Chapter Text
Coriolanus Snow had never believed in a happy ending that came miraculously by some generous, higher power. Those childish notions had evaporated long ago, and he found that he simply did not have the time to waste dwelling upon those fairytale ideals. Anything worth having in life would have to be fought for, tooth and nail. Life simply did not owe you anything, it would have to be pursued, hunted for.
And true love? That was laughable. A joke that industries across the world capitalised upon to make more money, to lure in fools who believed that there was someone out there, bound to you by this fate that Coriolanus did not believe in, that would take one look at you and fling themselves into your arms, claiming that you were the only one that they would ever love ever again. What utter nonsense.
Yet his cousin, Tigris, was always trying to push her naive ideals onto him. Trying to take him out, to explore, to meet more people. She pushed too much; it was suffocating. Coriolanus wondered how she could have lived through the same upbringing as him, yet still hold fast in her belief that the world held a magnitude of hidden wonders, simply waiting to be discovered. All Coriolanus had discovered was loss, injustice and hatred. This naivety in her, he thought, exposed vulnerabilities that were just begging to be exploited. But that was why Coriolanus was here, was it not? To protect the only ones he had ever been capable of loving from the harsh realities of the world that they lived in. His purpose, his goal, as the man of the family. The burden placed upon him since his father died, the words echoing daily within the confines of his brain, never ceasing, never fading.
”Promise me, Coryo. Promise you’ll never leave them. Promise you’ll do anything to keep them alive, to keep the Snow legacy afloat.”
And he hadn’t left them. He had done everything he could. Coriolanus worked tirelessly, day and night, ensuring that no one ever found out about the diminished state the once great family of Snow had fallen into. How they lived paycheck to paycheck, never knowing if there would be food to last them another meal, how their meagre savings had dwindled along with the Grandma’am’s health as she battled illness after illness, how he worked three jobs just to pay for her medical treatment. All swept under the rug; kept under lock and key. To the outside observer, Coriolanus was cruising along on a seemingly bottomless trust fund, without a care in the world apart from whether his dinner would consist of lobster (which he loathed) or crab (which, frankly, wasn’t much better.) Not like he had had the choice of which, or even the option of either, in over a decade.
It was on his way home from one of these jobs, where Coriolanus worked as a barista, hurrying around during rush hour and enduring complaint after complaint, where he first saw her. He didn’t notice, at first, the dark haired girl standing in front of the store, strumming a worn guitar and singing softly. In his defence, Coriolanus had mountains of assignments piling up on his old, beaten desk at home, not to mention all the extra paperwork resulting from the Grandma’am’s latest hospitalisation. He had things to do, places to be, too absorbed in mentally planning out the rest of his day, the realisation that he wouldn’t be able to sleep until 4 in the morning, again-
“Sincerely thank y’all’s for listening!” The girl twirled, the colours on her rainbow skirt merging into a brilliant blur as she spun. There was a smattering of applause, and Coriolanus looked up to the sight of a small crowd, drawn to the singer like moths to a flame. Glancing at her again, he unwillingly locked eyes with the flamboyantly dressed girl, and Coriolanus scoffed to himself. How untasteful, her outfit. It was begging for attention, making her look like those performers in the circus acts the Grandma’am had taken him and Tigris to watch on his 12th birthday. Where she had scraped up the money for that, he didn’t know. And… he was back to thinking about money. It seemed that he could never escape the topic for more than a few moments at a time.
“For my next song, I wrote it about a boy back in Twelve, who played with my feelings and toyed with my heart,” the singer announced brightly. A murmur of disapproval rippled through the crowd, and Coriolanus didn’t know if it was because of the topic of the song or that the girl had just admitted she came from District Twelve.
His curiosity piqued, Coriolanus stopped, and turned to face the singer. In a low, husky voice, she began.
”If you were a teacher, I would fail your class, take it over and over, ‘til you noticed me. If you were a waiting room, I would never see a doctor, I would sit there with my first-aid kit and bleed,”
Coriolanus rolled his eyes. What had he expected? A song of actual substance? Turning on his heel, he set a brisk pace for the rest of the walk home. His precious time wasted on another District wretch in the Capitol, getting by on the generosity that the Capitol somehow saw fit to provide the lowborns, scholarships to Capitol University, free housing, they were practically asking for the downfall of Panem!
Although the House of Snow was now reduced to a shadow of its former self, Coriolanus was a firm believer in the supremacy of those who resided in the Capitol, namely, those who came from old money. His somewhat friend, more of a pity friendship than anything, Sejanus Plinth, didn’t count. His was new, shiny money, completely wasted on his bleeding heart longing over and over again for life in the Districts.
And this only served to cement the unyielding faith Coriolanus held, that there was simply no higher power in the world that balanced the scales of right and wrong. Because if there had been, the wealth would have been given to his family, where he could use it for all the right things. Like restoring the glory of the Snow legacy, providing for the Grandma'am, supporting Tigris so that she would be able to pursue the life she wished, designing and creating for the elite. Not feeding the homeless migrants from the Districts on the street, like he had witnessed Sejanus do so, so many times.
Singing about love, what a ridiculous notion. She would never get anywhere in life, not unless it was on the coattails of some rich, Capitol brat. Not that someone of his status would ever think about even looking twice at that girl. Apart from Sejanus, maybe.
His train of thought had led him to a more frustrated state of mind than usual, and he moodily stirred the tomato soup Tigris had cooked up that night. The dimly lit kitchen cast long shadows in the fading sunlight, setting what Coriolanus thought to be a depressing scene.
“What’s wrong, Coryo? Do you not like the soup?” Tigris stressed from her place across the table. She watched him with concern evident in her eyes.
“No, no,” he rushed to reassure. “It’s been a long day, though my appetite seems to be gone now. Here, have my portion, I need to get a headstart on my assignments. Gaul’s gone and set another 4,000 word essay on the glorious history of the Capitol and the benefits of war.” He groaned internally at the idea of slogging through yet another essay that, really, was just a repetition of all the other ones he had written throughout the semester, was it not? Dr. Gaul was nothing if not consistent.
“Are you sure, Coryo? I’ve already had more than my fair share, and you need to be well fed if you’re to do well on your schoolwork.” Tigris looked mildly concerned; it was unlike Coriolanus to turn away food. "You really do work too hard, Coryo."
He nodded hastily, placing his bowl in front of Tigris. Coriolanus stood to clear the table. “I’ll take this, thank you, Grandma’am," he said, reaching for her bowl. The Grandma’am looked up at him slowly, and Coriolanus flashed a grin at her as she nodded in approval, and a cough wracked her aging body. Tigris leapt up, hurrying for the kitchen to grab a glass of water.
Dumping the dishes in the sink - he could deal with those later - Coriolanus hightailed it to his bedroom, slumping down at his desk. He listened to the muffled sounds of Tigris soothing the Grandma'am, offering her more medication, more pills, god knows what good they even did.
There really wasn’t any reason for him to feel so rattled, he thought, annoyed. It must have been the fact that his carefully orchestrated schedule that he lived by had almost been disrupted by his decision to stop and observe the gaudy busker on the street. How distasteful. Performing on the street? He would much rather die, than risk someone he knew seeing him.
Shoving all the thoughts out of his brain, Coriolanus looked around for his vinyl player, and placed his single, remaining record onto the platter. A scratchy rendition of some old, classical song composed before the Dark Days filled the silence of his room, and Coriolanus let out a sigh of relief. Finally, some calm.
The vinyl had been a gift from his father to his mother, he recalled. She would play it, humming along as young Coriolanus sat on her lap, giggling.
He shook his head, looking down at his laptop screen. Coriolanus did, in fact, own a laptop, he had saved up for months to purchase it, a splurge that was vital in maintaining the idea that he still came from wealth. It wasn’t wasteful, he had justified to himself. It was a necessity to uphold his reputation. What he was to do if he ever had to replace it at short notice, Coriolanus didn’t know. But that could be an issue for another time, he thought, as he clicked open the doc of his essay draft. Staring at it, he frowned. Coriolanus swore he had written more, but apparently not. Sighing, he set to work.
The incessant beep of his morning alarm alerted Coriolanus to the start of another day. Groaning, he lifted his head from where it lay on his desk. He must have fallen asleep working on his assignment, again, not an uncommon occurrence these days.
5:00am, he had to get ready for his shift at the cafe before his first lesson of the day. Unenthused at the prospect of facing the morning rush of customers, Coriolanus dragged himself into the bathroom to observe the toll the night had taken on him. Clear blue eyes, framed by pits of shadow stared back at him through the mirror. Nothing he could do about that, though. Yawning, he wandered into the kitchen and rifled through the fridge, hoping for something, anything edible that could pass as breakfast.
Carefully placed in the centre of the fridge were the leftovers of his dinner from yesterday, along with a scrawled note from Tigris.
Eat up, Coriolanus. You’ve got lots to do today!
Coriolanus smiled softly to himself, resolving to snag Tigris a sweet pastry of some sort from the cafe when his manager wasn’t looking. She really did the most for him, and the Grandma’am too.
Wolfing down the remnants of the soup and bread, Coriolanus grabbed his woollen coat from the hanger by the door, and stepped outside into the crisp October air.
The journey to the cafe was always a fast one, as Coriolanus opted to speed through the streets, longing for the warmth of the building. He arrived mere minutes before his shift began at 6:00, nodding politely at his fellow barista, Lysistrata, who was also his classmate at the Capitol University. They had graduated together from the same, posh high school, where his father had the foresight to pay off all Coriolanus’ school fees, securing his son’s education. Why Lysistrata had ever wanted to pick up a part-time job was beyond him; he knew for a fact that her parents had been the personal physicians of the President, and were by no means wanting for cash. But then again, Lysistrata had always been more reserved than the children of other influential Capitol families, and Coriolanus had always considered her a good acquaintance, a caring classmate.
Though, neither of them ever mentioned the University at work, and work at the University. An unspoken agreement, upheld by both parties.
Dropping his coat and bag in the staff room, Coriolanus ran a hand through his tousled hair and secured the uniform apron tightly around his waist. He stepped back out, and began his shift.
Three and a half hours later, Coriolanus was reaching his breaking point. He had scalded his hand with hot milk not once, not twice, but three times already, and the busiest hour was fast approaching. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up.
As he rushed around, taking more orders, relaying them to Lysistrata, brewing a few, calling out names to orders, the doorbell jingled, signalling the entrance of yet more customers. Coriolanus hurried to the till, waiting expectantly for an order.
A distinctive accent reached his ears as the customer requested an “oat milk mocha latte, with extra cocoa powder”. Coriolanus looked up, and for the second time, gazed into a pair of rich brown eyes, filled with curiosity. The busker from the day before, he realised. The one from District... Twelve, it was?
She tilted her head, waiting. “Sorry, could you repeat that again?” Coriolanus shook his head, looking back down at the options on his screen.
The girl chuckled. “I didn’t think my drink was one of those convoluted ones, ya know, like the ones where they have to press about eight different options and end up getting the wrong order anyways, just because they want to be difficult? An oat milk mocha latte, with extra cocoa powder, please.” She smiled warmly at Coriolanus. She was surprisingly well spoken for someone who came from the districts, he noted.
“Of course, and a name to go with that one?”
“Lucy. Lucy Gray.”
Lucy Gray, he thought to himself later. What a plebian name. As to be expected from some District-born lowlife, though.
As his shift ended, Coriolanus noticed that she was still sitting in a chair by the window, a notebook laying open in front of her. The oat milk mocha latte was long finished, and it was bordering on 11:00, yet she sat there, staring out. Lucy Gray, he acknowledged.
In that moment, although his shift was over, Coriolanus decided to clear her table. He took a few steps in her direction, almost nervous. There was a charm about her that seemed to draw him in, and Coriolanus was mortified. He was making too big of a deal out of this, he decided. She was a customer, and he was simply doing his job. Nothing weird about that.
“May I take this?” Coriolanus offered politely, gesturing to the empty cup sitting on her table.
Lucy Gray looked up, startled. “Oh, why, yes, go ahead.” She smiled at him again.
He didn’t return the smile. Instead, his gaze slid to the open notebook laying on the table, filled with scrawls of what looked to be… lyrics?
I want to be the broken love song that feeds your misery, Coriolanus read. How pathetic. What did that even mean? The broken love song; why would anyone ever want to be broken?
“Interested in my music?” A honeyed voice cut through his thoughts as Coriolanus snapped back to attention.
“Not too much of a fan of the folk genre myself,” he remarked coolly, turning back towards the kitchen.
“That’s a shame, darlin’! You should still come listen to me sing,” Lucy Gray called out to his back.
Coriolanus bit back a response, wondering if she knew that he had already heard her play, the day before. He hurried to grab his belongings from the staff room, shrugging on his coat.
Lysistrata was waiting for him by the door. It seemed that another part of their unspoken agreement was the fact that they would walk to campus together, after their shifts at the cafe. He didn’t mind it; she was pleasant enough company. As he reached the door, Coriolanus couldn't resist sneaking one last glance back at Lucy Gray, in her little seat by the window. She was writing furiously, foot tapping on the floor.
Shoving thoughts of her out of his mind, he stepped out the door with Lysistrata, engaging in menial conversation about their classmates, all restraints on topics lifted. Lysistrata held some interesting, intellectual opinions about most things, Coriolanus had found.
Far more intellectual than whatever that Lucy Gray could provide, he was sure.