HEART OF GOLD | CORIOLANUS SNOW

𝘾𝙃𝘼𝙋𝙏𝙀𝙍 11

It was several months ago now, back in June. Coriolanus remembered it well (he wished he didn't) because it'd been the morning of Livia Cardew's engagement party: Although he'd reached home well past midnight, he hadn't managed to sleep in. He was never able to anymore. Blame it on his Peacekeeper and military training. Even if he was tired, his biological clock was a force to be reckoned with, and falling back into a slumber eluded him as long as the sun shone. His brain just wouldn't let him, having a mind of its own, already awake despite his body's objections.

With no particular excitement to begin the day but a definite eagerness to get it over with, he climbed out of bed and washed up, planning on breakfast—Saturday mornings promised a delectable eggs Benedict, and caffeine was always a good idea at this time of the day—in Ma's dining room. Although his own had been preserved, that was only utilized with guests or for familial celebrations. Day-to-day, it was more convenient for him to join them downstairs instead.

He had scarcely left his room when, out of nowhere, someone careened into his path, narrowly knocking him over. His reflexes were quick, however, and not only had he stayed on his feet, he'd steadied the blunderer in his arms. More effective than the strongest coffee, the collision no doubt jolted all the torpor out of him, but the impossibility of the situation had rendered Coriolanus so nonplussed it was all he could do to stare at the culprit: A stranger. A stranger he didn't recognize but for her clothing. A stranger who had the gall to study him like she hadn't just plowed into him in his very own house.

Kids these days, he'd thought witheringly. The nerve of them! And then he became still more nettled, for her gaze had alerted him to what he was—or wasn't—wearing, and the fact that his hair was still damp.

Breakfasts weren't terribly formal affairs even for the Snows; the Grandma'am had been (was still) too preoccupied with "Gem of Panem" to enforce proper decorum to its utmost. Her mandate for ties at the dining table remained reserved exclusively for evening fares, and continued even upon her relocation.

Typically, the men turned up readied for school or the office—Strabo in business attire, before he'd become ill; Coriolanus in a suit when he was in university, nowadays in his service uniform—which was more than acceptable. As a fashion designer, Tigris could be decked in just about anything, if her schedule allowed her to grace the meal at all. Ma and the Grandma'am simply dressed in their vastly differing definitions of home tunics. On the weekends, it was even laxer: shirts were not necessary, though at least a shower and a shave could be counted on.

So, there he was, Coriolanus Snow, showered and shaved, in nothing but his underwear and a silk robe, in the midst of a complete outsider. He was decent, of course, with the gown fastened taut around his waist, but that hadn't softened the blow of being seen so casually by someone who was neither part of his household nor the woman he was presently having sexual relations with.

For a moment, he'd wondered if he was, in some measure, at fault for his own predicament.

The air-conditioning at the TGRS atelier had broken down earlier that week, and the repairmen too backed up for an appointment until the following Monday. The one in the boutique was all right, but Tigris wasn't about to stitch garments together in the middle of her store. She would have endured the sweltering heat if she had only to consider herself, but she would tolerate nary a drop of perspiration on her precious designs.

Her room with the Plinths was as adequate as it had been when she first started the brand, but the noise her sewing machine made was now too much for the sickly Strabo and more elderly Grandma'am to get the rest they needed. Furthermore, with projects to rush—apparently, several of Livia's invitees had ordered costumes from TGRS—working through the night would be inevitable. She had, thus, set up back in her old room in the penthouse, reassured by Coriolanus that he would not be disturbed: the distance between their rooms would more than dampen any sound; he was a heavy sleeper, if a short one; most of his nights would be spent elsewhere besides.