For prompts, (any ship), one of them being really sick and like throwing up and stuff and the other taking care of them? I'm such a sucker for that trope (both the one character feeling absolutely shit and the caretaking side)
Or alternatively , angsttttt of "that's not you" because of whatever mental health problem you please (that sounds wrong so I'd just like to clarify I mean that obviously not everyone in the ships has depression but there could be other things they struggle with, you know?)
It's the return of British!lark
Peeta and Katniss are best friends with a lot of unsaid feelings
I know you probably wanted something a bit angstier than this, but I'm sorry I'm just not in that kind of mood, anon!
I groan, lying on the sofa with an untouched cup of tea that, for once, tastes entirely too sweet. Is it just me or is the pounding in my head getting worse? I switch off the tv. The mumblings of Saturday Morning kitchen proving too aggressive for my headache.
I stare into space, regretting all my choices that led me to this place this morning when my phone buzzes with a text from my best friend.
Peeta: How do you feel this morning?
Katniss: Like death.
Peeta: Good job I’m outside with a bottle of Lucozade then 😎
Peeta: Let me in
Katniss: key in plant pot
Katniss: can’t move 😭
I hear a burst of laughter outside, then the soft turn of the lock as Peeta lets himself in.
“For you, madame,” he bows, handing me the bottle.
I grab it from him and take a gulp. The orange bubbles instantly starting to revitalise me.
“I also have a sausage roll, got it fresh off the tray from dad”
Peeta’s dad does make the best sausage rolls, but the thought of food right now makes my stomach churn. “Later,” I say.
Peeta pops the sausage roll on the coffee table within arms reach of me. “Any of the others in?” He asks, glancing round for my house mates.
“All still in bed, none of them were up at 6am vomiting,” I lament.
“Oh Katniss,” he teases, settling himself in at the end of the sofa he pulls my feet into his lap and begins rubbing gently, “this is why we don’t join Uncle Haymitch for a drink when we run into him at the pub.”
I grunt in response, taking another sip of Lucozade.
We sit in comfortable silence for a couple of minutes, Peeta continues to rub my feet and I continue to sip my drink. Suddenly, Peeta’s soothing movement stops and he looks at me. “Hey, Katniss?”
“Hm?”
“How much do you remember about last night?”
Fragments of drinks, and loud conversations flash through my mind, but nothing really sticks out. “Not much,” I say, “why?”
“No reason.” Peeta doesn’t meet my gaze now, but goes back to rubbing my feet.
“Oh god,” I groan loudly.
Peeta’s eyes snap to meet mine, “yeah, I didn’t kn-“
“Peeta,” I begin slowly. He looks at me, blue eyes soft and waiting. “Was I sick in the Wetherspoons toilet?”
He draws back, then smirks at me, “you should wear that with a badge of honour,” he wags his finger at me.
“That’s so embarrassing,” I mutter.
“It’s fine, we’ve all been there,” he reassures me. “Do you really remember nothing else?”
I shake my head. “Why, what did I do?”
Peeta sighs and leans back into the sofa, “nothing, Katniss.”