always been angular and broad. Livia would even say district. The girl isn’t ugly, but next to Melinoë, who glows with effortless grace, Elaris seems to be heavier. Broad bones, dark, curly hair, and a slightly olive complexion. Not ugly—just… dirtier. Like a peasant girl from the Districts.

And Melinoë? She is stunning. Just like Persephone, who was always one of the prettiest girls, maybe only second to Clemensia. Clemensia before… Livia closes her eyes, cringing with shame.

Was it always jealousy? That she wasn’t beautiful enough? More like Elaris when she was a little girl? She wasn’t unattractive, not really. But her face wasn’t that pretty. Not like Clemensia’s — with her high cheekbones, feline eyes, smooth skin, and those sleek black strands of hair. Not like Persephone’s sweet face, full lips, almond-shaped eyes, and a shock of wild, curly brown hair.

Livia was more... ordinary. No one ever desired her. Boys didn’t lose their minds over her. Maybe that’s why, when Coriolanus Snow laid his eyes on her, despite the hatred she’d carried for him her entire life, she felt chosen. Beautiful. Admired.

Anyway, Livia hopes Clemensia couldn’t make it today. Usually, she’s too busy — fashion shows, some boring meeting where they need pretty faces, whatever else — to attend every one of the Academy classmates’ events. Keeping in touch with them always feels forced, anyway. Livia isn’t sure whether it’s the trauma they all shared years ago or something else that still brings them together. Arachne didn’t make it. She would always remain the eighteen-year-old girl she once was. Still, Livia can almost hear her shrill voice in her head. And she remembers that night, when they stole cosmetics from Livia’s mother's bag and did each other’s makeup. Arachne never pretended to be someone she wasn’t. That’s what set her apart from all of them.

Yet, as the car pulls up in front of the Creeds’ estate, Livia already spots Clemensia’s slender figure on the veranda. She almost wants to back out, but instead, she accepts a glass of champagne from a servant and downs it in one gulp.

***

The party is, to put it modestly, awkward. Livia sits next to a table with a forced smile. It turns out that Elaris is having her seventh birthday today, but Livia bought the girls two identical dolls. Clemensia, who sits across from her, avoids eye contact every time Livia tries to meet her gaze. Festus, as usual, throws out a few stupid jokes, and everybody pretends they are funny. He doesn’t miss the question about Coriolanus, and Livia finds it hard to pretend it’s fine between them. Yet, hearing whether "Coryo busy organizing the Games?", she simply confirms.

Lysistrata — who, it seems, still hangs around out of old sentiment — is, after all, a renowned surgeon, and she’s engaged to a woman named Lavinia, whom she met at the hospital. Yes, a woman. And she isn’t even embarrassed about it, which surprises Livia. That kind of preference isn’t exactly welcomed among the Capitol elite. The distance between them feels painful. Livia, living a life she might vaguely describe as that of a trophy wife, often feels like she has the least interesting things to say. Persephone has her daughters and Creed’s love — he still follows her around like a dog, even after all these years. Livia stops herself from rolling her eyes. Clemensia is a model, and she's always been sharp. And Lysistrata is, again, a renowned surgeon.

So Livia simply sits there, glancing at her watch, until Clemensia gets up to go to the bathroom. Livia seizes the moment.

"I'll go with you," she says, her voice honeyed.

As they walk away from the table, Clemensia still doesn't spare her even a glance. Livia swallows hard and lets her eyes drift across the walls of the Creeds’ home. Paintings everywhere — landscapes, pretty young women. She herself used to love drawing, even painting, years ago. But art isn’t particularly valued in the Capitol. Yet when they turn down a corridor, her stomach clenches. What kind of painting is that…? A man devouring a body, a young body. Horrifying.

She finally looks at Clemensia."Clemmie," she says softly, "I'm really… sorry about yesterday. I was drunk."

She rarely apologizes. Almost never. When she fights with Coriolanus, they just pretend that nothing bad happened between them.

"So being drunk justifies what you said?" she asks coldly.

"No… I just…" Livia falters. "Listen, I’m just sometimes…" she sighs, blinking away tears, "I’m not always as happy with Coriolanus as everyone seems to think."

Clemensia lets out a sound that could be a laugh. "Really?" she finally looks at her with those cat-like eyes. "Who would’ve guessed?"

Livia says nothing, embarrassed. So it was that obvious?

"You know, Liv…" Clemensia continues, reaching for the door handle, "This competition you think you won?" She pauses. "It was only in your head."

"What?" Livia echoes, her brows narrowing.

Clemensia stops and turns fully toward her. "No one wanted to marry him, Liv. That was all in your head. That you had competition," she says. "And you should…" she adds, winding a strand of Livia’s hair around her finger, her champagne-sweet breath brushing against Livia’s cheek, "Ask him what happened to me. Because… it wasn’t the flu, my dear."

Then she walks away, leaving Livia alone in the corridor, facing that terrifying painting.

***

When Lysistrata and Clemensia, who had finally softened and seemed to accept her apology, leave, Livia decides to stay. She doesn’t want to be alone in Snow’s penthouse. In truth, she hates that dump. Her parents spent a fortune trying to make it livable, and she still couldn’t understand why Coriolanus insisted on keeping it. Renovating this ruin was like reanimating a corpse. The Creed house, by contrast, is spacious, full of light, modern, and decorated tastefully in shades of beige.

Now she’s sitting with Persephone, who is brushing little Melinoë’s long hair, both sipping tea. Livia absently plays with a doll alongside Elaris, her thoughts far away. Festus has vanished with Hilarius Heavensbee to go play golf.

"Don’t you get bored?" Livia finally asks.

"What do you mean?" Persephone replies with a smile. She’s always been like that — cheerful, kind, disarmingly sympathetic. Livia wonders what it must feel like to be someone like her.

"Staying at home," Livia clarifies.

"Oh," Persephone chuckles, but nothing is mocking in it. "Liv, I don’t have time to be bored. I have my girls, and they’re…" she looks up and meets her gaze, "always with me."

She doesn’t ask why Livia and Coriolanus don’t have children yet. Persephone isn’t nosy.

"And you’re not… tired?" Livia asks in a quieter voice.

Persephone shrugs. "Sometimes. But I have avoxes to help, and they’re…" she waves a hand casually, "little angels."

Livia stares into Elaris’s deep eyes as the girl gently moves the doll's arms. So much like Festus Creed, she thinks, with a quiet, almost cruel clarity.

"And you know, they need me a lot," Persephone adds, her voice soft but full of quiet certainty. “Always.”

Need her. To be needed by someone. A strange feeling stirs in Livia’s gut as she gazes at Melinoë and Elaris in turn. To be needed.

It would be something new.

***

There’s nothing rational about Livia starting to have sex with Yago without protection. But it just happens the next time they meet.

He looks awful. His skin was even paler than usual, with dark circles etched beneath his eyes. And what’s more, he’s missing a finger.

"What happened?" she asks, stunned, studying his hand with horror.

He just gives her a faint, tired smile. "You wouldn’t believe me," he says quietly.

But in that moment, she’s also overflowing with fear. What if something happened to him? She kisses his face frantically, especially his lips that still smell faintly of tobacco. "Be careful," she whispers to him. And that night, under the fragile weight of everything unspoken, they tell each other they’re in love.

But something in her twists. She feels it in her bones — Coriolanus had something to do with it. Was he so jealous that Yago had simply driven her home? Or… did he suspect something more? A wave of unease rises in her. She remembers his touch — once at a party — just a little too firm when she flirted with some official. "You’re mine."

Coriolanus had never been violent, not really. She’d even had to coax him into being rougher in bed. Which made it all the more grotesque that he could organize the Hunger Games year after year, without flinching as another tribute died a brutal, televised death.

But toward her? No, he’d never laid a hand. Still… if he knew she was cheating? Everything could change.

And yet — Livia doesn’t care anymore.

If he’s cheating on her, then so can she. She even stops being careful. Yago, too, seems to stop caring. When she says to him, “Let’s have a baby,” he grins and replies, “That’s a wonderful idea, my queen.” She starts inviting him to the penthouse more and more often — fucking him everywhere. On the kitchen table. On the cabinets. On the couch. Let every goddamn corner of that Snow’s penthouse reek of betrayal. Let the entire Snow legacy be soaked in fucking. Let Coriolanus eat his breakfast at the table where her lover had her the night before.

If only she had the keys to his room, she would do it there too, right on his bed. Coriolanus, for his part, seems also to have stopped caring altogether. He disappears for longer stretches now, and when he finally does return one night, he has sex with her, probably out of some lingering sense of duty. But Livia can feel it, deep in her bones — she is the last thing on his mind while it’s happening.

The pregnancy tests bring only disappointment. It’s much harder than she thought — every single one says she isn’t pregnant. But her mind becomes consumed. An obsession. She finds herself staring at mothers on the street — with babies in strollers, in parks, on playgrounds. She wants one so badly. She imagines what a child of hers and Yago’s would look like. She even starts living healthier — goes on long walks, cuts back on treatments, tries to eat properly. She stares at a wall scrawled with graffiti: “Stop killing children.” She stops drinking wine. Yago doesn’t even smoke around her. And then, the day comes. Two lines.

Her entire world pauses, but what fills her isn’t fear or doubt. It’s joy. Pure, radiant joy. She won’t be useless anymore. No one will ever call her useless again.

And that same day, with a kind of calm certainty that surprises even her, she decides she will leave her husband.

Livia puts on the red dress — Yago’s favorite — when heading to the hotel. Black heels. A ribbon tied her hair back in a bow. Would their child have her blue-gray eyes? No… better — Yago’s blue-green ones. If it’s a girl, she’ll be beautiful. Maybe she’ll have black hair and pale skin. And she’ll inherit Livia’s figure. And a boy? Tall like Yago. If it were Coriolanus’s child, they'd be short — cursed with his pathetic five-foot-eight height.

Livia can’t wait to tell him. She takes a cab to the usual hotel — nothing fancy, somewhere on the outskirts. A little dusty, dimly lit inside. They should probably find a better place, she thinks critically, heels clicking against the icy sidewalk.

At first, Yago buries his head in his hands, listening. Then, without a word, he lifts her — throws her gently up into his arms.

“I’m going to be… I’m going to be a father,” he says, almost in disbelief.

But then his face shifts. Grows serious. And something in Livia sinks — sharp and cold.

“Livia, I need…. I need to tell you something. And you may not like that.”

He smiles faintly, but he’s sweating — beads of sweat glistening on his forehead, his dark shirt already damp with it.

So this is it, she thinks. This is where he says it was all a mistake. That he doesn’t really want this. That she should go back to her husband.

But what she hears is so much worse.

Her mouth falls open — and keeps falling open — wider and wider as he speaks. As the truth spills out.

Yago Trivane. No… not Trivane. Yago Tobber. He was supposed to spy on Coriolanus — he had been doing it for years — but earning his trust had taken time. And now they wanted to stop him. He is a madman. Dangerous. They are getting close — so close — to end him, but for now, it is best if Livia stays away from Coriolanus. Move out. Run away.

Her mind refuses to grasp it, to pull the pieces together. Her lover, for over two years now — or more, who even counts — was nothing more than a fucking spy. He wasn’t hers. He was never hers. It had always been about Coriolanus Snow. She pressed her lips together, fighting back the tears of betrayal threatening to spill down her face.

“Livia, I had to tell you now,” Yago says, frantic. “Now that we’re going to be parents… You can’t stay with him. It’s dangerous. You don’t know what he’s capable of—”

“I don’t understand,” she snaps, yanking her hand out of his grip.

“Livia, I know this is insane, I know it sounds insane, but I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t keep lying to you…” his voice breaks. “God, I thought I had more time.”

She stares at him, her vision blurring with fury. She’d been played. For years. She thought someone could love her. Who would love you? Love doesn’t exist, her mother once said. Not for people like us.

“I don’t know how you can be,” Livia hears how unpleasantly her voice sounds now — low, sharp, bitter — “so stupid to tell me any of that?”

Yago blinks, confused. “Livia…” he says, reaching out for her hand again.

“You really are a fucking idiot for telling me that,” she says coldly, rising to her feet.

“What are you — Livia, what are you doing?” he asks, bewildered.

His boyish eyes fill suddenly with sorrow.

“Livia, I get it… But this stopped being just a mission a long time ago. I didn’t mean for it to go that far…. Lord, I’m telling you this to protect you. I fell — I fell in love with you. You know that.”

“You were pretending you’re so love in me, fucking me because for what? To find something about my husband?” she says.

“Livia, it’s not like that. I love. You know that,” Yago assures her frantically.

Livia smirks. “No. I don’t.”

“Livia…” he pleads, stepping toward her.

“What?” she snaps, lifting her gaze to meet his. Her hand itches to slap him. To tear at him. To bite off his other goddamn finger. Her whole body trembles as she stares him down.

Yago gestures wildly, his pale skin flushing with anger.

“He’s rotten to the core, Livia! Don’t you see that?” Yago suddenly bursts out. “Do you support what he’s doing? He’s murdering children every year, and…”

“The Hunger Games are a tradition,” Livia recites flatly. “They preserve peace in Panem.”

Yago shakes his head in disbelief. “Livia, do you even believe that? Snow is a madman. When he gets power… He’s dangerous. These children are tortured! And… He’ll get rid of you the second you stop being useful.”

Livia smiles slowly. “But now… I will be useful.”

“What?” Yago falters.

“Now he’ll need me,” she says, brushing her fingers across her stomach.

Yago goes pale. “You’re not serious… No…” His voice cracks. “Livia, you can’t be serious. It’s my child.”

“How can you know that?” This question is aimed at nothing but to make him suffer. And she achieves it, he notes with satisfaction. First came the pain. Then the anger. How pathetic he is. He even has tears in his eyes.

“Livia… You can’t…”

Livia lets out a humorless laugh. "What do you think my husband will do when he finds out you’re a fucking traitor?" she says. "This time," she adds, stepping closer, "it won’t be a finger. It’ll be your head."

***

It’s only once she’s back in Snow’s penthouse that Livia allows herself to break. A raw, ugly, disgusting cry. The kind that contorts your face and leaves you gasping for air. She doesn’t look pretty when she cries, so she always does it alone.

Yago had even threatened her — dared to do it — with what would happen if she said a word. He’d looked truly furious, like he might strangle her. But in the end, he let her go.

Livia doesn’t know what to do with any of it. She fights the temptation to reach for a bottle of wine. But in the end, the decision is easy. She needs what’s best for herself and for the baby. And what could possibly be better than being the President’s wife? There is nothing better in this world. Whoever the baby really belongs to — because deep down, she knows she can never be entirely certain — she could pass it off as Coriolanus’s. Dark hair? She dyes hers anyway. That’s easy enough to explain. Besides… She has a feeling that even if Coriolanus did know the child wasn’t his, he wouldn’t care. Not really. He’s too obsessed with one thing. To have an heir. And public image, of course. What a disgrace it would be if his wife cheated on him.

Now, they are even.

Livia tries to erase the memory of Yago’s fingers on her skin. He’s a traitor. Just another lunatic who believes the world can be a good place. And the Hunger Games? She didn’t invent them. Neither did Coriolanus Snow. It’s not their fault they exist. Her heart skips a beat when she hears the door open in the middle of the night. Coriolanus? At this hour? It’s not usual. For a moment — or two — she thinks she hears some kind of low wailing. But she doesn’t dare disturb him. Not for anything. Livia waits until morning, though she doesn’t sleep a single second. When Coriolanus appears at his door, he looks — and smells — like a drunk off the street. Unbelievable, for him. Though, in fairness, he’s always preferred cologne with a hint of decay.

But not like Yago — he doesn’t have a plebeian reaction. Doesn’t break. Instead, with a faint smile and eyes that reveal absolutely nothing, he simply says: “What wonderful news, my love.”

Since that moment on, everything has changed — though Livia isn’t quite sure how. He disappears into his room to get ready, just like always. But then he reappears and suggests, “Eggs, my dear? You must eat for two now. And you’re ridiculously thin anyway — wouldn’t be good for the baby.” He serves her perfect sunny-side-up eggs with toast and freshly squeezed orange juice. That evening, he doesn’t vanish — even though it’s the weekend. Instead, he massages her back… and even her feet, while they watch “The Rich Wives of the Capitol”. His lips, unexpectedly, brush her temples, and his arms are gently wrapped around her waist.

”Now I think everything needs to change,” he whispers, stroking her hair. “For the baby.”

If there had been an affair — and maybe it was just her paranoia — it has to be over now. Coriolanus, of course, still goes to work, but he no longer returns late at night. He is taking her on walks for ice cream. He is charming. “You look beautiful, my love. Pregnancy suits you,” he keeps repeating.

She might even believe they love each other — if it weren’t completely and utterly impossible.

Livia blocks Yago’s number.

Deletes the message thread. Erases the call history.

Like, Yago never even existed. And by the end, did they ever really know each other? Just two strangers, fucking. She’d miss even his cock. His big hands. Maybe his smile.

But still…

She says nothing about him to Coriolanus.

Chapter Text

Sejanus sits in the chair, eyes closed, hard cock in his hand. He strokes himself rhythmically — up, down — tightening his grip at the top.

There’s only one image burning on his mind.

Coriolanus Snow, on his knees in front of a mirror, a gag in his mouth.

"You drool for me like a filthy whore, Snow," he’d said back then. "Like a cheap, desperate slut."

Coriolanus only managed a breath, muffled something against the silicone. He hated it when Sejanus spoke to him like that. A man from the district humiliating him like that? Sejanus Plinth speaking to him that way? It must have hurt his pride. But his cock had still been hard as fuck as he knelt before him, eyes lowered to the floor, breathing heavy, like he was ashamed to even have a face.

Sejanus had dragged the riding crop down that perfect, infuriating body, starting from the tip of his cock, past his pale chest, until it reached his neck. There is still a burn scar on his back, after the arena, the only trace that he was human once. But what of it? Alabaster skin. A flat stomach. Narrow shoulders. Soft, delicate ass. And that cock, standing hard — for him. Hard for Sejanus.

He traced the crop back up, slowly, stopping just under Coriolanus’s chin, lifting it, forcing their eyes to meet.

"Gorgeous whore," Sejanus whispered. "The most gorgeous whore in the world."

Then down again — along his spine — before he brought it down hard across his ass. A brutal smack. Now their eyes met in the mirror, Coriolanus’s face flushed with anger.

“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t like it. You're about to be fucked so hard you’ll see stars.”

Then — sex. The kind that blurred into violence. Fingers yanking the gag strap, the sound of skin, the smell of sweat, and want. And later, whispered against blond damp hair: “I love you, Coryo. I love you.”

It was that moment when they both reached their climax. Coriolanus letting out shameful cries of pleasure. Coriolanus’s tight hole gripping Sejanus's cock like it was trying to keep him inside forever.

Yet, nothing is forever.

Memories are so vivid, Sejanus feels as if experiencing it all again.

He comes with a violent shudder, the orgasm tearing through him like a spasm. Just for a moment, two, maybe three — it’s only empty, pure pleasure.

Then comes the rest.

The tears start fast, too fast to stop. Sharp and broken, barely even a sound. Churro pads into the room, ears perked, anxious.

“I’m okay, Churro,” Sejanus chokes out. “I’m okay.”

But he isn’t. Nothing is okay after what happened.

He had everything he ever wanted, which is so pathetic. Longing for a man who betrayed you? Loving a man who does the most awful things in the world?

Sejanus stands up awkwardly from the chair, grabbing a tissue and wiping himself off with mechanical detachment. Then he moves straight to the bar, pours himself a full glass of whiskey, and downs it without flinching.

Every time he closes his eyes, all he can see are those cursed eyes. That blond hair. That perfect fucking face — the one he wants so badly to hate, but he can’t bring himself to. Two days ago, he’d even brought home a young man from the club. It took exactly three minutes. The guy started undressing, and Sejanus just stared, frozen. “Get the fuck out,” he’d said flatly. Then nearly burst into tears. The guy called him a psycho as he slammed the door. And honestly, who could argue? Sejanus is very aware that he is a lunatic.

“Churro,” he whispers, sinking to his knees beside the dog and wrapping his arms around him tightly. He buries his face in the soft fur. Who would take care of him if Sejanus weren’t around? Would Ma manage? She has servants, of course. But still… Churro doesn’t lick his face this time. He just looks at him. “I know you hate when I drink,” Sejanus murmurs, rubbing behind the dog’s ears. “I’ll stop. I promise.”

He had expected to be dead weeks ago. After what happened, he was sure Coriolanus would’ve done something. Had someone arrested him. Question him. Destroy him. But nothing came. The days passed like nothing had changed — except for him.

And now Sejanus is starting to think maybe… maybe he imagined it all. Maybe he’d invented sex. Invented the things they’d done. The things Coriolanus had let him do. The things he’d begged for.

Because Coriolanus is polite, as always. Charming, even. He doesn’t avoid him. He is saying hello in the hallway. He asks, in front of others, how his day has been. He doesn’t mock Sejanus after his speeches anymore — not like before, when he’d smirk or say something or humiliate him. Now, he just sits still. Expression blank. Eyes empty.

He doesn’t care about him. Not at all. The thought hits Sejanus like a blade to the gut — a physical pain so sharp, so tight, he can’t eat. He’s already lost several pounds. He’s stopped running in the mornings. His fingers twitch at the thought, an almost tickling, needling sensation — like dozens of tiny needles dancing under his skin. He cries when he thinks about it. About how completely indifferent Coriolanus is to him now. As if he never mattered at all.

But he won’t beg. No — he’d rather choke himself with his own hands this time than crawl back to someone who believes the Hunger Games are a necessity, that they are something that should exist in this world. Sejanus could take him again, sure — in that office, over the desk. Could shove something up that smug, stupid ass, whip him raw. But what would be the point? There is no point. Nothing means anything anymore.

What’s worse, he heard it in the hallway. Coriolanus, boasting — casually, as always — that Livia was expecting a child.

Not his, Sejanus had thought immediately. It couldn’t be. But did it even matter? Perfect couple. May they never be the presidential couple.

The meeting with Quintus Draven is today. And Sejanus knows — finally — that he has to say it. Confess. Admit how stupid he’d been. How reckless. How weak. Nothing new, right? Sejanus has been this way his whole life.

There are only fifty days left until the Hunger Games. Fifty.

And Sejanus has no idea how they were supposed to stop them. Coriolanus is giving his exposé tomorrow, very likely announcing his campaign. Once he does, it will all begin. There would be no stopping him.

Maybe it would be easier to kill himself than to keep enduring this. Maybe it had been easier to fuck him, and ruin every belief Sejanus held sacred.

No.

The thought alone sends rage flaring through his chest.

He is more than that. More than Coriolanus’s shadow. More than his lapdog. More than some discarded obsession.

Sejanus yanks the iron over the shirt with a hard, angry swipe. Presses every crease with fury. Then he gets dressed: navy blue suit, matching trousers. He looks neat and clean.

Yet, definitely, not in his right mind.

***

Quintus Draven, as always, sits in semi-darkness when he receives Sejanus. Yet today, the very thought of this meeting makes acid rise in Sejanus’s throat. Yago is already there, seated beside the round table. So again, just the three of them?

Sejanus adjusts his shirt and shakes Quintus’s hand. Then does the same with Yago, his eyes lingering on the bandage around man’s left hand. He’s been wearing it for weeks — probably doesn’t need to anymore. Sejanus doesn’t fully know what happened, since Yago has been sparing with details, but it’s for sure Coriolanus’s work. In the cave. How petty and small a person Coriolanus Snow is.

“Well, today…” Quintus begins, “I wanted to congratulate you. Sejanus, good work with the distraction. You diverted Snow’s attention for weeks, since his last meeting with the President didn’t go too well."

Sejanus smiles faintly. He can’t just sit here and listen to praise when it isn’t true.

“Well, I need to tell you something,” he says, feeling his palms go damp with sweat.

Yago, for now, is surprisingly silent.

“I’m listening?” Quintus leans slightly over the round table.

“I… A few weeks ago, Coriolanus discovered… Coriolanus and I had… some kind of… thing. I wanted to distract him like that,” Sejanus says carefully. “The documents I prepared for the president. The ones you asked me for… about the Hunger Games, the costs… He found it and got incredibly angry with me,” he trails off, not daring to look at either of them.

The silence in the room is so awkward, Sejanus wants to jump out the window — even though it’s the second floor, so probably it wouldn’t end well for him.

“And you’re telling me this now?” Quintus asks. His voice is dry as dust.

“I…I… ” Sejanus stammers, lifting his gaze slightly toward his severe face.

“You what?” Quintus snaps. “Do you know what you could’ve done by hiding that?”

“But he…” Sejanus exhales. “He didn’t discover any of you. Only me. He thinks I’m just unstable, that I’m plotting behind his back. It was completely safe for you,” he assures, though he’s not sure he believes it himself.

"Something more?" Quintus asks.

"No, that's all," Sejanus replies, not without a hint of shame.

"Good thing it didn't ruin our plans," Quintus notes coldly, but then Yago steps in.

“Maybe I have also… something to say,” he cuts in, and Quintus turns his weary eyes to him.

“I told Livia,” Yago says. “I told her the truth.”

“You did what?!” Quintus roars so loud Sejanus feels like his eardrums might burst.

“I… She’s pregnant with my child,” Yago explains. “We were… she was supposed to leave Snow. I needed to tell her the truth.”

“I don’t believe this! I simply don’t believe it!” Quintus shouts, waving his hands, face red with anger. Sejanus fears he’s about to have a heart attack or that pulsating vein on his forehead might burst.

He stands up so fast his chair screeches across the floor. “You idiots,” he hisses. “Both of you. And you, Yago… especially you. You didn’t need to tell her anything, for fuck’s sake! Did she tell Snow anything?”

“And what do you think? If she had, we wouldn’t be sitting here right now,” Yago spits back.

Sejanus stiffens, and Yago doesn’t dare to look up.

"You think this is a fucking game?" Quintus hisses. "You’re playing at revolution while fucking the man who runs the Capitol and his wife?! Can you two keep it in your pants for five minutes?"

Sejanus would prefer not to answer this question.

"You said it like we’re fucking them both, and that’s not true..." Yago says, but noticing his uncle’s gaze, he gets silence.

Quintus slams his fist on the table. “That’s not the point! You’ve nearly ruined this,” he says. “You’ve both nearly ruined this. I should cut you out now.”

Sejanus exchanges a look with Yago. Well, at least he’d been worse than him. Sejanus would never have confessed anything to Coriolanus.

“But well,” Quintus says suddenly, brushing the air with his hand, “the truth is… It doesn’t matter.”

“What?” Yago asks, confused.

“I said it doesn’t matter.” Quintus exhales, almost sounding out of breath. “I invited you two here to celebrate. I have some good news.”

Sejanus straightens in his seat.

“Tomorrow, after Coriolanus gives his exposé,” Quintus goes on, “he’ll be arrested. I convinced the President that Snow’s lost his sanity — between the incident with the finger and the... disturbing way he’s planning this year’s Games. The mood in the districts isn’t exactly cheerful, especially after he announced that people would be voting for tributes. So, well… the President wants to cancel the Games before the end of his term and propose his nephew as successor. Some idiot from the aristocracy, but that doesn’t matter. Better than Snow."

“He wants to cancel the Hunger Games?” Sejanus asks, confused. “Why didn’t he do it earlier?”

Quintus shrugs. “Because he didn’t dare. Not until Snow gave him the perfect excuse. And the way he's planning this year’s Games... well, it makes it clear he’s not in his right mind. It would cost the Capitol a fortune, and the cave system still doesn’t transmit signals properly.”

“So it was thanks to me! I knew it! I was the one who suggested it to him!” Yago bursts in, but he's ignored.

Sejanus clears his throat, trying not to show that the message has any effect on him. “Coriolanus said the President supports his candidacy.”

Quintus chuckles darkly. “Supports him? He just kept his distance, but Snow’s been under his spotlight for a long time. He’s been testing him.”

Sejanus has never wanted anything more than for the Hunger Games to end — has he? He stares down at his hands and forces a smile. This is the end. And he was a part of it. Nearly ruined it — but didn’t. It’s also thanks to him.

“The President needed a scapegoat — not a revolution,” Quintus continues. “He needs someone to blame. And that someone will be… Guess who,” he ends with a smile.

Yago lets out a stunned laugh. “That’s... that’s incredible. That’s wonderful news! Fucking motherufkcer will finally get what he deserves.”

Sejanus joins in their laughter, laughing far too loudly until his stomach starts to hurt and a wave of nausea rises.

“But not thanks to you, Yago,” Quintus snaps.

“Oh, really? Want me to remind you I lost a finger?” Yago hisses. “And I suggested to him this idea!”

“Because I told you so,” Quintus notes. “And are you going to cry about that finger for the rest of your life?” he fires back. “Besides, we’ll get you a prosthetic.”

“Don’t forget about me, I deserve some credit too,” Sejanus says, faking a proud tone. “I’m the one who distracted him, after all.”

“Okay, fine, we’re all geniuses,” Quintus mutters. “So? Shall we drink to that?”

Sejanus doesn’t say anything — because he doesn’t feel like celebrating. He wants to scream until his lungs give out, tear his hair out, and collapse in sobs. They don’t need to say it aloud. He knows exactly what it means that they need a scapegoat.

They’re going to kill him. Execute him. Coriolanus Snow will be dead. Sejanus will never touch his skin again, skin that smells faintly of rose petals. He will never hear that soft, poisonous voice again. And Sejanus loves him. God, he loves him so much. If Coriolanus had been just slightly better, just a little less cruel, they could have been happy. Perfect, even.

“Yes, great news,” he agrees cheerfully, accepting the drink they hand him, and shows nothing on his face.

But he makes an excuse to leave quickly — something about his dog not feeling well. He slips out. In the car, he lights a cigarette Yago gave him. The cool spring air brushes his skin through the open window.

“No. You’re not doing this,” he tells himself, dragging hard — only four quick pulls before he stubs it out. He locks himself in the car. “You’re not doing this,” he whispers again, staring at his reflection in the mirror. Those bags under his eyes. Tear-filled eyes. Dehydrated skin. You can tell he cries every day. Pathetic.

He’ll go home. He’ll go to sleep. Tomorrow, he’ll watch the speech and see Coriolanus arrested. At the execution, he’ll sit in the front row. He’ll toast with champagne. He’ll smile at the sound of his neck snapping. He’ll stare into his dead eyes. He deserves it. For all the lives Coriolanus has taken, he deserves it.

But Sejanus knows none of that is true. Not really. Not in his gut. Not in the part of him that still loves Coriolanus Snow more than he’s ever loved anything in his life.

"You won’t do it. Fuck, you won’t do it," Sejanus mutters, still looking at his tear-streaked face in the mirror as he starts riding. "You won’t fucking do it, you pathetic loser!" he shouts at his reflection, at himself, at what’s left of his will.

But he doesn’t drive in the direction of his house.

“No, you won’t do it, you can’t do it,” he still maniacally repeats to himself.

It’s stupid. Ridiculous, even. They could be following him. They could execute him as well. He can’t go there. No, not directly. He needs to ditch the car first. So he pulls over on a narrow side street, somewhere near the city center.

Sejanus’s chest tightens. Is he doing it? Not. Not possible. He can barely breathe. And then, without thinking, he slams his forehead into the steering wheel. Once. Twice. Again.

"You can’t do it," he still whispers to himself. Then louder, trembling, "He deserves to rot. Out of everyone in this fucking Capitol, he deserves to die the most."

Each thud dull, pathetic, but somehow not enough. Because then, suddenly, Sejanus opens the door, and the cold air hits his face. It doesn’t even sober him up. His legs move before his thoughts do.

And he goes in the direction of this cursed penthouse.

Sejanus rushes through the streets of the Capitol like a madman, barely keeping from tripping over his own feet. He glances at his watch — it’s already past nine. Not exactly visiting hours. But it doesn’t matter. He bursts into the building of Snow’s penthouse — the one he’s driven past so many times — and bolts up the stairs.

Top floor.

He skips two steps at a time, heart pounding louder than his thoughts. He could still turn back. There’s still time to drop this ridiculous idea.

But his fists are already slamming against the penthouse door, and he hears movement from inside.

A moment later, the door opens — and standing in the doorway is none other than a female Avox, her gaze silently questioning. But behind her, Livia Snow appears, waving the girl off with a flick of her wrist.

“Oh... It’s you,” she says, unimpressed.

“I need...” Sejanus gasps, still breathless, “I need to speak to Coriolanus. It’s urgent.”

“Can’t it wait until morning?” Livia asks, raising a brow, not opening the door even an inch wider.

“No.”

She stares at him, visibly annoyed. God, she’s awful, Sejanus thinks. What does he even see in her? Too skinny. Mousy face. Barely-there lashes. That sharp, unpleasant mouth. Since childhood, he remembers her as no one else but awful — the worst of them all. Spiteful, without reason. Hating him on sight. Always snapping at Coriolanus, mocking him every chance she got. Why did he marry her? Why her, of all people? He doesn’t love her; this one is certain.

But for sure, she is everything Sejanus isn’t.

“Coriolanus! One of your little admirers has come crawling,” she screeches in that shrill, unbearable voice and turns away.

Only then does Sejanus notice the slight curve of her belly — small, but unmistakable.

And then he appears in the doorway, after a few long moments that feel like eternity. Black pants. A crisp white shirt. Does he dress like this even at home? At this hour? With Sejanus, he used to be naked. Or in his briefs.

First, Coriolanus’s eyes widen in surprise, then that damn smirk spreads across his face. He narrows the door slightly, eyes sweeping Sejanus from head to toe.

“What happened to that empty head of yours?” he asks.

“I hit it,” Sejanus mutters, now wiping his forehead only to notice it’s bleeding.

“Not the first time, clearly,” Coriolanus replies. “Did you come to beg? I knew you would. But..." he lowers hiv voice, "not here.”

“What?”

“You’ve obviously come to apologize,” Coriolanus says calmly, yet Sejanus notices his hands, hanging loosely at his sides, are trembling.

This should be the moment Sejanus lunges and throws a fist right into that smug, perfect face. Yet, he doesn’t.

“No! Never! Shut up! Shut your fucking mouth!” Sejanus shouts. “Shut up and listen. Tomorrow, you have your exposé, right? You have to say you’re cancelling the Hunger Games. Otherwise they will...” He can barely say it. “They’ll execute you.”

At first, Coriolanus just looks at him with blank indifference. Then he lets out a sharp, humorless laugh.

“Really? Of all the stunts...” He shakes his head. “Sejanus, you seriously need to check into a hospital,” he says, turning on his heel toward his penthouse.

And this should be the moment Sejanus gives up on him for good. But he doesn’t. Not this time either. In that instant, he realizes something awful — maybe he should never have left the asylum.

“Oh, you don’t believe me? You don’t?” Sejanus calls after him.

Coriolanus stops mid-step and glances behind his shoulder.

“I have recordings. Of every meeting I’ve had.”

Chapter Text

Listening to Sejanus’s recordings — hidden away in his room, away from Livia’s curious eyes — Coriolanus simply sits on the bed and buries his face in his hands. Sejanus hadn’t lied, not really. He hadn’t made it up. How could Coriolanus have been so blind as to miss his own downfall? To not see that he was being played by... practically everyone around him?

Sejanus carefully plays only the part he wants Coriolanus to hear — but it’s enough. Quintus Draven. Cursed, treacherous Quintus. Coriolanus should have gotten rid of him long ago. A scapegoat. So that’s what this is? He is the scapegoat? Coriolanus only flinches when the third voice enters the conversation — a little bit hoarse, with a hint of mockery. And Sejanus, without a word, stops the recording. But it’s too late. Coriolanus has already heard everything he needed to.

“It was Yago?” he asks, trying to sound calm.

“I can’t deny it. I can’t confirm either,” Sejanus replies.

Coriolanus lets out a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head. This can’t be true. It simply can’t be true. The presidential chair, which had seemed within arm’s reach, now feels like it is slipping through his fingers, inch by inch, replaced by the stinging touch of a rope tightening around his neck.

In District 12, Coriolanus had promised himself that his life would never collapse again. He would make sure of it. He would guard it with poisons, with observation, with his brilliant mind. He had always been an exceptional man, built for a higher purpose. But now? Now he had been fooled again. And one of the people who played him… was Sejanus Plinth. He seduced him with dirty sex, with shameless acts, with that District charm. Coriolanus should kill him, strangle him without remorse. And yet, glancing at Sejanus now, something else comes to Coriolanus’s mind.

“Why are you…” He lifts his head and stares straight at that face — those big, brown, worried eyes. “Why are you… Sejanus, you’re a fool! A fool! Why are you… You shouldn’t have told me this. You shouldn’t!” he blurts, voice rising in panic. It hits him fully now — none of this will matter. The plan is as reckless as Sejanus Plinth himself, which is saying much enough. He’s going to die. He, Coriolanus Snow, is going to die. He squeezes his eyes shut. But he won’t die alone.

“Now they’ll execute you too, you idiot!” he shouts. “Why?! Why did you tell me?!”

Sejanus hums softly, scuffing his shoe against the floor. “I think you know why,” he says reluctantly.

“No, I don’t!” Coriolanus hisses, turning on him with tear-filled eyes.

“I told you,” Sejanus murmurs, voice heavy with sorrow, “I love you, remember? I couldn’t…” his voice nearly breaks in his throat, “I couldn’t let you die. I just… I just wanted to stop the Hunger Games. That’s all I ever wanted. Not this. Not you dying.”

A grief rises in Coriolanus’s throat, unwelcome and sharp. “After everything I did to you?” he asks quietly.

Sejanus smiles faintly, almost apologetically. “After everything you did to me,” he says softly. “And… you also rescued me.” His voice drops to a near whisper. “And now… now you didn’t kill me.” He swallows, hesitantly, like he's scared of the words before he says them. “That has to mean something… right? You feel something for me. Don’t you?”

His eyes are wide, unsure, but full of hope.

Coriolanus stares at him, disbelieving. How could someone be that naïve? That stupid? That devoted? How? He had wanted to get rid of him — sooner or later, that had been the plan. Or maybe he hadn’t even wanted it.

Maybe it was just a necessity.

“Maybe right,” he says, because maybe he feels something for Sejanus Plinth, how inappropriate it isn’t. How in other way can he excuse his own behavior since he reappeared in his life? “But it doesn’t matter now,” he adds. “Everything is… This is the end.”

“Many times I tried to convince you…” Sejanus says, “to let it go. But I couldn’t tell you why... I just — I never wanted you to die. Never.”

“You could’ve told me earlier!” Coriolanus snaps now, anger rising in his chest. “When I could still do something!”

“Coriolanus, I told you. I love you,” Sejanus says, pale as a ghost, “but I hate the Hunger Games more. I couldn’t tell you outright. But I asked you over and over again to stop this madness.”

“I don’t…” The words escape weakly, pathetic, almost. Coriolanus lowers himself to sit, hands braced on his knees. His voice cracks. “Sejanus… I’m scared. To die.”

Why should he die now? He had always feared it, a little — like he feared anything he couldn’t control. But one day, someday, he was meant to die old, of natural causes, in his eighties, after many years as a successful President. Not now. Not when his child is about to be born. Not when it is only the 25th Hunger Games. It wasn’t supposed to look like this. It was supposed to be him, his First Lady, and his son. It was supposed to be a victory, not a collapse.

“Oh, so now you’re afraid of death?” Sejanus mocks bitterly. “And when it stared at you from the arena, day after day — you didn’t care then?” he asks, stepping closer to him.

Coriolanus feels his own tears now, hot against his cheeks. He tries to wipe them away, as if that could somehow erase this horror.

Yet, Sejanus kneels beside him and rests a hand on Coriolanus’s knee.

“Hey,” he says gently, wiping away tears with his other hand. “I know you’re terrified. I’ve been too. But you need to rewrite the exposé. I’ll... I’ll help you.”

He slowly leans in, wrapping his arm around Coriolanus. At first, Coriolanus wants to shove this fucking traitor away — this fool, this madman. His presence here feels like an offense. Sejanus’s breath smells like tobacco and whiskey. But instead of pushing him off, Coriolanus, trembling, lets himself be held.

He squeezes his eyes shut, turns his head, and kisses Sejanus softly.

How much he missed this — those lips, this hair, this closeness. All these weeks without it — and now it rushes back. Though he promised himself he shouldn’t do such things, not now, not when he is expecting a baby.

At first, the idea of becoming a father had filled him with pride. A pure, radiant joy, swelling in his chest like triumph. He would be a father.

But then, after weeks spent with Livia, decorating the nursery, attending appointments, he realized something horrifying. He had never wanted to be a parent with her. Livia hadn’t yet even become a mother, yet somehow, she was already a terrible one.

She once ate sushi with Clemensia, not realizing raw fish could harm the baby. Another time, he smelled champagne on her breath — she claimed the doctor had said a glass wouldn’t hurt.

And the way she vomited in the mornings? It disgusted him. Her growing belly? Repulsive. The way she walked? The way she smelled? It was making him nauseous.

Even her voice grated on his nerves — that shrill, scraping tone.

At last dinner with her family, they all laughed, as always, like a chorus of toads. First, her father, Remus Cardew, bellowed at some pitiful joke. Then her bloated mother, Hostia, snorted through her nose. And finally Livia herself — that squeaky, unbearable voice pealing above them all.

They laughed for a few minutes more, screeching, croaking, blind to how grotesque they were. Coriolanus didn’t say a word. He only downed his glass of wine in a long, silent swallow, and only one thought persisted. I’ll hear that laughter until the end of my days. And worse, my child might laugh just like that.

Coriolanus Snow hadn’t wanted to love again, it was the promise he made back years ago. But he’d discovered one unpleasant truth — that hate wasn’t any better. And it was certainly no less intense.

“Coryo, Coryo, everything will be okay,” Sejanus murmurs, and his warm, clean scent hits Coriolanus’s nose. He kisses him again, foolishly — as if love could fix this. Coriolanus should have strangled him that night. If he had, none of this would be happening. He wouldn't be blinded like this, wouldn’t be unraveling. And of all people — Sejanus Plinth... Still, he doesn’t even bother analyzing it anymore, not as Sejanus’s hands find his chest, lightly stroking. Sejanus leans over him, pressing him gently into the bed — Coriolanus’s own bed — the one no one had ever been allowed into before. Coriolanus’s cock stiffens in his pants — but before the heat can take over, a scream cuts through the moment like a blade.

“What the fuck?! You bastard! You fucking bastard! You’re cheating on me with Plinth?! With Sejanus fucking Plinth?!” Livia’s shriek is so piercing, Coriolanus feels like his eardrums are about to burst. He jerks up, heart pounding, mind scrambling for any kind of excuse — but all he finds is Sejanus, frozen above him, staring back with horror.

“For fuck’s sake — will you ever learn to close a door?!” Coriolanus hisses at him.

“It’s your room,” Sejanus mutters back, bewildered.

“Disgusting! You’re disgusting!” Livia doesn’t stop there — she charges at them, rage boiling off her like fire. Sejanus instinctively jumps back, just in time. Coriolanus isn’t as lucky. Her fist crashes into his face with a dull, stunning crack.

“I was wondering what the hell you two were doing locked in here all the time — turns out, you’re fucking!”

“Not exactly,” Sejanus mutters, trying to interject.

“Plinth, shut the fuck up and get out!” Livia screams, still swinging at Coriolanus with clenched fists.

“Don’t talk to him like that,” Coriolanus hears himself shout — the words tearing out of his throat almost involuntarily. Because what if Sejanus does leave? What if he walks out and doesn’t help him rewrite the exposé? Sure, the plan still feels idiotic, but it’s the only shot he has left.

“Oh yeah?” Livia snarls, rounding on Sejanus now. “I’ll hit him too!”

Sejanus flinches, visibly shrinking like a scolded dog, not even trying to defend himself.

“I’m sorry…” he mumbles pathetically.

Coriolanus rolls his eyes. Of course, he apologizes.

“I thought you didn’t even care about him,” Sejanus adds. “Since you…”

“Since she what?” Coriolanus snaps, rubbing his sore cheek, though he regrets it, because her toad’s eyes are fixed on him. He really needs to stop drawing attention to himself and let her hit Sejanus.

“Livia, my love, please don’t get so worked up. You’re pregnant…” he mutters, rubbing his temples. One thought is comforting. When he dies, he won’t need to hear her voice anymore.

“How am I supposed to stay calm when you’re cheating on me with a man?” She turns on him again, face flushed with fury. He’s never seen her so furious. “And not just any man. Plinth?!” she shrieks.

“Hey, what’s so wrong with me?” Sejanus asks quietly.

Too much to list, Coriolanus thinks bitterly.

“Livia, we’ll talk tomorrow,” he says with forced calm. “I have important business to handle with Sejanus…”

“Oh yeah? What, a prostate exam?” she shrieks.

“Don’t be vulgar,” Coriolanus corrects her with a forced smile.

“‘Don’t be vulgar, don’t be vulgar.’ Always playing the gentleman, huh?” Livia whirls around on him, face inches from his. “You tell me what to say, how to act, not to drink, not to embarrass you. But what you really like is having Plinth’s cock up your ass,” she hisses. “And just so you know—” her voice sharpens to a dagger, “that baby isn’t yours.”

“What?!” Coriolanus chokes, all pretense draining from his face. “What did you just say?” He rises very slowly from the bed, his voice dangerously calm.

“Not your baby, you fucking moron!” she exclaims.

“So who’s the father?” Coriolanus asks, trying to sound calm.

Livia lets out a sharp, triumphant laugh. “Yago. You know him, right? You think you were cheating? I’ve been sleeping with him for years.”

Coriolanus closes his eyes and exhales deeply. All those smug looks. All those little stunts. Not just a spy — but screwing his wife. That fake friendliness, the hand on his shoulder, the knowing glances. Why didn’t he kill him back in this cave?

“For years?” he echoes, hollow.

“Yes. For years,” Livia repeats, with pride.

And now Yago had gotten her pregnant — something Coriolanus hadn’t been able to do in years. He’d done it easily. Casually. Coriolanus opens his eyes. He’s trembling so violently, he feels like he might explode. His hands move on instinct, before he’s even aware of the decision, he lunges at her and grabs her by the throat without any hesitation, he tightens his fingers around her bony neck.

And when he sees her face — stunned, terrified, mouth open in shock — he doesn’t feel the slightest trace of remorse. He could kill her.

“Coryo, what are you doing?!” Sejanus shouts, seizing Coriolanus from behind and yanking him away, locking his arms tight around his chest. “Stop it, you’re not murd…” he stops here, probably acknowledging what a foolishness just left his mouth.

“Sejanus, let me go!” Coriolanus growls through clenched teeth. “She cheated on me with that... that vermin!”

Livia stumbles back, clutching her throat, her eyes full of tears. “You psychotic bastard — you cheated on me too! With Plinth!”

“But I’m not you,” Coriolanus spits. There’s a pause, the room trembling with silence.

“Livia...” Sejanus says gently. “Do you have... somewhere to go?”

“What? Are you throwing me out of my own home?!” she snaps, eyebrows narrowing in disbelief.

“It’s not your home,” Coriolanus says without thinking. “Never was, and never will be.”

Livia straightens, brushing back her hair, venom building again.

“You wait. I’m going to the press. I’ll tell them everything. I swear I will—”

“You’re threatening me?” Coriolanus cuts in, laughing coldly. “Try it,” he hisses, stepping forward, though Sejanus is still holding his arms. “Go ahead. Say one word — to anyone, anywhere — and I’ll drag you down with me so fast you won’t even have time to pack your lipstick. I swear it, even if it’s the last thing I ever do.”

Livia stares at him, unblinking. Coriolanus even feels a strange kind of relief as he says it, after years of nodding along, of subtle jabs, of calling her his love, of fucking her out of obligation. There’s something oddly freeing about finally throwing it all in her twisted, contorted face.

“I hate you. I fucking hate you, more than anyone in this world. I hate your voice, your face, the way you exist.” He pauses, breathing hard, his gaze locked on hers with icy contempt. “You know why I married you?” he spits. “Because I knew — I knew — that I could never, ever fucking love you. But I didn’t realize just how unbearable life with you would be.”

He doesn’t even stop here.

“Your precious Yago… he’s a man without a name. Without a title. But you know what? Go to him. No one will miss you. And in a few months, he’ll see it too that you, Livia Cardew, are nothing. A shallow drunk with nothing to offer but a bank account — and looks that are already leaving you.”

For a moment, he expects a slap. Or her screaming. Or maybe cursing at him.

But nothing comes. Just Livia’s lips are trembling ever so slightly.

“Good,” she says quietly. A breath. “Good to know. So I will… I think I will go.”

Then she turns away and walks towards the door, holding her stomach.

For a moment, Coriolanus watches her retreating back, stiff, trembling, her hand still resting on her stomach. He thinks about stopping her. What if she actually does it? Goes to the press and says everything. It would all be over. Or maybe it’s already over. For a second, the thought of killing her returns.

But then shame comes. Shame, because Sejanus is still here. Still holding him. Still breathing behind him. He listened to his outburst. And slowly, finally, Sejanus lets go of his arms.

"You didn’t have to be so cruel," he says quietly, yet Coriolanus doesn’t hear any scolding in his tone.

“Yhym,” Coriolanus agrees reluctantly, rubbing his jaw. Then, after a beat, he meets Sejanus’s eyes.

“But we have more crucial things to discuss, right?”

Sejanus nods once. “Right.”

“Let’s move to the living room,” Coriolanus suggests, “since we’re alone now.”

Only once Sejanus slowly leaves the bedroom does he dive toward the safe. The tape. If he’s going to die, he might as well keep a shred of dignity.

“It’s quite chilly, isn’t it?” he says casually as he walks into the living room, lighting the fireplace and watching as the tape burns away in the flames.

Sejanus doesn’t ask what he is doing. He sprawls out on his couch and stares blankly into the flames.

The only evidence of what happened during the 10th Hunger Games is burned to ash. And the second is breathing behind Coriolanus’s back.

***

Coriolanus Snow, stepping into the Parliament of Panem, feels a cold sweat break across his back. It’s everywhere — suffocating and impossible to shake off. He wipes his face with a monogrammed handkerchief bearing the initials C.S. Is he destined to end worse than his father?

He greets his colleagues in the hallway, now scanning each face for a trace of betrayal. Are they all against him?

Sejanus had left just before dawn, and Coriolanus flinches, recalling his moment of weakness — one of many in the past twenty-four hours. He didn’t fall asleep even for a second, but somehow Sejanus was holding him the whole night. “Kiss me one last time,” Coriolanus had whispered to him. Sejanus only smiled against his lips, kissing him softly. “There will be more kisses, Coryo,” he whispered.

And still, Coriolanus hadn’t given Sejanus enough credit. His proposal for a revised exposé had been... good. Surprisingly good. Maybe he had learned something during his studies. Still, Coriolanus had to color it his way — a way Sejanus might not approve of. But there was no choice. Only one other idea briefly crossed his mind — to go to the President, to Quintus, and tell them what Sejanus had done that night. But would it even work? Would it truly buy back his life? And more than that — Coriolanus simply couldn’t bring himself to betray that sweet, ridiculous fool again. Though he still doesn’t understand why.

He doesn’t even go to his office, unwilling to face his assistant’s expression. Instead, he detours to the restroom, splashes cold water on his face, and heads straight for the grand parliamentary chamber. Everyone’s already there. All the members of Parliament. His fellow Gamemakers. And of course, that bastard Yago — looking far too pleased with himself.

Quintus is there, naturally. Coriolanus nods toward him with fake politeness. Next to him sits Iskander Lennox, looking as if he’s about to deliver the weather, not sign a man’s death warrant.

Coriolanus swallows hard. He rarely feels stage fright. But now, his hands are shaking.

His gaze lands on Sejanus. Their eyes meet for only a second before Sejanus looks away.

Livia’s seat is empty. That’s not good. Perhaps he had been too harsh with her. Perhaps her presence today would have helped. How do you condemn a man to death… when he’s expecting a child?

But Coriolanus Snow steps onto the podium. His speech is being broadcast across all of Panem.

He takes one last breath and curls his lips into something resembling a smile.

“Mr. President. Ladies and gentlemen of Panem,” he begins. “I’ve prepared this speech for weeks. I considered, at length, what I might say to the people of our nation, now, with just fifty days left before the Hunger Games. But I’ve come to a realization…”

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out the neatly folded speech, and dramatically tears it in half.

“The best speeches,” he says, letting the pieces flutter to the floor, “are spoken from the heart.”

He looks directly at Quintus, whose eyes are fixed on him. Satyria Click had once told him — if you're nervous, imagine someone naked. For a brief second, he imagines that overweight traitor in undersized underwear… It doesn’t help.

“As Head Gamemaker, for years I’ve asked myself — what are the Hunger Games for? To preserve peace. To keep war from returning. To remind us of human nature.” Right now, the chamber feels more like an arena than anything he’s ever built.

“But another thought has been haunting me,” he continues slowly. “That perhaps — my mentor, Dr. Volumnia Gaul, may have been wrong. She always believed the nature of humanity was inherently cruel. And I… well, I believed it too, for a long time. But recently, I’ve seen otherwise. I’ve felt otherwise,” he makes a dramatic pause. “I’ve lost the will to design the Games. I won’t lie about that. I’ve lost my sense of purpose — and maybe that loss means something.”

“A recent conversation with the President,” he nods politely toward Iskander Lennox, “made me wonder whether some of the things we treat as sacred… should, in fact, be reconsidered. Especially,” he says carefully, “when members of my own team propose Games so brutal, so unconscionable, that I won’t name them here — but I will say this.”

He locks eyes with Yago and waits. A few murmurs ripple through the chamber. He holds the silence until the President himself glances toward Yago.

“One of my Gamemakers proposed a version of the Hunger Games that should never see the light of day. So, I am choosing today to withdraw my participation. I cannot, in good conscience, oversee the Games this year. I will not.”

“And I’m forced to resign from the function of Head Gamemaker. Because my conscience — not politics — is what guides me now.”

He steps back. The entire chamber falls silent. Then, after a long, breathless pause, hesitant applause begins to ripple through the room. Coriolanus feels so tightly wound he’s surprised he’s still standing. His knees threaten to buckle beneath him. Then, Iskander Lennox rises unexpectedly. His eyes pierce straight through Coriolanus as he walks step by deliberate step down the center aisle, across the carpet, until he reaches the base of the podium. Those last three steps up to the platform feel like the approach of doom. And yet… Iskander stops just short of him. Then extends his hand.

Coriolanus takes it — the grip is firm, unyielding.

“Well,” Iskander says, expression unreadable. “An unexpected decision, Mr. Snow.”

“I couldn’t continue,” Coriolanus replies firmly. “Not anymore, Mr. President.”

Iskander nods once, then steps past him and takes his place at the microphone. “I believe,” he says slowly, addressing the room, “Mr. Snow has surprised us all today… But I fully support his position.”

***

Coriolanus sips bitter champagne, collecting either congratulations or condolences.

Aphrodite Frown is crying, clinging to him — most likely because the cancellation of the Hunger Games means the Gamemaker team will be dissolved, and Aphrodite… well, she’s not exactly sharp enough to land another job. Maximus Pristain, one of his colleagues, shakes his hand. A few other party members quietly ask if this means he’s stepping back from politics.

“Oh no,” he assures them lightly.

But the cold sweat remains, crawling down his back.

Sejanus congratulated him briefly, leaning in slightly to whisper in his ear. "You weren't supposed to blame others for your mistakes," he hissed, before walking away. Yet, he would forgive him as always. It is more than certain.

Yago Trivane is the last to approach. He leans in close, smiling. “You fucking bastard. Don’t think you’ll get away with it this time.”

“Oh, Yago,” Coriolanus replies sweetly, as if they’re exchanging pleasantries. “How’s your finger?”

He’s not too worried. For tonight’s reception, he hired a very… particular staff, he smirks to himself. Mr. Trobbe will be delivering the cake personally. A shame he won’t be around to watch it unfold.

It’s time to slip out. They haven’t arrested him. Maybe, just maybe, this madness had a method after all.

But just as Coriolanus heads for the exit, he freezes.

Two tall Peacekeepers stand by the doors, blocking the way.

“Mr. Snow,” one of them says calmly. “Please come with us.”

Chapter Text

Nicarchus Veridion slowly steps into the big white room, chewing a disgusting nicotine gum. In his 20-year career, he had investigated many cases, but this one is at the very least strange. But when the president calls you personally, you just don’t refuse. The case file — essentially nonexistent — is bizarre. Coriolanus Snow had suddenly decided, without warning, to cancel the Hunger Games, and the president really wants to know why it happened. Nicarchus had always felt that Snow had something to do with the mysterious deaths in Parliament, but the problem was, there was never any proof.

“Gentlemen,” he says to the two burly Peacekeepers, “bring him in.”

They nod and leave without a word, and Nicarchus stares at the mirror to the right — a one-way mirror, of course — but Snow can’t know about it. He has to appear calm, trustworthy. Nicarchus sits down at the table, and after a moment, the door opens. Coriolanus Snow. He’d seen him on television before, but there, he’d looked much taller, he quickly notes. He is actually quite short, unassuming in appearance, but Nicarchus could see what drew people to him. He holds his head high despite the manacles on his wrists, and his suit looks indecently expensive. His face had always reminded Nicarchus of some kind of reptile — high cheekbones, snake-like blue eyes, and those puffy lips. Nicarchus could never understand this new Capitol trend of cosmetic procedures, though his own daughter had recently gotten her lips absurdly enlarged, taking up half her face, and he had only barely talked his wife out of the same idea.

Nicarchus stands up quickly and says to the Peacekeepers, “Please take those off,” eyeing the restraints. “They won’t be necessary.”

Then he offers his hand. “Detective Nicarchus Veridion.” Snow shakes it firmly, confidently, barely nodding.

“Coriolanus Snow. A pleasure to meet you,” he says in a steady voice. And Nicarchus can’t sense a shred of fear in him — though in this situation, he ought to be shitting himself.

"Shall we sit?" Nicarchus suggests, and says to the Peacekeepers, "You can go."

Snow pulls out the chair, but he doesn’t sit first — he waits for Nicarchus, watching closely.

"Forgive me, Detective... but I’m wondering what this is all about," he says. "I was detained yesterday, and I don’t believe I’ve been charged with anything," he adds with a fake, polite smile.

Nicarchus returns the smile and says, "We just want to have a conversation with you, Mr. Snow. No talk of charges. And as for being held... well, it’s necessary for this interrogation."

"Of course," Snow says.

They both sit at the small table. Snow sits rigidly upright, places his hands neatly on the table.

"Would you like some water?" Nicarchus offers.

"Oh no, I was already offered breakfast and had some delightful tea," Snow replies.

Nicarchus shrugs and pours himself a glass. It’s going to be a long day.

"Well... where do we begin..." Nicarchus pretends to consider it. "Yesterday, it couldn’t have escaped anyone’s attention that you canceled the Hunger Games. We’re wondering what prompted such a sudden decision."

Snow doesn’t even blink. "Well... there were many factors," he says, as if he’s already practiced the line. "Some of them are personal. I’m about to become a father, and well... perspective changes, you understand? Do you have children?"

"I do," Nicarchus replies, "but I’m not the one being interrogated."

"Naturally," Snow says. "Besides, Yago Trivane... one of my lead Gamemakers, proposed this year’s arena, and I made the decision too hastily by agreeing to it. I believe he should be questioned as well," he says, barely moving his lips.

"Well, that’s my decision to make," Nicarchus says.

"Naturally," Snow repeats.

"So why did you agree to such an arena?"

"I was... admittedly preoccupied with personal matters. Fertility issues with my wife, family problems... I believe Yago took advantage of a moment of weakness," Snow says. "But I couldn’t risk putting the Capitol through such costs."

"You already did."

"Partially yes, but thanks to canceling the Hunger Games, we’ll save a lot," he states coolly.

"I still don’t understand... your entire career is the Hunger Games. What convinced you?"

Snow curls his lips. He has to be angry, but he’s choosing his words carefully.

"Maybe I will have some water," he gasps, looking at Nicarchus’s glass. "My throat’s gone dry."

Of course, he was probably afraid it was poisoned. He pours himself a glass and swallows the liquid loudly.

"You know, my friend... Sejanus Plinth... he was always against the Hunger Games, and we had many discussions. I came to understand that it’s... not entirely right. My talk with the president also gave me a lot to think about. And by the end... we all got what we wanted, didn’t we?"

"Mhm."

Nicarchus doesn’t believe a single word he says.

"So there were only noble reasons?"

"Yes, I believe... You understand, with age, a man becomes more sensitive. I think the districts have already paid enough for the Dark Days, and it’s time to change the policy," Snow continues. "The mood in the districts is uneasy, and I believe such a decision will have a positive effect on the relationship between the Capitol and the districts."

"Mhm," Nicarchus confirms. What a load of bullshit.

He himself had never been a fan of the Hunger Games — usually getting drunk during the broadcast and falling asleep in his chair, only watching because he had to. Who would want to watch children killing each other? Yet, apparently, many in the Capitol did.

"And what would you say..." Nicarchus pulls out the first photo. Volumnia Gaul. The crazy woman who gave everyone chills. Yet when he places the photo in front of Snow, his expression remains neutral.

"About your mentor’s death?"

"Well... accident," he says, pretending to be touched. "I’m very sad when I think about it."

"Quite an unexpected accident, right?" Nicarchus leans in.

"Well, that’s the nature of accidents," Snow replies.

"And when..." Nicarchus pulls out the next photo. "Volumnia Gaul died tragically, there were two candidates for the position of Head Gamemaker. You and..." He shows a picture of a man. "Polemarchus Saevitas."

"But he died."

"Yes, heart attack. I was very surprised, but... he liked his drink and didn’t shy away from red meat," Snow notes. "So maybe it’s not that surprising."

"He was fifty..."

"Common age for a heart attack," Snow replies smoothly.

"So I’m almost fifty, Mr. Snow. Are you predicting my death?" Nicarchus asks with amusement.

"Oh no, sir. You seem to be in very good condition," Snow says.

"And the last one... Nero Falk. Leader of the Alliance for Prosperity party," Nicarchus continues, placing down the final photo. "You two didn’t like each other very much, did you?"

Snow takes another sip of water. He still shows no emotion, though beads of sweat begin to form on his forehead.

"I would say we had different approaches to certain issues, but..." he shrugs, "I don’t mix professional life with personal matters."

"No? And yet you said you were distracted, and that’s why the planning of the Hunger Games was a disaster?" Nicarchus notes.

Snow’s face darkens. "I don’t quite understand why you’re asking about all these people," he says.

"A lot of accidental deaths, don’t you think? Around you?"

"People die every day," Snow sneers.

"But these deaths... the odds are in your favor, sir," Nicarchus says.

"It appears not anymore," Snow observes.

"We’re just talking."

"Naturally."

Silence falls, and Snow doesn’t even blink.

"I’ll definitely be speaking with you again, Mr. Snow," Nicarchus says. "But for now... I think I have everything."

***

Yago Trivane reeks of tobacco, but he doesn’t really look like a smoker. He’s quite tall and pale — so pale he looks like he might faint at any moment — and he’s dressed entirely in black.

All Nicarchus wants, sitting across from him, is to have a smoke himself — but of course, he quit.

"I’ll get straight to the point," Nicarchus says. "Did Mr. Snow ever indicate in any way that he wanted to cancel the Hunger Games?"

"No," Yago replies. "He didn’t give a single sign he wanted to do that."

Now Nicarchus notices the bandage on Yago’s middle finger on his left hand, but he doesn’t ask. It would be impolite.

"I see. Mr. Snow claims you were the one who proposed this year’s Hunger Games?"

"Well, it’s my job," Yago says. "But the final decision was his, wasn’t it?"

"He says he wasn’t in good condition."

Yago laughs shortly. "Of course," he shakes his head. "I’ll tell you something. Snow is a dangerous psycho. And..." he exhales, "You know he took me down to the arena and made me walk through a cave? He took my goddamn ladder, and... a mutt chewed off my finger!" he exclaims.

Nicarchus blinks once, measuring him. “Excuse me?’”

"He took me into a cave and trapped me at the bottom like... a tribute. Made me crawl through dark tunnels and in the end, a mutt bit off my finger," he mutters.

"Really?" Nicarchus frowns.

"Would I make something like that up? He’s a lunatic," Yago says.

“Why did he do it?”

“Ask him, sir,” Yago replies. “But well… I had the affair with his wife,” he admits quietly.

“Affair with his wife?” Nicarchus echoes.

“Yes,” Yago confirms, and then continues without question, "And why did he cancel the Hunger Games? I’d bet someone... Well, word in the corridors is that the president — you understand — wanted the Games canceled and wanted him arrested. He must’ve heard it from someone."

"Do you know who could have told him?" Nicarchus presses.

"Yes," Yago replies. "Sejanus Plinth."

"They’re from opposing parties," Nicarchus notes.

"Sir, they had a… relationship," Yago says. "Of course he could’ve told him!"

"A relationship?" Nicarchus repeats. This is getting more and more bizarre.

"Yes… I saw… I caught them in a compromising situation," he says. "Once. And that’s also why Snow took me into the cave."

"Well… that’s rather…" Nicarchus searches for the word.

"Believe me, I’d like to forget that view too," Yago says flatly. "But the truth is… Snow is a lunatic."

"Do you think he’s crazy?"

"Abso-fucking-lutely. He lost his marbles a long time ago," Yago spits. "This whole Hunger Games cancellation? Please, tell me he won’t get away with it."

"Well… we’re working on it."

"I could…" Yago shifts in his seat, "Have a smoke? I’m a little bit… Stressed."

"Smoking is prohibited in here," Nicarchus replies, but then he feels a deep craving inside him — the nicotine gum has already chewed up the inside of his mouth. He looks toward the one-way mirror.

"But if you’re willing to share… maybe I can turn a blind eye," he says.

A moment later, they’re both smoking, and Nicarchus closes his eyes, relishing the smoke. His wife, Diana, would not be pleased.

"Unfortunately, I also have to ask you…" Nicarchus sighs. This guy is, somehow, growing on him. "About the identity change…"

***

The face of Sejanus Plinth doesn’t match his body. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, almost imposing — but somehow, he slouches. And his face... it's soft, still boyish; he even vaguely reminds Nicarchus of his daughter’s boyfriend, Hermes — whom he might actually like, if the damn kid didn’t ride a motorcycle.

When Plinth sits across from Nicarchus, the detective notices the tightness in his jaw.

“Is everything all right, sir?” Nicharus asks gently.

“Yes, I just... I have this kind of tic. Please ignore it, sir,” he says — but his eyes dart off to the side.

“Of course, I didn’t mean to offend,” Nicarchus replies, and then feels something he definitely shouldn’t during an interrogation — pity. Don’t let your guard down, Veridion, he thinks to himself.

“I’d like to ask you about your relationship with Mr. Snow,” he begins.

“We’re friends. We’ve known each other since school,” Sejanus says quietly.

“But you’re in opposing parties?”

Sejanus offers a weak smile. “Y-yes. I don’t like... Oh sir, you’ve probably researched my past. I was... detained in a psychiatric hospital for an attempted rebellion,” he says. Of course Nicarchus knows that — but the way this man speaks, it’s so unguarded.

“I don’t like the Hunger Games. And well... Coryo — I mean, Coriolanus — is Head Gamemaker.”

“That didn’t affect your... friendship?” Nicarchus asks cautiously.

Sejanus shrugs. “Sometimes.”

“And it was only... friendship?” Nicarchus presses.

After a long pause, Sejanus says, “Yes.” He doesn’t even blink. Nicarchus may have misjudged him — he can lie.

“I have testimony from other witnesses that says otherwise,” Nicarchus notes. “So it’s better if you tell me the truth.”

“That has nothing to do with... what I’m being questioned about,” Sejanus replies, sharper now.

“Of course it does,” Nicarchus says.

Sejanus again looks aside. “Fine... we were lovers,” he admits at the edge of audibility.

“Were?”

“Yes. We argued about the Hunger Games a few weeks ago and... everything ended,” Sejanus mutters.

“And since then? Have you had contact?”

“Only at work,” Sejanus continues.

“And you didn’t advise Mr. Snow to cancel the Hunger Games?” Nicarchus raises an eyebrow.

“No,” Sejanus says. “He made that decision on his own.”

“Where were you the night before his speech?”

“At my mother’s,” Sejanus answers.

“She’ll confirm that?”

“Yes.”

Nicarchus exhales. He’s lying. Of course, he’s lying. But how do you prove it? It’s pointless.

“Given the nature of your relationship... did you ever suspect that Mr. Snow could kill someone?” Nicarchus asks.

Sejanus flinches at the word kill, but quickly says, “No, never.”

“Are you sure, sir?”

“Yes.”

“He never tried to do something... to you?” Nicarchus presses.

“No,” Sejanus replies firmly, his jaw tightening again.

“And do you know, Mr. Plinth, why you were placed in the psychiatric hospital for rebellion? Who reported you?” the detective continues.

“Oh, I have no idea,” he says, with a tone that clearly suggests he does.

“It was Mr. Snow,” Nicarchus says. He can’t be that naive — he has to betray him now.

“Well, I’m surprised, but I guess...” now he starts playing with his fingers, “he didn’t have a choice, right? I was pretty reckless.”

“Mhm,” Nicarchus notes.

He hopes he’ll learn more from someone else.

***

Snow’s wife, Livia, is quite attractive, Nicarchus has to admit — but there’s something in her eyes that he finds repulsive. Still, today she’s wearing a short, red dress that shows off her shapely legs and clings to her stomach, leaving no doubt that she’s pregnant.

Nicarchus informs her right from the start, though he hopes she’ll testify: “You’re not required to testify as his wife, and… considering your condition.”

“I want to testify,” she says confidently. That voice — Nicarchus shudders. It’s like nails on a chalkboard.

“You weren’t at your husband’s speech, correct?”

“No, I was at my parents’. I wasn’t feeling well,” she replies.

“Did your husband mention anything about wanting to cancel the Hunger Games?”

“No, we don’t really… talk much. Especially not about work,” she says, staring at her red-painted nails.

“I see. But before such an important event… did anything happen the day before the speech?”

Livia shakes her head. “I was at my parents’.”

“Did anyone visit Mr. Snow?” he continues.

“I don’t know, I was at my parents’,” she repeats, dryly, clearly irritated.

“I understand,” Nicarchus notes. “Have you observed any strange behavior in your husband?”

“Strange? Strange?” she echoes. “He’s fucking insane! Oh — sorry for the language,” she quickly corrects herself. “But he’s a paranoid wreck.”

“Paranoid? Please, tell me more.”

Livia rolls her eyes. “He’s obsessed with his public image. Constantly afraid someone’s going to poison him, spying, always watching…”

“Did you have an affair with his… Gamemaker? Yago Trivane?” Nicarchus asks.

Livia looks instantly thrown off balance.

“Yes,” she says quietly.

“And your husband, ma’am… He was faithful?” Nicarchus asks.

Livia nods. “Yes.”

If she doesn’t know about it, Nicarchus certainly doesn’t feel like he’s the one who should inform her.

“Did you ever suspect your husband might be… poisoning people?”

Livia shrugs. “Well… no. But I wouldn’t be surprised. He’s a psycho.”

“Strong words, considering your condition…”

“It’s not his child,” Livia cuts him off.

Nicharus swallows loudly, “Does he know about it?”

Livia crosses her legs and smirks. "Yes. I wouldn’t refuse the pleasure of being the one to tell him." She leans back, a malicious gleam in her eye. "And anyway... you know what, sir? I’m planning to divorce him."

***

The interrogations with Parliament staff are making Coriolanus Snow seem like an increasingly peculiar figure. Victor Larcene recounts a strange episode where Snow forced him to drive in the same car with himself and Sejanus Plinth, and — as he put it — "Sir, he was behaving like he was out of his mind." He describes Snow speaking in fragmented thoughts, laughing at things no one said, and randomly switching topics mid-sentence, as if having a different conversation entirely in his own head.

His Gamemakers speak of him mostly positively — they call him respectful, focused, even charismatic — but they all emphasize one thing: Nothing suggested he would cancel the Hunger Games. The decision, they say, was absolutely out of character.

Veronica Fontaine, his longtime secretary, adds her observations. She says Snow always prepares his coffee and tea, refusing to let anyone else touch it. At formal events, he often brings his food in sealed containers, claiming “allergies.” But she suspects it’s something else. “He once accused the Parliament chef of trying to poison him,” she adds. Nicarchus shakes his head.

Then she leans in and says, almost in a whisper: “And there was one morning…” Veronica says, “he showed up hours before anyone else. Had covered the entire wall of his office with sticky notes. Hundreds of them. All colors. All with single words — names, phrases, questions like ‘Loyal?’ and ‘Was it him?’” She swallows. “When I asked what it was, he said, ‘It’s nothing.’ Then he stared at it for a while and started rearranging them without speaking. For three hours.” She looks down, almost ashamed to say it. “By lunch, they were all gone. Every note. He said it was ‘already outdated.’”

Nicarchus scribbles a note, slowly.

"He counts my breaks down to the minute, watches the clock constantly, makes me say he's 'in a meeting' before letting anyone in, and then just sits there… staring at the wall..." She keeps talking, without being asked, voice rising with each detail. It’s like she’s been waiting for someone to listen.

The last to come in is his cousin, Tigris Snow. She resembles him slightly — the bone structure, the sharp cheekbones — but her face is much softer, almost kind. She speaks about him with sorrow.

"Yes, he’s changed over the last few years…" she says.

"But he didn’t behave like that before?" Nicarchus asks.

Tigris nods slowly, looking away. "Each year, it’s like he drifts further. He’s... less present. Less human, almost." She pauses, then adds: "Sometimes I don’t even recognize him."

The detective nods. It’s been a long day, but there’s one person he needs to bring in again. He sends the Peacekeepers to fetch Snow once more. When he enters the interrogation room, his posture, his expression — they’re almost identical to before, calm and totally neutral. He also looks perfect, not a single hair out of place.

Snow walks in with the same confident stride as if he owns the room.

“Long day, right?” Snow asks casually.

“Yes. Very long,” Nicarchus confirms, folding his hands. “But I have a few more questions for you.”

When asked about Sejanus, Snow dismisses it outright. “What people won’t come up with…” he says, shaking his head, as if genuinely amused. And the cave? Snow narrows his eyes slightly. “Do you hear how that story sounds, Detective?” he asks, carefully choosing his words. “Ridiculous.” When pressed about his wife’s affair, he only smiles and shakes his head. “Livia is a wonderful wife. We’re doing very well. We’re expecting a child.”

He says it like he truly believes it, not a flicker of doubt in his voice. Like in his version of reality, everything is just fine.

Nicarchus stares at him. “So you’re saying everything is fine?”

“Yes, they’re all just...” Snow suddenly stops mid-sentence. And then, he bursts out laughing. The sound is so sharp, so unexpected, that Nicarchus flinches. “They’re all liars! Liars! They all lie!” he shouts, slamming his cuffed hands on the table. His face twists into something Nicarchus will remember for a long time. The bulging eyes, wild and unfocused, and the puffy lips, twisted into a grotesque half-smile, half-snarl. His cheeks, flushed deep red, like he’s burning from the inside. “I can’t trust anybody, they are all liars!” he yells once again, then hisses, “Yago Trivane should be executed. He’s nothing — a petty, insignificant man, and this entire mess is his doing. I am a statesman of the highest order. The finest. There isn’t a soul in this Parliament more capable, more devoted, or more visionary than I am. It should be me leading Panem. It always should have been. Me! Do you understand, sir?”

For a brief moment, Nicarchus regrets having the restraints removed. He clears his throat.

“Of course, Mr. Snow,” he says calmly, watching him closely. It’s been a long day. But now, he knows exactly what to do. “I think you should talk to someone else.”

“Someone else?” Snow echoes, and just like that, he’s calm again, like nothing happened.

“Yes. The Peacekeepers will escort you,” Nicarchus says. Snow stands, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. As he walks to the door, he hums something softly that sounds like Nothing you can take from me — was ever worth keepin'. Nicarchus watches him go. Once the door closes, he wipes his forehead with a handkerchief and walks to the mirror. He is starving, and his wife promised to prepare turkey for dinner.

Looking at his reflection, he mutters, “Well, Mr. President… I think we’ve got our answer.”

Chapter Text

Coriolanus Snow savors the taste of champagne in a bathtub filled with steaming hot water. What a victory. He had been sure they’d release him — and they did, right after that pathetic interrogation. When that stinking detective finally stopped interrogating him, he was met by a woman in a white coat who asked him ridiculous questions. A psychiatric evaluation, of course — so he answered each one very carefully, keeping his composure. He did brilliantly, as usual. What about poisoning? They had no evidence. He smiles to himself. And beyond that? His political career is still waiting for him. His bright future is still here.

He’s already called Livia, who refused to speak to him, but he knows she’ll come back. For now, he can enjoy the penthouse without her screeching presence. Honestly, the break will do him good. It will do them both good.

And the child isn’t his? Well… he’ll love it as if it were. After all, Yago will be executed soon anyway — that problem will take care of itself. Maybe Yago is nobody, but still is nice looking so his child wouldn’t be ugly and can even pass as Snow. As for Sejanus… maybe he’ll still see him from time to time. Coriolanus had sent him a bouquet of white roses, along with a small note: “Forever, my Sejanus.”

Coriolanus takes another sip of champagne and practically sings with joy. Snow lands on the top, right? He always lands on top. This time is no different. "Cheers," he says to himself.

But then — a noise. What the hell…? He jumps out of the tub in panic and hears someone stomping through the penthouse in heavy boots. His eyes fly open, and widen in terror.

"Find him!" That voice — unmistakably a Peacekeeper.

He quickly throws on a pink bathrobe — Livia’s, of course — and desperately scans the room for a place to hide. Under the sink? Bad idea. How to get out of there? There is no window. Nothing.

And it takes them only a few moments to figure out where he is. The light is unmistakably a good beacon.

"He’s in the bathroom!"

Oh no… He shuts his eyes like that might somehow help. Seconds later, the door is kicked open, and a tall Peacekeeper stands in front of him. Behind him, there are others. With a quick count, he tallies six. He doesn’t stand a chance against them — not that he would even if there were only one. After all, physical strength has never exactly been his strong suit.

"Coriolanus Snow," the man recites, "due to confirmed psychological instability, you are hereby ordered to be relocated to a psychiatric facility for rehabilitation and reintegration into society."

Coriolanus laughs — but no one joins in. Maybe a few Peacekeepers snicker from behind the officer, but he suspects it’s at the sight of the robe. Ridiculous thing...

"This is impossible! This isn’t true!" Coriolanus shouts. "You can’t—"

"Gentlemen," the man interrupts. "Take him."

Two Peacekeepers grab him under the arms, and he feels the bathrobe, far too short, riding up embarrassingly high.

"Let go of me! I’ll walk, I’ll walk on my own!" he pleads, trying to free himself, but their grip is like steel. "At least let me get dressed! Come on! Let me put on some damn clothes!" he yells as they drag him down the hallway. Neighbors are already peeking out. "Let me get fucking dressed!"

***

If irony exists in life, Coriolanus Snow is certain it’s just caught up with him, and kicked him straight in the ass.

Admission to the psychiatric facility isn’t so different from the Peacekeeper examinations, except they spare his precious hair. They search him everywhere — yes, even there — and he’s still wearing that ridiculous pink bathrobe. His face burns with rage and humiliation.

It’s a mistake, he tells himself as they hand him a white uniform and a small paper cup of pills. They got it wrong. He shrugs. Mistakes happen. He won’t be here long, he tries to comfort himself.

That night, he lies in bed staring at the ceiling, trying to recall everything Sejanus once told him about this place. Electroshock therapy. Punishments. Solitary confinement. Disgusting food. Showering in public — with strangers. He tries to swallow, but his throat is dry.

This is not befitting of Coriolanus Snow.

His breath becomes shallow. He jumps from the bed and tries to open the window. Locked, of course. He will not stay here. This is a mistake. Tomorrow he’ll call Tigris. She’ll do something. She has to.

His eyes land on the little cup of sleeping pills. With quiet resignation, he takes one.

But the next day, he realizes electroshock therapy would be merciful compared to this.

A fat woman introduces herself as Athena, which is laughable, given that she seems to possess no wisdom at all. She tells him to sit in a circle with some people.

Coriolanus glances around at the others. He isn’t surprised they’re in a psychiatric hospital. One man with bulging eyes keeps yelling that he’s from another planet. Another shakes nonstop. A third grins at nothing with a disturbingly vacant smile. A fourth looks like a textbook serial killer. Perfect company.

Athena claps her hands and cheerfully instructs them all to hold hands. Coriolanus rolls his eyes.

“Maybe you’d like to introduce yourself? Coriolanus, right?” she asks, smiling like he’s a six-year-old.

“Yes. I’m Coriolanus Snow,” he says, carefully polite. “And my presence here is a mistake. I’m working to resolve it.”

“Of course,” Athena replies with the same condescending tone. He already knows — she thinks he’s crazy.

“I’m here by mistake, too! I’m from another planet!” yells the bug-eyed man, practically foaming.

“Could you maybe try closing your mouth more when you speak?” Coriolanus suggests, with fake sweetness.

“Coriolanus, that’s not very kind,” Athena scolds him.

Why does this bloated woman think she can address him by his first name?

He says nothing more. For the rest of the session, he sits silently, his eyes hollow and distant, listening to the parade of madness.

The serial killer tells the group about his most recent “traumatic event” — apparently, the grocery store didn’t have his favorite tomatoes, and he “lost control.”

Coriolanus stifles a laugh, yet a small snort escapes. Everyone turns to look. Athena’s eyes are especially sharp.

He exhales slowly, forcing his face back into a neutral mask. He should probably be careful. That woman could very well send him in for electroshock, and what happened with poor Sejanus after a good dosage of them? Coriolanus can’t lose his mind — now it’s the only thing left.

Coriolanus carefully approaches her after the session.

"I was wondering if I might request something a little more... individual?" he asks, with a controlled smile.

She laughs.

"Oh, one of the goals of your treatment is to develop some empathy, Coriolanus. I think that’s going to be key." She tilts her head. "Very long name, by the way. Do you have a nickname you prefer?"

Coriolanus is absolutely certain he would strangle this woman with his bare hands if she ever dared call him Coryo.

"I prefer Mr. Snow," he replies, dry as ash.

"Oh, we don’t use formal titles here, sweetheart," she says sweetly. "We’re all equal."

Coriolanus turns slightly to roll his eyes, then looks back at her. They aren’t equal in any sense — not in weight, not in mind, and certainly not in the fact that he’s wearing a cheap white smock while she, somehow, ended up a doctor here.

"And what about the electroshock therapy? Is it used often?" he asks carefully.

"We don’t do that anymore, Mr. Snow. No need to worry," she reassures him, and even pats him on the shoulder. How dare she? "Just group therapy sessions. Daily."

"Daily?" he echoes, horrified.

"Yes. Art classes, morning fitness, group meditation, cooking workshops... You’ll have a wonderful time here," she says cheerfully. "Just think of it like a vacation, alright?"

Coriolanus Snow doesn’t reply.

One thing is certain. He is in hell — hell on Earth.

***

For the next few days, Coriolanus tries to keep his distance from everyone. He gets one phone call per week, and he uses it to contact Tigris. His cousin answers after a long pause.

“Hello?” she asks.

“Tigris… It’s me… Coriolanus, listen… I… I’m in trouble,” he says in a single breath, twisting the cord of the phone around his finger. “I was… admitted…” He struggles to say it, “to the psychiatric ward.”

There’s a long silence on the other end.

“Oh,” is all she manages. “They admitted you… to the psychiatric ward?”

“Yes,” Coriolanus continues, and tears begin to prick at his eyes. “Will you… Listen, you have to help me, Tigris. Please. I’m sorry for…” His voice breaks. He doesn’t like to apologise, and his mouth isn’t used to begging. “Everything.”

“Coryo…” A tear slips down his cheek. She hasn’t called him that in ages. “I… Oh… I need time to process this.”

“Yeah,” he says bleakly. “Will you visit me?”

“Of course, Coryo, I… Are you safe?”

“Let’s say so,” he replies dryly, as the guard gestures that his time is up. “Please visit me. I have to go,” he adds quickly.

But Tigris doesn’t come for the next few days.

The food isn’t as bad as Sejanus described — though, well, Coriolanus’s palate has been numbed by years of cabbage soup and potatoes anyway. He even meets a man who seems normal, at least as normal as anybody here can be, named Aurelius Volar. Aurelius says he used to be a teacher, and Coriolanus occasionally sits with him in the cafeteria. He seems to be quite funny and smart.

But one day, Aurelius leans in and whispers, “Actually, Coriolanus… I wasn’t a teacher. I was the President of Panem.”

Coriolanus replies with nothing more than a dry smile.

Individual therapy — twice a week — with Dr. Silvan Maro Theron is slightly better than group sessions with the lunatics, but the man asks idiotic questions.

“Have you made any sudden, unexpected decisions in the past?” he asks gently.

Coriolanus lies on the couch, staring at the white ceiling. “No.”

“Then why did you decide to cancel the Hunger Games?”

Coriolanus shrugs. “It was the right thing to do,” he says flatly.

“But why?”

“A voice in my head told me it was the right path,” he mutters.

“You hear voices?”

Oh no.

“No!” he snaps.

Another time, Dr. Theron hands him a questionnaire and asks him to rate how much he agrees with certain statements on a scale from 1 to 10.

“I feel constant tension and fear that something bad is about to happen.”

“Ten,” Coriolanus replies lazily.

“The whole world is threatening, and anyone could hurt me.”

“Well… Ten,” he says, bored.

“I am special and superior to others.”

He shouldn’t admit to it, but what is the difference? “Ten.”

Did they write this thing just for him?

“I believe people are often trying to deceive or manipulate me,” Dr. Theron reads aloud.

“Ten,” Coriolanus says without hesitation. He doesn’t even blink.

“I find it hard to trust anyone.”

“Ten.”

“I sometimes fantasize about hurting those who’ve wronged me.”

Coriolanus tilts his head slightly. “Do thoughts count if they’re extremely justified?”

Dr. Theron gives him a meaningful look.

“Oh, of course, zero,” Coriolanus says, smiling tightly.

Theron moves on, slowly, like he’s waiting for Coriolanus to crack on his own.

“I feel isolated and misunderstood.”

“That’s practically a 12.”

“I find it hard to feel remorse.”

Coriolanus stretches his neck, looking toward the window. “Define ‘remorse.’”

“Regret. Guilt. Emotional discomfort after causing harm,” Theron clarifies.

Coriolanus shrugs. “Not particularly.” He pauses. “Unless it’s about wearing that white smock.”

Dr. Theron marks something silently on his clipboard.

“I believe I am destined for greatness.”

Coriolanus arches an eyebrow. “That’s not a belief, doctor. That’s a fact.”

“Noted,” Theron says, as he writes.

There’s a pause. Coriolanus watches him carefully.

“I also believe,” he adds, “that this questionnaire has very little diagnostic value.”

“It’s designed to open up patterns of thought,” Dr. Theron replies calmly.

After a few sessions, he announces, “You score quite high across several axes.”

“I’ve always performed well under pressure,” Coriolanus says with mock pride.

“You exhibit signs of extreme paranoia, narcissistic delusion, emotional detachment, and mild grandiosity.”

“What a nonsense,” Coriolanus huffs. His narcissism? Delusions? Emotional detachment? Whatever — he waves it off. Let them write down whatever they want. Maybe if he cooperates, he’ll get out of here someday.

He flushes all the pills down the toilet anyway because no one is going to drug him.

But one day, they tell him he has a visitor. Finally, he thinks. Tigris has come to rescue him.

Still, when he walks into the large meeting room, it turns out to be no one but Livia sitting at the table. Even at first glance, it’s clear she’s glowing. She’s wearing some kind of cheap floral dress, and that irritating fringe almost falls into her eyes. His suffering probably does her good.

The moment Livia sees him, she bursts into a loud, screeching laugh. For a second, Coriolanus seriously considers turning back — but finally, blushing furiously, he takes the seat across from her.

“Oh, Coriolanus,” she says, clapping her hands together. “White doesn’t suit you. You look... pale.” Her smirk is dagger-sharp.

Coriolanus forces a sound that vaguely resembles a laugh, though he feels like sinking into the floor.

“What do you want?” he asks bluntly.

“Well… from a legal standpoint, we’re still technically married,” she says sweetly, then pulls out a folder. “I brought you the divorce papers.”

He glances over them quickly. On the basis of the husband’s mental instability…

“I am not unstable!” he snaps.

“Whatever you say, honey. But please — sign here.” She taps her manicured red finger on the blank line.

And then he sees it — an engagement ring, blinding in its brilliance.

At first, he decides it’s beneath him to even comment on it. Does this mean… Yago? Where did he even get the money for a ring like that? You can spot the nouveau riche from a mile away. Coriolanus had given Livia a modest white gold band with a diamond — subtle, tasteful. But really, what can you expect from someone like that?

“You moved on fast,” he mutters finally through clenched teeth, but signs without hesitation. Divorcing her is probably the smartest thing he’ll ever do. “In sickness and in health, huh?” he adds bitterly.

“Please. We were only married on paper,” Livia replies. “But it really is sad to see you like this…” she fakes concern, “and yes. Yago and I… we came to an understanding.”

“Oh? Met his father yet?” Coriolanus asks flatly.

“Your little performance? Yes. Yago reconciled with him, thanks to you. We bought him back from Crane, and he’s living with us now. He’ll help with the baby.”

She casually pulls a nail file from her purse and starts filing her nails.

“Such… generosity,” Coriolanus says, watching her. “I wonder how long you will manage to bear that.”

Livia shrugs. “Coriolanus…” She avoids his gaze for a moment, and when she looks back, her voice is quieter, almost vulnerable. “I love him.”

“A man with no title or name?” he asks with scorn.

“Yes. A man with no title or name,” she confirms without shame. “Though not exactly without name… Quintus Draven is his uncle.”

Coriolanus holds his breath, closes his eyes, and counts to five — a relaxation technique. Why didn’t he poison them years ago? Something especially vile, that burns you from the inside out. Why was he ever so merciful to Yago? Of course — it’s Sejanus’s fault. He made him soft.

“And you know what?” she says, her voice filled with malice. “At least he has some family.”

Coriolanus grips the edge of the table so hard his knuckles turn white. He fights the urge to flip it over — because then, they really would take him for a classic lunatic, no question. Orphan, orphan — it rings in his ears, the way Livia used to say it in their childhood, smugly and cruelly. All women are the same, aren’t they? Lucy Gray, who didn’t know how to appreciate his love. Livia Cardew — who never even deserved it. Let her get rid of his name, she never should’ve carried it in the first place. He never should’ve married her.

But Coriolanus also knows exactly how to strike a nerve.

“Oh, Livia… and did you happen to run some tests? To confirm the baby’s actually Yago’s?” he says, glancing meaningfully at her stomach.

The look on her face is all the answer he needs. He smirks.

“We only had sex once,” she whispers. “And with him… it happened many times.”

That information is irrelevant to him. Let them screw each other for all he cares.

“Oh, Livia, my dear — biology doesn’t work like that,” Coriolanus says, savoring every word. “Once is enough, if the timing’s right. I do hope you know that.”

He leans in slightly.

“And what would Yago do if the baby turns out to be mine? We, Snows, have strong genes — blond hair, blue eyes. Would he still want to stay with you?”

Livia presses her lips together. “Shut up.”

“Then stop insulting me for not having a family,” he says, something bitter slipping into his voice.

“I’m sorry,” Livia says — and for once, it even sounds sincere. “You’re insane, but that one thing… well, it’s not your fault.”

Coriolanus nods.

“So… Good luck, Livia. Let’s see how long it takes for you to get bored,” Coriolanus says, forcing a smirk, though he is aware it probably looks more like a pathetic grimace.

“Let’s hope never,” Livia says calmly.

“Is that all?” he asks sharply.

“Oh, don’t be so sulky, Coriolanus,” she says. Then her voice lowers. “I did testify mostly in your favor. You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

“I’m thrilled,” he replies with dry venom. But then he inhales deeply and adds, almost unwillingly, “The things I said during our last meeting... I was angry.”

He doesn’t know why he says it. Maybe he thinks he owes her that much if she didn’t really testify against him.

Livia hums lightly. “Apology accepted.”

“I didn’t apologize!”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“Fine. Whatever.” He stands up with a crooked smile. “Happy family life.”

“Thanks,” she calls from behind him. “I’ll send you a picture of the baby.”

“Don’t bother,” Coriolanus mutters.

“And Coriolanus!” she screeches. “Tell me one thing — why didn’t you just marry Plinth instead? You two… had such a long history together. It’s almost sweet — if it didn’t make me want to vomit every time I think about it.”

“Goodbye, Livia,” he hisses.

“Oh, Coriolanus, and after all the years we spent together,” Livia adds, almost playfully, “I might send you something sweet from time to time.”

Coriolanus stops at the door but doesn’t turn around. “Save it.”

How much satisfaction she has to have seeing him like that, humiliated, weak, in the psychiatric ward. He walks out, the sound of her quiet laughter echoing behind him, and in the room, he takes all his meds.

***

Tigris arrives the next day, dressed in a neat blue suit.

Seeing her, Coriolanus feels ridiculously touched — but somehow, he can’t make himself look her straight in the eyes.

“How’s Benjamin? And Lilianna?” he asks flatly.

“They’re good. We’re all good,” Tigris replies in that concerned voice of hers. “And you?”

“You can see for yourself,” he replies dryly, but it’s not the time for irony. “Tigris, you need to... You have to help me, please.” He hates lowering himself like this, but he has no choice.

“I… I tried to talk with them, to see if you could be granted a pass,” she says carefully. “But Coriolanus, they’ve locked you in here… probably for life. And there’s nothing I can do.”

He glances at her face and sees her tear-streaked eyes. Only Tigris could still cry for him, even after all the ways he hurt her.

“Forever?” he echoes. He can’t believe her words.

Tigris nods.

“But…” she gently places her hand on his. “Maybe this... maybe it’ll help you, Coryo. Maybe you need this. You haven’t felt well in a long time, have you?” she asks softly.

“No! I feel fine! It’s... It’s a mistake…” he says, brushing her hand away.

“Of course. But maybe things will change — in a year or two. I’ll visit you, Coryo. I’ll write. I’ll call. Don’t think I’m leaving you. This is my fault, too. I didn’t see how unwell you were. I was too focused on myself and not on what you told me to notice your pain.”

“I don’t feel any pain!” he snaps — but here she is. Tigris Snow, blaming herself for things only he — and maybe Sejanus — should be blamed for.

“No, Tigris… thank you. For coming. Maybe when the weather’s nice… Lilianna shouldn’t see this place, but maybe we could go for a walk?” he asks weakly.

She nods silently, though Coriolanus knows Benjamin will probably never allow it.

One thing remains constant, especially at night — the silence. At his next phone call, he tries to contact Sejanus — but the line is dead. As if the number no longer exists.

He even writes him a letter, crossing out lines like “Sejanus, I’m sorry…” — pathetic. Then “Sejanus, I’m in the same place as you, finally getting my punishment. And it’s awful. How did you survive this?” — even worse. He ends up sending a neutral message, just asking how he is.

No reply. Sometimes, Coriolanus even fears him for his life. What happened to him? Maybe he had to pay for it… for revealing that secret. Maybe they punished him. Maybe they executed him.

Yet, when he’s finally informed that he has mail, his heart nearly stops. But it's only a gift basket and a card from Mrs. Plinth, wishing him a speedy recovery. And from Sejanus? Nothing. But it means he is alive, because his Ma wouldn’t be just sending him such things if her son died.

Maybe that was Sejanus’s plan all along. To use him. To trap him in the same place Sejanus once suffered in, out of revenge.

Love. Even Livia gets love, that wretched woman. But Coriolanus? He doesn’t feel loved by anyone anymore. Especially on cold, quiet nights.

Each day, he secretly hoards more pills. And eventually, he decides there’s only one way left to keep what little dignity he still has — suicide. To leave this world, unwanted by anyone.

But then, one morning, he’s told he has to change rooms.

“We’ve found you a roommate.”

The one good thing about this hellhole so far had been the solitude.

“Is that really necessary?” he asks.

“Order from above,” the nurse replies cryptically.

With no choice, Coriolanus reports the next morning to a room on the top floor — the door looks nothing like any other in the facility.

When he opens it, he nearly faints.

The room is... luxurious. At least by this place’s standards. Two large beds, real furniture, a high ceiling, a rug, even a mini fridge.

And by one of the dressers, folding his underwear, stands no one else but Sejanus Plinth. Sejanus Plinth — tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in white, with trousers just a bit too short, revealing his ankles. Sejanus — his Sejanus — is standing before him.

He glances up at him, peeking through his thick, curly fringe, and smiles.

Coriolanus has never felt such happiness at the sight of anyone in his entire life.

He rushes toward him, desperate to touch him — to feel that he’s real, that he’s truly here, not just another hallucination. He throws his arms around him, burying himself in those broad shoulders, and rests his head against his chest, listening to the beat of his heart. He tilts his head back and breathes against Sejanus’s lips, his hands sliding up to his shoulders as he leans in to press a kiss to his mouth.

“Oh, you really missed me,” it’s all Sejanus says with this pathetic, little smile.

“Sejanus — what... What are you doing here?! Did they lock you up too?!”

“Not… not exactly,” Sejanus says with a small smile.

“What do you mean not exactly?!” Coriolanus demands, narrowing his eyes.

“Well... when I found out they’d locked you up, I… I volunteered. After evaluation, they told me it’s actually a good idea.” He shrugs. “As you already know — I’m not okay.”

Coriolanus stares at him, eyes suddenly wet. “You’re okay.”

“No, I’m not. And you know it.”

Coriolanus decides not to comment on this one, he only smiles weakly. “But this room… How did you… Afford it?”

“I paid a little here and there… and this is what we got. It used to be a room for the Capitol’s elite — senator families, mostly. There’s no one else on this floor.” He smiles, gesturing around. “Not bad, right?”

Yes, the room isn’t bad — to put it modestly — but Coriolanus blinks, and the realization only hits him now.

“You... you... you…” Coriolanus is too choked to speak. “You checked yourself in. Voluntarily. For… for me? You did it for me? You… Sejanus, you hate this place!”

Sejanus. Reckless, foolish Sejanus. Reckless, foolish man who stays loyal to someone who betrayed him. Devoted. Still devoted. Always devoted. Coriolanus wipes his eyes quickly.

“Yeah, but… I need help, don’t I?” Sejanus says softly. “And also… I want to be—” He leans in and kisses Coriolanus on the forehead, “—with you. It’s easier together, isn’t it? Together, we can survive anything. District 12. Political intrigues. A psychiatric hospital.”

“Sejanus…” Coriolanus whispers, unsure what to say. “And what about your dog?”

“Ma’s taking care of him. He even sleeps with her in the one bed, can you believe it? And… this way, I get weekend passes. I’ll try to arrange something for you too,” he adds, voice low and conspiratorial.

“They told me I’m here for life,” Coriolanus mutters.

“Well, if my father ever taught me anything,” Sejanus says, “it’s that you can solve a lot with money. So let them forget. Trust me — this won’t be forever. Wait a year or two, and we'll get out of here. We'll live in my estate, far away from... everything.”

Coriolanus nods, still unsure.

“Unfortunately,” Sejanus adds, “I only managed to smuggle in my hands. I tried sneaking in a toy — you know where — but they found it.”

Coriolanus stares at him, horrified.

He’s been locked in here with a true lunatic. A depraved maniac.

But Sejanus just laughs and nudges him in the ribs. “Hey, Coryo, it’s only a joke. I’m not that crazy.”

Coriolanus starts laughing too. “Wouldn’t have even crossed my mind,” he says, unconvincingly. “But… Sejanus… I’m glad you’re here.”

“How glad?”

“Very.”

“Oh, don’t think that just because I’m sharing a room with you and we are here,” Sejanus leans in close, “you’re off the hook. Bad behavior still gets punished.”

He nips gently at Coriolanus’s earlobe.

“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” Coriolanus mutters, eyes half-closed. “I’ll help you unpack,” he offers, and soon he’s neatly folding Sejanus’s socks into a drawer, trying and failing to hide how absurdly excited he is.

“And the best part is,” Sejanus mutters, grinning, “we have our own bathroom.”

For that news, Coriolanus manages to keep a straight face — even later, when Sejanus is fucking him against the wall uner the hot shower and he’s muffling every sound of pleasure into his own arm. He barely glances over his shoulder — just enough to catch sight of those strong arms, that chest — and the next thrust against his prostate sends him into an orgasm so powerful he nearly faints.

The days are tolerable. It’s not perfect — not in any world — but when they’re in group therapy and the self-proclaimed alien starts ranting or the supposed serial killer launches into another story about supermarket trauma, Coriolanus and Sejanus exchange a glance and can barely suppress their snorts.

Sejanus talks nonsense in therapy, and everyone listens with tears in their eyes — about how he had to eat raw potatoes back in the district, and how he killed bears there with his bare hands. Everyone hangs on his words, mouths agape, and Coriolanus has to admit — these sessions have gotten a lot more entertaining since then.

In the cafeteria, they always sit together. And ever since Sejanus’s arrival, the food has miraculously improved. Roasted meats. Seafood. Actual desserts. Who needs freedom when you could taste chocolate mousse?

At night, they drag their beds together and sleep curled up, and Coriolanus, who once loathed being touched, finds himself relaxing when Sejanus wraps an arm around him.

One night, barely above a whisper, Coriolanus murmurs, “Thank you.”

Sejanus is half-asleep, but still replies, “I love you, Coryo.”

And after some time, Coriolanus says it back.

The first time, he isn’t sure he means it. But then again — here is Sejanus Plinth, the man who has sacrificed his entire life for him, not once, not twice, but endlessly.

When Sejanus goes on weekend leave, Coriolanus finds himself consumed with longing, aching from the absence, as if a part of him has been carved out and taken away. And there’s one fear, the biggest one — that Sejanus won’t come back. Because really, who in their right mind would choose this over freedom? Who would trade wealth and indulgence for confinement in a facility like this?

But Sejanus keeps coming back — again and again, always beaming when he sees Coriolanus. And obviously, always bringing some of his Ma’s goods. Sometimes Sejanus even stays with him through the weekends. And then, one day, he tells Coriolanus that in a month, he’ll probably be allowed to leave with him. Coriolanus had never expected that the idea of freedom, of being free with Sejanus Plinth, could make him this happy.

Sometimes boredom comes, but then Sejanus is just so easy to provoke.

It starts during group therapy.

Coriolanus folds his arms and declares loudly, just as the conversation turns to "personal roots", “Oh, how much I hate the districts.”

A few gasps. One woman flinches. The alien looks impressed.

Coriolanus glances sideways. Sejanus doesn’t say a word. But he gives him that look — low, tired, and clearly unimpressed. Which only makes Coriolanus smirk wider.

At lunch, Coriolanus pokes at his tray with fake boredom.

“That new nurse? Quite beautiful, don’t you think?” he says offhandedly, loud enough for the table to hear. He smiles at her a few times, and the woman even smiles back.

Sejanus mutters something under his breath, stabbing at his vegetables with the edge of his spoon like they’ve personally wronged him.

Later, back in their room, Coriolanus is snooping. He opens a drawer he definitely shouldn’t — and finds a letter. Delicate cursive, floral edges. From Sejanus’s mother.

He starts reading aloud with a wicked grin.

“Sunny? She calls you Sunny? How sweet!” He practically cackles.

That’s the last straw.

“Coriolanus Snow!” Sejanus snaps, standing so fast his chair screeches. “You’re such a brat!”

Coriolanus raises an eyebrow, smug. “And what are you going to do about it?”

The next thing he knows, he’s face-down across Sejanus’s lap, pants and briefs tugged down in one firm motion.

He had hated it the first time — how much he hated it — but now, he only glances back at Sejanus and arches his ass even more. Gods, how handsome he looks — those strong arms, that unruly curly hair, the furrowed brow thrown off balance. He doesn’t hesitate for a second, lifting his hand again and again, landing sharp smacks that leave a pleasantly burning sting on Coriolanus’s skin. Coriolanus wriggles even more over his knee, savoring the feel of Sejanus’s powerful thighs beneath his stomach.

“Such a brat,” Sejanus growls, punctuating each word with another angry slap.

Coriolanus kicks once, half protesting, half laughing.

“Nobody can hear us?” he gasps. Somehow, this vision is making him even harder, though his wet cock already is pressing against Sejanus’s thighs.

“I hope everybody hears how you’re getting punished. Reading my letter?”

Next smack.

“Saying you hate districts?”

Another one, across both his buttcheeks.

“Mocking my mother? And flirting with a nurse?”

That one lands the hardest.

Coriolanus chokes on a laugh, fingers clutching the blanket under them.

“Didn’t think you’d actually get jealous…” he mutters, though he has a wild satisfaction from it.

Sejanus leans down, breath warm against the back of his neck.

“You keep pushing,” he whispers. “One day I won’t stop.”

Coriolanus shivers. “Good,” he breathes — but then he suddenly feels Sejanus’s hand land somewhere very wrong. His balls?! Outraged, he looks over his shoulder. “Ouch, Sejanus!” he hisses.

“Oh, you enjoy getting your arrogant ass smacked way too much,” Sejanus mutters, delivering another firm slap.

“I do not… I do not… enjoy it,” Coriolanus says, squeezing his eyes shut — and fully savoring the next blow. This isn’t so easy to deny.

“I spoiled you too much,” Sejanus snaps.

But after all the teasing, Sejanus is tender again.

“My beautiful Coryo,” he whispers. “Only mine. So beautiful… the most precious thing in the whole world.” He sounds half out of his mind — frantic, fevered — but Coriolanus doesn’t care.

The touch of his lips on his collarbone, then his stomach, lower and lower… his wet mouth wrapping around him. Coriolanus is easily turned onto his stomach, his body guided gently into the mattress as Sejanus massages him, carefully, lovingly — before sliding into him with that thick cock, making him gasp.

And then again. And again.

“I’ll always… be with you,” Sejanus breathes.

And Coriolanus believes him, wants to believe him. He knows that if he never sees Sejanus again, never sees him come back, he’ll lose his mind for real, not just on paper. He needs him now like air, like light, like food.

That night, they are making love for over an hour. Coriolanus buries his face in the pillow, muffling his moans, his whole body overtaken by heat, tension, and release. He comes loud — loud enough that maybe it was audible even in the corridors. But does it matter? Later, tangled in Sejanus’s body — firm but warm, soft in all the right ways — Coriolanus drifts toward sleep.

He didn’t achieve his dreams. He lost. But now, he doesn’t worry about anything, falling asleep beside Sejanus’s body.

Warmth. Food. Maybe even love. He promised himself he’d never love again — swore it back in District 12. But now he sees it clearly. Through everything — the lies, the intrigues, the fall — there is one person. One who didn’t abandon him. One who stayed. One who carries the marks of his devotion on his own body. One who forgives him everything, even when he is at his cruelest, his worst. And maybe… that one person is worth loving. Always has been.

Just before Coriolanus Snow slips under, one thought hums quietly in his mind — maybe, after all... this isn’t the worst this way.

Chapter Text

Coriolanus Snow is a free man again. Almost.

After a few years spent in the Capitol’s Asylum, which he wouldn’t call the best time of his life, Sejanus Plinth bought him out of this. It required Coriolanus to lie a little bit about how remorseful he feels about the Hunger Games—unfortunately, this mask he has also to wear in front of Sejanus, who probably truly doesn’t believe him because he only rolls his eyes and shakes his head in disapproval when he hears how sorry Coriolanus is. Coriolanus also needed to nod on every uncomfortable question, like do you think you are above everybody and everything—no, obviously not—and making his botoxed face even more unmoved on every silly behavior he observed among the patients, but here he was.

Free. Rehabilitated. Ready to rejoin society. Full of regret. At least, on paper.

At first, he wasn’t sure how genuine his love for Sejanus was. It was more like instinct, the only way to survive, but with passing time, Coriolanus noted he became weaker. More vulnerable. He was no longer so judgmental, observing odd behaviour of Sejanus, as walking barefoot basically everywhere, sometimes howling at the moon with his dog Churro, and all these strange ticks. He started looking at it with some kind of… Affection. And Sejanus rescued him. It was true he rescued him from something he did to Coriolanus, but still, he rescued him. 

They had a small wedding at the back of the large Sejanus’s estate, accompanied by Ma and Tigris. Coriolanus hasn’t seen his niece for a long time, because Tigris, not without shame, told him that her husband thinks Coriolanus is a bad influence. Coriolanus just snorted contemptuously. Perhaps the bad influence is her father, who is at least twenty kilograms overweight, with flour-smeared hands and a plebeian demeanor.

But during the ceremony, he even got a little emotional, he had to admit. Later, he cried out in the forest, tied to a tree, and brutally fucked by Sejanus. And it was his small pleasures—fucking, eating, sleeping. Like an animal. 

And Sejanus still managed to surprise him from time to time. When they went running through the forest—Sejanus insisting it was good for their mental health, but somehow Coriolanus feels this one can’t be rescued—Coriolanus suddenly stopped. Something strange caught his eye in the bushes: something bright, with a hint of red. As he stepped closer, he realized it was nothing less than a human hand, torn apart.

“What the hell is it?!” he yelled. 

Yet, Sejanus only laughed nervously. “Oh, I guess I have to bury this better.”

No trace of surprise on his face. No disgust. No hysterical screaming, what is that?

“Burry what?” Coriolanus asked, raising his eyebrow, and coming closer. "Whose hand is that, Sejanus?" 

"Oh, Coryo… no one’s," Sejanus said.

"Sejanus!" Coriolanus snapped.

Sejanus laughed again. “Oh, Coryo, like you didn’t kill anybody!”

Coriolanus looked at him closer, at his damp hair and this strange tick he was doing with his jaw. “Did you kill somebody, Sejanus?”

"Coryo, it was an accident," Sejanus said cheerfully, too cheerfully. "Come on, let's go get some shovels."

And finally, they buried this hand in a deep grave, but then Coriolanus swallowed and looked at his husband differently. He had to be nice to him, he decided. He didn't want to end up dead, buried in his backyard. The Capitol barely knew him anyway, but such a fate?

In the evening, Coriolanus couldn’t relax after this finding, and was giving Sejanus a suspicious glance from time to time when they were watching television. It has become utterly boring since they banned The Hunger Games. Or rather, he did it, but they gave him no choice. Was his husband a ruthless killer? Serial killer, perhaps? 

“What do you want to know?” Sejanus asked in a bored tone, popping a popcorn kernel into his mouth.

“Who was that?” Coriolanus asked, not even blinking.

Sejanus shrugged. “Remember Dennis Fling?”

Coriolanus nodded. “He disappeared some time ago…” he muttered. 

Sejanus beamed. “Not exactly,” he said quietly, a wicked smile playing on his lips. “So you have your answer.”

“But… You… Killing…” Coriolanus grimaced. 

“Huh-huh, and how many people did you kill? I shouldn’t drink a tea you’re preparing for me,” Sejanus said. 

“Come on, Sejanus, I wouldn’t poison you!”

“You tried.”

"And I failed! But now… Why… Would you…" Coriolanus stammered, but quickly regained his composure, "Would you kill me?"

Sejanus looked at him with those large eyes of his. “No. But if you try to leave me… I can only lock you in our favorite room,” he said, winking. Coriolanus froze. “Come on,” Sejanus said, pulling him closer. “I was only joking.”

Coriolanus wasn’t convinced—whether it was a joke or not, it was better not to cross him. Yet the worst moments were when he saw this one person on television—Yago Trivane, now the Chief Strategist in the Panem Parliament. Coriolanus felt like he needed a rabies shot every time that face appeared on screen. To make matters worse, the idiot had grown some pathetic little goatee. If there was one thing Coriolanus regretted in his life, it was letting Yago walk out of that cave alive.

"How can they… the Panem Parliament! He’s nobody!" Coriolanus raged at the television. What he hated most was the way Sejanus listened with a polite smile, sprawled out on that indecently comfortable white leather couch, absentmindedly stroking his shoulder.

"Calm down, Coryo," Sejanus said, in a tone one would use with a slow-witted child. "Don’t get upset. Your blood pressure’s been spiking lately anyway."

"He’s nobody! After what he did to me, he should have been hanged!" Coriolanus went on.

"Coryo," Sejanus began gently, "it was rather you who did something to him. He lost a finger because of you."

"And I regret it wasn’t something else he lost—maybe then he wouldn’t have gotten my wife pregnant!" Coriolanus exclaimed. "And you… You conspired with him against me!"

Sejanus shrugged. "But I did save you, didn’t I?" he asked, moving closer.

"You did, you did," Coriolanus muttered. "But admit it, he looks like an idiot! With that goatee! And those clothes, as if he’s permanently at a funeral."

"I quite like his clothes," Sejanus said, sipping his whiskey. "Black is classy."

"What did you just say?"

Coriolanus scrutinized Sejanus more closely. Again, some strange nervous tic with his jaw, and that sly smile on his otherwise innocent face.

"Don't even say that!" he snapped, standing up.

"Say what?" Sejanus asked, calm as ever.

"Did you... Did you do something with him?" Coriolanus felt himself losing control. He could bear Yago sleeping with Livia, but wirh Sejanus... He couldn't. Instinctively, he took Sejanus's glass and drank the last of the whiskey from it.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," Sejanus replied, smiling even wider.

"Did you sleep with him?!"

"I would say rather he… slept with me," Sejanus said quietly.

"What?!" Coriolanus’s chest tightened. His vision blurred as rage warred inside him.

"He knows how to handle some things…" Sejanus added in a dreamy voice.

"He fucked you?" Coriolanus demanded, fists clenching so tightly his knuckles whitened.

"Coriolanus, don’t be vulgar," Sejanus said smoothly, though his faint smile suggested he enjoyed every second of watching him like that.

"Did he?!" Coriolanus felt like he needed to be strapped to a straitjacket and admitted to a psychiatric ward. Again.

"Oh yes, just once! No big deal," Sejanus dismissed. "Come on, sit down. Let’s switch the channel, we don’t need to watch this."

"You’re always telling me," Coriolanus said through gritted teeth, "that you like being on top and don’t let me… And he…"

"Oh Coryo, he’s just… he’s…"

"What is he, Sejanus? Hm?" Coriolanus leaned over him, eyes narrowing.

"Masculine," Sejanus whispered desperately.

"And I’m not masculine?!" Coriolanus snapped.

Sejanus swallowed hard. "I like…" he buried his hands in Coryo’s hair, "delicate men. When I was in the asylum, I also fell in love with…"

"Delicate men?!" Coriolanus shouted. "I’m a delicate man?!"

Sejanus blinked nervously. "Oh Coryo… I love you so much…" he stammered.

Coriolanus shook his head and sat at the other end of the couch.

"Just… let’s switch the channel," Sejanus offered.

Delicate man. The most magnificent, most powerful man in Panem called a delicate man. He had organized the Hunger Games; he wanted to shout it to Sejanus, but it was better not to remind him of it.

Yet his eyes widened even more when he saw, on the program, none other than his ex-wife sitting on the couch. The caption at the bottom of the screen read: “I married a homosexual.”

"It must have been difficult for you," the presenter, Vexa Lorenzo, said in a falsely sympathetic tone. "Not only was your husband a criminal who ended up in a psychiatric hospital, but he pretended to be… something he’s not?"

Livia solemnly nodded. "It was so hard," she complained.

Coriolanus blinked several times. It had to be a dream. Or rather nightmare. All he could sense was Sejanus’s gaze on him.

"Don’t," he hissed, pouring whiskey to the brim in his glass. He took a single sip, grimacing. "Strong," he muttered, pretending not to hear Sejanus’s suppressed chuckle. "I’m not gay! And I’m not delicate! I’m very… very masculine!" 

"Of course. Very masculine," Sejanus said, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Especially when you take bubble baths with a face mask. And you take Botox injections every three months and make your lips look bigger."

“That’s taking care of yourself!” Coriolanus protested, glaring at the ridiculous man before withdrawing from the discussion.

But he couldn’t hide the truth: his enemies—Quintus, Yago—had won, and he had spectacularly lost, trapped in Sejanus’s remote estate at the edge of the world. Sure, they could eat and drink whatever they wanted, with an inexhaustible supply of money, but what was the point if life had no real purpose?

Coriolanus tried to convince Sejanus to have children, but he delicately refused. "I don’t think we’re really cut out for that," he said.

So Coriolanus got himself a tiny Chihuahua, whom he named Ares, and a white Persian cat, Diana, probably after some deceased school friend, though who would ever remember that.

Suddenly, Coriolanus found himself spending hours picking out elaborate outfits for Ares and lecturing him on proper behavior, as if the tiny dog could even care, and saving him from Churro. Of course, it was really Ares terrorizing Churro most of the time. Diana, on the other hand, was impossibly adorable, sprawling across everything in sight like a fluffy white blanket with attitude.

And yet, as he spoke to his two new companions in a high-pitched, slightly lisping voice, Coriolanus began to worry. Was he slowly losing his mind? Or had the universe just officially declared him the most ridiculous man alive?

But today, salvation arrives. A white envelope with gold lettering: “Coriolanus Snow & Sejanus Plinth.” Coriolanus tears it open with excitement.

It is nothing but an invitation to a wedding. The wedding of Clemensia Devocate and Remus Gaius. His chance to appear in public. To renew some contacts. He has heard of Remus Gaius, a millionaire. There will surely be countless influential people there.

“No way!” Sejanus objects after Coriolanus announces it.

“Please, I’ll go mad soon,” Coriolanus persists.

“Probably too late,” Sejanus replies, unimpressed.

Coriolanus nudges him in the ribs. “Sejanus! I need to go somewhere! I need to reclaim some part of my life! Don’t you want me to be happy?” Emotional blackmail has always been his favorite weapon.

“I do, I do,” Sejanus sighs. “Fine. But only for two hours,” he adds. “We’ll give a gift and then disappear.”

“You’re the best,” Coriolanus says, planting a kiss on his cheek.

***

And here he is. Coriolanus Snow, dressed in an obscenely expensive white suit—maybe it makes him look a little pale, but to him, this is the color of redemption. The moment he steps into The Charlotte —a restaurant he never understood, where they serve those disgusting snails—he feels every pair of eyes on him.

“They’re staring at us,” Sejanus mutters, clearly uncomfortable.

But Coriolanus only squeezes his hand tighter. He loves splendor, he adores attention—even the bad kind. He gives polite smiles left and right, like a dethroned king testing how much the court remembers him, and then settles them confidently in the central row.

After all, Clemensia has always been his good friend. Maybe she never visited him in the mental hospital, but she sent postcards from her travels, and even a fruit basket, which, surprisingly, wasn’t poisoned. She wrote once that she would have come, but the place frightened her. He can’t really blame her.

The seat beside them remains empty for a long while, but eventually footsteps approach—and who else but Festus Creed, dragging along Persephone and his two daughters, whose names Coriolanus never bothers to remember. One of them is truly unfortunate-looking, a girl version of her father in the worst possible way.

“Oh, Coriolanus! Nice to see you!” Festus greets him with exaggerated enthusiasm, leaning down to whisper, “You’re… better now, yes? In the head?”

Coriolanus nods with a perfectly polite smile. “Of course. Exceptionally well, actually. And how are you and your family?”

“Fantastic.”

Festus even goes so far as to shake Sejanus’s hand. Sejanus looks as though he’d rather be anywhere else on earth. “Oh, you two are… together? I thought it was just gossip.”

“Old love never rusts,” Coriolanus replies smoothly.

Sejanus lets out something between a snort and a cough, and Coriolanus shoots him a glare sharp enough to kill on the spot.

But soon the chatter dies down, because violin music begins. Coriolanus guesses he never inherited his mother’s love for music—this sounds worse than all the Covey songs he had to endure as a teenager combined. Pure screeching. Down the aisle between the rows walks Clemensia Dovecote, and he has to admit—she looks astonishing. Black, glossy hair, a white gown fitted to perfection, and not at all resembling a woman of forty. Why in Panem didn’t he marry her instead of Livia? She is escorted by Mr. Dovecote, clad in a gray suit, while at the altar waits a man who hardly looks any younger than her father. Coriolanus can only hope the vase he bought will please them, ghastly, tasteless kitsch, but outrageously expensive. And, of course, he accidentally left the price tag on the underside.

Luckily, the whole ordeal doesn’t last long— I do, I do , a kiss Coriolanus pointedly looks away from, and then it’s time for congratulations. He straightens proudly in the line, ready to bask in some attention—when out of the corner of his eye he catches sight of none other than Livia.

Livia, in a red dress, with that ridiculous fringe that sadly doesn’t cover her entire face. And beside her… Yago Trivane.

Coriolanus feels his blood pressure spiking into white-hot fury. But it’s the figure between them that really freezes him: a small girl with shockingly blonde hair. He can’t tear his eyes away, not until his gaze collides with Yago’s.

The man stiffens. He leans toward Livia, whispers something. Now both of them are staring directly at him, their lips curling in the unmistakable shape of: What is he doing here?

Sejanus touches his arm. “Coryo, don’t,” he pleads, and Coriolanus calms down a little. He won’t talk to them. But why does that little girl have such light hair? Could she be… He swallows hard. Instead, he puts on a wide smile and congratulates the newlyweds, handing them the gift.

“Oh, Coriolanus, how nice to see you!” Clemensia looks genuinely delighted. Not all is lost. Her husband even shakes his hand like nothing ever happened. Sejanus is stiffer than a corpse, but Coriolanus keeps up the cheerful façade. And now it’s time for something he likes most—free food. He happily makes his way into the grand ballroom and checks the table number. Coriolanus Snow and Sejanus Plinth – Table 11. Doesn’t sound very good, but it’s not too bad either. He walks through the center of the hall, greeting an official he recognizes, Hercules, and they even chat for a moment.

“Coryo,” he hears Sejanus’s voice behind him, “did you see who’s sitting with us at the table?”

Coriolanus shrugs. Who? Probably Festus and Persephone. Not the best draw—she’ll probably whine the whole time and also he somehow still remembers she ate human meat—but it could be worse. Unbothered, he heads toward the table only to discover that three people are already seated there.

His ex-wife, Livia.

Her daughter.

And Yago fucking Trivane.

“What a surprise!” Livia screeches like a crow. “I didn’t know they were inviting lunatics here!”

No, that can’t be true. Coriolanus turns on his heel and goes back to Clemensia, who is receiving her last congratulations.

“Hmm?” she asks.

“Clemmie,” Coriolanus says, “at my table there’s Livia and…” he squeezes his eyes shut. “That must be some mistake?”

“Oh,” Clemensia waves her hand, “a bride has so much stress before the wedding…”

“Unnecessarily, you look wonderful,” he says, but studies her face. In her eyes, he sees sparks of amusement. She even smirks. Oh no. She did it on purpose!

“But you all know each other, don’t you?” she says innocently, patting him on the shoulder. “It’ll surely be a spectacular evening. I hope we dance later.” She even winks before turning back to her husband. This can’t be real. Is this her revenge? For what? What did he ever do to her? For… the snakes?

Miserable to his core, Coriolanus drags himself back to the table, where Sejanus is standing awkwardly. He shrugs and says, “Truly, what an amazing surprise. Shall we sit?” he asks Sejanus, who nods, looking even more miserable.

Coriolanus nearly trips over himself to make sure Sejanus doesn’t end up next to Yago. “No darling, sit over here,” he whispers frantically, “there’s a draft there, I don’t want you catching a cold.”

“No way!” Yago protests. “I’m not sitting next to you!”

“So you’d rather sit next to Sejanus?” Coriolanus asks provocatively.

“That’s like choosing between poison and a bullet, but yes! I’d rather him!” Yago snaps.

Poison. Coriolanus smiles to himself. Good thing he has a vial in his pocket—just in case.

He leans slightly toward Yago, voice sweet and at the edge of audibility, "How considerate of you to make your preferences known. I’ll be sure to accommodate."

“Are you blackmailing me, Snow?” Yago hisses quietly, “You should never have left the asylum.”

Coriolanus ignores him. His eyes wander to the little girl sitting next to Livia, with blue eyes and blond hair. How adorable she is.

“What is your name, darling?” he asks sweetly.

“It’s not your business!” Livia snaps.

“And don’t talk to her,” Yago adds sharply. “Preferably, don’t talk to any of us.”

Coriolanus tilts his head slightly, giving Yago a slow, sweet smile. “Of course, I wouldn’t dream of disturbing anyone… unless, of course, they invite it,” he says.

“Because of you,” Yago snaps, “I’ve developed PTSD, you psycho!”

Coriolanus smiles inwardly, savoring the jab. “Oh, I am so very sorry,” he says, putting on a pained expression.

“And yet,” he continues, leaning a fraction closer to the girl, “I do enjoy introductions. One must know the names of those around them, especially when they’re so charming.”

The girl glares at him, blue eyes wide and defiant. Livia mutters something under her breath, and Yago’s jaw tightens. Coriolanus’s smile widens imperceptibly—mission accomplished.

Sejanus clears his throat, trying to redirect the tension. “Coryo… maybe we should focus on the food? Or the dancing later?”

“Ah, yes,” Coriolanus says lightly, finally releasing his gaze from the girl. “Dancing. That will be… delightful.”

The girl says, “My name is Victoria.”

Coriolanus freezes. That was supposed to be the name of his daughter, and Livia knows about it! His gaze nearly pierces her through the table. Victoria. Like Victory. Because he was always winning. Because snow lands on the top.

He tips back the glass of wine in front of him, swallowing a large gulp, trying to steady himself.

“Oh, what a lovely name,” he says, glancing sharply at Livia. “I always wanted to name my daughter that.”

He notices the terrified expression on Livia’s face and sees Yago slowly turning his gaze toward her.

“Livia… did you give our daughter the name he wanted?”

Livia swallows hard, her hands tightening in her lap. “I… I thought it was a nice name,” she stammers.

“Unbelievable!” Yago mutters, and Coriolanus can’t help but enjoy it. So not such a perfect marriage, is it? he thinks with a sly inward smile.

Soon, however, the garlic-scented soup is served, and everyone turns to their plates.

“Coryo, be nice,” Sejanus whispers.

“I am nice,” Coriolanus denies smoothly.

“If you misbehave,” Sejanus leans closer, his voice low and dangerous, “remember the whip waiting for you at home. Do you want to sit on this arrogant ass, hm?”

Coriolanus smirks, swirling his spoon in the soup. “Oh, darling… You know I never forget the consequences.”

Besides, it’s not that bad—a plastic whip and maybe some… hot times. Coriolanus glances at Sejanus; he looks incredibly handsome today in that deep navy suit.

“So, how have you both been?” he asks, turning smoothly to Yago and Livia, voice polite but with just enough edge to make them uneasy.

“What do you care?” Yago asks, swallowing his soup. “I need to smoke!” he decides, standing abruptly and storming out of the room.

Livia shifts one seat over, clearly trying to close the distance between them.

“Shut up, Coriolanus!” she snaps. “How could you say that about the name?!”

Coriolanus tilts his head, giving Livia a polite smile. “Isn’t it true, my dear? Unlike the nonsense you’ve been spreading about me on television,” he says.

“What nonsense?!” she says. “It’s all true!”

“No, I am not homosexual.”

Livia sniggers. “Of course you aren’t.”

“Mommy, what does ‘homosexual’ mean?” Victoria asks innocently.

“Well, you have two examples right here,” Livia says, gesturing at them.

“But your mommy should also tell you,” Coriolanus adds with a note of sadistic satisfaction, “that once upon a time, we were married.”

“Stop it, both of you!” Sejanus raises his voice. “You’re acting like children!”

“Oh, are we?” Coriolanus feigns surprise. “Livia, maybe you should ask your husband about his… orientation,” he says maliciously.

“What do you mean?” Livia whispers.

“Well,” Coriolanus nods toward Sejanus, “my husband had the pleasure of…” He shrugs casually.

”Pleasure of what?”

”Oh, I don’t think this is a topic to discuss in front of children.”

“No, it’s not true!” Livia glances at Sejanus. “Is it?”

Sejanus looks like an enraged bull. “Coryo!” he scolds, trying to rein him in.

Yago appears on the horizon, and Coriolanus leans back in his chair with deliberate satisfaction.

“Vicky,” Livia says sweetly, “maybe you should go with Martha and take a little walk? The gardens are beautiful here.” Her tone is falsely gentle, but the girl obediently nods and runs from the table.

The moment Trivane takes his seat, Livia snaps, “Yago, did you sleep with Plinth?”

Yago, pale as a corpse, says, “Of course… not…” but he’s a terrible liar. How did he manage to fool me for so long? Coriolanus wonders.

“You did!” Livia shrieks.

“And what? You slept with the most disgusting man in all of Panem! And what’s more, you were his wife!” Yago shoots back.

“Excuse me!” Coriolanus protests, but he feels Sejanus take his hand and says, “Let’s go dance.”

“I’m not—”

“Coriolanus,” Sejanus leans close, “this is not a request.”

Coriolanus rolls his eyes, but allows Sejanus to lead him to the center of the ballroom, savoring the sounds of the argument he hears behind him.

“Why,” Sejanus asks with quiet resignation, closing his hand over Coriolanus’s, “are you doing this?”

“What?” Coriolanus replies.

“You know exactly what,” Sejanus says. “You’re pitting them against each other. What’s the point of it?” He moves slowly to the strains of some slow music, his hand firm in Coriolanus’s.

“They… ruined my life,” Coriolanus says.

“No,” Sejanus protests. “You ruined your own life with your choices. And a few others…” He cuts off, a strange tic in his jaw betraying his tension. “Aren’t you happy with me?” he asks, pain lacing his voice, and it twists something deep inside Coriolanus.

“I am, Sejanus,” he says quickly, almost dismissively. “Happy with you.”

What does happiness even mean? He thinks. When was he truly happy? When he burned with power, so close to the presidency, it scorched his insides? In District 12, when the lazy sun lit his days with Lucy Gray, and he believed in love? And now… does he have it at all?

“Sometimes I think you aren’t happy,” Sejanus murmurs. “And I’ve done everything for you, Coryo. I… I don’t have everything I wanted in life. I never became a healer. I spent the best years of my life in a psychiatric hospital.” He glances away.

Coriolanus exhales, feeling the sting of it more than he wants to admit. He hates seeing Sejanus sad. He prefers him angry, threatening, even insolent. “I suppose I should apologize,” he says.

“Just… please let me believe you’re a better man,” Sejanus says quietly. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Coriolanus replies, voice smooth. “But that little girl… Doesn’t she remind you of someone?”

Sejanus hums, hesitant. “Well… she looks like… you, a bit,” he admits reluctantly.

“Do you think…” Coriolanus hesitates, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Well… maybe,” Sejanus says slowly, glancing at Coriolanus. “There’s something familiar in her eyes. But don’t read too much into it… it could just be a coincidence, and she has parents.”

Coriolanus nods, though the thought gnaws at him. “Shall we return to the table? I promise I’ll behave better.”

He won’t, but Sejanus is still as naive as a child. 

Sejanus murmurs quietly, “Agreed.”

But when they return to the table, Yago and Livia are seated at opposite ends.

“Go sit next to Plinth already!” Livia shrieks. “He’s right here!”

“And you sit next to your dear ex-husband, since apparently you can’t forget him so much that you gave our daughter the name he wanted! And she even looks like him!” Yago snaps, then glares at Coriolanus. “Don’t stare at me like that, psycho. I ran the DNA tests. She’s my child!”

Ah, all hopes dashed. “Enough,” Coriolanus says smoothly. “It’s a minor misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding?! I don’t want leftovers from Plinth!” Livia shrieks.

“Well, in that case, I think I’ve taken the leftovers from you,” Sejanus mutters under his breath.

“I am not leftovers!” Coriolanus snaps.

“Of course not… you’re the prize,” Sejanus murmurs, leaning closer and kissing him on the lips. Coriolanus can’t help himself and slides his tongue between Sejanus’s lips, caught in the heat of the moment.

“I’m about to vomit!” Livia exclaims.

“Oh, really? So intolerant, are we?” Yago snaps. “But enough, just stop, I don’t want another PTSD episode.”

“I’m very tolerant,” Livia says sharply, “but not when I’m marrying queers! ”

“I’m just bisexual, not a big deal,” Yago says.

“You didn’t say that!” Livia exclaims.

“And you didn’t tell me a lot of things either!” Yago snaps.

“Enough,” Sejanus says, trying to calm them. “There’s no point in arguing.”

“Oh, and who’s talking?” Yago retorts. “The man who cried during the Hunger Games and then saved that asshole from the gallows, hmm?”

“Hey, don’t call him that,” Sejanus warns.

“Asshole, psychopath, devil, monster, dyed fox, bleached…” Yago continues.

“Shut up!” Sejanus pounds his fist on the table, making a few heads turn. “You will not insult my husband, understood?”

“That psycho locked me in a cave and I lost a finger!” Yago snaps.

Coriolanus still regrets it was only a finger.

“But he’s changed now,” Sejanus continues. “He served his punishment, so leave him alone! You’re not exactly a saint yourself!”

“I’m not a saint?!” Yago says. “What exactly have I done wrong?”

“An affair with Livia? Pretending she never discovered your identity, hmm?” Sejanus replies, crossing his arms.

“Sure, are you two going to jump on each other next?” Livia asks sharply, taking a sip of her wine.

“Over my dead body,” Coriolanus says through clenched teeth, gripping Sejanus by the arm.

“Ah, in that case, I’m willing to do it… as long as it ends with a corpse,” Yago says cheerfully.

“Let’s get out of here, Coryo. I’ve had enough,” Sejanus says miserably.

“Come on, they’re still serving…” Coriolanus glances at the menu. “Lamb, suckling pig, champagne, and cake.”

“I’m not hungry,” Sejanus replies.

“We so rarely leave the house…” Coriolanus murmurs into his ear, his voice low and intimate.

“Funny why that is,” Yago snorts.

Anyway, they sit down between Livia and Yago, who continue to exchange occasional jabs, though they quiet down when their daughter returns. Coriolanus strikes up a conversation with her, and he still can’t believe she isn’t his own child. So pretty, so bright…

“Stop talking to my daughter, or we’ll go outside,” Yago says, leaning toward him.

“And what exactly will we do out there?” Coriolanus asks.

“Finally… I’ll fix that face of yours…”

Coriolanus only watches with satisfaction as Sejanus, with a firm hand, pushes Yago decisively away. “Try touching him,” he says.

“You know he’s using you, Plinth? He doesn’t give a damn about you. You were his ticket to avoid the gallows,” Yago says, sipping his whiskey. His pathetic little goatee only makes him look more pitiful.

“Maybe I like being used. Not your business,” Sejanus cuts him off sharply.

“And I’m not using him. I love… Sejanus,” Coriolanus says quietly.

“Sure, people like you aren’t capable of love,” Yago sneers.

Although Coriolanus couldn’t care less about anything Yago says today, this time it strikes differently. Isn’t he capable of love, really? To show devotion? How did his last love end? How did Sejanus end up in his life? He swallows hard.

“You’re wrong,” he says simply.

But instead, focusing elsewhere, he stands up effortlessly and makes his way across the room. He feels their gazes on him, but he smiles politely, gracefully. Without a trace of nervousness, he approaches the newlyweds’ table and asks Clemensia to dance.

“With pleasure,” she replies.

“Is this revenge for the snakes?” he asks with a smirk, spinning her gracefully.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she dismisses, though a smirk tugs at her lips.

“You’re radiant, Clemmie,” he says, his voice low and smooth.

“And it’s surprising… but you too, Coryo,” she notes, eyes glinting.

“This evening has been truly entertaining,” Coriolanus says. “Perhaps you and Remus might drop by sometime? It just so happens I’d be grateful if someone could whisper a single word on my behalf… After all, I do run the Plinth Company,” he announces proudly.

“Perhaps,” Clemensia replies.

When Coriolanus returns to the table, Sejanus sits more miserable than usual, and Coriolanus notices with quiet satisfaction that Victoria has once again disappeared. Her parents—Livia perched on Yago’s lap, kissing him—have clearly reconciled.

Coriolanus no longer cares about them. He came here for one purpose. He makes his way through the room, complimenting the newlyweds to several guests. He recognizes the head of a bank—one competing with Livia’s mother, Gaius Vellorin—and sits beside him, introducing himself as Coriolanus Snow, Clemensia, and her husband Remus Gaius’s closest friend, and Remus’s protégé. He engages in casual conversation until the overweight woman sitting next to Gaius suddenly says, “Aren’t you that lunatic they dragged out of the house in a pink robe?”

Coriolanus feels frozen. “No, that was someone else,” he replies loudly.

“I don’t think so,” the woman continues. “I’d recognize you anywhere! Coriolanus Snow, right? They finally let you out of that asylum?”

Coriolanus pales slightly, but he puckers his lips into a polite smile and excuses himself courteously, returning to the table, where Livia and Yago are almost entangled.

“Not everything went according to plan?” Sejanus asks.

“Yhym… We can go,” Coriolanus announces gloomily, downing the last of his wine in one smooth motion. “I have a small idea,” he adds.

As they rise to leave, Coriolanus quietly slips away toward the gifts table. His gaze lands on a vase—tall, elegant, and absurdly ornate. Clemensia doesn’t deserve it for this little prank. It will look exquisite in their living room, a subtle display of his taste and generosity. He lifts it carefully.

But then he spots a gift already waiting from Yago and Livia: a small, but unmistakably luxurious, objet d’art, perhaps a gilded sculpture or a rare crystal ornament, sparkling with an exorbitant price tag. With deliberate precision, Coriolanus peels a small label from the vase and sticks it neatly under the gift: “From Coriolanus Snow & Sejanus Plinth.”  

So Livia and Yago were too rude not to give a gift. Beaming, he walks over to his husband, his love, and they leave the building together.

“You’re impossible,” Sejanus shakes his head. “You said that vase was horrendous.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Maybe I have too.”

Coriolanus gives him a questioning look.

“You know, I… I’m corresponding with some people from District 12,” Sejanus continues, hesitating. “A lot of children don’t have parents, and I thought… anyway, it would be better for them to leave with us than in District 12 on their own. But I didn’t know if you’d agree.”

Sejanus glances at him shyly. Coriolanus can’t help but think how ironic it is—organising the Hunger Games, yet now adopting children from the Districts. Fate, he realizes, has a twisted sense of humor. If redemption is possible, what better path could there be? Still, he forces himself to mask the thrill of hope, keeping his expression carefully neutral for now.

“How do they look?” he asks, intrigued.

“They have blond hair… A girl and a boy. Siblings,” Sejanus adds quietly. “They are four and six years old.”

Coriolanus’s eyes light up, and without a word, he throws his arms around Sejanus’s neck, pressing a grateful, almost frantic kiss to him.

“Thank you… Thank you!” he murmurs, his usual composure melting into genuine joy.

Sejanus chuckles, wrapping an arm around him as they head to the awaiting limousine. The city lights blur past the tinted windows as they drive home, but the world somehow looks nicer today. 

“But your… backside still awaits the whip for your behaviour,” Sejanus reminds him teasingly. 

“Yhym,” Coriolanus says. He smiles to himself, a slow, satisfied curve of his lips. 

It’s still the truth.

Snow always lands on top.