#featuring constantinus snow .

[snowfuls]

the president's favourite grandchildren | chemtrails over the country club.

featuring @incaensio

[snowfuls]

almost as soon as it'd been uttered, cora is seen waving con's comment off, rejecting his implication altogether. quite unable to imagine a time nor a world in which she'd ever feel comfortable conversing with those whose spilt blood she could feel dripping from her fingertips. it's a silent sort of anguish, one undoubtedly born of the "bubble wrap" she'd been smothered in since birth. bred to feel superior, it's a deeply unnatural occurrence for a snow to want to be anyone else and yet... the two grandchildren strolling away from the party, arm in arm, appear to be a testament to the opposite being true.

❛ please don't be like that... they're as close as. ❜ of course, she kept up with gossip. it was exceedingly hard not to in the capitol. she understood the reality of the situation, or rather, what was simmering just below the surface of district twelve's entourage this year as well as anyone else with vested interest did. only cora didn't think of it as any different to the way she looked at him as far more of an elder brother than a cousin. a better fit for the role than either of her two brothers had ever been. she imagines that family means more than blood in twelve. in any of the districts really. a concept seemingly lost upon the capitol and their family entirely. it made the apparent meddling in the quell and selection of its participants that much sadder in cora's eyes. it was a punishment and a not so subtle one at that. she wonders if there'd been any discussion as to whether it should be the everdeen matriarch's name being plucked from the bowls at the reaping. no... they'd surely fall back in laughter at the idea, dismissing it for being too obvious a move. only to go ahead and pick the "aunt" instead. grimacing, lips pulled into a pout, the granddaughter wishes for an opportunity to turn her mind off from it entirely but as con's words remind her, praise is expected. ❛ not having all the gory details hasn't stopped me before... i'm awfully good at stroking egos, you know. i'll just tell plutarch... his design for the arena is nothing short of magnificent. ❜ she teases cooly.

awe is arising in her warm, brown eyes as cora plays witness to the little exchange between the two men, quietly marvelling at her cousin's nerve and not for the first time either. the peacekeeper likely laugh in her face if she were the one to try that. ever the good, abiding girl in the eyes of the capitol's vast and loyal public. then again... maybe not. citing untoward repercussions that tend to follow those who crossed her ( irregardless of her input ) though it's far from a fact cora takes any sort of pride in. let alone one she'd actively thought to take advantage of. in reaching the balcony, the conversation taints an emerging smile with melancholy, ❛ the roses certainly aren't as effective as they used to be. ❜ ... had they ever been? or was she simply too foolish a girl to comprehend the way death clung to the halls of their grandfather's mansion until it was too late? until the truth had to be spelled out to her? a hand shoots out in subsequence, beckoning to be given the packet of cigarettes. an action they'd surely come to regret if she were to happen upon either parent again tonight but cora's desire for distraction exceeds any reluctance. ❛ did he say anything? on the way here? ❜

smile grows easily into a grin at the push and pull, until he gets the push and he is wrinkling his nose, rubbing at the place of injury. it lasts very little though, just acting, as familiar between them; he brings a palm to the back of her head and gives something that is half a nudge, half a caress. "doesn't stop anyone else, cor." not that she is like everyone else. constantinus wonders if his uncle had planned, or even thought of what would be the repercussions to raise his only daughter alienated from everything; he musn't have thought it through, because the girl barely appears capitolite, much less a snow. he's pretty sure callum — one of their cousins — has already started to take on bets on who will last the longest, whose death will be the most embarrassing, who will get the first iconic moment of this year's games (connie can't talk about that, seeing as he has first eyes and hands on all of that on the control room, but he listens, wishing he was unable to).

"not really her aunt." he corrects, mostly out of habit. the gamemakers were granted privileges beyond the story the media had to spin from the takes collected around the arena and the tributes' families, and constantinus, being a snow, knew even more. they had to fabricate that thing when the grumpy boy from twelve appeared (he still thinks he's her real boyfriend, but he omits that from cordelia; he isn't sure if her fondness towards katniss stretches towards the victor's perfect match, so best not to ruin that, too). "yeah that…" he grimaces as he recalls of hazelle hawthorne's evaluation. last out of twenty four, she had the room excited and her under-delivering had left most of his colleagues grumbling, pitying the lost opportunity of a good show. "i'd say don't watch this year's if you're concerned about the everdeens, but plutarch probably will expect some praise with all that he's building." that they're building, but connie isn't entirely breached on how much his cousin knows. it's funny, because they must see each other at least once a week (he's gotten her in, for fuck's sake), but one wrong word slips out and they're all fucked. so it's best to be in the dark.

"want to smoke?" he doesn't wait for an answer, careless if she does or not (he had given her eldest brother his first cigarette, some years ago, and their parents talked his ear off; their mother still grumbles, under her breath, that constantinus is such a bad influence. if only she knew), as he nods towards a room that says authorized personnel only. the peacekeeper at post stiffens as they approach, but connie knows this game, and fishes out some big bills, along with his id. say what you want about the snows, but a glimpse to the surname is enough for the guy to blink and let them pass (not without taking the money, of course), and connie snickers. "i think this balcony is better than grandpa's. not as good a view, but reeks less of old man and death."

[incaensio]

setting : caesar's after party in the museum, pre - plot drop. with : kiran kotak ( @evenfalls )

sandeep prasad is one of the legends of panem, but, more especially, from connie's childhood — when he had heard her kid was joining the academy (which was, then, still unfamiliar for victor's children), he'd made sure to seek out that kid and invite him to sit in the table of the children of the elite. some twenty and something years later, not much has changed between them — yet everything has changed. the snow name carries constantinus only so far; real talent is something else, and kiran has that and it is a double - edged sword: connie may not be envious of his friend's brain, but he sure can resent how it is used, where it is employed. having kiran with plutarch would be a dream come true, lifting the weight from pretense from one of the most important relationships of his life, but that's not a risk he'd take (he purposefully misses the irony that he has tugged on literal strangers to the right side, but he has to keep his best friend since he was an actual brat at arm's length when it comes to shit like this).

con finds him with ease. gamemakers are well-sought in events like this, and while a good part of them may be willing and even eager to be pandered by curious capitolites and purposeful district people, he doesn't think that quite applies for kiran. an arm loops around the other's shoulders as he finds him, a smile spreading across his features at the sight of the other gamemaker. "tick tock." it's a jest; they've worked with clocks so much these past months constantinus has threatened several times to break that damned thing (if only the arena wasn't so brilliantly horrifying). “you’re lingering for longer than usual, though. don't you need your beauty sleep for tomorrow?” con gives him a quirk of the brows, before snickering. “i’m stuck here for the quell footage because of pops, but you could walk and be free, kiki.” the words are purposefully double meaning, but he hopes the usage of their childhood nickname distracts kiran from giving it all much thought.

[incaensio]

setting : caesar flickerman's afterparty. with : cora snow @snowfuls

caesar's parties are always a reboot of every other capitol party, but he's outdone himself in tackiness tonight — a fucking museum? what are them? kids on an academy field trip? constantinus gets tired of looking around items behind a glass, and from entertaining the common talk around the games, so he keeps on the move, ready to skip should anyone extremely boring (the majority of people here) try to loop him into some never ending conversation about something he doesn't really care about.

after a few rounds, he almost misses the opening feast at his grandfather's; at least then, he had been able to hole himself up in his old bedroom when things got too much, and he could drink and eat and smoke as much as he wanted without silently judgmental eyes upon him, all of which are a miss tonight. he's ready to bribe some of the staff to let him go up to the balcony when he notices a very familiar face, and, more importantly, the signs of subtle strain that turns at her features. oh, his dearest cousin. so beloved, and so polite. thankfully, connie does not consider himself to be either, so he sneaks his way through the people until he's standing just next to cora; his arm falls around her neck, a motion he's accustomed to. it is enough to get the one talking to his cousin to quieten, raising an eyebrow. he returns the gesture. "i was waiting for when you were going to finally shut up. thank you." he gives a mocking nod.

"your mother's looking for you, cor." he announces, a quick lie, just pressing enough for the other person to get the hint and let cora go. con guides her through the neck to the supposed direction of her mother, only to drop his arm and give her braid a gentle tug. "you owe me." he never collected favors, though, not from her. the most sincere smile he's mustered tonight tugs at the corners of his lips, and he tilts his chin lightly. "you should look for more interesting people to mingle with, cora. i saw your lover girl just a while ago." katniss everdeen was being swamped by admirers, as always; he could not openly declare himself one of those, as despite how much she had inspired admiration in him with her actions of open rebellion in live tv, he was still skeptical she could rise up to the role of the mockingjay plutarch and coin envision for her.

[incaensio]

she's just innocently ignorant, but the assumption makes him let out a loud snort. capitolites only like the wilderness when it is through a screen; who would want to willingly leave their comforts to go climbing up some mountain? "no. the only thing capitolites explore are pub crawls." of course, that is just a humorful way of putting it. capitolites are almost as contained within their region as district people — they may not be entirely surrounded by peacekeepers, but traveling between not urbanized areas is not encouraged, and between districts is forbidden for most, allowed only to those with the patience to fill a lot of paperwork justifying their travels or to people who have the connections in the right places (of course, constantinus' case was the later). "rest assured that the sea is better than the mountains. less bugs, less chance of hitting a rock and die. or, wait." it's a joke. he doesn't think she will laugh, though.

annie makes him want to laugh, but he contains that, instead looking at her with an unbecoming amusement. "that's not entirely wrong. the snow have been staples since the foundation of panem, grandfather is simply continuing the legacy." as far as everyone is aware, the snow have known nothing but greatness, going from weapons' moghuls to a steady rise in university, then the games, then presidency. grandfather used to tell him it was always on the card, snow lands on top after all (but when grandmother is angry, she cackles about how coryo snow had once been so poor he even smelled of poor people's broth; no one talks about that). she has her own legacy, and that seems to make her more uncomfortable than he is with his own — the truth is she's just a poorer actress, never learned to keep the truth away from her features, it would seem. "his best friend is dead. obviously, if abernathy lives. and a lofty fool, as well. i'd hope your father isn't as stupid." no, fletcher cresta seemed more centered. at least on his evaluation. he certainly did not resemble his daughter at all, but constantinus had probably been the only one to think of that as a bad thing (but is it? if he's any bit like annie, he won't have the fluke to make back home this year, and he'd even cheer for the old man if that meant annie wouldn't be upset further than she has already been by the capitol). he stifles a sigh, takes a step to the side, closer to her. "the arena is advantageous for him this year."

annie can talk about the sea endlessly, until people's ears bleed of boredom. and sometimes while in the city, she indirectly resorts to it. there's something undeniably safe about it. one, few really seem to know much about it outside of four and the few districts that have grand lakes. two, it's home. anyone can talk about home, can't they ? instead she focuses on the seemed curiosity of constantinus. " is that not something people in the city explore ? " she asks in return. " they always grab my attention when i'm in the capitol. i don't come often though so maybe it's just that. " she quickly rationalizes. there's a truth to it. they seem largely untouched and secluded, at least what's passed through via the train. is it rose colored glasses ? after all, anywhere is better than this city when it comes to panem.

" i forget that sometimes. it's hard to remember that your grandfather has ever been anything but the president. like he woke up unbelievably significant and just has always been. " omnipotent man with all the power, completely untouchable. she swore that he hasn't aged in twenty years. it's the capitol magic in all their surgeries and medical prowess, she's sure. but if someone told her that he bathed in blood, annie cresta might believe it. she's fortunate she's only spoken with the man enough times to count on one hand. he once told her that she was squandered potential ; annie had to look up the first word. but largely he had left her alone after that point, a singular grace she's received from the man. had she struck a nerve with his grandson ? she didn't think she was being that brazen. though that call wasn't hers to make, was it ?

constantinus makes eye contact for the first time, and it chills her more than him saying her full name. his eyes are striking. they're blue like crystal pools, but all she sees is snow. being turned to stone would be kinder. in her heels, they're rather on eye level with one another. he brings up fletcher, and she's the first to break eye contact. " two higher than me, " she offers at first. dark eyes scan the exhibit, like she's still curious but she's not. " i'm very proud. i knew he'd do well. he's a graduate from the academy his best friend volunteered from the second quarter quell. i'm sure he'll make him very proud too. " speech is recycled. it's always the same words in a different order. sometimes she throws in fabricated stories of his fatherhood. people are more sympathetic to a family man after all.

[incaensio]

some say deception is a skill you're born with, but if you don't hone it, it's pointless. his father could have been a great liar but he was rotten from birth (livia snow's words) and all he amounted was a disappointment; the expectations were put in his son's shoulders, then, only for another disappointment to flourish as the eldest snow grandson was too sincere, too eager. he'd never make politics, he's told when he's thirteen, guided out of a car accident he's caused himself. he can lie, though. sometimes, he wonders if his grandfather would be proud of just how much he lies, in fact.

but, other times, constantinus feels like he's a kid again, being told he's unsuitable for things, and there are much better people around — finnick is a master in this, because he leans into the kiss, he pulls him closer, and all constantinus can do at first is to fight off the nausea and the urge from recoiling at the way the words clings around them almost as a purr. "sorry, you know how it is on evaluation days. everyone wants a piece." his words are pointed by the way he reaches and pinches finnick's chin, and his smile barely trembles at the unnecessary (yet, all too necessary) physical exchange (if anyone knew about being bitten, that was finnick odair).

the relief that floods his features is genuine as finnick catches on, and architectures a way out. he can only play his part in this torture for so long before he would flail openly — it is he who pulls away faster when it seems they are in distance of the ever present legion of fans from the victor, but they still can't stay that much apart when they've found a nook that seems to have been made just for illicit encounters (which theirs is, only not in the way they hope others would assume). "chill." his arms are removed from a crossed position as he lifts a hand to still finnick's nerves; constantinus can regain his composure himself when he doesn't have to be the one to abuse finnick's charms.

"quell footage this year is going to be different." in quell years, the voracious capitolites are given even more of a taste to the massacre to come by watching some clips from training and such. it is the perfect opportunity, and, of course, no one would expect that moment to be hijacked. "you're making a little cameo there, pretty boy. still good with blood?" finnick's shot on the video is not an easy one — he was too young to have been forced to kill, and constantinus gets it now, even if he can do nothing about it (but seemingly bring it up, carelessly). "you're the very selected holder of this information, but i expect you to know how to bite your tongue." oh, he's done it plenty. finnick seems to have poked around skeletons all around town, and none of it has surfaced (yet).

𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 after all the years of their acquaintance and the tentative alliance he and Constantinus had managed to strike, Finnick would not say he completely trusted the man. How could he, really? Rebellion aside, Con was still from the Capitol, and, even more important, he was still a Snow. It would be honestly stupid on his part to not be wary of anyone with that name.

And yet, he still welcomed the kiss the man gave him and pulled him closer with an arm around his waist. Every cell in his body seemed to protest the action, an uncomfortable weight settling on his stomach, but after so many years of dealing with the feeling, he ignored it. "Darling," he responded, the Capitolite accent he had worked so hard to perfect showing in every syllable. "I was afraid I wouldn't get to see you tonight." He pouted, his expression the perfect mix of feigned amusement and affection.

His next words d spark Finnick's interest. He could hear the innuendo in them, but experience provides that whatever Constantinus has for him is definitely something important. "Oh, I'm sure they won't mind, will you?," he asked the small crowd around them, not really caring to wait for an answer before flashing a smile and pulling the other man away. The giggles behind them as they left gave no doubt about what kind of thing people thought the President's grandson had for him. "What is it? Is everything ok?" he asked in a low voice once he had put enough distance between themselves and any snooping ear. He had no idea of just what Constantinus would respond, but he had a feeling it wouldn't be anything good.

[snowfuls]

out on the balcony, cora pays her cousin no mind. suspecting he's ducked out in search of a lighter for the cigar she knows he has stashed away in some pocket, his movements fade to white noise as she gazes out at the sparkling cityscape. it's a bittersweet sight, as ever. beautiful but irrevocably tainted. as is the case with so much their family has touched. hands drenched in seven decades worth of needless bloodshed and the granddaughter believes she can see it dripping from every surface, staining even the purest of whites, in every dark, unseen corner of the capitol. it's a formidable kingdom their grandfather's made of this metropolis, all for them too — as he so often tells them but as the glistening of the forcefield reminds her... it's little more than a gilded cage. one she was born into and made to endure. bright and shiny, austere and loveless. it's the same one she'll leave for the very first time tonight. though cora remains blissfully unaware of this fact as con re-enters through her bedroom window. the action finally drawing her attention to him. however there's no lighter in sight.

her gaze meets his, searching wordlessly for an explanation as the air between them grows heavy with something she can't begin to make head nor tail of. not yet, at least. it's alarming, cora's brows knit with growing curiosity as his arbitrary question earns a tepid shrug from her. quite the startling juxtaposition from how she feels her heart drop at what leaves her cousin's lips next. her grip on the marble balustrade falls in an instant as she stumbles back several paces. ❛ what? ❜ is all she stomach in reply. voice somewhere between accusatory and uncertain. it’s not that she doesn’t trust constantinus. he’s the only person in this house she does trust, they're two sides of the same coin... so she's thought for these past ten or so years. only this is far from the conversation she thought they'd be having tonight. so used to going through the motions, their lives an endless performance, doe-eyes grow wide with disbelief at the sudden deviation. the greatest of deviations. this is treason. they both know it. and in their grandfather’s house no less? whilst he lingers downstairs — ever present. no matter how desperately cora had longed for it over the years, change is a concept entirely foreign to her and standing on the cusp of it as they appear to do so now… it frightens her. cora wishes to will it away, to appear strong in her convictions but she can’t. a hereditary anomaly, she’s never possessed her family’s proclivity for power nor their ability to will something into existence. but amongst the shock, there is sense too. cutting through confusion, the revelation that someone had to have told plutarch to recruit her in the first place. whispered her misgivings in his ear. for despite the elder man’s seemingly endless wealth of knowledge, he wasn’t all knowing. that, coupled with the various warnings, his working under the head gamemaker himself, the way he’d campaigned for plutarch to receive that very position... just as she had. every bit of it was planned and the realisation glows on cora's features. ❛ you’re a part of it too. aren’t you? ❜ it's a relief, a betrayal and a lifeline rolled into one. she's not alone.

setting : cora's room in the snow mansion, around six in the evening in the seventh day of the games. with : cora snow @snowfuls

the family dinners for the snow family are like a well rehearsed play, one constantinus is unfortunately well familiar with. well, tonight, it is fortunately because by the time there's a natural stop, after desert, when the patriarch goes to his office to check on something, and grandmother usually goes to have her smokes (she's not here tonight, better things to attend, she would certainly say when she gets home by the time for bed), and the grandkids can do what their hearts desire until the nightcap. they go to cora's room. it's one of the best in the house — at some point, it had belonged to coriolanus' favorite daughter, so it was natural that his favorite grandchild would inherit it — with the third-best balcony of the mansion — third only to the president's, of course, and grandma's own — though it is nothing as grand as one would expect for a snow. it's good for fresh air, however, and the waft that comes from the greenhouses hit him right in the face, before he can as much as light his own cigar. it is enough to remind him of why they're here.

and so the eldest retracts into the room, re-starting his steps from the door; pulling out a small scan, a metal box similar to one of the mobile phones only the capitolites are allowed to use, he scavenges the surfaces, waiting for a beep. none comes. of course, he stifles a scoff. his own room in this house beeps, now and then, but cordelia is the angel grandchild, isn't she? who could ever suspect her? he finishes the round when he arrives by the balcony again, and the scan is pushed back, almost imperceptibly, into his pocket. constantinus takes a seat on the marble railing, letting a leg hang out — there's a forcefield there, installed by the time he came home from the loony bin. just in case another snow lost their minds — and sighing. "tired?" the worst part of the night is barely over. there's still so much to say. connie lets his eyes wander through his cousin's face. they've been here, doing this, so many times now. that this is the last time it's dawning on him, but he can not falter now. "i know you know, by the way. about plutarch's little mockingjay project."

[snowfuls]

it was likely just as callous of cora not to pay attention to the tributes' final days as it was to revel in their impending peril as the partygoers surrounding her do... but cora can't stomach the idea of adults entering the arena any better than she could when it was children. choosing to, instead, flit around this archive of a venue, playing at sociability before finding herself entrapped in a... one sided "discussion" with a former escort who can't resist regaling the president's granddaughter with tales of their favourite victor and how utterly convinced they are that a tribute reaped for the imminent quell is the very image of said victor. their second coming! they claim. it's a stretch of the imagination too far for even cora to pretend to want to entertain. brown eyes begin to glaze over in boredom until the sudden sensation of an arm snaking around her neck and over her shoulder jolts her back to reality.

restlessness evaporates, a glimmer of relief flashing across her dolled up features as her cousin's authoritative voice cuts through the drivel. constantinus' swift dismantling of the escort earning a smile from cora that she then rushes to suppress, pressing a hand to her lips in an attempt to hide the gentle amusement. it's as convincing a rouse as any other he's tried among the years. cora might almost believe it too, if not for the fact that her mother scarcely ever cared about what her daughter was up to at any given time. she'll contemplate a world in which she did care : supposing that she hadn't expressed an adequate amount of jubilation at the idea of a mother of four meeting her grizzly end in the arena... how embarrassing of her.

❛ be sure to add it to my tab. ❜ she retorts. there's no ounce of resistance to being led away by con, falling back into the familiarity of his presence with immense gladness. he's one of just a handful of people she shares such closeness with. likely the only person here she'd want to willingly spend time with... though she is quick to feign pain upon feeling his faint grip upon her hair, rolling her head back in an exaggerated fashion as a particularly girlish ❛ ow. ❜ escapes her. what follows is a light jab to his rib, in the name of retaliation, courtesy of her elbow. cora quite unable to help the way her nose wrinkles bashfully at the utterance of "lover girl", ❛ you know i would go and talk to her, con... if i wasn't certain that i'm one of the very last people she'd want to engage in conversation with here. ❜ victors typically treat her well enough but cora, little mistress of the art that she was, could spot a forced smile from across the room and tributes who won the games often appeared as reliant on them as she was. she certainly didn't blame them for wanting to retreat from engaging with those who bore the surname, snow. proximity to their grandfather was all it took. if only they knew of how sorely she wished to do the same. ❛ she must have a great deal on her mind already, her aunt being a tribute and all. ❜

setting : caesar flickerman's afterparty. with : cora snow @snowfuls

caesar's parties are always a reboot of every other capitol party, but he's outdone himself in tackiness tonight — a fucking museum? what are them? kids on an academy field trip? constantinus gets tired of looking around items behind a glass, and from entertaining the common talk around the games, so he keeps on the move, ready to skip should anyone extremely boring (the majority of people here) try to loop him into some never ending conversation about something he doesn't really care about.

after a few rounds, he almost misses the opening feast at his grandfather's; at least then, he had been able to hole himself up in his old bedroom when things got too much, and he could drink and eat and smoke as much as he wanted without silently judgmental eyes upon him, all of which are a miss tonight. he's ready to bribe some of the staff to let him go up to the balcony when he notices a very familiar face, and, more importantly, the signs of subtle strain that turns at her features. oh, his dearest cousin. so beloved, and so polite. thankfully, connie does not consider himself to be either, so he sneaks his way through the people until he's standing just next to cora; his arm falls around her neck, a motion he's accustomed to. it is enough to get the one talking to his cousin to quieten, raising an eyebrow. he returns the gesture. "i was waiting for when you were going to finally shut up. thank you." he gives a mocking nod.

"your mother's looking for you, cor." he announces, a quick lie, just pressing enough for the other person to get the hint and let cora go. con guides her through the neck to the supposed direction of her mother, only to drop his arm and give her braid a gentle tug. "you owe me." he never collected favors, though, not from her. the most sincere smile he's mustered tonight tugs at the corners of his lips, and he tilts his chin lightly. "you should look for more interesting people to mingle with, cora. i saw your lover girl just a while ago." katniss everdeen was being swamped by admirers, as always; he could not openly declare himself one of those, as despite how much she had inspired admiration in him with her actions of open rebellion in live tv, he was still skeptical she could rise up to the role of the mockingjay plutarch and coin envision for her.

[incaensio]

he gives her a harmless roll of his eyes. in the capitol, family is blood and/or name, but the everdeens and hawthorne's circumstances had been different; he still thinks that the label of family between the two eldest children from those families must feel more like another burden, another imposition from the capitol to keep them in line, to maintain the foolish star crossed lovers idea. for most part, he tries not to mind it, because he knows his grandfather is not clement, and even if he cares very little for those people in particular, he wouldn't want to see a massacre (funny that his grandsire found a way around it anyways, by bringing the matriarch to the slaughter. figures.). his cousin's acting is improving, nearing perfection the older she gets, and he gives her a dramatized okay with his fingers, clicking his tongue. "perfect. say that you can really see his singular style coming through. he will eat that shit up." as decent as plutarch was, he was still capitol, and at times constantinus found himself needing to utter mindless praise or points of improvement to please his boss, with those joyous beady eyes of his.

she's implying not to see it, though, and for constantinus, that's all the better. he had been watching the games since he was but a swaddled babe, but what is broken with the eldest is taught as a lesson for the youngest, so cora has that privilege, the poison hasn't bled through the porcelain of her skin just yet (he hopes she thinks so. he knows she doesn't, but he hopes, because it's true — she's faultness, in all of this. she still has salvation, how to get out of this. he will get her out of this.). "there's some preview, tonight." he's vague. there is a broadcast scheduled, filmed by cressida and edited by him, the official version of the whole thing: the reaping, the party at the mansion, some training videos. it won't be the one airing tonight, of course, but he's sworn to secrecy on that, and if cora's handler hasn't seen fit for her to know, then he wouldn't divulge all the details. just a warning. just to keep her clean. "nothing important there, you could excuse yourself to the loo then." he gives her a look that longs on her features; any hearing devices may have caught his words, and thought nothing of it. everyone knows the snows are sworn to protect their precious grandchild before everything else.

he snickers in her daring. it's a soft impertinence, but it is something neither of them would ever dare to say in front of their grandfather, so he takes it as something much braver. "he's an old man clinging to his old things." connie is braver, though. he has less to lose than his cousin, after all. but it's true — coriolanus has spoken of his own grandmother, his grandma'am, and how she had spun down the line of reason at the end of her days. none of the grandchildren met the old woman, just the tales, and her roses; once, constantinus had dreaded that this was what would become of his grandfather, but now, he can't wait until he torches down all those damn greenhouses.

his amusement heightens as she takes on the dare, and it almost spills out in laughter; constantinus gives her a single cigarette, and lets the flicker of his lighter light it up. "nothing much, i guess. we mostly talked about the evaluation, the scores, the interviews." he shrugs. he's an employee almost as much as he is blood — that doesn't peeve him much these days, not when he is insistent on draining his grandfather for all that he is worth to keep the rebellion going until they off him entirely.

almost as soon as it'd been uttered, cora is seen waving con's comment off, rejecting his implication altogether. quite unable to imagine a time nor a world in which she'd ever feel comfortable conversing with those whose spilt blood she could feel dripping from her fingertips. it's a silent sort of anguish, one undoubtedly born of the "bubble wrap" she'd been smothered in since birth. bred to feel superior, it's a deeply unnatural occurrence for a snow to want to be anyone else and yet... the two grandchildren strolling away from the party, arm in arm, appear to be a testament to the opposite being true.

❛ please don't be like that... they're as close as. ❜ of course, she kept up with gossip. it was exceedingly hard not to in the capitol. she understood the reality of the situation, or rather, what was simmering just below the surface of district twelve's entourage this year as well as anyone else with vested interest did. only cora didn't think of it as any different to the way she looked at him as far more of an elder brother than a cousin. a better fit for the role than either of her two brothers had ever been. she imagines that family means more than blood in twelve. in any of the districts really. a concept seemingly lost upon the capitol and their family entirely. it made the apparent meddling in the quell and selection of its participants that much sadder in cora's eyes. it was a punishment and a not so subtle one at that. she wonders if there'd been any discussion as to whether it should be the everdeen matriarch's name being plucked from the bowls at the reaping. no... they'd surely fall back in laughter at the idea, dismissing it for being too obvious a move. only to go ahead and pick the "aunt" instead. grimacing, lips pulled into a pout, the granddaughter wishes for an opportunity to turn her mind off from it entirely but as con's words remind her, praise is expected. ❛ not having all the gory details hasn't stopped me before... i'm awfully good at stroking egos, you know. i'll just tell plutarch... his design for the arena is nothing short of magnificent. ❜ she teases cooly.

awe is arising in her warm, brown eyes as cora plays witness to the little exchange between the two men, quietly marvelling at her cousin's nerve and not for the first time either. the peacekeeper likely laugh in her face if she were the one to try that. ever the good, abiding girl in the eyes of the capitol's vast and loyal public. then again... maybe not. citing untoward repercussions that tend to follow those who crossed her ( irregardless of her input ) though it's far from a fact cora takes any sort of pride in. let alone one she'd actively thought to take advantage of. in reaching the balcony, the conversation taints an emerging smile with melancholy, ❛ the roses certainly aren't as effective as they used to be. ❜ ... had they ever been? or was she simply too foolish a girl to comprehend the way death clung to the halls of their grandfather's mansion until it was too late? until the truth had to be spelled out to her? a hand shoots out in subsequence, beckoning to be given the packet of cigarettes. an action they'd surely come to regret if she were to happen upon either parent again tonight but cora's desire for distraction exceeds any reluctance. ❛ did he say anything? on the way here? ❜