Coriolanus Snow x Reader Enemies-to-Lovers AU

Snowy Mind

     My days aren't a blur. They aren't fast enough to be that. They aren't frozen, either.  They're Snowy. That's what I've taken to calling them. Instead of brain fog, I have brain Snow. Snow is on my mind and it feels like it's been numbed from the cold.
As soon as they finished fixing up my hands, I followed Snow to the hospital. I sat in the waiting room for hours, until finally a nurse came to me and informed me that they wouldn't be accepting visitors for three days. And so I went home.
     When I got home, I didn't even cry. The tears wouldn't come out, though they desperately needed to. My mom worried over my hands and my behavior. I could barely answer her. I went straight to bed, after taking a mindless shower. I could barely sleep. I woke up gasping for air from nightmares that night.
     The following days, I half-ass my work, if I do it at all. My teachers all look at me with concern, asking me gently "are you doing okay?" or "how are you feeling?" The biggest answer I give is "I'm fine." Most of them just get a grunt of acknowledgement so they'll know I'm not ignoring them and I'm still here. Sort of.
    My classmates and teachers give me that same mix of worried, shocked, and confused faces when I don't answer questions out loud in class. All I do is sit my chair down in front of Snow's desk and stare at it. I won't get my books out. I won't write down my notes in the colorful and fun highlighters I usually use, that I used to always call "the only thing at this school that make my brain not feel like a fried egg."
    I won't eat my lunch. Everyday, I slip it over to Festus, who took it enthusiastically the first time. The second time, he frowned and asked if I was sure, but ate it gladly when I said I was. Today, the third day since the bombing, he looks concerned. "Are you sure? Why do you keep giving me this, you need to eat."
     "I don't want it," I mutter with all the strength I can muster—which is essentially none—and continue stare forward blankly, my gaze stuck weakly on the wall behind him, eyes unfocused. "Please. If it doesn't get eaten, I'll just get a demerit for wasting Capitol food." He gives in and eats it, eyeing me worriedly as he does so.
     The bell rings and my feet carry me at a speed-walk to my next class. Still on autopilot, I go to the teacher's desk. "Can I have Snow's work?" It sounds more like a statement than a question. I don't have the energy for tone.
     The teacher raises his eyebrow questioningly. Of course, it's valid. Snow and I are infamous at school for our hatred of each other. "I'm giving it to him," I state, still not looking at the teachers face. I haven't looked anyone in the eyes since that day.
     He gives in, handing me his work. I do this for every class today; I've already gathered it from the classes before this. I stick it all in my backpack carefully, not quite sure what I'm doing.
The final bell rings, and I walk out the door immediately, walking past all my friends. I feel bad about it—I miss them a lot, and they didn't do anything wrong. But I can't help it. I can't do anything. At least, not much. And I can't talk to my friends. I feel a slight pained expression grow on my face and whisper "I'm sorry." But I know they can't hear me. I'm too far past them now.
I immediately begin walking to the hospital. It's been three days. They'll let me in now. They have to let me in now. My thoughts are racing, but I hardly feel like I'm thinking them. Snowy, I think, my thoughts are Snowy. Normally, I would cackle at this. The joke is hilarious, and it's true, which makes it even better. But I don't. I don't even react to it. I just keep walking.
I arrive at the hospital and realize I could've taken a car. Well, fuck, I think and go inside. I push open the glass doors with my side, not wanting hospital germs. At least the germaphobe part of myself is still here. Partially. I haven't showered in a while.
I walk across the hard floor to the lady at the front desk. "Snow. See him," I say. She stares at me for a moment before giving me his room number, writing it on a little slip of paper. I alternate between staring at the room numbers on the walls and the one on my little slip of stained paper.
I arrive at the door and check multiple times to see that it's the right room number, then peek through the little window on the door. He's in there. He appears to be sleeping. And so I walk in as carefully as possible, close the door gently behind me, and sit down in the chair to his left, facing him with my back to the wall. And I stare.