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When Coriolanus stumbles through the door, he is starved. Tugging at his high collar, too tight at his neck, he loosened a button or two. He takes a deep breath, setting his briefcase on the foyer table. There are two sets of slippers at the step, neat and orderly. His house smells like exquisite white roses that Coriolanus picked from the garden somedays when he returned from long, grueling, but rewarding hours studying in Dr. Gaul’s war quarters, strategizing for future games. He picked them up in the street, keeping a pair of shears in his pockets. The musk of roses is overpowered by the salty smell of the pot boiling in the kitchen and the spices and herbs carrying through the mansion. It carries strongly of salted meats and potatoes, and his stomach continues to protest with famished hunger.
He still feels unsettled in his new house; each step creaks with unfamiliarity every time he moves around. Coriolanus senses the hostility in the walls. When he first moved into his new mansion, after moving closer to the Capitol, he felt the anger and the shaking fury in his bones as he wandered the long, empty halls. They stretch for miles, spinning intricate patterns that leave him lost and senseless on his feet. He passed the coat rack, shrugging his coat off his shoulders, a petticoat tipping the rack to its right, and the aroma from the oven flooded his nose as he stepped closer.
A hum there, and a quick sing of notes here mumbled, sung sweetly. Coriolanus enters the kitchen, hearing the rummaging of the pots and pans, tapping feet, and the whistle of an unfamiliar tune that he doesn’t recognize but is similar to the Covey tunes. Her back faced him, peeling between stoves, ducking to gaze at the oven with furious concentration, and the hunger buzzes, whistling louder than the kettle at the stove, and the soft blows of noise, saccharine, and high-pitched. She doesn’t hear him, lost in her own world and her guard is lowered. Coriolanus sees it: in her sleep, when her shoulders tense every time he enters the bed chambers, when he steps in the study, when she hums her little tune and picks flowers from his garden.
But now, she is defenseless. Her head bent and lowered, fixating on chopping whatever was on the cutting board. Coriolanus gradually reached out, his hand extended to caress the small of her back. Then, suddenly, she twirls around; her skirt spins with her, like a curtain, and she presses against the counter. The knife she wields taunts him, a sliver of silver in the moonlight catching his glance before he jolts back.
“Lucy Gray, be careful where you put that.” Coriolanus recovers quickly, settling on her wrist and gently lowering her hand.
She smiles at him, her beautiful smile creasing the corners of her unblemished mouth. He’s kissed that mouth, kissed her gently, kissed her passionately, and let that mouth wander below places that others cannot seem to reach. But now there is an eerie, foolish curl to her mouth, and Coriolanus despises it. “Be careful, sweetheart; you know it’s not polite to sneak up on a little lady like me.” She answers, setting the knife down, hesitant for a moment there. before placing it down next to the board and spinning around to meet him halfway.
“I apologize,” He murmurs into her temple, smells of sugar and spice. “I have no interest in getting in the middle of your knife." Coriolanus smiles against her skin, and Lucy Gray peers upward, smiling again, melting into pleasure.
“Oh, you give me too much credit.” She quips, lowering her eyes, and Coriolanus thinks of her long eyelashes and spiderwebs against her warm skin.
“What’s for dinner?” He asks, and Lucy Gray straightens, gliding across the kitchen space to crack the lid of her pot, emitting the smell of delicious, rich meats and vegetables.
She cocks her head, clearly proud of herself. “Well, sweetheart, it’s your favorite.” Then she beckons him with a finger, and Coriolanus’s feet tread with a mind of their own. “Come and have a taste."
Coriolanus’s hunger pauses, grasping the situation. The eagerness in her tone, the swish of her skirt, the absence of a rainbow, and her relaxed manner.
Amused, he kept pace while she held the spoon in her hand. “Lucy Gray, are you trying to poison me?”
She laughs, turning a small giggle. “Do you think I’m that easy?” No, never. Coriolanus thinks immediately: it is never easy to win, and it is never easy to back down. Convincing her to accompany him to the Capitol has been a challenge, but Lucy Gray never gives up, and Coriolanus despises that part of her, wishing to tear the false sense of deviance from her spirit.
“I’m only a man,” he says. Her laugh continues to sing its own melody and made him dizzy. Coriolanus clears his throat. “You would never poison me?"
Lucy Gray pouts a little, edging the spoon towards his mouth. “And I’m just a girl with not much patience left in her. Darling, try it, and then you can find out if I poisoned you.” She has thousands of tricks up her sleeve; he first discovered that the moment she opened her mouth to sing at the reaping, during the games, in the meadows of District 12, he'd heard it before. And it continues to leave him breathless and punctured.
He reluctantly opens his mouth as she gently shovels the spoon inside. Tastes the spices, the chewy pieces of meat falling off the bone, and the spiced vegetables that would put his grandmother’s cooking to shame. She watches him, alert and waiting. Coriolanus swallowed, and she claps, putting her hands together in a small celebration. “How is it?"
“Perfect.” Even after a bite, the hunger lingers, drawing near and persistent.
Shaking her head, Lucy Gray smiles, her other hand on his chest, making its way to his neck and bringing him close. “See, I told you. We can trust each other.” One more button flicks away, and then another is slowly undone.
Trust me, Coriolanus had to grimace. It’s been a long time since he’s heard that word, and the last time since it truly weighed with meaning.
And in the blink of an eye, Lucy Gray moves along, across the table like a ghost, until the plates are set. “Come eat now; you must be famished.” She hurries, ushering him into an empty seat.
Without another word, Coriolanus follows.
____
Lucy Gray settles into the Capitol. She’s a performer—she’s used to pleasing the crowds and pleasing the market stalls into giving her hefty discounts for vegetables she cannot grow. She charmed the butcher for salted meats and pickled fish. Everywhere she goes, she smiles that big, beautiful smile and curtsies and bows to her audience. It’s routine: perform, shine, and distract. She shines too brightly, and Coriolanus sometimes wishes nothing more than to stamp on it.
Coriolanus can see it—the shine in her eyes when she sings, swaying back and forth with the ghost of her covey alongside her. Lucy Gray’s spark had never left.
Lucy Gray insisted that he accompany her to the markets today. The weather is slightly less miserable in the Capitol. “Coryo, be a gentleman and assist this little old gal to the market.” She waits, his mother’s orange-knitted shawl drawn across her shoulders, no longer stained from the forest dirt. Lucy Gray held a woven basket in her arms, a straw hat on top of her head, and one foot out the door. Reaching for his arm, her steady grasp against his bicep led him in the direction of the market.
The weather is pleasant, and the breeze is running goosebumps along his skin where his suit cannot provide warmth. Lucy Gray wanders ahead, in sight of the marketplace, and he lets her stray. Her brown curls almost auburn like spilled, rich chocolate against her slender, sun-kissed neck. The enthusiastic bob of her head is seen among the developing crowd, and he treads a few steps behind, monitoring the stalls and keeping a loose eye.
“Coryo,” she sings, and he finds himself in front of a random stall selling scents and perfumes. “Which one should I pick?” Lucy Gray asks sweetly.
“I’m afraid of all of them, Lucy Gray,” he answers, leaning over her shoulder to sniff the bottle. It smells syrupy, like honey. “All would best suit you."
She tuts her tongue, smiling mischievously. “But if you had to pick one, Coryo,” Her hand creeps to his cheek, gentle and slow.
“I’m afraid I can’t choose." Corialnus’s gaze sweeps the rows and rows of scents and perfumes, inhaling hundreds of scents: musk, floral, and citrus.
Lucy Gray lowers her gaze on her tiptoes, her voice soft in his ear. “But you chose me; what could possibly be harder?"
Coriolanus pauses, looking in her eyes. It’s a reminder; the slight hardness in her eyes, the fire undiminished, and sparks fly. He’s held his breath this whole time. “This one,” He raises a finger to point, and Lucy Gray slides her fingers around like a snake to cup the perfume. She puts her nose close, taking a slow inhale, and approval spreads through her expression.
“Such great taste,” she praises. “We would like this one, ma'am." Calling for the shopkeeper, she wanders to a nearby stall, and Coriolanus lets her go. Busy rummaging for coins to pay for the expensive perfume, skyrocketing prices almost ridiculously recently, shoving his fist out of his pocket to find enough without change.
Coriolanus accepts the brown paper bag, looking back up at the crowd to find Lucy Gray nowhere to be found. No straw hat, no bob of brown hair, not even the swish of the layers of skirts between bodies She’s gone. Lucy Gray would never leave him, he scolded. Would she? Never again. She might have the tendency to wander, five steps ahead of Corialnus, and he’s catching his breath to meet her, but she is not a liar. Lucy Gray wouldn’t dare to escape, Coriolanus's breath hitched and sweat dripped down his lower back. “Lucy Gray?” He calls out.
No answer.
“Lucy Gray?” He tries again, crossing in and out rows of stalls, saying, “Come and try this young sir,” and "Maybe a handsome man like you shouldn’t pass up a deal like this." He flung his hands, avoiding the persistent salespeople.
An echo taunts him every time he calls her name; the blood drains from his forehead; the holster of his gun hangs limp against his side, hidden by his long coat. The silence mocks him. You’ve lost her already? The crowd continues to rapidly increase, with passersby bumping into Coriolanus like he didn’t exist.
His hand latches to his holster, lifting the pouch cold and firm in his palm, and Coriolanus hides the butt of the gun underneath his coat sleeve. If she wanted to play tricks with him, then she should’ve asked politely. In the distance, he slowly approaches her, ducked between two stalls, and bent over flowers. Coriolanus’s grip is painful; he dug into his flesh and held it so tight. “Lucy Gray." He gripped her shoulder, tugging her to face him properly.
But it’s not her. It’s not his Lucy Gray. This is a plain girl, with brown curls roping down her shoulders and boring brown eyes that appear startled. “Excuse me, but you’re really hurting me." The girl’s panicked gaze protested against his strong grip.
“Coriolanus!” Lucy Gray appears from the middle of nowhere. He relaxes, but is not letting go yet. Her hair swept, wisps damp against her cheek, and Lucy Gray looked almost flushed. The apples on her cheeks are pink, and her straw hat is being held down on her head. “You’re going to hurt that poor girl. Let go!” She scolded.
He releases, muttering an apology. The gun still weighs a lot, and he pressed it against the small of her back. Coriolanus’s chest thumps rapidly, aggressively against her body. “Are you running away, Lucy Gray?” He seethed. A startled breath escaped her mouth. She wrestled around, warmth escaping him immediately.
“I went to fetch some cheese from the stall far, I didn’t mean to drift off.” She glanced down, the gun digging into her back, and her smile flickered with doubt. “Are you going to shoot me, Coriolanus Snow? Put that gun right this instant. We are in public,” she hissed back.
“I said, are you trying to escape?” He repeated.
“And I said, put that gun down.” Lucy Gray is stern, maintaining her gaze, and her chin is tipped with defiance. He lowered the gun, tucking it underneath his coat. “I would never leave you, Coryo,” she says softly. “Coryo,” and he raised his head, “I’m not leaving you, I’m staying here. For us.”
Coriolanus bends down to kiss her hand, so warm and scarred from the times in the arena that it will never heal. No Capitol-certified hand cream or doctor’s remedy will ever hide the flesh peeling behind her old self. The wicked, killing-machine persona she buried in the arena No matter how many bodies they both could bury, the scars will never disappear.
“I’m sorry for assuming you had run away.” He murmurs into the crook of her cheek, pushing away the sweaty bits of her hair and tucking strands behind her ear.
Lucy Gray blushed, kissing his cheek. “I’m right here, Coryo. I’m not goin’ anyway.” She promised.
He can trust Lucy Gray, right? However, no one else is there to answer. Coriolanus held her tightly, afraid of letting her go. Would she fly away?
____
Tonight, her shrieks worsen. Lucy Gray screams. Coriolanus is jolted upright, fleeing to the room next door. He flung the door open, his father’s grandfather clock rocking back and forth, every click for every second, and it drives him mad. But Lucy Gray liked the sentiment; it makes me feel close to him, your daddy. But now, she’s clinging to the white sheets of her bed, spread out, and her hair fanned out around her forehead. Sweat crept down her neck. She looks terrified, her beautiful skin shaken and pale, swallowed by the moonlight.
She looks beautiful and miserable. Her nightgown draped past her arms, sweat matting the fabric, tracing every outline of her body, and Coriolanus glimpsed the swell of her breast, deterring his eyes hastily. “Leave,” Lucy Gray gasped, struggling to breathe. “I’ve got it under control."
He refused to leave her side; he refused to leave Lucy Gray every night, battling her nightmares alone. Some nights, it’s not as bad, and some nights, it’s frightening, when Lucy Gray screams those blood-curtling shrieking and cold-hearted screaming that remind him of mockingjays. Nighttime is when she is in her weakest, most vulnerable state. Coriolanus had insisted she be prescribed medication, but relentlessly each time Lucy Gray shakily gazes at him in a trembling mess, Coriolanus Snow, his full name escaping her mouth, daring to cause him breathless. If there’s one thing you can promise me, never take me back to that god-forsaken place ever again.
He rears her side, a wet towel in his hand, and Lucy Gray almost collapses in his arms. He dots her forehead, laying her comfortably on the bed. The steady rise of her chest continues, and see’s quiet. “What did you dream of tonight?” He asks.
She looks right at him, taking him by surprise. He’s caught in the hollow of her eyes, deep and fearful. “I dreamt of Jessup,” Coriolanus murmurs, a noise of familiarity for the boy who had been her district partner. The white foam bubbling in his mouth, his broken neck at an uncomfortable angle, peering at the audience, and blood liquid against the rocks He remembers just as well. “Poor Jessup, poor dead Jessup.” She chokes uup.“Poor dead Jessup,” She parrots. “He’s dead.” Lucy Gray is hysterical, mumbling under her breath and rocking back and forth.
“Lucy Gray, look at me.” Coriolanus says not unkindly. “We aren’t there. This isn’t the arena. We are safe.” He pulls her in, her cries blanketed, and he gathers her tears, kissing both cheeks.
He kisses her gently, and the hunger in his stomach stirs, and Coriolanus pushes it away. “District me, Coryo.” She pled, her mouth hovering desperately.
“We can’t,” He whispers. He feels it, his stomach lurching, begging to take control. “We shouldn’t.”
Slowly, she crawled above him, her thighs strapping each side of his hip in a straddle. Bewildered, Coriolanus gaped at her silhouette from above, mesmerized and unable to look away. He was a man fueled by ambition, power, and lust. Lucy Gray’s nightgown unbuttons, fingers pressed against her waist, lifting the skirt of her gown, and her arm fits next to his neck, dangling above him. From here, he can spot the freckle above her breast and the small mole below her clavicle. He slides to push away the fabric, kissing each spot tenderly. Reaching the seam between her cleavage, she gasps softly, and his kisses grow firmer.
“Distract me, just for tonight. Tomorrow, we can go back to reality.” She whispers, gasping with an o-shaped surprise around her mouth, plush and pink.
Coriolanus gravitates her, fiddling with each bow, and her nightgown becomes undone, spilling in his hands. He wrenches the material, bringing her close, their lips meeting, and he kisses her, just as tender, just as desperate. Coriolanus Snow has never starved before more than he has now. And it terrified him—more than Lucy Gray’s nightmares, more than the mockingjays, more than the piling bodies he dreamt of just before her screams woke him.
He would be no better man than to not listen. And so he obliges.
“Coryo,” Her broken whines fill the air, skimming his hands along her back. "Coryo." The need in her voice is filthy and distraught. Want. Coriolanus wants her so badly, it kills him every day. He needs his songbird, and having her in his arms, bending at his will, alleviates every bone in his body.
“Lucy Gray,” he prays. If only half his prayers were answered,
She is undone, coming apart, and Coriolanus kisses her, rubbing her bottom lip and tipping her chin to tuck away the messy strands of her hair plastered to her forehead. Dizzy, his hand moves lower, and she shivers, filthily grinding her hips, desperate pleas bouncing off her tongue. “Oh, Coryo.” She sighs in his palm, her mouth against the back of his hand. The moonlight slicing through her shadow is so pale that there’s a ghost in the room. And Coriolanus shudders in due time. The room was quiet, eerily silent.
“Stay tonight.” Lucy Gray requested afterwards, gathering her clothes from the floor and replacing them with a silken robe.
“I’ll stay,” Coriolanus reassures. She slides up beside him, tucking herself underneath the sheets, and lays a hand on his chest, her head on his shoulder. He curls his free arm around her waist, kissing the top of her head. “I’ll always stay."
Even he is surprised at how believable his words are. There’s nothing sweeter than a false promise.
____
Coriolanus Snow used to be a good man.
But Lucy Gray is no sweetheart; she might’ve charmed her way through the games and sweetened the taste of poison, but he sees through it all. Her schemes, her lies, and her tricks up her sleeve
Lucy Gray is no saint.
The house is silent, and he discovers a trail of footsteps leading to the gardens. Coriolanus traced her steps out back, spotting her in the near distance. She is bent down, cutting shears in her hand, and a large basket by her side. The morning is warm, the sun is out, and it's kinder these days, and he’s thankful. Their flowers have been struggling more recently, much to Lucy Gray’s disappointment. Her dress swept in the wind, and her hair fitted into two big pigtails kept away from her face. “Coryo, come here; I could use your help.” She notices his presence, leaning against the doorframe and waving him over.
Coriolanus treks through the pathway, stopping a foot away. “Good morning.” hanging above her, a chaste kiss to her forehead
She squints, the sun in her face. “Mornin’ sweetheart, sleep well?" And she pats the empty spot next to her and says, “Come sit with me."
He crouches beside her in the patch of grass next to the roses. Busying herself, Lucy Gray works on snipping the primroses, humming an unfamiliar tune. “What song is that?"
She smiles and says, “A song I’m working on, it’s still not done yet."
“I hope I get to listen to it when it’s finished,” Coriolanus replied. “What’s the name?"
“So eager, in due time, sugar,” She chuckles; snip, snip, the flowers tumble over. “You will be the first to know,” And he doesn’t doubt it for a second. Flowers spill and bleed all over the ground, and Lucy Gray hastens to dump them into her basket, working against the hot, piping sun. “Coryo?” She started.
Coriolanus wrestled to peer at her, the sun smothering his face, and he gazed downward. “Yes?”
“Everything hungers for something; what do you hunger for?"
In a heartbeat. “You,” he responded.
Lucy Gray swatted him playfully, “Way to make a girl blush."
He refused to budge. “I hunger for you.” You. You. you. You invest in my brain, my inner thoughts, my train of consciousness, and my ability to make decisions. He thinks back to when he first met Lucy Gray, who was small, desperate, and mostly angry. angry at the capitol, angry at the games, and angry at the will to live. He wasn’t sure what made her so appealing—was it her honeyed, smooth voice, her charm that swept him away into the sea, or her siren-like manner? Her ability to read him like an open book and to watch him soulfully and carefully? Or was it that every time he thought of her, in his bed, in his home, in their home, he saw a flood of red, of violence, and blinding ferocity? He saw himself in her.
He looks up, the sun blazing, and Lucy Gray rages on, just like the sun. Like the flowers in their garden. “What do you hunger for, Lucy Gray?”
She grins secretively, like they share a secret that Coriolanus cannot seem to crack open. And it nearly kills him. Lucy Gray stands up, extending a hand out, and he takes it, hauling himself up, his legs sore. Then she bolts. Running through the garden at a startling pace. His legs move before his mind, and he’s running after her. She squeals and shrieks with delight. Chasing her in circles and running after her, he almost loses sight of her. Far away, he recognizes her figure at the end of the steps leading inside and comes closer. “You didn’t run fast enough,” she mourns. “You wouldn’t be able to keep up if I wasn’t constrained." She gestured to her skirt, but Coriolanus knew well enough that she could run, and he would never be able to catch her. She’s too fast, always taking flight, just out of reach.
“I have you now,” Coriolanus said, wrapping his arms around her waist and setting his chin on top of her head. They peer into the horizon, the valleys in the distance, but too far to think of another life. Of the hundreds of paths that Coriolanus could’ve taken, He could be married to another woman, perhaps a peer from the academy, but instead he sits with Lucy Gray.
“Yes, indeed, you do,” she murmured. The slip of the tongue is barely noticeable.
“So, tell me, Lucy Gray, now that I have you. What do you hunger for?” Coriolanus asked again.
Lucy Gray doesn’t answer him. Instead, she remains in his arms, staring into the distance, the sun bright and beautiful but uncontainable. Just like her. One day, he will contain the flames that light up Lucy Gray, blow them out, and guarantee they will never return. But for now, Coriolanus waits. He is a patient man, after all. He can wait days, months, or years for her answer in the hopes that Lucy Gray will remain.
Besides, Coriolanus knows more than a few ways to capture a songbird.