THREADS OF AMBITION: CORIOLANUS SNOW

I SUPPOSE

The market buzzes with activity as Coriolanus and I weave through the vibrant stalls. The air is filled with the aroma of fresh produce and the chatter of vendors hawking their wares. The bustling atmosphere seems to momentarily lift the weight of Capitol expectations from our shoulders.

My eyes light up as I spot a beautiful array of fabrics at a quaint stall. I can't resist the temptation to explore, and Coriolanus, surprisingly, follows me without a hint of reluctance. I run my fingers over a piece of royal blue fabric, a vibrant hue that catches my attention.

"Look at this," I say, holding the fabric up to the sunlight. "This royal blue would go perfectly with your shirt. It'll make your eyes pop."

He raises an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "You think so?"

I nod enthusiastically, a playful smile on my lips. "Trust me, I have an eye for these things." I reach for a spool of royal blue thread and, with a teasing glint in my eye, hold it near his eyes. "See? Perfection."

A genuine laugh escapes him, and I find myself caught in the contagious warmth of the moment. Without overthinking, I decide to purchase the fabric and thread, envisioning the transformation of his shirt with the added pop of color.

As we continue to explore the market, the easy banter between us grows, and the romantic tension simmers beneath the surface. At times, our interactions become awkward in an endearing way, filled with shared laughter and stolen glances.

With fabric in hand, we make our way to a charming sandwich stall, and I suggest grabbing a quick bite. We settle at a small table, enjoying the simplicity of the moment. The vendor hands us pesto tomato sandwiches, and I can't help but remark, "Tigris is missing out on this deliciousness. She's been so upset lately."

I shoot Coriolanus a mischievous grin, but then soften my tone. "Just kidding.  take an extra sandwich? Give it to her on my behalf. My girl loves her pesto tomato sandwiches, more than me I fear."

He chuckles at my playful antics and agrees, taking the extra sandwich with a nod of appreciation. The atmosphere between us is light, filled with shared jokes and a genuine camaraderie that transcends the complexities of our roles in Capitol society.

As we enjoy our sandwiches, I catch myself stealing glances at Coriolanus, his eyes alight with a warmth I hadn't seen before. The tension intensifies in these moments, the awkwardness only adding to the charm of our unexpected connection.

As we savor the last bites of our sandwiches, the lingering warmth of laughter hangs in the air. Eventually, the conversation turns to the source of tension between Coriolanus and Tigris. The topic looms over us, casting a shadow on the otherwise enjoyable afternoon.

"So, what was the argument about?" I venture, curious yet hesitant to delve into their personal dynamics.

Coriolanus takes a moment before answering, his expression betraying a mix of frustration and introspection. "I called her out for letting Fabricia make her slave around. I told her that if she continues like this, she'll end up being a nobody."

The weight of his words settles between us, and I can sense the sincerity in his concern for Tigris. The complexity of their relationship becomes more apparent, the unspoken dynamics within the Capitol's fashion elite surfacing.

"Do you think she'll forgive me?" he asks, his gaze searching for reassurance.

I meet his eyes, recognizing the genuine worry etched on his face. "It depends on how she sees it. Sometimes the truth is hard to swallow, especially when it comes from someone you care about. But maybe, deep down, she knows you're right."

Taking a sip of my drink, I offer a reassuring smile. "Give her some time. Tigris is forgiving. She'll come around."

As we sit in the midst of the bustling market, the fabric in hand and the weight of our individual dilemmas momentarily set aside, a shared understanding seems to grow between Coriolanus and me.

As the sun begins to dip below the Capitol's skyline, Coriolanus and I stroll towards my home. The casual camaraderie that developed in the market lingers, and an unspoken connection seems to weave through our interactions.

At my doorstep, Coriolanus pauses, a moment of silence stretching between us. "Thanks for the company," I say, feeling a warmth in my chest that goes beyond the chill of the evening.

He nods, a flicker of a genuine smile gracing his lips. "Anytime, Cordelia. Take care."

Watching him walk away, I can't help but feel a sense of gratitude for the unexpected companionship. Once inside, I retrieve the royal blue fabric and thread, ready to start working on the stitches for Coriolanus's shirt.

Lost in the rhythmic motion of the needle, my thoughts drift between the intricate details of the fabric and the complexities of school. In the midst of stitching, a sudden twinge of pain disrupts my focus. I look down to see a small drop of blood welling up from a tiny prick on my finger.

"Ouch," I mutter, my gaze shifting to the red droplet staining the fabric. It's a small reminder of the intricate dance between beauty and pain, a metaphor for unforgiving expectations.

As I tend to the minor injury, a bittersweet smile crosses my lips. The physical discomfort seems inconsequential compared to the deeper complexities we navigate in this society. With each careful stitch, I find myself musing on the unpredictable threads that connect us all, even in the face of Capitol's formidable tapestry.

The next day, armed with the completed shirt, I make my way to the Snows' home. The air is charged with anticipation, and as I approach the door, I can't shake the subtle tension that seems to linger from the previous day's encounter.

Coriolanus opens the door, and for a moment, the weight of our shared interactions hangs in the air. "Hey," I say, offering the shirt. "Here's your shirt. I hope the royal blue adds that pop of color we talked about."

His eyes meet mine, and there's a lingering intensity that goes beyond the usual interactions. As I step inside, I notice Tigris observing us, her keen eyes picking up on the unspoken dynamics.

"Thank you, Cordelia," Coriolanus replies, taking the shirt. "It looks great."

There's an undercurrent of something more in his tone, something I can't quite decipher. Tigris's gaze flickers between us, and I sense her curiosity piqued by the subtle tension in the room.

As I engage in polite conversation, I remain oblivious to the reality that lies beneath the surface—the Snows' financial struggles. The lavish exterior of their home hides the struggles they face in the impoverished shadows of the Capitol.

The tension in the room becomes more palpable, and even Tigris, perceptive as ever, starts to sense the unspoken complexities. The delicate dance of words and glances reveals a narrative that extends beyond the realm of fashion and social expectations.

"I'll be on my way" I say with a smile. "Tig, I'll swing by or you should come by whatever works, 3pm?"

"That works!" She yells out from her sewing machine.