you love with more hands than a parade of beggars (& here you stand), a Hunger Games + Glee Crossover fanfic

["Blonde asshole Quinn is sitting in the Writing lab again. She suddenly reminds you of Prim's cat, the way she's curled up and but today she's trying to read something very studiously, scribbling down notes in the book every now and then, pushing her glasses up her nose before scrunching it. You don't get a whole lot of bioethics done that night." katniss meets quinn at yale, present-day au drabble.]

you love with more hands than a parade of beggars (& here you stand)

heart like a four-poster bed. heart like canvas. heart leaking something so strong they can smell it in the street.
—frida kahlo

…

THINGS I GIVE A FUCK ABOUT:

Prim

Vet School

It's been tacked to the wall of your dorm room for four and a half years now, and it really hasn't changed.

You change into skinny jeans and some band tshirt you'd stolen at some point from a one night stand, and you throw on the TOMS Gale had gotten you for your birthday last year, and you sling your backpack over your shoulder, and you head off to your second job before class.

It's a good job, tutoring, you think. You work for the Math/Science team and your main subjects are biology and chemistry, obviously, but you help out with calc and linear and physics, too, because you like math as well as the next person. Probably better than the next person.

Your drop-in lab is right across from the Writing/Language drop-in lab, in the library, and at least your hours here don't consist of you arriving at the cafe to start coffee for pretentious assholes at 5:30 am, but you still scowl over at the pretty blonde girl curled up in a chair at the back of the lab.

Her nametag says Quinn, and then it says Writing and French, which makes you figure that on principle she's a pretentious asshole because who the hell does anything with writing and French to help anyone in the real world, and probably Quinn doesn't have family back home that she pays to send to private school, and—

A confused looking student, Lucas, a freshman, you find out, comes into the lab for help on entry Bio, and something about protein structures helps you stop obsessing over the girl in leggings and penny loafers and a tanktop and a scarf and glasses, dozing off in the back of the lab, and why you even care at all.

The next day you're exhausted, which is nothing new. You'd had a morning shift at the cafe, and then two biochem classes, and you work this evening from 4-6, which, all things considered, isn't the worst shift, and not too many kids come so it gives you time to get some work done.

Blonde asshole Quinn is sitting in the Writing lab again. She suddenly reminds you of Prim's cat, the way she's curled up and but today she's trying to read something very studiously, scribbling down notes in the book every now and then, pushing her glasses up her nose before scrunching it.

You don't get a whole lot of bioethics done that night.

Gale stiffens when you go on a rant about Quinn.

"What?" you say.

He takes a long drag of his beer. "I don't know."

You're in your dorm on a Friday night, because parties piss you off but you like getting drunk every now and then. "Gale, don't do brooding shit."

He almost looks in pain when he says, "It sounds like you kind of, well, like her."

It makes your blood boil, because it whacks you in the face that he's right. "Fuck me," you tell him.

He hesitates for a second before he nods.

You don't do emotions.

You don't care.

You kind of smack into her on Monday morning in the break room heading to your shift, spilling your coffee more on the floor than either of you.

"I'm sorry," she says quickly, and, well, her voice sort of short-circuits your brain. She's as tall as you are, and probably a little thinner, it turns out, and her hair is messy today, and she has eyes that are like the leaves back home, and—

"Uh, I'm Quinn," she says, holding up her name tag and then her hand.

"Katniss," you say, and shake it, and damn it, her palm is soft and you don't care, you don't care.

She smiles. "It's good to meet you, Katniss. I owe you a coffee, by the way," she says before shuffling past you and out the door.

Tuesday evening you suck it up—because you don't like her, but you really can't get any work done when you just keep watching her, and plus it's creepy—and go over to the Writing lab after your shift is over, sit down heavily across from her.

She looks up from behind the screen of her, predictably, brand new MacBook Pro. She smiles when she sees it's you. "Hello again, Katniss."

"Hey," you manage, and you hate Gale on so many levels right now it's absurd.

"Do you need help on a paper or something?"

"Nah," you say, waving your hand. "My shift just finished and, well, even though you look like a pretentious asshole—"

Quinn raises a perfect eyebrow.

"—you don't seem so bad, I guess, and, I don't really—"

She smirks. "Firstly, I'm strangely not even offended, and secondly, I'm done with my shift in thirty minutes so do you want to go to dinner?"

It might be a date, but you have absolutely no idea because Quinn ostensibly looks straight, but basically most people at Yale are, well.

"You can't pay for me," you say.

"I definitely wasn't even offering," Quinn says, and it takes you a few seconds to start laughing, but once you do, it's one of the nicest things in the world.

"Biochem, huh?

You nod, digging into your burger.

Quinn meticulously takes a small bite of some vegetable sandwich thing. "I really liked genetics," she says.

This is surprising. "You did bio?"

She shrugs. "I took it as an elective. I mean, I'm majoring in English and Philosophy, and I have a couple of minors, so I wanted to, you know." You don't really know, because school is a pain in the ass for you. "Anyway, it wasn't that hard, kinda fun. Like, puzzles. And for poems it's just—"

"Bitch."

A smile erupts on her face. "I know." She takes another tiny bite.

"You're one of those, aren't you?"

She nods with a frown. "I have an eidetic memory, but if it makes you feel better, I'm terrible at any math past Calc II."

It gets a big laugh out of you, and you're so, so fucked.

The next time you see her, she comes in to the cafe on Saturday with another girl. She's just as beautiful as Quinn, with black hair and a sharp face, brilliant teeth. She and Quinn aren't holding hands, but when they navigate their way to a table, the other girl puts her hand at the small of Quinn's back.

You try not to be embarrassed about your long brown hair in its haphazard braid, you three pairs of shoes in your closet, the jeans you've worn everyday that week, your dad's old bike from 1987 locked up outside.

Quinn and that other girl and their Dooney and Burke purses and Tory Birch boots and perfect hair—

It shouldn't bother you.

It does.

Gale doesn't stay the night, and you care about the fact that you think you're probably breaking his heart because you can't deal with your shit, like, ever, but at the same time, you're glad you wake up alone.

You sit down across from her on Tuesday night again. "Are you queer?" you ask.

"Tactful," she says, shutting what you see is The Merchant of Venice. "But yes, I'm gay."

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

Your hands are shaking, mortifyingly, and you fist them in your lap.

"Because I saw you and that other girl at the cafe on Saturday and—"

"Santana? Black hair, bitchy smile?"

You nod.

"God, no," she says. Then she laughs. "Jesus. Santana is my best friend and, to be fair, we did hook up freshman year, but, god." Her entire face turns a pretty shade of pink, and it's—cute—and then she says, "Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering," you say.

"Hey Katniss," she says. "Are you queer?"

You stare her down and she doesn't look away.

"Tonight when we go out to dinner it's a date," she says after a while.

"Cool," you say.

She rolls her eyes and laughs at you, and you find yourself smiling.

Fuck.

Quinn is from somewhere called Lima, Ohio. In addition to having a stupidly smart brain, she plays guitar, likes (she phrases it as despises, but you understand) yoga and running, and if there's one thing in the world she wishes she could do more, it's dance.

When you say that you're from Seeley, California, she doesn't skip a beat and says, "My older sister went to school in the Bay Area, so—where is Seeley?"

You laugh and you explain that it's closest to San Diego, and then you ask, "So, Berkeley or Stanford?"

"What?"

"Where you sister went to school, idiot."

She blushes. "Oh, Stanford. For undergrad. She got an MFA in painting at California College of Arts."

"God, everyone must hate you two."

She looks frozen for a second, and Quinn is one of the most genuine people you've met here in a long time, and then you're reaching out before you know it and taking her hand.

"I'm kidding, Quinn," you say softly.

She worries her bottom lip between her teeth for a few seconds and you feel a pang in your chest. That's new.

"Do you have any siblings?" she asks.

You smile. "Prim," you say, because if there's anything you can talk about with the prettiest girl you've ever seen holding your hand, it's your sister.

She kisses you outside the restaurant.

It's getting warmer outside, blooming honeysuckle, and she's a wonderful, wonderful kisser.

You go to her apartment on Friday night, because she's offered to cook you dinner and you're fucked already so you figure you may as well enjoy it.

And god help you, she's wearing an apron over her leggings and Yale t-shirt when she answers the door.

She shows you around her apartment—it's small, one bedroom, but it has granite countertops and hardwood floors and pretty furniture that reminds you, instantly, of Quinn, and you see a few pictures of her and someone who could probably be Quinn's twin, whom you figure is Frannie, and then some of Quinn and Santana, and you catch one of a blonde little girl who looks to be about five, and who looks amazingly like Quinn.

"I made pesto and feta quinoa and a salad, if that's okay," she says, surprising you by handing you a wheat ale from a local brewery. She catches your face and says, "Despite the fact that my dad pays hefty child support, I do still like a good beer."

You're so fond of her in that moment that you snake an arm around her waist and kiss near her jaw, and she turns and kisses you on the lips.

"I like you," you blurt out. You don't think you've ever told anyone that before, and you really wish you hadn't told Quinn that.

But she grins and she says, "You have lips like wasabi." When you don't say anything she kisses you again and says, "It's from a poem. And I only recite poems to people I like back, so—"

"Yeah," you say, "can we have dinner now?"

She laughs and nods.

You make out seriously after dinner in front of Bridesmaids—Quinn's DVD collection is as pretentious as they come, so you think she spares you this time—and you both end up topless before Quinn sits up and says, "I'd really like to have sex now but I'm terrible at sex without feelings so—"

It feels like it takes you eight million years to get out, "I like you," again, but when you do, Quinn runs a hand through short, messy hair and smiles, and then she leans down and kisses you so achingly, so gently, you think you're so fucked, but you also think it's kind of worth it.

Three dates later, when you're in her bed in the middle of the night, she says, "The picture of the little girl? I have a daughter," she says. "I mean, I had a baby, Beth, when I was sixteen, and I gave her up for adoption."

She kind of digs her nails into your arm like you're going to bolt—which you suppose probably might've happened before—but you don't move. "She's beautiful," you say, and your voice comes out sleepy and low and rough.

Quinn starts crying. "I've talked to my therapist about when I should tell someone all of these things—" and you're not at all prepared for any of this, but—"I have a mood disorder, and I take medication to stay stable and it works really well, and that's part of why my brain is the way it is, and you probably can tell that I have issues with food, and I'm sorry I'm—but I really, really like you, Katniss, and I'll understand if you want to leave—"

"Hey," you say, and you really want her to stop crying. "I guess, just, you kind of scream fucked up sometimes, Quinn, so I'd have left already if I'd wanted to. Now I just have names for your WASPy issues."

She sniffles and laughs at the same time.

"I'm really, really poor," you say. "And really really bad at words and feelings, so—can we sleep now?"

"Yeah, baby," she says, and you hate yourself for it, but you turn so that you're the big spoon, and you lace your fingers with hers over her chest, and you kiss the back of her neck, and it's really, really beautiful.

"Gale," you say, "I know we've been, just—I'm seeing someone, okay?"

He looks resigned. "Was it, that I'm—"

"God no," you say. "Your penis is fine."

You're both serious for a moment before you both start to laugh.

"I can take that," he says.

She doesn't come to say hello to you on Monday morning at work, which makes you worried because she's generally pretty considerate.

And then you get a call from her phone, but it's someone that sounds like Quinn but not like Quinn saying, "Hi, I'm Frannie, Quinn's sister. Is this Katniss?"

"Yeah," you say, and a stab of panic runs through you. "Is Quinn—?"

"Well," Frannie says. "Quinn's in the hospital because she gets chronic lung infections and she got sick last night at like two, but she told me she didn't want to worry you because you have an exam or something this morning."

"Bioethics, yeah," you say quietly. "Is she, can I—"

Frannie says, "My husband and I drove from Boston last night so someone's here with her, but you're more than welcome to visit."

"Okay," you say shakily. "I'll, yeah, okay."

You don't know what you're supposed to do, and you're sort of a mess today because you'd gotten maybe two hours of sleep last night, so you're in a pair of (you think) Quinn's leggings and a Yale t-shirt, your hair in a messy bun on the top of your head. You also don't really know the etiquette for something like this—you're pretty sure she's your girlfriend, although you've not talked about it explicitly—like, are you supposed to take flowers or coffee, and you hadn't even asked what chronic lung infection meant in terms of treatment, and—

You call Prim.

"Hey, Katniss," she says, and she sounds happy.

"Little duck," you say.

"How'd your exam go?"

"I think it was fine," you say, and you clear your throat before you say, "So you know that girl I told you about?"

"Yeah, Quinn," Prim says, "you sent me a picture, idiot. She's gorgeous. What about her?"

"I—well, she—"

You hear an episode of Buffy pause in the background. "Do you love her?" Prim sing-songs. You're quiet for long enough that Prim just says, "Katniss," with a little happy gasp.

"Yeah," you say, "well, she's in the hospital, she's okay but—what do I bring when I visit her?"

Prim seems to ponder this for a few seconds with a little hum. "You know her favorite flower?"

"Sunflowers," you say, without hesitation, because Quinn always had them in her apartment.

"Good," Prim says. "I'd go with sunflowers, then, and—Katniss?"

"Yeah?"

"Take a shower or brush your hair or something, okay?"

"You're such an ass," you say, laughing.

"I really am shocked and happy for you, though. She must be pretty special if you, you know, tolerate her enough to be in love with her."

"I really, really hate you sometimes," you say.

Prim says, "I know," and then she says, "Tell her hi and get well soon from me, okay?"

"Sure thing, kiddo."

"And, maybe we can all Skype soon or something?"

She sounds so hopeful that you say, "Absolutely," without hesitation.

You do take a shower, and you go get a bouquet of sunflowers from Whole Foods before you go to Yale New Haven, and you find Quinn's room easily enough. You feel nervous enough you're going to puke, because you've noticed Quinn's scars—and there are a lot—but you're at least not enough of an idiot to ask about them.

When you push the door open gently, Frannie and a very, very handsome guy look up from where it looks like they're doing a crossword puzzle, and Quinn has an oxygen mask on over her mouth and nose, and an IV in her hand, but other than that she's just sleeping normally.

It's not really that scary, and you relax a little when Frannie smiles.

"Hey," you say, stick out your hand. "I'm Katniss."

She shakes your hand and says, "Well, you know I'm Frannie, and this is my husband, Robert."

"Nice to meet you," you say, "I mean, under not the best circumstances, of course, you know, but—"

Frannie looks at Robert and they laugh. "God, you're wonderful for her," he says.

"Uh, thanks?"

"Hey Quinn," Frannie says, loudly, and you turn to the bed where Quinn groggily wakes up, and it makes your heart literally seize, which, you're so far gone you just prefer not to think about it. "Your girlfriend is here."

Instead of protesting or freaking out, Quinn just smiles loopily and holds a hand out for you to take.

"And she brought sunflowers," Robert adds, "so we approve."

You take Quinn's hand with an eye roll, sit on the edge of the bed.

"Sorry I didn't call you, but, this sort of happens a lot and I didn't want you to fail," she says, and it's slowed and slurred and, well, adorable, so different from her usual exacting speech.

"It's okay, I'm used to you being an idiot."

She laughs and then grimaces into a terrifying fit of coughing. You help her sit up and look over at Frannie and Robert, and they don't look all that worried. "It'll pass," Frannie says.

Quinn lies down exhaustedly after, catching her breath.

"I guess I don't need to ask how you feel," you deadpan.

"Don't make me laugh," Quinn says, then sighs. "I got run over by a truck when I was seventeen."

You feel incredibly shaken by this news, and maybe it's the hospital and everything.

"I almost died," she tells you honestly.

"I'm really glad you didn't," you say.

You spend the whole day with her, and you don't do your homework, and you actually really love her sister and brother-in-law, and when you bring her breakfast the next day at her apartment after she gets discharged, you say, "Frannie called me your girlfriend."

She rolls her eyes and blows on her latte. "What do you think I call you? It's not like—Katniss, I'm not even thinking about seeing anyone else."

"Okay," you say. "Prim told me, I, well. Me either," you say.

She smiles, and then she says, "That wasn't that painful, was it?"

She gets into all of the schools and programs she applied to. You get into most of yours.

"I think I'm going to go to Princeton," she tells you, and you got in there, and you call Prim in a panic.

She laughs and says, "Just go, Katniss."

"I really didn't mean to fall in love with you," you tell her one night when you're watching Buffy over Skype with Prim.

Prim pauses her episode first, and Quinn just sort of sits there, and then Prim starts clapping, and your heart drops out from your body, and then Quinn just smiles.

"I'm in love with you too, despite your reluctance," she says.

You kiss her, and then you keep kissing her, and Prim says, "Okay, well I'm going to go now because I really don't want to have to go to therapy for this," and you flip her off and laugh into Quinn's mouth.

"I love you," she says again. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

THINGS I GIVE A FUCK ABOUT

Prim

Quinn

Vet school