Hi everyone! This is my first ever fanfiction - just a bit of drabble, really. Any feedback is greatly appreciated! Hope you like it - Beetroots&Oranges xoxo
He was crouched in the corner of the room when she walked in, head in his hands, sweat pouring off him. When she called his name, he didn't answer, didn't move, except for the spasm of shivers that raked through his body. She sat down beside him. That's when he looked at her. He looked at her, but she could tell he didn't see her; his eyes were glazed over, as if he was in a dream. Her heart broke a little further.
Screaming greeted her this time. She hurried to open the door, rushing in, to find him standing in the middle of the room, hands in his hair, tears pouring down his face. As she watched, he collapsed to the ground, as if someone had released a valve and all the energy suddenly left him. She ran over, going to help him up, when she met his eyes. Fear. He was afraid. And she couldn't do anything about it. Another part of her heart broke.
This time when she entered, he was laying on the bed asleep. He looked so peaceful, she could almost forget everything that's happened. Almost. She sat on the chair beside the bed and took one of his hands in her own. It was almost twice the size of hers, yet it held the same sort of frailty that now possessed the rest of him. She let go of his hand, and he whimpered. She kissed his head, being careful not to wake him, and walked out.
The first thing she noticed when she walked in this time was the noise. Normally, it was dead silent, or the occasional scream, but now she could hear… humming? Looking around the small room, she noticed him sitting on the bench by the window, staring out at the gardens below, and he was humming a tune she didn't recognise. She couldn't stop the smile from spreading across her face. This was progress! He was getting better!
He was asleep again, tossing and turning and muttering unintelligible words. She took some time to look at the paintings hung around the room. She'd sat for hours, watching as he'd painted them, thrilled that he was slowly remembering. They were quite remarkable, really. Made up of heavy brushstrokes and thick paint, they alternated between happy scenery with beautiful sunsets, and tortured people with eyes reflecting the hundreds unseen terrors they'd endured.
The next time she came, she didn't know what to expect; she hadn't visited in a while. The nurses had told her he was steadily improving, but she didn't want to get her hopes up. She opened the door, and immediately stopped dead in her tracks. He was sitting on the window bench, book in hand, reading. At the sound of the door opening, he lifted his head, and she almost cried out – his eyes, dull and glassy since the rescue, were bright and full of life. He grinned at her.
"Hey, Katniss."