Demi Lovato Imagines

Meds

"Are you fucking kidding me?!"

Your eyes bounce between the floor and Demi's face. You feel the sting on your wrist where her nail scraped across it. Crouching, you put your hands out to try and grab the tablets. 

"No. Stop." Demi hisses, grabbing you again by the upper arm and yanking you upwards. You let out a small yelp at the ferociousness of her grip. 

"Demi, please-"

"Please? Please what? Please forgive me for pill-popping right under my nose? In my parents' house?!"

You manage to wrench yourself free, dropping to the floor and frantically collecting the tablets into your palm. As soon as you've counted five, Demi's foot flashes across your vision as she kicks your hand, sending them sprawling once again. 

"Demi!" you exclaim, shedding tears of frustration. Your head pounds and it feels like there's a needle piercing into each temple. Immediately she kneels down beside you, pulling the top of your body into hers and pinning your arms to your sides. Her fingers scrape through your hair and she rocks back and forth. 

"Just relax, okay? Shh, just relax."

This just angers you more and you strain to push out of her hold. 

"Y/n! Come on now. Just stop."

It's like every orifice fills with a thickness and your nose begins to run, mixing with your tears. You feel like you're choking. 

"That's it. That's it," she soothes, smoothing your hair out your face. You can hear her heartbeat, ear pressed right against her chest. It seems to drum even faster than yours. Her thumb strokes over your cheek. 

"We can get through this," she says. "I know it's hard. I know. But we will. And I will help you."

You tighten your core, twisting your body against her again. 

"Calm down, Y/n. I've got you. You don't need to hide this from me anymore."

"Demi..." you gasp, chest aching. 

She leans back slightly, still holding you with a firm grip, and looks right in your eyes. It's a look you've never seen before, at least not from her. A combination of fear and anger. And maybe a dash of disappointment. It makes you want to retreat away. Or to find a damp cloth and rub at the expression until it fades, leaving you with the girlfriend you remember. The one who links your pinkies together when walking down the street. The one who leaves you tiny notes on the fridge when she's left early for work. The one who you overheard defending you to her mom who seems to have had a problem with you ever since the two of you were introduced at that first dinner together. 

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asks, voice thready. You lift your hands up, placing them on top of hers that are pressing down on your shoulders. 

"Demi," you begin, swallowing hard. You're sure it's just paranoia but it's like you can feel the ache creeping closer, getting stronger. "Those are my meds."

You point at the floor, indicating the general vicinity where she had flung all the tablets. Her face knots in the centre. 

"Meds?"

"My medication."

There's a beat. 

"For my arthritis."

"You never told me about that," she mumbles, almost questioningly.