Coriolanus Snow x Reader Enemies-to-Lovers AU

Snow's Supposed to be Cold

"I've been having nightmares about that, too," he says after staring at me for a few moments. Seeing how genuine he looks, I feel even worse about lying to him. But it wasn't a complete lie. I have been having nightmares about the bombing. There's just more to it than that.
     "I—...I'm sorry," I say to him. Then I give a big sigh. I'm acting so weird, and I'm sure he notices it. Right? He already has. But is he noticing it all? I hope not.
     I look around the room in a desperate search for something to change the subject to, and my eyes land on a big basket filled with food on a table near his IV. "The Academy send that to you?" I gesture to it with my head.
    "Yes. Sejanus's Ma brought some, too." He nods to the box beside it, even bigger than the basket. It must be full of food. I realize now how hungry I am. I haven't been eating properly...not since that day. I can't stop my stomach from growling.
     Coriolanus raises an eyebrow at me in question and seems to be contemplating something. Then, he finally asks "would you like some food? I have plenty." Even if he hadn't hesitated, I'd have known he was lying. I know more than he thinks I do—including that his family isn't rich. I know he does not have plenty. He covers it up so well, but I'm not fooled, because I've been in his shoes before, for most of my life. Of course, he doesn't know that, either. But regardless of the two enormous containers of food before me, I know that "plenty" is not the word to describe the Snow's pantry. I know that what he has here could feed himself and his family for a couple weeks, tops, but after that he'd be back to cabbage soup and beans. When he had food at all. So, it makes me wonder, why is he offering me some? Or, is he offering at all? He didn't say so exactly. But it did sound like it. So, why? To be kind? There's no way. Snow isn't *kind.* Especially not to me. To uphold his image? Yes, that must be it. He's manipulating me, just like he does everyone, just like he always has. Well, I won't fall for it.
     "No, thanks." It pains me to say this, but as much as I want the food—need it—I can't accept it from him. I won't let him manipulate me. And he doesn't have much—I may hate him, but I'm not a horrible person.
     He looks genuinely concerned. Huh, guess his acting skills improved in the hospital. "When was the last time you ate anything?" He queries after another loud grumble from my stomach. Why did I have to change the subject to food of all things?
     I look up in silence for a few moments, whispering to myself and counting on my fingers, calculating. "Uhm...two and a half days ago? Something like that." This in itself is weird. Usually my memory is perfect. Well, except for my immediate memory—I often forget things rather quickly. By for this amount of time? I should be able to remember. And I know he knows this. I'm the memory person in our class, it's part of what makes me such a big opponent to him academically. There was this one time I recited the whole periodic table in science class, and another time I schooled our history teacher. This isn't gonna slip by him.
     "What's the matter with you? You're not talking ninety-to-nothing, you're not taking your chance to viciously excel higher than me in school, and you're not remembering every minuscule detail?" He says "remembering" like it was the last straw.
     I sigh aggressively. "Listen, I don't *know.* What's *your* problem?" I snap. Then I feel guilty. "Sorry." I'm still frowning and avoiding eye contact when I say this, but I do genuinely mean it.
     "You need to eat," he says, ignoring my rudeness as he begins to dig through his basket for something.
     "No. I don't want—"
     "Take it," he commands, jutting a sandwich towards me. I glare at him in a silent battle until I relent and take the food.
     "Fine." I glare at the sandwich, at the walls, at the floor, at his bed. I'm so angry for no good reason and that just makes me angrier, as does the fact that it's actually delicious and I devour it in a minute, tops. "Thank you."
     "You want more?"
     "No."
     "I don't believe you."
     "Well, I won't eat it, so just leave me alone!"
     He finally gives in and puts the basket back in its original spot, leaning back and examining me. "What?" I snap.
     "Why are you here?"
     "I told you, to bring you your wor—"
     "No. Why are you here? Right now. Still. If it was really just to give me my work, you wouldn't have merely dropped it off and left. So why are you here?"
     I sigh. He caught me. I knew he would. We both know each other better than either would like to admit. But I don't know why I'm here. Or, I do, but I just—I don't understand. It doesn't make sense! Why would I want to be around Snow? Why don't I want to LEAVE? My head is starting to hurt worse than it already was, so I squeeze my eyes shut and rub my temples. "I don't know!" I almost shout. "I'm sorry. I don't know why, but I don't want to leave, and I wanted to be here, and I wanted to save you, not just whoever I could, and I worried about you, and I didn't eat and I hardly slept and I'm all fucked and I don't know why!!" His jaw drops at my outburst and he just gapes at me like that for I don't know how long. "I'm sorry..." I mutter with a voice crack, looking down. Then I sigh and say it again, this time in a whisper. "I'm sorry."
     Many minutes pass before he finally responds, and I don't dare look at him. I'm too embarrassed of my feelings and too ashamed of the way I'm acting about them. I have to swallow back the lump in my throat. He could be sleeping for all I know—but he isn't, I know this when he finally breaks the painful silence.
     "You don't need to be sorry, [Y/N]." My eyes widen. We haven't called each other by our first names since we were little kids, and—suddenly I remember something.
     I remember little me in class, calling him "Snow" in an attempt to make  friendship. I thought it was funny; I'd see  people on television, usually rivals, call each other by their last names. I'd also heard the other children call him "Coryo" when they played together, and I wanted to have a nickname for him, too. If friends called each other special names, then maybe I could make friends with him by calling him one, too! But I couldn't use "Coryo." I'd seen him get mad at another boy for calling him that once; the boy hadn't been his friend. So I couldn't use that, only certain people could, and he never gave me permission. Besides, I wanted mine to be more special, and I thought the spelling was weird (like, his name's Coriolanus, not Coryolanus. Why not just spell it Corio?) So I decided on "Snow," like I'd seen the characters on the television do with their rivals. I thought it would be funny—I thought out whole "rivalry" was a joke. Turns out, he didn't think that way. He got mad at me when I called him that, and started calling me by my last name. But I didn't know he was mad, I thought we were just playing. It took me until middle school to realize, and I never told him the truth about it. And now he's calling me by my first name? Maybe...? No. Don't think like that, you'll just disappoint yourself. But...maybe, this is his way of extending friendship, like little me all those years ago?
     I look up at him. His face looks so pure and sincere. What's with him? Snow's supposed to be cold, I think, then I laugh internally. Ha, good one! But, seriously. Why's he being like this? First he gives me precious food, then he tells me I don't need to be sorry, then he calls me [Y/N], and NOW he's looking at me like THAT? It makes my chest feel funny in a way I don't want it to, and I briefly wonder if this is the start of a heart attack. No, dumbass, it'd be much worse, you know that! In my defense, I've never had a heart attack before.
     Not to mention he hasn't kicked me out yet. He could've very easily called for a nurse and told them to make this strange person leave the vicinity. But he didn't. What is going on?