//Happy Halloween! Here is a treat, another mini fic about my favourite rare pair Coriolanus and Festus.
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The apartment was quiet, a rare quiet that felt almost fragile. Outside, the Capitol throbbed with its usual chaos, but inside, Festus and Coriolanus existed in a bubble of shadows and soft lamplight. Papers scattered across the floor, pens and inkpots forming a constellation of their plotting, yet Coriolanus had paused, glass in hand, just to watch Festus lean over a spread of schematics, his curled red hair falling into his eyes. His focus was magnetic, and Coriolanus felt, briefly, a tug of something unguarded—something softer than strategy, softer than ambition.
Festus looked up and caught his gaze, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, but it was softer than usual, less defiant. “We’re really doing this,” he murmured, almost to himself, almost a whisper of awe. Coriolanus didn’t answer at first, only slid across the floor to sit beside him, fingers brushing over Festus’ as they both leaned in over the pages. It wasn’t about plotting in that moment, not really—it was about proximity, about the silent promise that whatever the Capitol threw at them, they were in it together. Their hands lingered, eyes meeting in a quiet pact more binding than any spoken word.
Even amid the scramble for power, the lies and betrayals they would unleash, this small, soft devotion endured. Festus allowed himself a rare laugh, quiet, unguarded, and Coriolanus allowed himself the rarest indulgence of all: a genuine smile. They were conspirators, hunters of influence and domination, yet in this stolen moment, their loyalty wasn’t just to ambition—it was to each other. The rest of the Capitol could wait; for now, they had this, and in the unforgiving glow of lamplight, that was enough.
Coriolanus’ mind, as ever, drifted ahead, calculating, scheming, seeing the Capitol from the top. The Presidency was within reach, and Festus would be his edge, the quiet force behind the throne. With the Creed family now controlling the media, every rumour, every scandal, every carefully placed story could bend public perception to their favour. Festus leaned back, brushing his thumb across Coriolanus' hand, and murmured, “We’ll make them believe whatever we want them to.” Coriolanus' smile was sharp, cold, and satisfied; in that shared glance, ambition and affection intertwined seamlessly. Together, they would rise, and the Capitol would bend—not just to Coriolanus, but to the dangerous chaos of both of them.
