HEART OF GOLD | CORIOLANUS SNOW

𝘾𝙃𝘼𝙋𝙏𝙀𝙍 37

As bad weeks went, this one was rapidly climbing the ranks. Coriolanus couldn't remember feeling so stressed in nearly ten years. The last time he seemed to be stretched to such breaking point was during his final days as an Academy student: scared out of his mind by the prospect of becoming an experimental subject, of having his body mutilated in the name of science; strung up over someone else's fate, becoming all the more overwrought because it intertwined with his own and he had absolutely no control whatsoever; living in constant fear of having his worst secrets exposed, of losing everything—however little that had been.

Presently, Coriolanus felt, not exactly the same, but comparable. Although there was no risk of being genetically modified, and he wouldn't lose everything, he could still lose some things. It all hinged, again, on the one girl. Or rather, the one girl's father—not that it helped to think of it like that. He could handle Midas Gold under any professional setting, but if the precious metal tycoon insisted on conflating business with his daughter's wellbeing, Coriolanus was powerless. People were so often blind when it came to their loved ones, not to mention sensitive and unreasonable. His best bet was compliance, an abundance of remorse, and constructive, incontrovertible action.

In that last department at least, Coriolanus believed himself to have fulfilled all his obligations. Bud Huckleberry had been charged. Coriolanus himself had served as witness at the trial, which had been a decent show of process rather than formality. At high noon, the presiding judge had pronounced the district boy guilty. His sentence was still pending, but it was a no-brainer. Penalties for battery and aggravated assault were severe even for Capitol citizens. For someone from the districts, to have committed such an offense in the city, against a member of the city's most influential no less, the punishment was straightforward—and fatal.

If Midas Gold wasn't satisfied by this outcome, then he could not be satisfied at all.

Overall, Coriolanus still felt confident he would emerge from this crisis. If his eighteen-year-old self could survive muttations, the arena—the districts—there ought to be nothing he couldn't overcome. If his eighteen-year-old self had not been undone by a girl, there was no way one would be his downfall now. It was just a matter of riding out the storm.

Convinced, he nodded at his reflection and proceeded to splash his face. Despite everything, his nights had suffered inescapable effects of the anxiety that plagued him. Instead of resting, he had lain in bed, fretting over everything from the books to his apprentice—but mostly his apprentice. The way his thoughts kept skipping back to her wasn't anything foreign. In fact, it had been a common occurrence since the night she had trespassed on his past. Only now, he found himself worrying about the girl.

Worrying and wondering.

He wondered how she was doing, if she was alright. He hoped she was—he needed her to be. Then he wondered about her recovery. When he'd been to see her last, she had been out from an reportedly smooth surgery, which should have reassured him. But his only takeaway from the encounter, aside from the mild yet unmistakable dressing down he had received, seemed to be her battered state.

Every time he was reminded of her pasty complexion and limp form, which was more frequent than he liked, his stomach knotted and a dull ache developed in his chest. He would have to drop by later, if only to replace the images floating in his head. He would have already gone, but his lunch hour had been spent at Gold Towers: Personally delivering the news was surely the expectation.

Staring into the mirror, Coriolanus wondered how much better she would be—because she must be better—and if he might actually look worse. Sleep deprivation had discoloured the skin beneath his eyes and fatigue threatened to ambush him at every corner. The cold water had done its job, but his alertness and the pink that tinted his cheeks were all temporary. He would go straight home from the hospital. Perhaps, then, warm, syrup-laced milk could work its magic at last.