'Course Not

A Peeniss Hunger Games one shot!(:

I own nothing, just the general plot of the oneshot.(:

It is an unrealistically freezing night here in the arena, no doubt at the hand of the game makers. Trying to push us all to a central point of warmth, I'm guessing. There hasn't been much blood lately, and the capitol is getting bored. And we can't have that, now can we? Certainly not!

Anyway, I'm kind of starting to regret Peeta and me choosing to rest in separate sleeping bags. Why did we do that anyway? To keep the audience interested? But aren't we supposed to be in love? Gahhh, I don't know. This is all just too confusing for me.

It is my turn to keep watch, and I repeatedly am finding myself more interested in watching Peeta than I am in watching the woods. I can't help it. He just looks so peaceful… Like he's back home… In the bakery, or something… Not like we're in the middle of a constant battle. Or that we're merely just dancing with death… He lightly smiles in his sleep. For some reason, I find myself silently wishing he's dreaming about me, and that's why he would be smiling… It's a stupid thought, I know. I mentally slap myself. Too many days in this damn arena are getting to me.

I faintly feel the cold night air begin to seep into my flimsy sleeping bag. The thought of crawling into Peeta's sleeping bag with him flits across my mind. I try to push the thought away, but it doesn't seem to be going away anytime soon.

Weeeeelllll… The cameras will all be focused on Cato and Clove, right? And on the off chance the brainwashed citizens of Panem ARE watching Peeta and I, it is far too dark to see anything. I think.

Well… It IS just for tonight. And it's this or hypothermia, ya know? And I do NOT want hypothermia. Nuh uh. I'm keeping my toes, thank you very much!

Besides, this is just to keep warm. JUST TO KEEP WARM. Right? Yes. That HAS to be why my stomach is doing flip flops. The newfound warmth. Regaining feeling in my toes. Of course. NOT being this close to the boy with the bread. Or the way he just wrapped his arm around my waist softly. Or the cute trace of a smile on his wounded face. 'Course not. It's just the warmth. I don't feel ANYTHING for him. Those aren't butterflies, it's just hunger. I'm not smiling; the muscles in my face are just relaxing. And I definitely do NOT feel anything for Peeta Mellark. 'Course not.