Coriolanus Snow x Reader Enemies-to-Lovers AU

Snow Lands on my Nerves

     I don't know how long I sit there, staring at his sleeping body. It feels like eternity, but also like an instant. I don't take my eyes off him or move once, so I don't even know if there's a clock in this room. With the shades closed, I can't rely on light to tell, either. Not that I'd pay attention to it, anyway. I'm all focused on Snow. Watching him, the way his hair lays lightly across his face, how his chest moves with each breath. The way his eyes move back and forth beneath his lids, suggesting he's dreaming. I wonder what he's dreaming about. The Academy? The bombing, like I've been? I hope it's not a nightmare. Maybe he won't even remember it when he wakes up. I find myself wondering if he remembers his dreams, or if he's that kind of person who forgets them all. Then I mentally chastise myself, what does it matter? He's just a stupid boy.
     More time passes as I stay planted in my spot. The hospital seat was cold when I first sat down, but it's warm now, I notice. So, I've been here long enough for it to do that. Probably longer. I don't know. Then, as I'm trying to calculate the time, I hear a groan. My head snaps to the source immediately, anxious for what's to come. I look at his face, his sharp, yet gentle features, his eyes squeezing shut then blinking open in the harsh hospital light. My breath hitches in my throat. I don't dare move or say anything. What have I been thinking? This man hates me, he won't want me here, I'll only be disturbing his peace, I—
     "[your last name]?" I blink now, probably for the first time in a while, as I feel my eyes are dry, and focus on his face again, making eye contact. He's looking at me. We stare at each other like this for a bit until he breaks the silence. "What are you doing here?" He begins groggily sitting up, using his elbows for support, then rubs the sleep from his eyes.
Think. Say something good. And normal. "I brought you your work," I say. Fuck. At least, this way, maybe I can blame it on the Academy if things go south; say they made me bring it. He stares at me, jaw slightly open, for a few moments. Then he speaks:
     "I'm in the hospital."
     "...Yes," I reply.
     "I'm hurt."
      "...Yes."
      "And you brought me homework."
      "...Yes." I look down in defeat and shame this time. I actually feel bad now. What was I thinking, bringing him his work in the hospital? Just because I'm sad that I have no one to compete with in class anymore doesn't mean I can try to make him work in the hospital like this. But I can't admit to this, can't admit to weakness. Can't admit to anything that might show the things I've been feeling recently... "You need to do your work, if you don't, you'll fall behind," I reason, straightening my posture in an attempt to look like my usual confident, scholarly self.
     Snow looks at an IV pump to the left of him, opposite the bed from me. "I can hardly think about anything much, they're pumping me full of drugs." I let out a soft oh. "Well...at least you won't have to collect it when you come back." He'll still have to, unless I bring the rest. But I try not to think about that. I try not to think about the fact that I'm embarrassed, willing it not to show on my face.
     "Well, thank you, I suppose. It's the thought that counts." I can tell he doesn't mean it. He's a manipulator. I've seen it. He manipulates how others view him, carefully crafting a perfect image for the public, for his classmates, for his teachers, for the ones he calls friends. I know his mask because it's crafted the same way as the one I see in the mirror everyday.
     "You're welcome." We sit in an awkward silence for a while, and I can tell he's waiting for me to leave. But I can't. I don't want to. Or, of course I want to. Why would I want to stay here with him? I just have to. For some reason. For my image, probably. Yes, for my image. I'd look rude walking out as soon as he woke up.
     "You saved me," he finally says after a few minutes more of silence. He says it quietly, but with feeling, like it matters to him but he's scared to say it out loud, scared it isn't real. Like it's fragile.
     I look up im surprise, then mutter "yeah, I did," looking down again. This makes me nervous, I suppose because we're supposed to hate each other. I even feel my face go a little warm, which horrified me and embarrasses me more, probably making it worse, so I just keep looking away and hoping he doesn't notice. Hoping that my hair falls in my face to cover it. Hoping the way im turned will conceal it. What is wrong with me?
"Why did you do it?" This question, I was kind of expecting, but it still somehow takes me by surprise. Er, less takes me by surprise, more makes me panic inside. I pause for a few moments, contemplating. There's been a lot of pausing between us. It's getting awkward. This thought motivates me enough to finally give an answer.
"Because I couldn't just let you die," I say, "you're a living being." Well, fuck. That didn't sound right at all. Or maybe it did. That's the only reason I did it, right? Because he's another living thing, why would I let him die? Or perhaps because I was panicking, running on full adrenaline, and would've saved anyone if they were there? I know inside this I wrong. He wasn't the first person I saw. He was the first person I looked for. But he doesn't need to know that. He can't. It would make things weird. Weirder than they already are. It's already messing with our whole dynamic. How are you supposed to hate someone who saved your life?
     "I appreciate it," he says. But does he really? I can't help but wonder. Why is it now that I can't tell what he's thinking? I try to stifle a sigh. I'm so frustrated. Why do I feel about him this way? How do I feel about him? I don't know, but I don't like it and it makes me slightly pissed at him. But I don't say anything. And even if it shows on my face, it doesn't matter. It's just normal for us anyway.
"How far behind you have I fallen in class?" He asks me. Ah, yes, our academic rivalry. Ever since we met in preschool, we've competed to be the smartest in the class. The one with the best grades. We're always pushing back and forth, each of us alternating between first and second, striving to win. We never can seem to keep that first place for very long. The other always gets the upper hand for a bit. And now I have a massive opening to get a huge upper hand, possibly so much that I can keep that first place smartest spot long enough to have it at graduation. But I haven't been using this opening. In fact, I've outright disregarded it, not even really thought of it 'til now.
But I can't tell him that. How could I? "...not too far," I finally respond. He raises an eyebrow at me in question. I don't know what to say, and while I fumble for my words, he just looks at me. It makes me uncomfortable, making it even harder to form a coherent and believable lie. I settle on "uhh..." How eloquent.
"Not your usual wordy self, I see." This just ticks me off, as well as makes me more anxious.
"I—uh—I don't know! Shut up!" I glare and look away, crossing my arms. "I just haven't excelled too highly because that wouldn't be fair," I mutter with hope that he'll buy it.
"I don't think I believe that," he replies. Fuck. Of course he doesn't. Normal me would jump at the opportunity to get ahead. But this...this time it's different. I don't know. So I blame it on the only thing I can: the bombing. I will myself to sound convincing. "I keep having nightmares about the bombing. It's messing with my sleep schedule and making it difficult for me to work. So, good for you, I guess." I look away again, trying to mask the guilt in my eyes with irritation. It's still a lie. It's a lie of omission. I'm sorry, I say mentally. Why am I such a bitch?