Chapter Text
I stare at Peeta. Caked in mud, he’d been almost invisible only a few seconds ago. Now he blinks up at me slowly.
I help him up. Lean him against a boulder. I decide to work on his upper body first. I'm too scared to look at his leg. I take off his jacket, revealing a shirt soaked in mud and blood.
“Here, I’ll help you with the shirt,” I offer.
Peeta flinches, but lets me peel it off him. Then I peel off his undershirt as well. Once it’s off, I’m surprised to see he’s still wearing something. It’s a cropped tank top that ends a few inches above his belly button. The material is thick, much thicker than his shirt. I stare at it for a few seconds, very confused. What is that?
But it doesn’t matter. I need to take it off. I go to do so.
“No!” Peeta yells.
I retract my hands. “Okay…”
“Sorry.” Peeta blushes. He squirms uncomfortably. “I just … I can’t…” He looks around. At first I think he’s just avoiding eye contact, but then I realize he’s looking for something.
But what?
Then I get it. He’s looking for cameras.
But that’s … silly. He has to know they’re always watching. Sure, they rarely show the tributes peeing, but apart from that, there’s really no privacy here.
“Peeta, it’s okay,” I try to reassure him. “I get that it’s a little embarrassing,” I say, even though I don’t quite. Why would he have any problem showing his upper body? But he’s probably just dreading having to take off his underpants, which I do understand. I don’t want the whole country to see me naked either. “But they probably won’t show, you know…” I gesture to his crotch, my face burning up.
“No, it’s not that…” Peeta leans closer to me. So close his mouth is touching my ear. He puts his hand over his mouth to cover it for good measure. “I … I can’t show my chest either. Like … like you can’t.”
I pull away, incredibly confused. What the hell is he talking about? Like I can’t? Of course he can, he’s a …
And then it hits me. All at once.
Being told that Peeta was the baker’s son when we were in kindergarten, and being confused because the baker had a little daughter, didn’t he? But here Peeta was, and he was not a girl, so I must have misremembered.
Peeta throwing me burnt bread when we were eleven. Hearing his mom say that he wouldn’t have burnt them if he’d been ‘a real boy.’
The panic on Peeta’s face when he was reaped, looking more scared than I’d ever seen anyone when they got called — which was saying a lot. He looked like he thought he was going to get killed on the spot.
Peeta looking sick when we were done being styled. Like he’d gone through something much worse than a bath and removal of some body hair.
Memories flash across my eyes. I’m almost annoyed at myself for not noticing it earlier. But that was probably what Peeta wanted, wasn’t it? He probably wouldn't have ever told me if he hadn’t been forced to now.
“But…” I touch my mouth to Peeta’s ear, covering it with my hand as well. I’m not sure if the audience can hear us. I really hope they can’t. I hope they’re watching the two of us from far away, taking in the romance of the moment.
Because this is dangerous. Really, really dangerous. In Twelve it was fine, but here? In the Capitol? I don’t think they kill people for it — though I’m honestly not sure — but it can’t be pleasant to be open about it. Because, as far as I know, no one ever is.
“What?” Peeta whispers.
“They … know, don’t they?”
I had to strip naked during styling. Peeta must’ve done the same. The gamemakers have to know. But …
The audience doesn’t.
Just like the audience doesn’t know I don’t have feelings for Peeta.
I pull away before Peeta can answer.
“It’s lucky they gave you that back brace after your fall in the training center,” I say. It’s not the most convincing lie, but it’ll work. At least I hope it will. “If you think it’s gonna be too painful, I won’t take it off.”
Peeta visibly relaxes. “Thank you.”
I start working on his upper body, applying leaves to his stings and ointment to his burns. There are some small wounds under his cropped tank top that I can’t reach, but they don’t seem very serious, so it’s fine. The top has actually protected his upper body pretty well. I’m surprised they let him wear it in the arena.
They probably didn’t want the whole country figuring out Peeta’s secret. It would look so bad. The sweet boy from Twelve who was born as a little girl. And the Capitol let him live the way he wanted for over a decade without doing anything? It would make them look weak, I figure. Not in control. So they had to cover it up.
I’m glad. Because surely they would’ve had to kill Peeta if it was revealed. Or at least make his life a living hell. I pause, then almost laugh, because they’ve done that already, haven’t they?
As I put ointment on a burn on his lower ribs, just where the cropped tank top ends, I realize that it can’t possibly be his. As in, this is far too expensive to be something he could’ve owned in Twelve, even if he is a baker’s son. So they must’ve given it to him in the Capitol. That’s good, really, because it can’t be good to wear something so tight for this long. I hope it’s some fancy Capitol material that is less hard on his ribs than it looks.
Once I’m done with his upper body, I start working on his legs. I take off his pants, trying to do it carefully, but he still yells out in pain. I almost throw up when I see his injury. I realize his underpants are soaked with dirt and blood, so he’s gonna have to take them off too. I pull away and put my backpack over his crotch — both to protect his secret and because I’d rather not see him (or anyone, really) naked. Then I stand up and take a few steps back.
“You can, uh, handle that yourself,” I say, blushing hard.
He throws me the underpants and I clean them. I lay them and his pants on a rock to dry. He keeps his hands firmly on the backpack while I do my best to fix his leg. My best is far from good enough. This injury is bad. Far beyond anything I could hope to heal. I’m not even sure my mother could heal him.
Once I’ve done everything I can, I help him put on his clothes again. Then I find a cave we can sleep in, and I help him into it. As I set up camp and make food, Peeta watches me. At first, I think he’s staring at me lovingly, and I try to pretend like I enjoy it. Then I actually look over at him, and I realize his gaze isn’t loving at all. He looks … scared.
I walk over to him, sitting down beside him.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Just …” He stops himself. His gaze flickers in the direction of the river.
I stare at him for a moment. Then I realize what he’s trying to say. What he can’t say. Not here.
I lean closer to him, gently pulling him into a hug. I put my lips on his ear.
“Don’t worry,” I whisper. “Please.”
Then I pull away. Based on the way his eyes relax, I managed to communicate what I wanted to.
“You should get some sleep,” I say.
“Okay,” Peeta says. He watches me for a little while longer, now finally with the loving gaze I had expected. I don’t love it, but it’s better than the scared one.
After a while, I hear him start to snore. I sit down beside him, finally allowing my mind to continue combing through memories to make sense of all this. I have so many questions. How early did he tell his family and the world that he was a boy? How was he allowed to be part of the pool of boys during the Reaping? Is that cropped tank top really safe to wear for so long, or am I fooling myself?
I have no clue. About any of it. It’s none of my business anyway. The most important thing right now is keeping us both alive.