Chapter Text
Ma adjusts his tie for the fourth time in a minute, fussing purely for the sake of fussing as she slides the knot higher and moves it right back in the same moment.
“It’s fine, Ma,” Sejanus sighs, but she just smoothes her hands over his shoulders and down his arms, pressing out imaginary wrinkles.
“You look so grown up, baby. I’m only sorry you’re wearing one of your father’s suits, I never imagined how much you’d have outgrown all your old ones. ”
Shaking his head, he clasps her hands in his own with a smile. “I told you, it’s okay. It’s a perfectly nice suit.”
He’s not lying for her sake, it really is. The silken fabric is soft to the touch but not too stifling, a deep iron-oxide that would be reminiscent of the old Academy uniforms were it not for the white shirt underneath in place of powder blue. Tigris had very kindly offered to touch the suit up and Sejanus had given it to her without hesitation. Free reign, he’d said, and Tigris worked her magic, embroidering the lapel and cuffs with fine, geometric designs that are beautifully rendered in subtly shimmering red-gold thread.
Elegant, not extravagant; eye-catching, not gaudy. “Tigris is a genius,” Sejanus says aloud to Ma, admiring the glint of light on his cuffs.
“She really is,” he hears Lucy Gray reply from the doorway, and he turns in surprise.
“I thought you’d have left by now. Don’t you have to be there early?”
She skips to his side, a definitive cheer in her step, and gives Ma a quick hug. Her orange skirts whirl around her ankles, loose and flowing, the entire gown somehow perfectly at the intersect between Covey and Capitol fashion — a Tigris Snow original.
“Not too early. I won’t even be on stage until later in the night anyways.” She seems excited, her reservations smoothed over (though not wholly gone) in the wake of her first three performances. Singing for Capitol audiences is far from the rowdy, heady buzz of energy in the Hob, packed-dirt ground vibrating with stomping boots and laughter filling the air as people spin their partners around, but Lucy Gray is a born performer, and she thrives on any stage.
“This New Year’s gala is more serious than last week’s party,” Sejanus warns with a smile, “so maybe hold off on ‘Bigger ‘n a Pickaxe.’” The bawdy District Twelve tune had at first appalled, then greatly amused the festive partygoers, but something tells him tonight’s crowd won’t find the same humor in it.
“Inappropriate for the occasion,” says yet another voice from the doorway, “Though I’d pay to see proud Mrs. Dovecote’s reaction to it.”
Ma laughs, holding up her hands in surrender. “Please, leave me out of this trouble,” she says, and with one final adoring look at the three of them, she’s gone.
Coryo steps forward to replace her, one arm going to Lucy Gray’s waist, the other behind his back. Under the guise of fixing his tie (again), Sejanus watches their reflections in the mirror, ignoring the twist in his gut when Coryo stoops to press a kiss to the top of Lucy Gray’s head. They look striking together; Lucy Gray’s gold jewelry and sunset dress bringing out the warmth of her skin, Coryo all strong contrasts and sharp angles in a suit the color of a hazy winter sky.
Since Sejanus’s return to the Capitol, there’s been roiling tension, a stilted awkwardness festering between him and Coryo that has neither a name nor a diagnosable cause. It comes and goes, dissipating for a few blissful hours before cropping back up the next day, leaving Lucy Gray to try and bridge that growing gap.
Coryo looks up, their reflections’ eyes meeting in the mirror, and Sejanus startles a little. He pushes down the gut-reaction guilt at having been caught, instead matching Coryo’s small smile with one of his own. The tension dissolves, for now, and Coryo finally brings his left hand into view and reveals the two roses he holds, no doubt from Pomponia Snow’s precious garden.
The one he pins to Lucy Gray’s dress is orange like the rest of her outfit, but the one he proffers Sejanus with a gentlemanly little bow is, unusually, blue. Pale enough to almost be white, the rose doesn’t clash by any means, but it’s obvious it hadn’t been chosen with his suit color in mind.Without reaching for the rose, Sejanus adjusts his collar and smoothes out the breast of his jacket: an olive branch, an obvious invitation if Coryo’s willing to accept it.
He does. With nimble fingers he affixes the rose in place, then goes so far as to brush a nonexistent stray hair back from Sejanus’s temple. Coryo’s smile goes soft, Lucy Gray practically coos at the display from behind them, and Sejanus feels a tightness in his chest that he wouldn’t wish away if he could.
The gala goes well, Sejanus supposes, though he doesn’t have much to compare it to. He spends his night chatting up Strabo’s wealthy friends and the family members of old Academy classmates. He even runs into Festus Creed and endures a mind-numbingly polite conversation, finding post-graduation Festus to be incredibly dull yet somehow much more tolerable than Academy Festus ever had been. Sejanus excuses himself once the small talk has run out, but he hasn’t gotten a step away before Festus calls after him.
“Plinth— er, Sejanus.”
He turns, brows raised, half expecting some final jab at his District heritage. Instead, he gets… “I know this doesn’t even begin to— to atone, or whatever, but…I’m sorry. Really.”
Sejanus’s surprise must show on his face, because Festus gives a self-deprecating laugh. “I lost someone a few months ago, someone I wasn’t always as kind to as I could’ve been. It’s made me reevaluate some things.”
If he were someone else, he’d scoff and turn away — considering the hell Festus had put him through for a decade, it probably wouldn’t even be unwarranted — but Sejanus has never been one to kick a man when he’s down and Festus looks more than a little downtrodden. So he bites back on poisonous words that sound a lot like Coriolanus and says instead, “Means a lot, man. Thank you.”
It’s half-past eleven and Lucy Gray’s just finished up her first set. Sejanus intends to find her but he barely makes it ten steps away from Festus before some distant Moss relation pulls him into a small group of business owners. He gets through the conversation with minimal effort, mostly nodding to show he’s paying attention (he’s not), and by the time he can wriggle out of that situation, it’s ten minutes to midnight and his father’s getting up on stage for a toast and dragging Sejanus with him. Needless to say, the New Year’s rung in and Lucy Gray’s back on stage for her second set before he even has a hope of talking to her.
“All right, folks,” she says, leaning into the microphone with a smile Sejanus recognizes from the cameras at the zoo, “this next song’s a little slower, so put down those drinks and grab your sweetheart. If you don’t got a partner or the guts to ask the pretty lady you’ve been eyein’ all night, then clear out the dance floor for those who do!”
Her joke is met with some laughter, but it’s only when she sees Sejanus, up near the front with a flute of posca in hand, that her smile spreads into something more genuine. She’s just meeting his eyes when Coryo materializes at his shoulder, making him jump.
“She told me to keep an ear out for this song,” Coryo says as she plucks out the first chords, and Sejanus listens curiously, quickly realizing it’s not one he’s heard before. It’s an airy tune, just a hint of melancholy hidden under each note.
What do you do, they ask me, when your soul has run dry?
Well I look to my love, oh I look to the sky
Distant is it, and cold to the touch
But my wings and my song carry me up
Up, up, up
To my love the blue sky
Up, up, up
To my love the blue sky
Lucy Gray’s gaze roams across the crowd as she sings, but always inevitably keeps returning to them. To him . Sejanus looks to his love too — soaks in his wide-eyed wonder, the smile creeping up the corners of his mouth, that lovestruck look reserved for Lucy Gray — and tries not to let their happiness hurt.
Then what do you do, when the winds grow too harsh?
Well I turn to my love, I return to the earth
Solid and steady and brimming with life
The eye in the storm, the balm for my strife
Down, down, down
To my love the dark earth
Down, down, down
To my love the dark earth
The dark earth.
She’s watching Sejanus, they’re both watching her. Sejanus knows he looks… dumbfounded, most likely, the opposite to her coy, knowing look. Whatever’s on Coryo’s face, he almost doesn’t want to know. Perhaps anger at having to share Lucy Gray’s love song, or maybe he still has the same besotted look.
Find me at the horizon, where earth meets the sky
When the winds grow too harsh and my soul’s running dry
Find me at the horizon, that far-away land
Where my loves at last kiss with my heart in their hands
A hand slides around Sejanus’s waist, the touch light but sure. His heartbeat ratchets up so fast he swears the whole room can hear it, and when he turns to look at Coryo he finds him close enough that their noses almost brush. Sejanus startles, pulling back in surprise more than anything else, but he doesn’t get far with Coryo’s grip on his waist.
Coryo turns into him, grasping Sejanus’s forearm with his free hand, and all of the air leaves his lungs in one breath when those fingers dance down his wrist, over his pulse point, weave into his lax grip and interlace their hands in a gesture so carefully intimate it makes Sejanus dizzy. Coryo dips his head, a few errant strands of hair brushing Sejanus’s temple as he murmurs, “Put your hand on my waist and dance.” For all his surety, he sounds almost breathless.
Sejanus does.
Well what do you do, when the horizon’s too far?
Oh I’ll sing them this song, sing it to the stars
From the rich soil I’ll raise a mountain of sound
So my head’s in the clouds and my feet on the ground
Sejanus has never been much of a dancer, but this is a simple one, more an excuse to hold someone close than a proper dance. Lucy Gray’s voice twines around them, slipping into the scant space between their bodies and filling it with light while the rest of the party fades into the background like distant street traffic.
When the horizon’s too far, my loves, no need to cry
Let me bring you together, my earth and my sky
Coryo isn’t distant, nor are his lips cold to the touch when he kisses Sejanus. Gentle, not lingering but not quite chaste. When he pulls back, Sejanus lets out a long, shaky breath, ignoring the searching way Coryo’s eyes roam over in face in favor of the three words he’s been putting off…
“We should talk.”
Coryo’s sharp nod tells Sejanus he agrees, but by the time they’ve found a suitably isolated empty room (an old personal library, by the looks of it), it’s not three seconds before Coryo’s dragging him in by his embroidered lapels so fast that the momentum takes them both backwards. Books rattle as Coryo’s back hits a shelf, and it takes a little too long for Sejanus’s brain to catch up to his body. As soon as it does, he’s pushing off Coryo.
“Wait, wait — this isn’t what I meant by talk.”
“I know,” Coryo says. He sways forward again but Sejanus suspects doesn’t have the fortitude to resist a second kiss, so he plants one hand in the middle of Coryo’s chest and holds him there. Coryo looks down in surprise but doesn’t fight it. “I know,” he says again, sounding annoyed but a little more collected this time, so Sejanus takes his hand back just to pinch at the bridge of his nose.
“Can you tell me what’s been on your mind? You’ve been cold with me.”
When all he gets is a puzzled expression, Sejanus heaves a sigh, dropping his head back to stare at the high arch of the ceiling. He can’t even tell if Coriolanus is genuinely lost or just leading him into talking first — the latter, he suspects, but he takes the bait anyways.
“Okay. Since I’ve been back, it’s like we can’t connect the way we once did. And I mean… fuck, you almost got me killed, you betrayed my trust, but I know that’s somehow not the problem here because we had something, your last week in Twelve. We had something new, something messed up. Something good.”
Chin jutted like he’s bracing for a fight, Coryo’s mouth curls in a subtle sneer. “I’m not the one who’s been pulling away here, Sejanus.”
Taken aback by the blame, Sejanus blinks owlishly. Sure, he’s been part of the problem, but that distance was a secondary reaction to Coryo’s own.
“Look,” he says, meeting Coryo’s eyes in the dim light, suddenly all too aware of how similar this clandestine meeting is to that fateful one in the storehouse in Twelve. Right down to the dust motes in the air. “I’ve always wanted more than you, it’s a fact I accepted years ago. If I know your boundaries then I’ll respect them happily, but since the jabberjay, since that night in the meadow, since…” Sejanus trails off, frustrated. “Since you’ve gone right back to being normal fucking friends after Twelve — friends who now kiss, apparently — then you kiss me in front of the whole ballroom like I’m your guy! The not-knowing, the back-and-forth, is worse heartbreak than not being wanted in the first place.”
It feels good to put all that out there. Long overdue, certainly.
Coryo’s face is closed-off and unreadable, but it’s obviously taking him effort to keep it that way. “You’re drawing away from me,” he says slowly, “because you don’t know if you’re wanted?”
“Don’t know how I’m wanted, but…yes.”
There’s a stretched out silence. A lighthearted tune filters through the closed doors, one Sejanus recognizes from the Hob. Deep shadows twist Coryo’s expression into something too hard-edged to bear until he pushes off the shelf and into the faint wash of light from the high windows.
“You weren’t afraid,” he says.
“Of what?”
“Of me.” It might be a question, might be a statement. Sejanus answers anyways.
“Never.” Was this the root of it, what had been clamping around Coryo’s heart like a vise and making the light in his eyes gutter anytime he so much as looked at Sejanus?
There had been rage, of course, betrayal, grief… too many emotions to count, and yet never fear. The thought of hanging makes Sejanus’s blood curdle, the instantaneous snap of his neck or, if he’s unlucky, the endless choking until he suffocates. He’s afraid of dying, certainly, but not once did that translate into a fear of the man before him.
Coryo’s so close they’re sharing breath, but a kiss is the last thought on Sejanus’s mind when he meets those gleaming, wild eyes. “Is that why you didn’t run when you had the chance?” The unspoken when you should have hangs in the air. Sejanus doesn’t flinch away.
“I didn’t run because I couldn’t escape you even if I made it to the farthest reaches of Ten.”
Something like a smile tugs Coryo’s lips back from his teeth as he rests one hand on Sejanus’s collarbone, touch searing through the red fabric.“Good,” he breathes, and Sejanus finally, suddenly, sees the truth he’d sought so many months ago.
“ That’s why you deleted the jabberjay recording. You couldn’t stand if I left you, even in death.” His voice shakes. He doesn’t care.
Coriolanus’s hand slides up, coming to a rest on Sejanus’s throat before closing in. Nails dig in just behind his pulse point and Sejanus feels like trapped prey, every beat of his heart on display for the beast before him. A soft mouth that Sejanus has tasted, has devoured, brushes the shell of his ear. “The day death finally visits you, it won’t be a noose or a bullet or age.” Hot breath ghosts across Sejanus’s temple; a huff of air that speaks of amusement. “I’ll accept your death at my hands or not at all.” Coryo’s fingers tighten imperceptibly in emphasis, and Sejanus chooses not to think about why exactly that declaration makes his blood run south.
It’s inevitable, isn’t it? One way or another, Coriolanus Snow will be the death of him, whether that be in fifty years or right here and now as he turns Sejanus’s back to the bookshelf and drops to his knees.
“You don't have t—” His words dissolve into a strangled gasp as Coryo’s grip clenches on his thighs, fingers crimping the deep red fabric.
“I want to.”
Sejanus’s buttons are undone before he can even think of another protest, but really… he wants this. He’s only protesting for Coryo’s sake, but with that reassurance…
Rational thought abandons him and his head falls back against the bookshelf with a solid-sounding thunk as Coryo takes him into his mouth. He twines one hand in near-white hair and grips the wood behind him so tight it creaks, putting every ounce of restraint into not moving his hips until Coryo does something with his tongue and Sejanus bucks up into his mouth.
“Shit,” he says on an exhale, freeing Coryo’s hair to cup his cheek instead, apologies falling from his lips. Coryo doesn’t stop, doesn’t pull away as he’d have every right to, just closes damp eyes as one lone, involuntary tear slips over his lashes. Sejanus brushes it away with his thumb, unable to look anywhere else.
Seeing Coryo like this, at once vulnerable and yet utterly in control, is doing things to Sejanus’s brain that he’s sure he’ll never recover from. The only thought on his mind, the only thing he’s capable of verbalizing, is just how beautiful Coryo looks, how heart-breakingly, utterly perfect. The praise seems to spur him on, and Sejanus files that away for later even as his orgasm barrels up on him.
Coryo refuses his offer to reciprocate, though he looks decidedly on edge . By the time Sejanus tucks his shirt back in and buttons up his pants, he seems to have gathered his wits back about him. In fact…
“You look like the cat that caught the canary,” Sejanus says, unable to help himself.
Coryo turns away too slow, unable to hide the satisfied grin that splits apart what was almost a convincingly serious look. “I did,” he says. “Canary turned out to be quite a mouthful.”
Sejanus barks out a laugh as the last of the awkwardness dissolves into thin air. Coryo rubs a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to hide another smile, but all he says is, “You head out first, I’ll be right there.”
“Don’t take too long…and fix your hair before you leave.”
His last glimpse of Coryo finds him scowling faintly, smoothing his hair into some semblance of its original state as the door swings shut behind Sejanus.
Sejanus’s bed feels much more suitable for three when they’re laying like this, limbs all entangled, bodies in a too-warm heap. One of Coryo’s fingers traces mindlessly over Lucy Gray’s chest; across her collarbone, between her breasts, making a lazy loop around her hip bone before he starts all over. The hand not occupied with that task is in Sejanus’s hair, toying with dark strands that are just now long enough to curl.
It’s comforting, a nicer feeling than Sejanus has words for, but also bittersweet. It’s the first day of the New Year and his father expects him at work, though with dawn’s faint light just beginning to peek through the curtains, he has time yet. Tonight the three of them will undoubtedly be back in this bed, but there won’t be the same early-morning lounging, as Coryo’s next University term begins promptly at eight tomorrow. The day after, Lucy Gray will catch the nine o’clock train back to Twelve with pay in her pocket (probably loaded down with food from Ma, too) and from there… who could predict where their lives will take them? They’re at a crossroads, a necessary one, but it feels a bit like staring down the barrel of a gun.
Before Sejanus can catch himself in a morose spiral, Coryo’s jolting him out of his thoughts, propping himself up on his elbows with a frown. “You both know I can’t talk about a lot, right? My work with Gaul was almost entirely confidential, and most of what I do outside classes with professors isn’t my research to share or speak on.”
Sejanus and Lucy Gray lock eyes behind Coryo’s back. She looks just as confused as he feels.
“Where’s this coming from, Coriolanus?”
He flops back down, uncharacteristically rattled, and clasps his hands over his stomach. “We talked about trust, once.” The statement’s evidently aimed at Lucy Gray, considering he and Sejanus had never spoken of such. Possibly for Sejanus’s benefit, possibly not, Coryo elaborates, “It being more important than love.”
Lucy Gray nods and Sejanus absently mirrors the action before he really thinks about it. The two can certainly exist without each other, but they’re best when hand-in-hand — does that make them of equal importance? If his hand was forced and he had to prioritize one over the other, love or trust, which would win out?
Love, he strongly suspects, though even he can acknowledge the foolishness of that answer.
“I don’t want you thinking I don’t trust you,” Coryo says baldly, his eyes fixed in the mid distance. “I want to promise you both honesty.”
Sejanus pushes up onto one arm. He’s unable to help the disbelief that pinches his brows together, and if the side-eye he receives is any clue, Coryo reads it clear as day. “Complete transparency from Coriolanus Snow?” he asks, letting a bite creep into his words. Lucy Gray sends him a sharp look.
“No, not transparency,” Coryo replies mildly. “Honesty is the best I can offer.”
“Not sure I see a difference,” Lucy Gray interjects with a frown. She sits up, the sheet sliding down to her waist. “What’s a lie of omission compared to an outright fib? Just a matter of fancy language?”
Coryo’s head falls sideways so he can meet Lucy Gray’s eyes, baring the faint bruise that blooms under his jaw — Sejanus’s work, payback for the fingernail crescents beneath his own ear. “I’ll keep some secrets, maybe, but I’ll never lie. Not to you, not either of you.”
Lucy Gray doesn’t respond, the hard glint behind those brown eyes never wavering, but her silence doesn’t seem to bother Coryo. Sejanus sees his point, to an extent, but he’s never been good at leaving well enough alone and can’t stop himself from pushing the issue. He gets two fingers on Coryo’s jaw, tilting his head so he’s facing Sejanus. Coryo allows the manhandling with a lazy smile.
“And if I ask you a direct question, something you can’t — won’t — answer? What’s your honest way out of that?”
Coryo’s smile grows. “There’s one method that’s proven reliable in the past.”
Sejanus doesn’t match his amusement, and when Coryo leans up for a silencing kiss he finds himself pulled back by the hair. His eyes go wide in genuine surprise before his smile slips into something more like a snarl, and judging by the strain of tendons in his neck, Lucy Gray’s grip is firm.
“Trust goes both ways, sweetheart,” she says in his ear, a flash of teeth accompanying the words. “You can have your secrets if we’re allowed ours.”
It can be hard to parse out his more intense emotions when he often wears such a politely neutral mask, but the way Coryo’s eyes skip down his bare chest tells Sejanus it’s desire, not anger, that makes his breath come just a hair too fast. Still caught in Lucy Gray’s grasp — and not bothering to fight it, either — he grins again.
“How long until you have to leave?”
The conversation’s not really over, but it is. Sejanus takes them in; the dark waves of hair that tumble over Lucy Gray’s bare, brown shoulders, the curve of Coryo’s waist where the sheet rode down, the two pairs of eyes that bore into his own. He makes an executive decision.
“I can be late.”
Sejanus has barely made it through the front doors when he receives a summons from his father.
“You’re late,” Strabo says, not even looking up from his paperwork as the office door swings shut.
Tugging his collar higher, Sejanus shrugs. “Sorry. Roads are icy today.”
“We all took the same roads to get here, yet most of us were on time.” The reprimand might cut deeper, but Sejanus can tell his heart isn’t in it today. “Sit.”
He does, waiting patiently for Strabo to finish his task. Summoning him only to make him wait is a favorite move of his father’s, so Sejanus doesn’t let it irk him and instead turns his attention to the bookshelf. He’s scanned idly over the top two shelves of books and gun paraphernalia before Strabo clears his throat.
“I saw you dancing with the Snow boy last night. Coriolanus.”
Sejanus’s head snaps around, cheeks burning, but his father doesn’t look angry. He looks like he’d rather be having any other conversation in the world, but he doesn’t look angry.
“What about it?”
Sighing, Strabo pushes his glasses up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Drop the hostility, son, please. I didn’t call you here to make trouble.” Readjusting his glasses, Strabo finally meets his eyes. “As my only child, the responsibility will one day fall on you to produce a legitimate Plinth heir; I don’t think I need to explain that Coriolanus Snow cannot help you in that endeavor.”
Oh, stars above. Sejanus buries his head in his hands. “Pl—”
“Not now!” Strabo snaps. It comes out a little too loud, and Sejanus realizes his father’s feeling just as uncomfortable as he is. “Not now, not tomorrow, not even next year. But I need you to be aware that one day you’ll have to think of such matters. I’m sorry, truly, if you’re not inclined towards—”
“I like girls too. Women.”
He shrinks down in his seat as Strabo’s flinty gaze settles on him. Maybe if Sejanus liked shutting up half as much as he likes women, this conversation could be done with.
“I’ll say this once, Sejanus, then you’ll get out of my office.” And never speak of this again goes unsaid, yet thoroughly, mutually understood. “For the time being, you’re free. You can like whoever — whatever — you want, as long as it all stays firmly under wraps. If you had to be publicly fraternizing, I’m glad it was with a Snow, but please … whatever you two are to each other, keep it behind closed doors.”
Sejanus’s hand twitches around empty air as he recalls, unbidden, the way Coryo’s spine arched under his touch. He tamps the memory down as fast as he can, hoping his skin is dark enough to hide his flush as it travels from his cheeks to his ears.
“Understood?” Strabo prompts when Sejanus doesn’t budge from his seat.
“Yessir.”
Sejanus is positive he’s never bolted so fast from his father’s office.
Coryo intercepts him on his way out of work, the school satchel slung over his shoulder telling Sejanus he’s just come from class. Good first day? he’s about to ask, but the question and his smile die on his tongue when he remembers hearing something about an evening seminar.
Coryo doesn’t miss class. In all their years through primary school and the Academy, the only time Sejanus can remember him being so much as tardy was during the Games, when he’d been sneaking off to the zoo every moment he could spare. Coryo missing class raised several red flags, and missing a seminar on the first day of the semester sets klaxon alarms blaring in Sejanus’s mind.
Heart in his throat, he covers the ground between him and Coryo in just a few strides, grabbing his bicep to bring him in close. “What’s wrong?” he asks, low and urgent, searching Coryo’s face for any sign of trouble.
Coryo only shakes his head. “Not here. Find us a private television.”
Sejanus marches them back into the Plinth Headquarters without relinquishing his hold on Coryo’s arm, dragging them into a large conference room just off the main lobby. He moves for the television right away, the click of the TV dial accompanied by the sound of the door locking.
“Capitol News, channel 3.”
He tunes in without question, just in time to see the feed switch from a grainy overhead Capitol shot to Lepidus Malmsey himself. “We come to you with an interesting development in today’s execution,” the reporter says, his face grave.
Execution? Sejanus mouths over his shoulder, and Coryo jerks his chin in the direction of the television as if to say watch .
“For those who are unaware, three individuals accused of involvement in September’s attack on the water treatment plant were arrested last night, slated for public execution late this afternoon,” Lepidus continues. Ice crawls up Sejanus’s spine, freezing him solidly in place as three mugshots appear on the screen behind Lepidus. Two women and a man, it’s obvious even through the static-filled feed that they’ve been beaten, identities on display beneath their bruised visages.
Scy Thresher (9) — Tarpeia Furion (C) — María Sienna Clade (12)
Even if Sejanus didn’t recognize the Clade surname, there’s no mistaking the Covey and their colors.
Coryo’s hand settles heavy on the back of Sejanus’s neck. “Keep watching,” he says, his own eyes never leaving the screen.
Lepidus' bland smile is in vivid contrast to Sejanus’s rising panic. “Much of the crowd attending the execution was enthusiastic in their demands for retribution. After all, these are dangerous individuals. One voice of dissent, however, was raised loud and —” Cutting himself off, Lepidus makes a show of shaking his head. “A picture is worth a thousand words, is it not? Roll the footage.”
The Peacekeepers onstage are wearing masks, their faces hidden from Panem as they stand at attention behind the accused. Others line the city square, holding the crowd at a safe distance from the stage as more and more Capitol citizens pack into the public space. Many are calling out, jeering at the hooded, kneeling prisoners, and some even go so far as throwing food or trash. The Peacekeepers make no move to stop this behavior, even when a heavy stone catches one prisoner in the ribs.
It’s all a sickening sign that they’re far enough removed from war to once again revel in such violence, but not so far removed people have forgotten their anger. The fact that one of them is a Capitol citizen — not a part of the seething, faceless District masses that are so easy to villainize — only complicates matters, making Sejanus wonder why they ever publicized her heritage. An oversight? Unlikely, knowing Gaul.
As the echoing crack of Peacekeeper rifles dissipates into the cloudless sky and three limp forms keel over, stunning even the bloodthirsty crowd into silence, one clear voice rises above it all.
Are you, are you
Coming to the tree?
Heads turn, trying to locate the source of the singing. Even over the poor quality of the newsfeed, her voice is easily recognizable.
Wear a necklace of rope
Side by side with me
Peacekeepers elbow their way towards her as the camera zooms in. She’s seen them, Sejanus knows by the fear on her face, but she keeps singing. Keeps digging her grave deeper.
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it seem
The first Peacekeeper grabs for her arm and she dances just out of reach, stopped from further movement by the bodies pressing in around her. Coryo’s hand goes unbearably tight, fingers almost bruising where they curve into his collarbone, but Sejanus hardly notices. Judging by Coryo’s vacant, thousand-yard stare, it’s unintentional anyways.
If we met up at midnight
In the Hanging Tree
It’s only once she’s dragged away, defiant but not struggling, that Sejanus’s legs fail him. He sits down right where he is, linoleum cold underneath him, and Coryo follows him to the floor. When he shuts his eyes all he can see are white gloves grabbing at Lucy Gray, as vivid as if he’d been there himself, so he meets Coryo’s eyes instead.
“Why would she do that, Coryo? Wh—”
Lucy Gray cares fiercely about the injustices happening around her, but above the compassion, first and foremost, she’s a survivor. Tough, canny, intelligent… and yet open rebellion really isn’t her style, not when she only wants to protect herself and her family.
Coryo brings them close, two hands on Sejanus’s face like he’s done so many times before. Gears are spinning fast behind those eyes, but his voice is steadying as he says, “She’s a young girl far from home. All she wanted was to honor a fellow district member — her family — in their last moments, never realizing it might look like rebellion.” Coryo’s tone grows more urgent. “Remember Jessup? Remember how her kindness for a dying boy tugged at the heartstrings? Was that revolution or mere human compassion?”
“What are you—”
The hands on his face tighten their hold, one thumb running soothingly over Sejanus’s cheekbone. The gentleness of the touch is jarring with Coryo’s eyes gleaming so close, burning bright as the blue heart of a flame. “ That is the story we will tell. I don’t care what you actually believe; internalize it, learn it, understand it. The only narrative that gets her out of trouble here is her presumed innocence and even that may need… additional measures.”
Additional measures. But between an old-guard Capitol pedigree like Snow and a fortune like the Plinths, Sejanus knows firsthand how trouble can be swept under the rug.
Things spiral from there.
Lucy Gray is freed from immediate custody and given back to the Plinths (for the time being) but news of their rebellious cousin’s execution and Lucy Gray’s song ends up in Twelve, where the Covey are arrested for performing their own rendition of Hanging Tree en memoria. The older two are taken in, and nobody who knows anything about the fate of the younger kids seems inclined to share.
The fact that they weren’t all arrested straight off the stage for singing the forbidden song tells Sejanus their punishment may not be severe, but while Tam Amber and Barb Azure remain in custody, the priority becomes ensuring Clerk Carmine and Maude Ivory are okay. In a stroke of genius, Sejanus remembers his own personal connections in Twelve and decides to forgo the bribery route, which hadn’t yielded as much helpful information as they’d like.
“Bug?” Coryo scoffs, shaking his head when Sejanus shows him the letter he’s writing. “His strong suit was trapping birds, he’s not exactly the first person I’d consider for gathering intelligence .” The stress put on that last word tells Sejanus it’s a double-edged insult, and he scowls.
“Bug was good with the jabberjays because he was so perceptive to their habits and needs, which is exactly what we need right now. Feel free to throw more money at the problem, Coriolanus, but I’m trying a different method.”
All correspondence in and out of the base is monitored, so Sejanus can’t ask after the imprisoned Covey outright. He starts the letter with some pleasantries, informing his bunkmates he was discharged for “urgent family matters.” That’s a privilege most people don’t get, so he moves on quickly with reassurances that he’s heard from Coryo, who’s “alive and well in Two” — another topic he decides it’s best to gloss over.
I hear there’s been some kind of trouble in Twelve because of those rebel executions, but you know the Capitol’s hardly concerned with what goes on out there. I don’t know much at all. I saw one of them was from Twelve, but it didn’t even click that she’s Covey until I thought about her unusual name…just like that little singer Maude Ivory!
Oh, and something else I remembered. You know that stray hound you used to feed, the spotted one with all the funny colors and Amber eyes… How is he? Still hanging around the Hob?
Anyways, give the boys my best.
Sejanus (Bull’s-Eye)
All his hidden inquiries and hints are just subtle enough to slide past processing without raising any alarms, but he’s not positive his friends will pick up on what he’s asking. Bug is the best man for the job, Sejanus hopes, which is why the letter goes directly to him.
Bug’s response comes days later, and though it’s full of spelling mistakes and chicken-scratch handwriting, it does not disappoint. Sejanus skims the whole letter, smiling despite the circumstances as Bug details the squadron’s antics. He puts stars around the important parts and hands it to Coryo with a smile that screams told you s o.
I don’t got much to say about Twelve since nothing goes on here. The most exciting news was that Hoff’s got a replacement. Not sure why they switched it up, but it’s not so bad. New commander ain’t too hard on the locals and he’s not out for blood but he’s still cracking down on anything he thinks is “rebellious.” We haven’t had a hanging since he got here though. You’ll be happy to hear your old hound is doing fine, too. He disappeared for a few days and scared us all, but it turns out he’s been taken care of by some family in the Seam.
Tell Gent hello next time you write him, and tell him to send a letter our way if he wants.
Bug
“So the kids are safe, and Barb Azure and Tam Amber aren’t likely to swing any time soon,” Lucy Gray says, squinting up at Sejanus with doubt scrawled across her face. She’s holding the letter so tight it’s creasing in her hand. “You trust your friend?”
“About as far as you could throw him,” Coriolanus says, sullen. “...Or maybe less. He’s not a big guy, he’d go far.”
“And I suspect I could throw him a hell of a lot farther than you,” Sejanus snipes, “but I trust him beyond that. He’s smarter than you give him credit for.”
Coriolanus taps one nail on the countertop, a steady rhythm. Three beats, then he’s opening his mouth to argue, but before he can get another word in Lucy Gray interrupts their spat. “I think I liked you better in Twelve,” she says, sounding tired and angry all at once. They both look at her, but she’s directing her frustration towards Coriolanus, dark eyes burning into him. “The grunt with the split lip and bruised knuckles, pretty curls all shorn down… you finally looked as mean on the inside as you are on the outside.”
He’s taken aback, Sejanus can tell, hackles raised at the personal attack. Coriolanus’ temper has always been softer with Lucy Gray than Sejanus, who’s something of an expert at pushing people’s buttons (intentionally or otherwise), but the tension that suddenly cracks between them all like lightning tells Sejanus that unforgivable words are about to come out of his sneering mouth.
None of them are in the right headspace to be saying things they’ll regret later, so Sejanus slams a hand down on the kitchen counter between them. It’s made all the louder by the ring he wears, and Lucy Gray and Coriolanus both jump in surprise. “Stop,” he says, quiet yet firm, leaving no room for argument. “Just stop .”
The stress has been getting to them all. Sometimes it manifests as soft hands and softer words, gentle touches that remind the others I ’m here and we’re in this together, but other times it boils over into senseless arguments that only distract from the problem at hand. Sejanus’s father had already washed his hands of the issue — “If you want to save that girl, it’s all you, I’m not inviting that kind of trouble” — leaving Coryo and Sejanus to pick up the pieces.
Lucy Gray’s final verdict, arriving on February’s heels, is far from satisfactory. Considering Lucy Gray’s actions can be legally defined as treason, any fate other than imprisonment or death is a miracle in itself…though it doesn’t feel that way when they receive the call, huddled around the Plinths’ telephone so they can all listen.
“I’m inclined to release the prisoners, as requested, under one condition,” says the tinny voice of District Twelve’s newest commander. “The actions of a single person, however well-intentioned, can be the spark that lights the wildfire, and Miss Baird’s own influence has proven strong in that regard. I cannot have that sort of incendiary power in my district, even if it’s ‘just a song.’ ”
Lucy Gray’s eyes are round as saucers and shining with unshed tears when she looks up at him. Sejanus’s blood thunders so loud in his ears he almost misses the commander’s next words.
“Tam Amber and Barb Azure Baird will be freed from custody, and will remain that way as long as they abide by all district laws — up to and including banned music.” He sounds like he’s reading off a piece of paper, perhaps some missive from Capitol law enforcement. “Lucy Gray Baird will suffer no legal consequences so long as she remains in the Capitol. Any reentry into District lands will be viewed as treason and punished accordingly.”
The ensuing silence is the loudest Sejanus has ever heard. Lucy Gray’s tears finally spill over her lashes and Coryo lays a comforting hand over hers, but the moment he does she’s wrenching away and fleeing in the direction of the bedrooms. He moves to stand, but Sejanus keeps him in place with a hand on his wrist and a shake of his head.
“...Are the terms understood?”
They both turn back to the phone like they’d forgotten it was there. Coryo clears his throat. “They are. Thank you, Commander.”
The phone’s returned to its cradle with substantially more force than necessary. Sejanus scrubs at his eyes, willing useless tears away.
“Why are you crying?”
He looks up at Coryo, aghast. “Why aren’t you? You know what it is to be hopeless and homesick, and your own exile wasn't so long ago that you’d have forgotten.” Sejanus knows he’s a serial empathizer, that he couldn’t stop putting himself in other people’s shoes even if his life depended on it, but Coryo’s lack of emotion is baffling, even for him. He doesn’t even look surprised by the circumstances.
He doesn’t even look surprised.
The realization is a punch to the gut. “Did you know about this?” Sejanus asks, voice wavering. He doesn’t want an answer; gets one anyway.
“I suspected they’d find some way to punish her and the Covey, but I wasn’t sure how.” Coriolanus tilts his head, eyes narrowing as he fixes his attention on Sejanus. “You think I planned this.”
No. Yes. Sejanus turns away but Coriolanus has already read it in his face.
“You think,” Coriolanus says, his voice tightly controlled, every syllable stretched beyond its natural lifespan, “That I made this happen. How? I didn’t force her to sing.”
Sejanus imagines a pale hand collaring a songbird’s neck, wrenching music from a ruined throat. It’s a graphic image, but he also knows Lucy Gray would die before ever letting someone take her voice. Coriolanus could never make her sing, but he’s more than able to pull a few strings.
He’s no more capable of letting you go than me, she'd said, and Sejanus’ own words come back to him too. You couldn’t stand if I left you, even in death.
Coriolanus couldn’t make Lucy Gray sing, nor does he have any influence over how Panem punishes its terrorists, but there are smaller pieces of the puzzle that don’t quite line up. How could the Covey, who admitted to only watching one night of the Hunger Games, hear about María Sienna’s execution or Lucy Gray’s arrest?
Rising from his seat, Sejanus steps forward to stand between Coriolanus’ knees. For the first time in years, he looks down on him, so close that Coriolanus has to crane his neck to keep eye contact. “You promised us honesty, and it’s time to pay up. I want you to look me in the eyes and tell me you wouldn’t do anything to keep her by your side.”
Coriolanus’ nostrils flare, the look in his eyes so cold it burns. “I would. For her, for both of you, I would do terrible, horrible things…but not like this, not as a caged and resentful creature. I want her free enough to stretch those beautiful, colorful wings. I want her happy enough to sing her heart out; safe enough to stop singing whenever she chooses.”
Floored, all Sejanus can seem to do is stare, the words eating through his anger like it’s wet paper. For years, he’s known — on some level — the obsessive nature Coryo can’t seem to shake, that dogged, unstoppable hunger that drives him day after day. He suspects it’s what Gaul sees in him: his insatiability makes him so easy to mold, gives him a capacity for incredible violence where others might balk. He’s the kind of man for whom the ends will always justify the means, and while Sejanus could never subscribe to such a belief, it’s an unnamable, overwhelming feeling knowing he is one of those means. For better or worse.
There’s an itch crawling under Sejanus’s skin, a prickly-hot sensation that leaves him feeling too big for his own body. Coryo’s like carved marble beneath him, his perfect face turned up to hold Sejanus’s stare, so still he’s not even sure he’s breathing. Is he waiting for Sejanus’s reaction? Or has he already read it all in his face, the words he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to say aloud but that he feels with every beat of his aching, angry heart?
Fitting his hand to the curve of Coryo’s cheek, Sejanus smiles at the way he leans into the warmth. “I’m going to talk to Lucy Gray. Give us a few minutes alone, okay?”
Coryo nods, his smile curving into Sejanus’s palm even as his eyes flutter closed. “If I were a more benevolent person, I’d leave you two to each other. You deserve her.” The stark words come out weird, curling at the ends with jealousy and something more self-deprecating.
“Nobody could ever deserve her,” Sejanus replies simply, “But it’s well within your power to try.” He takes his hand back, retreats from Coryo’s space and goes after Lucy Gray without waiting for a response.
She’s in her room as he suspected, curled atop the covers with her arms wrapped around herself and her knees tucked into her chin. Her back’s to him so he can’t see her face, can’t even tell if she’s awake. “Can I come in?” Sejanus asks, quiet enough to not wake her if she has managed to find sleep, but the mess of dark curls bobs in what looks like an affirmative. Kneeling by the bedside, he rests his elbows on the duvet and props his chin in one hand. Meeting Lucy Gray’s red-rimmed eyes, seeing the misery there, makes his heart crack open.
“How are you feeling?”
It’s a stupid question, but it feels like an okay place to start. “My answer depends on one thing,” she croakes. “Is this his doing?”
Of course she’s smart enough to figure Coryo into the equation, knows him well enough to recognize how her punishment could be his reward. “I suspected the same. He said he didn’t.”
“And you believed him?”
Sejanus smiles sadly, brushing away a few hairs that cling to her damp, blotchy cheeks. “I did.”
Closing her eyes against a fresh wave of tears, Lucy Gray rolls over and puts her back to him again. “You always believe him,” she says into empty air, her voice hollow.
Okay, that’s probably deserved. Sejanus heaves a sigh that’s more exhaustion than exasperation and asks, “Can I come up?”
Her “yeah” sounds reluctant but she’s never been any good at staying angry with him, so he clambers up off his knees and into her bed. As soon as he does, her reticence dissolves and she rolls over to lay her head in his lap. Running his fingers through her hair in soothing, repetitive motions, Sejanus mulls over his next words.
“I often find myself choosing to believe Coryo,” he says slowly, “but nothing about what he just said gives me reason to doubt him in this. He’d burn the world to cinders for you — not just to keep you, but to keep you happily.”
Lucy Gray nestles even closer, draping an arm over his legs, and Sejanus hunches his shoulders like it’ll shield her from her loneliness, from her pain, from the world. He wishes, with every fiber of his being, that he could be Atlas, forever bowed by the weight of the sky so others might stand safely under its crushing mass.
Marcus, reaped and mercy-killed; Spruce and Lil, their last words picked up by the mockingjays; the District rebels killed by Plinth bullets and bombs…it’s just so much death. No amount of privilege can erase the gnawing feeling that he’s living a life meant for someone else, that his continued existence has been paid for at the expense of others. While nothing in the world can atone for that kind of blood, an eternity of punishment — a Titan’s share of pain — seems like it’d be a good place to start.
Lucy Gray’s voice breaks him out of his reverie, anchoring him back in reality. “He’s coming,” she says, and only then does Sejanus pick up the sound of footsteps in the hall.
He scratches his nails over her scalp, presses a kiss to the top of her head, and asks, “Want me to turn him away?” Coryo would be livid, of course, but that’s the least of their problems right now.
“No. I trust your judgment,” she says softly, so when Coryo lightly raps on the door a second later, he’s invited in. He settles in next to Sejanus, the length of his thigh pressed to the curve of Lucy Gray’s spine where his legs are stretched out before him. His expression isn’t terribly upset, probably still thinking about how this was a best-case scenario or something, but when Lucy Gray’s shoulders curl around another almost-sob, his face tightens and he reaches for her. Hand inches from her shoulder, he pauses, a funny look crossing his face. Sejanus watches his fingers twitch, his hand hovering for a long moment before he brings it to his own chest without ever touching her.
“What ‘m I gonna do?” Lucy Gray mumbles into the fabric of Sejanus’s pants, sounding decidedly stuffy and so, so morose. It doesn’t seem like a real question so much as an expression of despair, but Coryo does reach out to touch her then, one broad hand smoothing over her arm.
This is what he’s good at. Not the intense emotions that they can only seem to coax out of him in enormous bouts, when it builds up and up and up, too high until it has no choice but to boil over the edge; not words of comfort, finding the balance between what someone needs and wants to hear. This is the problem and here’s a solution: that’s what Coryo knows.
“You’re going to get a job performing — anywhere you want, really, but I do happen to know a great place — and make a better wage than you ever could in Twelve. You’ll send some money back to the Covey and write to them frequently, and you’ll live with Sejanus, or me, once the Grandma’am’s gone, or even save up for a place of your own.” His hand tightens on her bicep like he wants to make sure she’s listening. “You’re going to do great, Lucy Gray, because you’re a survivor and you’re not alone. You don’t belong to the Capitol any more than you belonged to Twelve, but you’ll make a home here all the same.”
Coryo’s ability to rationalize horrible situations into something so manageably bite-sized will never cease to amaze Sejanus, whose brain likes to spin problems out of control faster than he can keep up. Lucy Gray is nodding along, her breath gradually slowing, and while she’s still clinging to Sejanus like a security blanket, her sniffling has almost stopped.
“You’re going to be fine, Lucy Gray.” Coryo’s eyes are wide, earnest, and he’s reminded of that night in the Hob’s back room when Coryo talked him off the ledge, the hands cupping Sejanus’s face still cool from the touch of gunmetal. “We’re all going to be just fine.”
He’s right, of course, they all do just fine.
Lucy Gray gets a job at Pluribus Bell’s nightclub, performing a few nights a week and occasionally taking gigs elsewhere, and he rents her a small place above it for a discount. It’s hardly luxurious, but she likes the independence, having a place of her own that’s not being bankrolled by someone else.
Besides, more often than not she stays over with Coriolanus (still in the apartment below the Plinths with his Grandma’am and Tigris) or Sejanus, who’s gotten a modest apartment of his own but still finds reason to visit Ma so frequently he practically hasn’t moved out.
Coriolanus graduates just weeks after his twenty-first birthday (a year early, to nobody’s surprise) and turns down both Gamemaking and Plinth Munitions job offers… for politics, of all things. Gaul is furious, Strabo is moderately disappointed, and Maximinius Ravinstill is delighted to have a blue-blooded Snow heir working under him.
Sejanus stays in the family business. He has a lot of bad days, some even worse than bad can begin to explain, but it’s easier than it used to be, shaking off the old, creeping shadows of his own thoughts. Coryo’s steadying presence and Lucy Gray’s indomitable, boundless verve do wonders for propping him up, giving him the strength to drag his weary limbs out of bed when they used to feel too heavy to lift.
Plinth Munitions is in the middle of a crucial shift. Assets are being pulled from other districts and concentrated in Two, closer to the Capitol, while production shifts from large-scale weapons of war to law enforcement, surveillance, and transportation. Near the center of it all is Sejanus, heir to the Plinth empire and newly-appointed executive involved in the recruitment of new personnel for District Two’s growing military presence.
Sejanus checks his watch, frowning as the minute hand ticks onward: tonight’s meeting was supposed to start at six, and his associates are rarely late to these things. Just as he begins to worry, the screen in front of him lights up into quadrants, jittering static coalescing into four somber faces.
“Plinth,” says the man on the top right. “Sorry about the delay, our transmissions have been struggling lately. Tidal flood season wreaks havoc on us.”
Sejanus waves his hand dismissively. “It happens. I’m afraid I don’t actually have much to update you on, given how slow progress has been since we last talked.” Frustrating, but inevitable. What he's doing isn't exactly an easy task.
“We’ve had serious developments on our end,” interjects the woman on the top left, her eyes gray as the concrete wall behind her and piercing even through the grainy video, “even without access to Capitol money. Ideally, we may be able to push our whole timeline forward.”
Ignoring the obvious (deserved) dig at Sejanus, the first man nods approvingly, his image momentarily disappearing into static. “By all means, Treasurer Coin… enlighten us.”