Chapter Text
"The apex of achievement was attained by Mr. Snow, an outcome that doubtlessly leaves few in astonishment. Allow me to extend my sincere congratulations to you, Mr. Snow, you have every right to take pride in your accomplishments."
The grandeur of applause permeated the space, a resounding symphony of admiration. Applause—an ostensibly unassuming gesture—unfolded gracefully as hands met in swift communion, the palpable reverberations echoing with the elegance of an orchestrated dance. It was a nuanced tableau of human expression, an exquisite ritual evoking the essence of unity in diversity.
As the room embraced the crescendo of applause and became a theater of reverence, he found himself immersed in a singular experience, at the epicenter of this refined ovation. The convergence of countless palms, harmoniously synchronized, executed each clap with a deliberate yet gentle force. In that moment, the act transcended simplicity, transforming into an art form—each resonant clap akin to the striking of a finely tuned chord.
The surrounding ambiance, once filled with the soft rustle of anticipation, now swirled with the refined cadence of adulation. The room became a vessel of collective admiration, wherein the individuality of applause merged into a collective, harmonious expression of approval.
Recalling the tumultuous days of the past, when the cacophony of bombs shattered the tranquility of existence, he once yearned for a sanctuary of silence. Amidst the echoes of conflict, the marches of the lost rebellion, and the thundering descent of bombs upon the streets, his youthful desire to silence the world seemed a respite. However, with the passage of time, he found solace in the resonance of applause—no longer a cacophony but a delicate, tender and ephemeral embrace, an intimate gesture of tenderness. The applause, tenderly attuned to his ears, metamorphosed into a melodic affirmation of accomplishment, a manifestation of communal respect tailored uniquely for him, a poignant testament to the triumph of his present.
"It should hardly surprise anyone that you've once again achieved the highest score," he heard Livia murmur proudly beside him. Naturally, her exuberance engendered a sense of satisfaction within her, recognizing that his triumph bore indirect advantages for her as well. In a measured response, he momentarily pivoted in her direction, subtly elevating the corners of his mouth, hoping to conceal any burgeoning sense of vexation.
The positivity inherent in her commentary momentarily dissuaded him from joining in the applause, compelling a fleeting diversion of his focus. Regaining his composure, he directed a subtle glance towards her, though she seemed oblivious to the nuances of his expression. Her attention, instead, roamed the expanse of the room, where she proffered a calculated, yet slightly strained, smile of her own. In this shared semblance of demeanor, he found a semblance of commonality, albeit one of the few they shared — luckily.
Instinctively, he assumed a more upright posture, aligning his shoulders with a poised demeanor, as he endeavored to project an air of modesty. The intrinsic understanding that ostentation and overt revelry in personal accomplishments were generally disfavored among their peers governed his conduct in the aftermath of his achievement; after all, no one liked show-offs who blatantly reveled in their own success.
For the consecutive second year, he clinched the paramount position, having garnered the highest score and secured two esteemed internships of considerable repute—achievements thus far unexcelled. In this poignant moment, he harbored an unshakeable certainty, a visceral assurance coursing through every fiber of his being, that he would willingly subject himself to Dr. Gaul's experimental designs before countenancing the prospect of anyone disputing his preeminent standing. The applause, once fervent, gradually waned until a conspicuous silence enveloped the room.
The dean droned on in yet another of his soporific speeches, the words fading into the backdrop of an audience barely engaged. His gaze wandered beyond the confines of the window, where a canvas of celestial drama unfolded. The storm had imbued the once-muted sky with a profound darkness, casting an eerie glow that seemed to absorb all vitality. Two days of relentless rain had wearied him, and the persistent patter against the window pane provided a dull percussion to his thoughts.
As he reluctantly was about to turn his attention back to the monologue, a subtle transformation occurred in the heavens. A delicate spectrum emerged—a rainbow, its ethereal hues painted across the canvas of the tempest. So tender were its colors that they threatened to elude notice, dancing on the periphery of awareness. Almost missed, yet not quite. An internal debate ensued, a silent struggle between discipline and temptation.
He knew better than to succumb to the allure. He knew the subsequent regret would weigh heavy on his conscience. Despite the internal admonitions, he found himself drawn, irresistibly, to the mesmerizing display. All attempts to redirect his focus proved in vain. The luminous arch hung suspended in the storm-kissed sky, a fragile testament to nature's resilience amid tempestuous times.
As he studied the spectral cascade of colors, an involuntary surge of memory transported him. For an ephemeral moment, he heard the echo of the wind through a forest, the gentle rustle of leaves, and the haunting cries of Mockingjays.
Fuck those birds, grumbled Coriolanus Snow, as he got an unexpected reminder of someone else he once wished he could have fucked. He coerced himself to endure the tedious speech, fervently hoping it would mark the conclusion of any more twisted journeys down memory lane. Fuck those birds.