The first time we fucked, I think she was just horny.

It was in District 12, years after the rebellion, years after everything was burnt to ash and then rebuilt from the rubble. Peeta and his new wife were having a housewarming party. Not in that god forsaken victor's house - well, I still lived in mine, and Haymitch still lived in his; but him and I never really did move on the way Peeta did. It was a new place, a quaint little home past the border where the fence used to be. He didn't like to be in the town. I don't either, but somehow I can't bring myself to leave.

So.

Peeta has a house warming party.

He's invited more people than can fit in the damn place, and baked more goods than anyone there could possibly eat. It's excess really, but he must've just been excited. I make my appearance, as does Haymitch, Beetee was invited but doesn't show, but guess who does? Johanna fucking Mason.

Of all the people; of all the fucked up, broken people who don't have a sentimental bone left in their body, Johanna Mason shows up to a housewarming party for Peeta the bread boy.

So that's something.

I don't talk to her much. Everyone knows to leave me alone, but she doesn't. She scopes me out while I'm leaning against the wall in the living room, nursing a drink that I don't intend on drinking. She looks better. Better than her shaved head, morphling-addled self I left in District 13 years ago. I stay long enough for her to say "It's been a while, brainless," with that signature smirk and crossed-arms arrogance, as if the years hadn't dulled her down one bit - and then I'm out of there.

Some of it is shame. Because I never really did make an effort to check up on her. I left her in 13 like I left the others, and I never looked back. It doesn't help that Finnick might have been her only friend, and maybe, maybe a small part of me felt obligated to give her my condolences. Except I didn't.

Some of it is embarrassment. Because Peeta got fucked harder than most of us, but he seems to be the only one who could pick it up and make something of his life. Find things to make him happy. In that way, him and I have always been different. I don't think anything in this world could make me happy again. So good for him.

When I retreat back into my house in the Victor's Village, the sun has only just set. It's early, but seriously - I couldn't stay at that party the same way I had to rip the rosebushes out of my garden on my first night back. Some things I can't deal with. Some things burn slowly and deeply, and they never quite go away.

It's much later when I get the knock on my door. Maybe 11. I'd fallen asleep on the couch, so who really knows. The knock happens again, a little more insistent - like they know I'm home and they know I'm ignoring them. The only person who would show up here and at this time would be Haymitch, so I call out for him to just come in. Because after all, it would take a miracle for me to leave this couch.

As soon as I hear the door swing open and shut, I know it's not Haymitch. There's no surge of slurred words or trudging in the footsteps. I lift my head just a fraction, to curiously look at Johanna Mason walking through my house and towards me as if she has every assurance that she owns the place. Honestly, she can have it. I hate it here, anyway.

"You're not Haymitch," I manage to say, when she's standing in front of me and I get my jaw to finally fucking unclench.

"Lucky for you," she drawls, and has that look in her eye that's vaguely familiar; that look that says she knows way more than you think, she can do way more than you could hope, and maybe, just maybe -

She grabs the bottom of her shirt and pulls it off over head in one swift motion. Whatever train of thought I had is scattered, and suddenly it's like I'm in the elevator at the Tribute Center, meeting her for the first time again. My mouth hangs open because why is Johanna Mason undressing and if she wants a reaction out of me, I can't fucking help it and I definitely give her one. It doesn't matter anyway, because in the next moment she's already on top of me, straddling and shirtless, and her free hand is unclasping the button on her jeans. And then - yes, I know where this is going; and no, she doesn't seem to think I mind. And I do mind. Sort of.

But maybe because there's an old comfort there in Johanna Mason, maybe because there's something deep and burning in her eyes, I don't say a single word or ask a single question. I just let her fuck me hard.

I let her touch me however she wants, I let her draw her own name from my lips, I kiss her back, slow and deep. There's a manic pounding in my chest and it feels like a heart attack and it feels like excitement, but that can't be right because I haven't been excited about anything in years and I don't even like the girl. But I like what we're doing.

She gets me to touch her back. Guides me through it. Places my hands on her breasts, moves my mouth to her neck. She wets my fingers before urging me to put them in her. I'm a fast enough learner. She comes. Often.

When we're both spent and sweaty and breathless, and I'm dead tired or maybe just dead, she untangles herself from my arms and gets dressed again. I watch her through half open lids, and really, I still haven't left the couch and I won't leave the couch until tomorrow. But part of me almost gets up just so I can see her to the door. But I don't.

She seems happy with our foray, a satisfied little smirk to go with the messiest, most attractive looking after-sex hair I've ever seen. I should say something, but I don't. Can't. I just watch. She's in no rush, although soon enough all her clothes are back on and she's heading out of my living room.

"We should do this again sometime," she say in that singsong, smug little way that she does, and it sounds like an echo of a different life entirely. She's gone as quick as she came, and if anything's certain, the room suddenly feels emptier than it has in years.

I don't have the motivation to go lock the door. No one would come in, anyway. Instead, I close my eyes and go back to sleep, the taste of Johanna Mason still tingling on my lips.

Wrote this last night, writhing around in my bed because I'm so sick. :(

I wanted to kinda sorta explore Katniss' depression the years after the rebellion, but it turned into Joniss femslash, obviously. Lol. So whatever, hope you enjoyed.

I have two other small installments to add to this that I'll post later.