HEART OF GOLD | CORIOLANUS SNOW

𝘾𝙃𝘼𝙋𝙏𝙀𝙍 9

Over the rim of his glass, Coriolanus took it all in: his twenty-foot-high ceilings, corniced and pristinely white; the ornate crystal chandeliers hanging from them, lending a soft, glittery quality to the vast saloon; dense velvet drapes neatly cinched at their middles by tassel tie-backs, a luxuriant navy offset by silver ropes, offering a tremendous view of the Capitol's evening skyline framed by his tall arched windows; liveried Avoxes weaving amongst his awed guests, bearing shining platters of fine wine, champagne, and delectable canapés; others manning his bar, serving liquor and cocktails to people wearing their Sunday best and admiring, envious expressions.

This was what the Snow penthouse was meant to look like, he thought with deep satisfaction that did not make its way to his face.

Snow lands on top.

The Grandma'am had insisted that Coriolanus had the penthouse to himself onward of his twenty-first birthday, as befitted a young man of his status—as his bachelor pad. Strabo and Ma had not hesitated to welcome her and Tigris into their flat. Ma, for one, embraced the change wholeheartedly. It was too big and too quiet for just the two of them, she'd always claimed. Too big and too quiet without Sejanus, she'd undoubtedly meant.

For some time Coriolanus felt a prick at his conscience. The Grandma'am and Tigris were his family—the only ones he'd really known, besides—and Snows as much as he was. But it wasn't like he was the one chasing them out. None of it had been his idea, and he secretly relished the notion of having his own place. It definitely added to his lure, when he dropped the casual mention that they—he, and whoever was in his company then—could take it back to his apartment as the establishments called for final orders. The ladies positively swooned.

Best of all were the mornings: Silent. Anthemless. Peaceful.

As such, Coriolanus had seen to much of the renovations personally. He had all of the bedrooms refurbished, with the intention of preserving the Grandma'am's and Tigris's even after they had been vacated. Should either—or both—of them be seized by sudden homesickness and have the urge to return, they would be allowed to. His goodwill assuaged his guilt.

When they actually moved, Tigris, at least, had left so much behind he'd half anticipated her to pop back up every other day. She didn't, of course; not until recently, anyway, and that had been a one-off. His grandmother had suggested he occupied the master suite then; after all, he was the master of the house. Coriolanus was not so easily persuaded on this front, however.

It had belonged to his parents, and regardless that he had overhauled the whole place so that it was unrecognisable, he couldn't even stand in the doorway without seeing blood-soaked sheets and flashes of his expiring mother. Sleep would be impossible in there. He had it closed off, the maids only permitted to clean when he wasn't at home. Coriolanus continued the use of his own room to this day. It was unmistakably smaller, but it had accommodated all his needs for twenty-one years, and could accommodate him still.

Not forever, though. Resolved to overcome the horrors associated with the suite, he envisioned himself living inside one day in the arbitrary future. Or perhaps not so arbitrary. When he got married seemed a fitting time—a sufficiently significant juncture in his life, unquestionably—for the ultimate "upgrade." Till then...

Coriolanus did, however, commandeer the adjoining study, which had been his father's. A brand new mahogany furniture set had been brought in, and legions of encyclopaedias and scholarly tomes procured to fill the bookcases lining the walls. His individuality was reflected in the family portraits he had specially commissioned.

From the Grandma'am's collection of old photographs that had somehow survived the war, he'd found one he had forgotten had been taken: Decked in his handsome purple velvet suit, Coriolanus had to be around four. Beside him, his mother sat elegantly in an upholstered chair, one hand on his shoulder, the other resting on the gentle bump that bulged underneath her lavender silk number. His father stood behind them, tall and formidable-looking in his decorated military uniform. He chose this one, and had another taken of him, the Grandma'am, and Tigris. Both pictures had been enlarged and hung on either sides of the fireplace.