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Coriolanus watched him. All the time, admittedly, but he was impossible to look away from now. Sejanus was stiff as a board as he shuffled across the stage, smiling like he was held at gunpoint, his tooth gap on full display in the beacons of spotlights (something he could’ve rid of long ago with his daddy’s money– why he chose to keep it was not Coriolanus’ concern) and hands fidgeting in his pockets, likely creating a pool of sweat in every crevice.
Like we rehearsed, he thought, albeit his doubt outweighed any support at the moment. Sejanus lifted his hand to give a hasty wave before it was shoved back into his pants. He could’ve been assassinated by an audience member right there on the spot for all Coriolanus cared.
He patted the empty cushion on the couch beside him, a cordial act on his behalf, and Sejanus slotted himself too close for a broadcast.
It stung to even admit it to himself, but Coriolanus had grown rather fond of Sejanus’ presence. He always insisted on being so near, inches away from touching, and sometimes even doing so. A bump of his shoulder, graze of his fingertips, a brief hug, even, on special occasions.
“Coriolanus and Sejanus. Fitting names for such a duo,” Lucky Flickerman barked out, and Sejanus visibly jumped from the applause that followed.
Snow put a hand on his knee. “Relax,” he muttered into his ear, a heat-frizzed curl tickling his nose. Sejanus took a deep breath, then another, then more until the clapping was nothing more than a sound bounced off the auditorium walls.
Had he known the District 2 tribute would be anything like the boy beside him, he’d have begged for a change. Sejanus was a kind, strong willed man, but he was like a bird with its wingspan spread, ready to take off at the next fleeting moment. District 2 used to be a promise of a win, not quite 1 yet nowhere near 12, a solid catch in the sea with a good hook and strong line, he could’ve had a shark.
Sejanus’ dark eyes were a blink away from falling out of their sockets. He had gotten a minnow that he had to try and sell as a shark. If anyone at all took the bait, it’d be an anyone-at-all higher than he imagined.
“It’s an honor,” Coriolanus said, ignoring how his tribute nodded with such feigned ferocity next to him.
Lucky’s entire face was so terrifying that Snow almost understood Sejanus’ fear. It was perfect, too perfect, surely none of his features had stayed since birth. Even his eyes were a fraud– the bright yellow contacts were certainly a choice on his stylist’s part– Capitol fashion trends had a way of destroying a person. Coriolanus liked to stick to the basics, not like he had much of an option.
He decided then that his first order as President would be to imprison Lucretius Flickerman, and he tried to search for a reason then quickly gathered that he wouldn’t need one. He’d be President. He could do whatever he wanted.
“Now, I know that you two are only the third pair we’ve got the joy of meeting tonight, but I’m hoping that you have something just outstanding prepared.” Lucky turned to the camera and gave an impromptu chuckle. “Those District One candidates are no joke!”
The Capitol citizens erupted in applause once more, and Snow went to rubbing his palm on Sejanus’ knee like calming a jumpy dog from fireworks, mostly for the purpose of not letting him look like a fool on live television, but partly for his own nerves.
He’d be damned if Sejanus didn’t kill him before The Games. He had only agreed to letting him perform his little trick during his interview for good press, only having seen him do it previously on small animals. There wasn’t much room for comparison there– Sejanus’ strange ability to treat a mouse back to full health fell flat in equivalence to an adult human male.
“Then make sure to tell those One candidates that they’re in for a real treat,” Snow said with a grin. He almost couldn’t believe how easily the viewers fell for his persona. There were pitchy giggles amongst the crowd; Tigris wasn’t going to let him live this down until he died.
“Alrighty, then. The floor is yours, boys.”
Sejanus’ fingers tripped over themselves when he removed his right hand from his pocket, a thin needle pressed between his thumb and forefinger, creating a low murmur in the darkness. A needle! Oh, how scary! I wonder if he’ll stab his eyes out!
God, how Coriolanus wished sometimes.
This was, as Grandma’am would say, as she was probably saying now as she watched from the old television in their living room back home, a heinous idea. There was a major likeliness that Sejanus could terribly wound him, but the thought clashed with his others; Sejanus didn’t have it in him to hurt anything.
If the odds were in his favor, then they were scarily quiet. If Sejanus had the guts to kill, then they were dormant, floating around in his stomach and waiting to tighten with rage, or fear, there were a lot of things that could drive him to murder.
No– There were a lot of things that could drive Snow to murder. Sejanus wasn’t an extension of himself, he had to keep that thought on the backburner, or else he’d put too much faith in the boy.
What knowledge Sejanus had of weaponry would do him no good, anyway. It had been an exciting tidbit to learn that he was rather skilled with a gun, but the giddiness dwindled rapidly. Guns in the arena were a fruitless pipe dream. Nobody wanted practical deaths. They had to be worth watching, and bullets flew too fast to fawn over.
From his own pocket, Coriolanus revealed a small dagger, but it was a weapon nonetheless, so the wild reaction was expected. Lucky’s copper hair swished as he darted his glance back and forth between the pair and the crowd, using his entire head to do so, not even sparing the tendons in his neck from pageantry.
“Our own private Hunger Games, ladies and gentlemen!”
The usage of ‘private’ in the situation should’ve called for a laugh, but all that came was more chatter.
Sejanus’ hands were trembling, and Coriolanus only had to hope they would stop soon. He nudged his tribute with his shoulder, an invitation to speak. A demand to speak.
“Um-” he started. Bad start. Coriolanus should’ve trained him to eliminate those filler words. “I’ve always wanted to be a medic. Ever since I was a kid. I-uh-my ma taught me to sew when I was young.”
Coriolanus didn’t blame the chuckles. Sejanus was already losing support. Just get to the point.
“I study healing plants and such.”
“Interesting. How good would you say you are on a scale of one to a morphling?” Lucky joked.
Sejanus eyed Coriolanus wearily. “Good enough to injure my mentor on a live broadcast.”
Coriolanus would be a liar if he said that he wasn’t warming up to the crowd. Their shouts fed him back to life. He imagined that the couch was his throne and Sejanus was his personal Avox, balancing platters of hors d'oeuvres and flutes of red wine, and the crowd was his. They weren’t here for the Hunger Games, they weren’t here for Sejanus and his surgical tricks, they were here for him.
It didn’t matter how much he liked his tribute– those were the thoughts he couldn’t help from thinking.
The dagger rested light in his palm, and Sejanus took it gingerly, the shake in his hands downgrading to at least a controlled quiver, and if he focused hard enough, stopped altogether.
If he was able to pull this off, then it’d be a miracle. Slashing and stitching someone wasn’t exactly an act you could practice, or, well, they could’ve, but Coriolanus didn’t want people getting the wrong impression.
They’d briefly discussed potential places to cut without being too harsh, Sejanus trusted himself anywhere but wasn’t brave enough to severely puncture him. Coriolanus, despite his worry, needed something raw. Interviews were the tributes’ only chance to prove themselves before getting tossed in the lion’s den.
Stab me, he’d urged the night prior, stab me and everyone will love you.
Sejanus wasn’t a big fan of the idea. They settled for a quick splice of skin on his forearm, deep enough to mend yet shallow enough to keep the pot boiling.
The stage lights were hot against his skin, and he wanted to get everything over with so he could change out of his suit. His blood was tingling now, Sejanus had the knife. Sejanus was ready, the threaded needle glistened back into his retina, absorbed by the blackness of his pupil.
“Sorry,” Sejanus murmured as he readied the weapon, that muted tremble returning. Coriolanus refrained from telling him not to apologize. It wasn’t the end of the world, and if everything came crashing and burning, it was nothing any regular healer couldn’t fix.
He rolled up his sleeve and presented the smooth skin on the underside, letting it marinate in the stage lights. He had to remind himself to stay calm, to put trust into his tribute. Without it, he’d have nothing.
But he must’ve forgotten how painful sharp objects were known to be. Fire. The word bounced around in his skull. A deep, thick paper cut on every layer of his skin, it stung like the wrath of a thousand Suns and made his tongue throb from sinking his teeth into it.
And– ah, there was the kicker, bright and red as Sejanus slowly removed the blade from the side of his abdomen. His arm was pale and clean. He looked down at oxygenated flower blossoming through his father’s old shirt. Tigris was going to finish the job if he didn’t die right now.
His second order as President: no more red roses for The Capitol. For Panem.
“Sej-”
“You’re fine, Coryo. Just breathe.”
Sejanus forced him to lie down on the couch, untucking ruffled hems from his pants to expose the bleeding part of his torso. Coriolanus couldn’t even wince as the fabric pulled the torn flesh. He was too busy repeating that nickname in his head, in Sejanus’ voice.
Coryo, Coryo, Coryo. Such a miniscule yet comforting thing, perhaps something his father would breathe out holding his dying child, or Tigris tucking him in for bed years ago. It sounded more than intimate from Sejanus’ lips. Natural, like a born behavior, clicking against the tunnel of his throat and exiting at the roof of his mouth.
Maybe the pain was too numbing to notice how much progress Sejanus had already made, but when he strained his neck up to check, the thread was already weaving cobwebs like a well rehearsed suture. Had he done this before on a person? Or was he simply guessing?
He swore that he heard Sejanus talking him through it, but the ringing in his ears blared siren-like and beckoned him to shut his eyes and groan. The audience roared like wild animals. Coriolanus saw them in his head as such, leaping and chasing their tails as they watched a predator be taken down by it’s prey.
It was over when Lucky blared something incomprehensible into his microphone, and Coriolanus sat up like a shot.
“Cor- stop. Lay back down,” Sejanus mumbled, still kneeling on the floor with blood soaking his hands. He looked like a killer. Maybe he did have teeth after all.
But Coriolanus couldn’t lay back down. The crowd exploded like dynamite, a cacophonic blend of screams and claps and gasps, nothing like he’d ever seen before.
“We’re gonna have to get you to a bed. I have some stuff to help with the pain, and I’m probably going to have to-”
“Hush,” Coriolanus said, and it came out as a grunt, “they’re cheering for you. Listen.”
Sejanus followed his instructions, biting his lip so hard that it sprung bright red. He was still facing Coriolanus, backside to his new fans, needle still steady in his pinch.
“Bow,” he whispered.
Sejanus rose to his feet and turned, slow, like he’d be met with a firearm to his forehead, then bowed like a gentleman, someone who had just given a toast and not sewed up a wound in front of the entire nation.
Coriolanus grinned through a grimace, then, in a split decision, grabbed his tribute’s hand from behind and hoisted himself up, ignoring how blood gushed down his hip.
“Wow!” Lucky shouted. “Just wow!”
Sejanus looked at Coriolanus, and their eyes briefly locked before he turned back to the crazed Capitol citizens. “My name is Sejanus Plinth from District Two,” he announced over the ruckus, squeezing Coriolanus’ hand, “Panem is for the people. Use your hearts. Let the world know that you can’t kill evil.”
Coriolanus squeezed back. They looked like poster boys for war, smiling and bleeding, hand in hand as the Capitol birds squawked from below the stage.
“But you sure as hell can try.”
Maybe the phrasing was lost in the crying flock, maybe Coriolanus had heard it wrong, but it seemed nobody had seemed to register nor care about what he’d just said. Rebellion tasted good for a moment, dripping honey from Sejanus’ lips to his own, and he wanted then to shout it out for good measure. Yes! This is my tribute, and he’s not going down without a fight!
A bird cawed somewhere, and he couldn’t decipher if it was imaginary or not, but it cawed like a beast until he was backstage, hand clutched to his side. He waited to faint until he knew people weren’t looking anymore. The embarrassment might’ve brought the end faster than the stab.
When Coriolanus awoke, he simply assumed that he was in Heaven. He must’ve asked this out loud, because Sejanus was quick to respond.
“You’d be surprised at how many people say that after waking up,” he said, “they always think that a bright light means they’ve crossed over.”
Coriolanus wished he could’ve been happy to see him, but there was only one burning question on his mind. “They didn’t kill you?”
“The Peacekeepers?”
“Anyone.” Coriolanus’ throat was dry, it scratched his sentences. A glass of water sat next to him on a tray, sweating off condensation, and Sejanus was quick to grab it for him.
“You held my hand in the interview. Highbottom wanted your personal opinion first.”
“And they just… let you in here?”
“There’s a Peacekeeper outside,” Sejanus said, his eyes moving with Coriolanus’ hand as he lifted the glass and emptied the entire thing in just a few sips.
A singular peacekeeper? To guard a tribute who had plunged a knife into a Capitol citizen for the entire world to see? “Seems a little out of character.”
“I thought that too, but your cousin was nice enough to give me the okay. I guess they trust her. Trust your family, that is.”
They’d better, or else Coriolanus was screwed. The mentorship program was the first step in the right direction in a long, long time.
“Is she here?”
Sejanus shook his head. “She’ll be back.” He took the empty glass back and set it down in its original spot. “The medicine they gave you won’t do shit. I put something of my own on your stitches. I hope you don’t mind.”
It was then that Coriolanus realized he hadn’t been in any pain since he fluttered back to life. He scooted himself up on the bed, graciously rolling up the shirt he’d been put in. The stitches were ugly, protruding like a centipede across his torso, and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning.
“Jesus,” he whispered.
“Does it hurt?”
“No,” he said, “it’s just gross.”
Sejanus laughed, full of heart, like he always did. “That’s what getting stabbed will do to you.”
Coriolanus smiled. “Were you planning on doing that the entire time?”
Sejanus’ matching smile was devious. “You think I have a better shot at winning if I said yes or no?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Coriolanus said, wincing as he adjusted himself at the gentle throb in his wound, “I think you have a shot.”
Coriolanus was pleased to find out that Gaul had issued the game participants to wait for his recovery before starting. What for though? He couldn’t see her giving any other students the same kind of grace– if this existed as proof that she liked him, then he’d take it.
But another thing it could mean? She liked his tribute. She wanted to give him fair play.
Albeit, Coriolanus doubted that. If anything, it’d make more sense to throw Sejaus in with no advantages later on, if she really believed in him.
Nonetheless, the Games halted until the next day, and Coriolanus was so on edge that he bounded out of bed that morning and dressed into his uniform, not even bothering to change the bandage around his torso. Whatever Sejanus gave him had to be crafted with dark magic.
Sejanus was waiting for him by the arena entrance, surrounded by Peacekeepers. He passed his fellow classmates and their own tributes on the way over, some engaging in lively yet weighty conversation, strategies and whatnot, who to ally with and who to fear, some refused to speak. Those were the ones who’d die off first, with no sponsorships, no allies, no hope.
He was a second away from calling his name when he was pulled into an embrace. The Peacekeepers readied their weapons, and Coriolanus shot them a glare.
“Thank you, Coryo,” Sejanus whispered into his ear. They were roughly the same height, yet Sejanus felt smaller in his arms, sparsely fed in the zoo.
Coriolanus hadn’t meant to, but his arms tightened around Sejanus’ thin waist. “Don’t thank me,” he said, “I’m about to watch you fight to the death.”
“Maybe, but you might also watch me survive.”
Sejanus pulled back just enough to where their faces could meet, hands still resting on Coriolanus’ shoulders, Coriolanus’ still locked around his waist. From behind him, someone giggled.
“That’s not a maybe.”
He heard Livia’s shrill voice from across the corridor: “Don’t forget to kiss him goodbye, Snow!”
Being mocked by his classmates wasn’t new, they taunted him daily, all jokes, hopefully, sometimes it was hard to tell. Most he knew were harmless– Clemensia, Pup, Festus, even Lysistrata joined in on the fun at times, though that was rare. Livia wasn’t one of those people. Whenever she found a flaw in Coriolanus, she made it her job to announce it.
The flaw, in this instance, was not something brought upon by himself, but he couldn’t blame her. Before Sejanus, he had never been a touchy person. He still wouldn’t consider himself one, but there was something about his tribute that drew him close. Hell, he didn’t even care that he used his family nickname on him.
Sejanus was not family, he had to remind himself. Sejanus was a war machine, no matter how rusted, and after The Games would likely turn his guns to Snow.
However, if Coriolanus allowed himself to dream, Sejanus’ smile would be this close to him again, and he could absorb his warmth once more, even just once, and everything would be okay. Sejanus could live with him in one of the spare rooms in his complex, assisting Tigris with cooking and sprouting Grandma’am’s rose bushes, and he’d never have to think about the districts again.
His daydreams snapped in half when he felt something against his cheek. It was so quick he would’ve missed it had he been too deep in thought. A kiss.
Livia faked a gag from over his shoulder, then crossed by his line of vision with her tribute.
“Do me a favor, will you?” Sejanus asked, “write Ma and tell her to bake something for you, tell her it’s my treat.”
Coriolanus smiled and finally removed his arms from around him. “Of course.” He wouldn’t, but if there was one thing he learned about Sejanus, it was that he would fight tooth and nail to get what he wanted. “Do me one, too, and don’t die out there.”
As the tributes were ushered out into the arena, Coriolanus took his place in the viewing box next to Lysistrata, the poor girl doomed with a District 12 boy. “I have faith in Twelve this year,” she said, “people really love Lucy Gray.”
Coriolanus shrugged. “Singing doesn’t equate to winning.”
“I guess we’ll just have to see.”
The cannons fired after a ten second countdown, and Sejanus ran for a knife.