Nestled in Panem, is the beating flourishing heart of it all. The Capitol. A place where class is valued almost as much as money. Surnames are important, dearest. Nannies are a popular business to raise pompous and too bratty children, refining their edges until they’re sleek, educated and ready to make even more money and history. Decedent buildings made of all the resources they so generously were gifted from the Districts’ alongside properly paved walkways, whimsical street lamps and buskers? No no, darling, there’s a theatre for that.

And buried a little deeper, if we zoom in here, and tap on the street named, Cuarsive Grove, is your townhouse. Well, not yours, but Daddy’s townhouse. Daddy’s downstairs downing expensive liquor with a friend, whilst both wives sip from small glasses of sparkling rosé. And upstairs, on the second floor, beside your bedroom is you, and Coriolanus Snow, at five years old, playing with your dolls.

“Corio! Give it back. She needs purple shoes.” You pout, demanding cruel Coriolanus give you back your doll. He huffs and hands it back, before going back to swinging his legs up and down, as he lays on his stomach, mouthing conversation between the two other dolls he puppets.

There’s one of your cutest memories with him, as a whole of course. Playing together. As you get older it escalates. When you’re young teens your parents still drown in divine drinks downstairs and you both remain in his room in their penthouse home, one of their many. You’re naive and laying together. Touching in places. “Do you like Jaxton?” Coriolanus asks quietly. You look up, and from the glow behind you of the street up high, you spot the furrow of his brows. “Not really. He called me pretty.”

“I call you pretty.” He argues.

“Not often you don’t.” You retort.

“Fine. You’re not pretty. You’re the prettiest.” More inexperienced but natural touching and holding comes after that. Years later, when you hit ‘of age’, though you’d been drinking much much longer, you and him become closer. Your parent were out this time, and you were up in the room of his estate, where he’d brought bottles and bottles of wine and spirits. You’re both a mess. His shirt was unbuttoned, and dress trousers low on his hips, curls messy. You wore one of those camisole silk tops lined with fine lace, and matching cropped shorts, with a thin and hip-length silk nightgown over the top of it.

Lounging across his bed, like the chaotic angel you are, drinking sparkling white wine from the bottle he just watches in appreciation. He would love you eternally. Lust for you eternally. Be involved messily and neatly eternally.

The following morning, he kisses your temple and helps you to the shower, where you gather yourself and re-emerge not hungover, (oh, being young) and with hair already in curlers and face bare. You wander to the wardrobe he kept for you, one of about seven in his room, and open it and grabbing a pale blue sleeveless dress, that finishes mid thoughts, and on your collarbone, with a few useless pearl buttons lined with silver and made of a tweed fabric. “Can you send someone to pick up my dress for tonight from the dresser cleaners?”

“Mhm.”

“Is your tie blue?”

“Mhm.”

“I love when you’re prepared.” You cast him a look in the mirror.

“Me? I’m always prepared.” He muses, buttoning up one three buttons on his pale grey jumper and navy pants.