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It's late. The ceiling's just a gray blur in the half-light leaking under the door, and I'm wide awake for no good reason. I'm supposed to be asleep - everyone is - but I can't remember the last time I did what I was supposed to. Not here. There's just too many rules, too many people telling me where to go, when to eat, how to breathe. Every morning, they stamp a schedule on my arm and expect me to march through the day without complaining.
My schedule took ages to come off tonight, like they'd welded the ink straight into my skin. I had to take two showers; one to actually get clean, another dedicated to scrubbing at my arm until it stung. Maybe they're punishing me for skipping media training, or for asking about the woods too many times. Johanna's schedule, on the other hand? Gone in seconds. All she has to do is wipe at her arm with a damp rag, and the ink melts away immediately.
It shouldn't bother me so much, but it does. I do what they ask. Mostly. Or I try. But being ordered around every hour of the day is hard. I don't know how much longer I can pretend I'm fine with it. If they schedule me for another media class tomorrow, I'm barricading myself in a supply closet and taking a nap until lunch. If it's really that important for me to learn what my 'best angles' are while being filmed, then let them come and find me.
The recycled air, the concrete walls, the way I can't go anywhere but up or down, never out...I haven't been allowed to go outside in days, haven't seen the woods in a week. It gnaws at me. If they'd just let Gale and me out, let us hunt something, I'd be able to breathe again, be able to remember what it felt like to be alive again. Then maybe I'd show up for one of their classes.
Sometimes I think about sneaking out anyway. But no, that's just asking for more punishment. A tighter leash. More eyes tracking my every move.
The mattress creaks beneath me as I turn for the hundredth time, trying to find a more comfortable spot.
A sigh slices through the darkness. "Can you stop moving around? Some of us are trying to sleep."
I freeze. "Sorry."
Johanna groans. "You're like this every night. Toss, turn, sigh, repeat. Why hasn't your therapist fix you yet?"
I push myself up, just to glare at her through the gloom. Across the room, Johanna's sprawled out on her bed, somehow managing to look perfectly at ease even in that sad gray nightgown we all wore. It was clearly designed to turn everyone into a shapeless sack. On me, it just hangs awkwardly, boxy and unflattering, but Johanna wears it like it's just another outfit, the fabric settling around her in a way that shouldn't look good on anyone, but somehow does.
On the first night we became roommates, she told me that the gown looked especially horrific on me, and then laughed in my face for a solid five minutes. I didn't even try to defend myself. She was right.
"You try being everyone's favorite propo puppet,” I say.
She snorts. "Yeah, tough life. All that attention. Star treatment, fans everywhere. Poor Mockingjay."
I look away. "I never wanted it. I'd give it up if I could. I just want to go home." The word feels heavy, pointless. There isn't a home to go back to, just a graveyard where it used to be.
Silence settles in for a beat. I hear her shift, the bed creaking. "What, you miss the mines that much?"
She knows I was never in the mines, except for those forced school field trips. I let that pass. "It's the woods I miss. The ones here aren't the same. Not that it matters. They never let me out there anymore."
Johanna clicks her tongue. "The trees aren't the same? Oh, poor little thing. At least they let you and your boyfriend out for your little forest adventures. Meanwhile, I'm from the only district that actually lives in the woods and no one's ever asked me if I wanted to go out and frolic with the squirrels, or whatever it is you and your cousin do out there."
I sit up a little straighter, bristling. "First off, we don't 'frolic'. We hunt. You know that. And he's not - Gale isn't my boyfriend, and he's not my cousin." I stop, realizing I'm defending myself against three attacks at once while Johanna just watches, eyes bright, absolutely delighted to see me trip over myself. Of course.
"You're being mean to me again," I state flatly.
She doesn't care. "And you're being annoying again. Getting all that attention and whining about it."
"Maybe if you asked, they'd let you come with us next time we hunt."
"Yeah, right. They'd never do that. I'm not their favorite rebel mascot. They can barely stand me."
That lands harder than I expect. "Doesn't seem like they like me much, either," I mumble.
She doesn't argue. The silence stretches, and I fall back onto my pillow, trying to get comfortable. My eyes trace the cracks in the ceiling, but what I see isn't gray concrete, it's the faded roof of my old house, the soot on the floor, the pale outline of sunlight coming through the trees behind the fence.
"I just keep thinking about home," I admit, voice low, bracing for her to make a joke out of it.
But she stays quiet, so I let the words spill out, mostly to myself. "It's all gone now. The woods. The Seam. Peeta's bakery, the town square, even the stupid fence. And Madge - "
Johanna's laugh slices right through my sentence. "Took you, what, three minutes tonight to mention Madge? That's got to be a record."
I sit up, blinking at her in the dark. "What?"
Blankets rustle. I can see her smirking even in the shadows. "Don't play dumb. Every single night, it's Madge this, Madge that. How she tried to teach you piano and you sucked. How she bought your sister a bracelet for her birthday. How pretty you thought she looked in dresses."
"I never said she was pretty."
Johanna raises an eyebrow, voice thick with mock innocence. "So what, she's hideous?"
"No!" I say, way too sharply. "You're just making stuff up."
She just snorts. "I don't have to make anything up. You never shut up about her - her long blonde hair, those blue earrings that matched her eyes, how she always looked perfect. I hear about it every night."
I open my mouth, then close it, feeling heat crawl up my neck. "I just talk about her because she was my friend. I miss her, that's all."
Johanna lets out this half-laugh, half-sigh, like I'm the most exhausting person alive. "You're honestly so brainless. It's impressive how much of an idiot you can be."
That actually hurts. My mouth moves before I can think. "What, don't you miss your friends? They're all dead too, aren't they? Or maybe you just never had any?"
The silence that follows is brutal. I knew immediately that I've gone too far, but there's no time to walk it back before Johanna's out of bed, crossing the room in two strides and slapping me - hard - across my cheek.
"Don't talk about things you know nothing about," she snaps, voice shaking with anger. For a moment, she just stands there, breathing hard, her hand still raised like she's ready to hit me again if I say another word.
I stare up at her, stunned, skin stinging. I should be mad, but all I feel is hollow. "I'm sorry," I mumble, eyes flickering down. "I didn't mean it."
She just glares, jaw clenched so tight I'm half afraid she'll hit me again. "Yeah, you did."
There was another beat of silence. I lift my hand to rub at my stinging cheek, voice small. "I said I'm sorry. I didn't mean it." I repeat. "But you keep calling me brainless and an idiot, and I'm not."
She just rolls her eyes, letting out a short, scornful snort. "Could've fooled me."
"I just - " I swallow. "There's nothing wrong with missing my friend."
She crosses her arms, still looming beside my bed, her shadow long and sharp against the wall. "There's nothing wrong with missing her," she says. "It's just the way you talk about her. All the time."
I flush, defensive. "I don't talk about her that much."
Johanna's eyebrows go up, not buying a word. "Really? What about that rant you went on the other night, about how mad you were that she gave Gale that morphling? Or the way you keep bringing up that she kissed you?"
I grit my teeth, jaw tight. "I wasn't mad about the morphling. He needed it." Johanna never listens. If she did, she'd know it was Haymitch who pissed me off, not Madge. He was the one who said Madge trudged through a blizzard and risked getting into trouble because she had a crush on Gale. As if she'd put herself on the line for a boy. No, she did it because she was a good person. Madge could've stayed inside by the fire, but she didn't. She crossed town, in the snow, just to make sure Gale was all right after he got whipped. Gale didn't even like her, but Madge still went out of her way to help him. That was just who she was.
I shake my head, anger bubbling up. "And that 'kiss' wasn't even a real kiss. It was just a peck on the cheek. You know that. So stop trying to imply...whatever it is you're trying to imply."
Johanna drops a dramatic sigh and flops right onto my bed, forcing me to yank my legs up before she plows over them. I have to scoot awkwardly against the headboard, blanket caught around my ankles.
"You're so dumb and annoying," she says, tone flat.
I glare back. "You're a jerk."
She rolls her eyes and leans in, sounding exasperated. "Look, it was cute at first, really. But now it's just pathetic, so I'm spelling it out for you. You had the hots for Madge. And she liked you, too."
I almost wish she'd slapped me again. Because at least then I could've fought back. Instead, I just stare. "No. That's not true."
Johanna just gives me that infuriating little smirk. "If Madge hadn't died, d'you think you'd be with her instead of bread boy?"
Anger flares in my chest. I shove my pillow at her, trying to knock her off balance, but she just laughs, twisting easily away and sprawling even more shamelessly across my bed. She props her head on one hand, looking up at me with those dark brown eyes, grinning like this is all some game, like we're just two girls gossiping over lunch and not...whatever this is. She's so infuriating I could scream.
"I'm not gay," I snap, locking onto her stare. "I'm with Peeta." But the words sound fake even as I say them. Peeta, who's stuck in a hospital room, who's still convinced I'm some Capitol mutt. Peeta, who I haven't visited, because I can't stand seeing how much Snow has ruined him. The lie sits between us, heavy and suffocating.
Johanna just tilts her head. "I know you're not gay. You're bi."
"What?"
She lets out a noise halfway between a sigh and a scoff. "Did nobody in Twelve teach you that's a thing? You can like boys and girls, genius. It's not that complicated."
"I knew that. Obviously," I mutter, though I didn't, not really. I mean, I knew there were gay people. Years ago, there was an old window maker who used to live a few blocks down. He'd been caught kissing another man, and the whole town lost their minds. People acted like him and his boyfriend were diseased. My mother, in one of her rare lucid moments, told Prim and me that it wasn't an illness, that some folks were born liking the same gender, and that the law said you could marry whoever you wanted. But the law didn't stop anyone from breaking the guy's storefront windows. No one ever got in trouble for it, either.
It always seemed stupid, all that fuss over who someone loved. I felt bad for those men. But that's how I learned not everyone ends up with the opposite gender, and, sure, I guess it made sense some people liked both, now that I think about it. I just never thought much about romance in general. Not for myself, not for anyone else.
Still, Johanna's implications about Madge make me bristle. "But Madge isn't gay. Or bi. She was just my friend."
"A friend who kissed you," Johanna points out, absolutely unbothered.
"On the cheek," I correct immediately. "Girls do that. They're more...touchy-feely, than boys," I insist.
"Uh-huh."
"And it's normal in some places," I add, irritation slipping into my voice. "As a greeting, or to say goodbye, or whatever."
"Or whatever?" Johanna echoes, catching onto my lack of confidence.
"I'm just saying," I continue stubbornly, "she was my friend. And she was a girl. And girls are like that."
Johanna tips her head, eyes narrowing with a smug sort of pity. "You never had many girl friends, have you?"
"You wouldn't either if I didn't talk to you."
Johanna barks out a laugh. "Wow. Guess I owe you my entire social life." She leans in, close enough that I feel her breath. "So. If we're both girls, and we're both friends, then why haven't you ever kissed me?"
I freeze. "That's not - I mean - "
She inches even closer, grinning. "What? I thought that's what girl friends do." She holds my gaze, challenging, playful, and serious all at once. "Go on. I'm about to go to bed. Give me a goodnight kiss."
My brain blanks. I want to look away, shove her off, do something, but all I do is freeze.
Johanna just waits, her smile never wavering. "Well? Go ahead. You keep saying it's normal for girls to kiss their friends."
"It's not the same," I mutter, my voice barely steady.
"Seems pretty similar to me." She doesn't back off, her brown eyes shining with that familiar, dangerous challenge.
My mouth is dry. "You're just trying to mess with me."
She shrugs, so casual it almost stings. "Maybe. But you're the one who started in with all that 'girls kiss their friends in the name of friendship' nonsense." She tips her head, eyes locked on mine, voice soft but challenging. "And I thought we were the best of friends."
Part of me wants to shove her off my bed so I can end this, or to turn it into a fight, to make this into something I know how to handle. But I don't. I'm still stuck on Madge, on missing her so much it hurts, and on the possibility that Johanna isn't as wrong as I insist her to be.
Johanna's voice drops, quiet but sure. "You never kissed her back, did you?"
I shake my head, my hair falling into my eyes. "No."
"And you're insisting it's a normal thing friends do?"
My jaw sets. "Yes," I say, as stubborn as I can manage, even though I know I'm losing this argument.
She leans in until our foreheads nearly touch. "Well, I want a friendly kiss from my good friend."
My mouth opens, but I have nothing left to say. My heart is pounding, whether with nerves or something else, I don't know. And before I can talk myself out of it, I lean forward to press a shaky, uncertain kiss to her cheek.
Except Johanna turns her head at the last second so my lips land right at the corner of her mouth. For a moment, I just stay there, too startled to move. Her lips are rough and chapped, nothing like Peeta's - his lips were always soft, warm, his kisses sweet and safe. But also nothing like Gale's, who kissed me too eagerly, too possessively, who always left me feeling a bit wrong. The world goes a little sideways as I become hyper-aware of how close we are, and of how, despite not having been in her district for months, Johanna still carries the scent of pine with her.
And then, for some reason, I don't pull away. My lips linger, a second too long, and I feel her exhale, a small, shaky sound against my skin. Something in me shifts, my hand finding her arm, breath tangled in my chest. Her lips move under mine, rough, insistent - nothing sweet about it. Not possessive, either. Just real.
When I finally register how long I've been frozen there, I jerk back, heat crawling up my neck, pulse hammering loud enough I'm sure she can hear it. "You turned your head!" I blurt, too quick.
Johanna's grin is slow, wicked. "Oops." She's nearly on top of me now, half-kneeling in the mess of sheets, and suddenly her hand is back on my face, cradling the cheek she slapped not five minutes ago. Her thumb finds the spot that's still tender, rubbing slow, gentle circles into my skin. It actually feels good, which just makes my face burn hotter. Of course she notices. Her eyes sweep over me, drinking in every bit of embarrassment, and she just smirks, daring me to flinch or look away.
"Still think it's just a friend thing?" she murmurs, voice low, thumb tracing lazy circles on my skin.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I'm still breathless, off-balance, trying to get a grip. So I try to glare. "I hate you," I mutter, but it comes out thin, unconvincing.
Johanna drags her thumb along my jaw, sending a blush to my face that I can't hide. "That's not an answer."
The air feels thick between us, her face so close I can't stand it. "It was supposed to be on the cheek," I manage, but it comes out smaller than I mean it to.
She hums, like she's considering my point, then leans in and presses a kiss deliberately to the other side of my face. It was warm, soft, nothing like the coldness I'd expect from her. I feel my face go hot, every nerve suddenly too close to the surface. I try to hold still, but when her palm glides along my face, a shaky sigh escapes me before I can stop it. Johanna laughs at me and I want to vanish into the sheets.
She pulls back, finally letting her hand drop from my face, but her grin stays. "You're so right, Katniss. There's absolutely nothing gay about this."
I grit my teeth, staring at the ceiling for half a second, my face burning. Johanna's always needling me, always pushing me, always trying to get under my skin. I don't even know why I let her. I'm sick of it - sick of her, sick of that smug look she's giving me right now.
"Shut up," I snap, and before she can get another word in, I grab her wrist, yanking her hand back to my cheek, and pull her down, kissing her hard enough to wipe that smirk off of her face.
Johanna makes a muffled, surprised sound and freezes - but only for a second. Then she's kissing me back, hungry and rough, the bed creaking as she climbs over me, knees bracketing my hips, pinning me down. She's greedy about it, shoving her fingers into my hair, her weight pressing me flat, her mouth stealing the breath right out of me.
When I gasp, she catches it, biting my lip and dragging another humiliating sound out of me. It only encourages her. Her mouth crashes back into mine, one hand gripping my jaw, the other tangled in my hair so tight it stings. The noises keep slipping out - small, breathless sounds and whimpers that I can't swallow fast enough - and she definitely notices. I feel it in the way she pauses just long enough to let out a soft, satisfied chuckle against my mouth, like she's pleased.
Heat floods my face. I hate that I can't keep quiet, hate even more how she likes it. I'm not letting her win this.
So I hook my leg around hers, and for a minute we're just fighting for control - her trying to keep me pinned, me straining to roll us over, neither of us giving up an inch.
The grip Johanna's got on me is relentless, but when she finally pulls back up for air, mouth hovering just above mine, I see my chance. I lean up, tilt my head, and press my mouth to her neck, right under the jaw, tasting sweat, skin, and the frantic beat of her pulse. She shudders - actually shudders - and a sharp, giddy jolt of triumph shoots through me.
She tries to turn her head, tries to get away, but I catch her jaw with my hand and hold her there. There's no way I'm letting her go. My other hand boldly slides up her side, pushing her nightgown up in messy folds.
For a heartbeat she pushes back, fingers tangled in my hair, trying to wrench herself free. But I don't let up. I kiss her neck again, rougher this time, dragging my mouth lower, letting my hand wander over her hip and waist, squeezing hard. I feel her stiffen, breath hitching, a curse slipping from her lips as her grip on me falters. Her hand slips from my hair, dropping useless against the mattress, and she tilts her head, baring more of her throat, pressing closer to my mouth.
That's it. That's all I need.
In a single, rough motion, I flip her over, pinning her wrists on either side of her head, straddling her so she's trapped. Now I'm the one in control.
Johanna looks up at me, cheeks flushed, lips parted, her hair still short and uneven from when the Capitol buzzed it off. She hates it, I know, but in this moment - with her chest heaving and eyes sharp, wild - she's stunning.
I just watch her, caught by the look on her face. She doesn't fight back. Instead, she sinks into my bed, perfectly relaxed, that familiar slow, smug smile curling at her lips like she's been waiting for this. It hits me what we've just done - what I've just done - and suddenly my own face burns, the blush creeping all the way to my ears.
We both are silent, not moving, not saying a word. All I can hear is the rush of our breathing and that soft, persistent hum from the hallway lights. I'm still trying to come up with something to say or do - anything - when Johanna just grins wider, eyes locked onto mine.
"Damn, Katniss," she finally says, eyes bright with delight. "That was one hell of a friendly kiss."