Chapter Text
Victor Affairs wasted no time getting her on a train. Apparently even the hushed rumors about the death in the Capitol didn't wane Johanna's popularity.
Her entire prep team is here this time, which she doesn’t understand. The shriek reminds her of the hair cut. That it was longer the last time she was here. She does not remember cutting it, but it’s choppy. Octavius shews the other O’s from the room, and begins silently working on her hair. They do not speak, but every touch of his is full of a tender apology. Johanna cannot stand the pity. It reminds her of being a tribute. She does not need pity now.
Dad and Tess were the first to go. Burned down to ash in a house fire. In their coffins were just chunks they could find that might have been them, allegedly. Fragments. Johanna was still in the Capitol for their funerals, if they even had a proper one she isn’t quite sure. District 7 wastes little time with burying their dead. Abel went next up north. Then, Abraham and Silas hung in the square. They were all gone, 6 feet under in pine boxes. Commemorated only by a stump shaped headstone.
And it was all her fault.
Octavius and the other preps finish readying Johanna for the night early. The others leave scurrying after she throws a vase against the wall when one asked if she was looking forward to the evening. But Octavius stays, he does the routine kiss on the cheek as goodbye, but lingers. Maybe he’s scared to leave her alone. Like the Victors back home who swirl around her like herding dogs. She does not formally dismiss him, just walks to the elevator alone and heads to the roof. She can’t do pity right now. She never can.
They’ve made her beautiful again, the sudden change is jarring. The preps had talked about cosmetics, about piercings and even tattoos. Things they wanted to do to her body, speaking about it as if she had given them permission. She hadn’t, but someone did. Johanna was undeniably owned by them now. A doll for them to dress and play with.
How long has it been? It still feels so fresh, but it has been five weeks now. Is this how she is going to measure her life now? It used to be her life before Ma died and after. Then it was her life before the Games and after. And now it was before this and after. Each iteration marked by the most recent traumatic event, each iteration worse than the one before.
All your fault.
Her hands shake as they light the first of many cigarettes to come. Johanna is not to make public appearances, at least for a few weeks. They are keeping her isolated, but she also suspects it’s a trial run of sorts. There are expectations to meet, and she knows she will be tied and bound through it all. Probably with peacekeepers on immediate stand by.
“Johanna,” a voice said.
An involuntary flinch. No response. Finnick strolled, slow and casual, to her side. He leaned on the railing, trying to catch her attention but Johanna refused to look anywhere but out at the skyline.
“I’m sorry.”
“Go away, Odair.” She struggles to be the complete bitch the Capitol wants her to be. The tone is too light, dejected.
“Look--”
“Shut up for once .” The bitch the Capitol demanded was center stage now.
He sighed and reached a hand for her shoulder, but even before he made contact Johanna moved. With one hand she smacked down the comforting touch and the other she used to punch him square in the mouth. Finnick staggered back, hand covering the split lip that’s surely to bruise.
“I said go away!” Being a bitch was easy now. “I don’t care if you think we’re friends, I’ll knock your teeth down your throat! ”
Her chest was heaving slightly, more from anger than exertion. It felt good to get it out. The rage. Finnick left without another word, and when he was finally gone Johanna directed the anger to herself. This was her fault. All she had to do was obey . No one else on the circuit had fucked up, not like she did.
It’s because you’re a monster , she thought.
That had to be it. Johanna Mason was a monster. A serpentine one that would only lead the other Victors down this path that led to nothing but more corpses. She had axed 7 children in less than a day, they should’ve seen it from the start. She crushed a man's head in with the base of a lamp, smashing and slamming until she saw brain matter. She only stopped because of the peacekeepers, just like she had only stopped in the arena because they pulled her out of it. Both times she was sedated for days after. She wished someone would just sedate her now for the rest of her life.
Johanna spends the first week of her trip avoiding every District born person she can. Hiding on the 7th floor during daylight, ignoring the knocks on the door. She fears that her situation might be catching, that the “accidents” will spread across Panem. Targeting anyone who shows her any regard. Sometimes, in faint light, her hands look identical to how they did in the arena. Caked in blood.
She knocks on the door to the 6 apartment, even if it’s probably unlocked. She isn’t even sure why. Fresh from remake, she still wears her dress from the night. It was just a maintenance visit, applying creams and gels and such to wounds she’s still licking from earlier in the week. Why is she even here?
The broken up bits of telephone flash in her mind as she knocks again. How the dark green plastic broke to shards, how the bits reflected the low light. Then comes the idea of flames, nooses, and impaling.
Tramin opens the door, shirtless, eyes bloodshot and half lidded. They stare at each other for a minute.
“Jo,” he says quietly, “Finnick told me you were here.”
“Can I come in?” she asks flatly. She cannot look him in the eyes, knowing what he is.
She isn’t sure what she needs right now, but the answer isn’t in her own room.
He nods, opening the door further. Not looking at him as she passes, she just goes to his room out of habit. He follows, silent. Johanna leaves the door to the bathroom open as she showers. He sits on the counter, picking at the skin around his nails, but does not speak. The silence continues as she dries off, as he hands her a change of pajamas. It’s starting to tick her off. The silence. How he isn’t addressing the elephant in the room. How he isn’t even fully in the room.
Her whole family is dead. He never called.
“I’m sorry,” his voice is quiet and slow once they enter the bedroom.
He reaches for her, pulling her back to his chest. She lets him. It’s familiar. One of the last scraps of such a thing she has left.
“Still high?” She asks not gently.
“No,” he lies before kissing the side of her face.
She turns around and holds out his arm before he can react. They both stare at the bruising, at the dozens of track marks. Some old. Some new. She does not look at his face.
“You didn’t call,” her voice is flat.
He is silent, looking at her.
“Did you even know?” She looks at him now.
His face gives her the answer. He did know. He didn’t call. He opens his mouth to speak but Johanna does not want to hear it. She closes the distance between them, crashing into him. He lets her. His fingers fumble at the hem of her shirt, it comes off like paper. She doesn’t resist. Neither does he.
They’re in bed. He’s above her, gentle. Tramin murmurs words she doesn’t care to hear. His hands shake slightly, perhaps from withdrawal. Hers don't move at all. Johanna stares past him, past the ceiling, past the room all together. She’s thinking about the people gone from her life. How their deaths still didn’t free her. All for not.
“Jo,’ Tramin moans into her ear.
It snaps her back. Right . We’re having sex. This is supposed to distract me , she thinks.
After, she lies flat on her back staring a hole into the ceiling. The sheets smell like soap. Tramin is curled next to her, panting, murmuring something into the skin on her shoulder. He’s asleep minutes after shrugging on under clothes. She isn’t. He is snoring slightly, a habit she isn’t sure if he always had. Did that only start after he became more reliant on morphling? Or did she just not notice before? His breath is warm on her skin.
Suddenly, it’s too warm. She can’t take it. She needs air. Johanna slips from his arms, not caring if she wakes him. She hesitates before she slips into anything more, staring at her discarded dress and then at the drawer of sleep shirts. This choice decides where she’ll slink back to after getting some air. Without thinking much, she selects the largest shirt he has.
The roof is quiet and empty. Johanna does not mind the cold, even if she probably should’ve at least put on pants. She sits up on the ledge, staring at the twinkling lights of the city. There is still activity, but minimal. With shaky hands, she lights one of the cigarettes Blight had sent with her. The haze wafts over her, stronger than anything he’s given her before. She welcomes it and notes to thank him. Maybe.
In solitude, she allows herself to properly think about it all. Through the shock and grief, Johanna never gave herself time to mull anything over. She lets herself think about the twins. Abraham and Silas. She had not seen them since the night dad threw them out and dismantled the bunk beds.
Johanna knows that in her state of shock or catatonia or whatever, she had been taken to their hanging. Guilty of something, it did not matter what. She was the one who truly tied the noose around their necks. Dad had thrown them out to protect Johanna and Tess. To protect the family. Abel waited to tell her what happened to protect them too. Everything everyone did was for preservation. Protection.
Two brothers, whose faces she can’t quite remember anymore, lost for such protection of the rest of the family. Only for her to be the one that ultimately killed them all. No matter how many times “it’s not your fault” was said to her, in her heart she knew it was a lie. The blood was on her hands. It was undeniable.
Lighting another, Johanna tries to remember happier moments. That’s what you’re supposed to do after people die, right? She thought of her fathers laugh, how it filled a room. Tess with her nose in a book or caring for that damn goat. How the twins were always so sweet to Nan.
But the thought of Nan makes something catch in her throat. Did she kill Nan too? Even if she died the night before the games started, didn’t Johanna also drive her to that? Before, she had never considered this for long. Dad had assured her that it had just gotten too much. Nan had to bury both her daughters, one in the graveyard reserved for fallen tributes. She could not bear to bury a granddaughter there too. It made sense.
But now, here on the roof in the Capitol, it felt like her fault too. Johanna swallowed hard at this. Even if it wasn’t true, it was internalized. Carved into her bones. It was true to her.
Johanna makes little effort to be silent as she returns to the district 6 apartment. She doesn’t wonder why she even came back. It must be the chill from the roof lingering, pushing her to a warm body. She keeps the shirt on, she cannot stand the idea of being naked right now. In his sleep, Tramin pulls her in closer once her body is next to his. It’s instinctual. He looks pale. His cheeks are more hollow. Morphling has him. Johanna lets out an exhale she didn’t realize she needed to once she rolls over, facing her back to him.
A few hours later, light starts flooding the room through the sheer curtains. Johanna lays there with her eyes closed, not entirely sure if she even fully fell asleep or not. Tramin stirrs, pulls her closer, presses a kiss on the nape of her neck.
“You’re still here,” he murmurs.
She doesn’t respond, just slips from his arms and moves to find pants. Johanna couldn’t stand being in the same room as him suddenly. It was a mix of resentment over the missed calls and fear for the safety of his loved ones back home.
He sits up, blankets falling around his waist. “You didn’t say anything last night.”
“Nothing worth saying.”
“Is this how it’s going to be now?”
She freezes, clutching a pair of his sweats. “How what’s going to be?” She puts them on.
“Like that. Cold, detached. We’re friends, Jo.”
“Are we? Friends pick up when their friend calls,” she lets out a bitter laugh.
“That’s not fair, Jo--”
She cuts him off, “Nothing in Panem is fair.”
She felt like screaming. How dare he call her Jo . The nickname her own Ma, long dead now, gave her? The nickname used by people she loved? A father, a sister used it. Two brothers, dead for the crime of blood relation even if they were as much of a Mason as a pile of rocks, used it. A boy, who hadn’t loved her for months but died because he once had, used it. A nickname that marked death to those who used it.
Tramin stands, wrapping the top sheet around himself. He looks smaller now.
“Jo, I’m sorry. If I could go back--”
“You can’t!” Her voice is harsh, nearly screaming. “Neither one of us can go back and change what we did.” She walks past him trying for the door, but he grabs her arm with a surprisingly tight grip.
“I’m sorry. I was using again. A lot. I didn’t want you to see me like that. I didn’t know how to help you. I thought I was just going to make it worse.”
She lets him keep hold of her, not resisting. Her eyes are locked on the crook of his arm.
“I don't care about your using,” she looks up to his face,” I care that it matters more to you than anything else .”
He drops his arm, wraps it back under the sheet. They stare at each other for a moment. Tramin was in danger by being in association with her at all, Johanna was sure of that. Even if it wasn’t true. She had been aiming to hurt him as an effort to push him away and it worked, but not well enough.
His voice is small, “I missed you.”
She closes her eyes, exhales. When they open, her eyes are colder. She shoves him, both hands on his chest.
“ Bullshit .”
Tramin stumbles but does not fall.
“Johanna, you have to believe me.”
She does not say anything. He steps slightly closer.
“I miss you .” His voice is just barely audible.
She looks away to the floor. Johanna missed a lot of people. Dad. Tess. Nan. Ma. She missed them so much, so suddenly and violently it paralyzed her. Abraham and Silas, her twin brothers. Abel, too. They were all dead because of her. Because for a second she forgot where she was, and just like in the arena she became a homicidal monster. That's all she was, wasn't she?
He reaches for her, she lets him again. Tramin wraps the sheet around them.
“How can I help?” he mumbled into her hair between light kisses.
Johanna didn’t say anything. That question alone threatened to break her into shards the same she did to the phone weeks ago now. There wasn’t an answer to the question. Nothing was going to help right now. It was miraculous she was holding it together. The guilt and grief could push her back to the reclusion Cedar hardly got her out of.
Tramin pulled back, searching her face. He studied her for a moment, suddenly looking far older than he was. It was as if he was contemplating something. The pros and cons, properly trying to think it out. His eyes flickered to the nightstand, its drawer. Johanna did not have to guess what was going to happen next once the sheet he was wrapped up in still slipped off his shoulders.
She didn’t resist when he gently guided her to sit on the edge of the bed. There was no protest when he opened the drawer of the nightstand, pulling out a vial, the glint of syringes, needles tucked neatly in their wrappers. His hands moved with the rhythm of habit, but not indifference. Slow, careful, deliberate. Assembling together a dose of morphling as if it would speak the apology he couldn’t find the words for.
“Just hold still,” he murmured, looking up to her. The cadence wasn’t an order, even if it was.
His thumb traced the inside of her elbow slowly like he was memorizing the shape of her vein before he swabbed it with a cold, small wipe. Her nose twitched at the smell of disinfectant. Tramin held her arm against his leg to steady her, skin warm against hers, head bent close focused on the precision of the needle.
The sting was quick, hardly noticeable. The push of the plunger was smooth. When it was done, his hand lingered, pressing his thumb gently over the puncture. He looked up to her again, but was already unable to find her.
The room blurred around Johanna as the cold swept through her veins. She imagined this is what the tide of the ocean must feel like, or what it felt like to be the limber branches of a willow tree dragged down by gravity. The pull. It rushed through her whole body in a blink, pouring into every crevice.
The ache in her chest and the knot in her stomach blurred, dissolving into something warm, as the room came back into near focus. Her limbs, her body, her mind all felt like they belonged to someone else now. Her head became heavy, tipping forward slightly before he caught it, guiding her to lie down. Johanna’s lashes lowered as he crawled into the bed with her, pulling her up to lay on his chest.
There was relief. Her first taste of it in what now was two months. And she knew she ought to hate it, knew that this was a lapse of judgement. She knew better.
Morphling is commonly given in remake, it was dripping in her IV after that night. After all the other horrible nights, too. A dull trickle, enough to calm, relax but never enough to float. Never enough to erase the sharp edges of herself. This was different. More potent. Like Tramin had let her in on a secret District 6 had been hoarding.
And it worked. That was the worst part.
The drug had softened and smoothed every sensitive nerve, physical and emotional and mental alike, rounding them down to something tolerable. It would have-- could have-- been truly peaceful if she didn’t know any better.
Nothing had changed. Even with everything smoothed and warm, she remembered. Everyone is still dead. Nan is dead. Dad is dead. Tess is dead. The twins are dead. Abel is dead. The blood of the Capitol man is certainly on her hands, but the blood of those she loved is too. It’s still her fault. Just like in the games, she had snapped and she killed 7 people. 14 graves in total have her alone to blame.
“You didn’t call,” she murmured, eyes half-lidded, voice dragging. Three words dropped like lead.
She could feel him try not to tense and fail. His touch is gentle but ultimately hesitant. Like she was some dead bird he wasn’t quite sure how to bury. Resentment softly curled under her ribs even if her body loosened under his hands. He was sober but tracing the shapes he does out of a high habit onto her skin.
Star.
Circle.
Swirl.
How much did he give me ?
Slowly and lazily she identifies them to herself. It feels nice, which barbs the resentment. The regret. She should’ve pushed him off when he sat her down. Should’ve told him to save the needles for himself. Should’ve never come to him last night. Maybe she should’ve never come back to the Capitol at all. Johanna isn’t sure where to draw the line. But it’s been crossed.
“They’d like me better,” her sluggish voice mumbles, “like this.”
Quiet. Compliant. Not fighting.
The same way the Capitol wanted her before she snapped, twice now. Johanna’s hands feel warmer than normal, it reminds her of fresh blood caking her hands in the games. She thinks about the blood on them now, twice the amount from just over a year ago.
“You do too, don't you?”
She knows it’s true. It has to be.
Johanna fought against her heavy eyelids pulling her to something that wasn’t quite sleep. He needed to say something. He had to. How can he just be silent? If she had a better grip on the autonomy of her limbs she’d sit up to look at him. But her attempts are met by clumsy, uncooperative small movements and Tramin wrapping her fully in his arms now. He planted a long kiss to her head.
He didn’t answer. He never did, not when it mattered. Johanna knew that.
“ Fuck-- ”
The word came out half-slurred, but the venom clung even when the sentence dropped. The morphling was pulling her deeper, making her feel safe, warm, and unbearably small. Her eyes fought to barely stay open. She needed to keep speaking until he contradicted her. Argued. Did something . Anything. Instead there was just the rise and fall of his chest, her head undulating up and down atop it.
Her anger, or whatever it was she was feeling, curled tighter. It was wrapping itself around a rib, that is what it felt like. But no amount of festering anger, resentment, or whatever else was match to the thick, syrupy suction of the drug pulling her further and further under. At last, she let it win, closing her eyes.
Johanna is chainsmoking in the mentor lounge, thumbing through some stupid book she needs to get the general ideas of by nothing before an appointment with its author. There’s a weird feeling in her chest she believes to be homesickness. Johanna misses home. She has been here for three weeks now, but frankly what is left at home? That large house, identical to the one her family died in and all the more suffocating for it? She does her best to focus on at least remembering the names of the characters
“Johanna, what is this? Week 3 or 4 for you?”
She looks up and sees Cashmere and Gloss, side by side. Their eyes are filled with pity. She looks back down to her book and takes a drag. Just when she thought avoiding people was easy, of course the sibling pair finds her.
“It’ll be week 4 on Thursday.” Her voice is flat and hollow. It barely sounds like her.
She hears shuffling, sees out of the corner of her eye that Gloss has gone to the bar and Cashmere has sat feet from her on the couch. No one says anything until he returns with three glasses. She nods a thanks as he hands her one. Guess they want a fucking therapy session, she thinks as she shuts her book a smidge too firmly.
“How are you holding up?” Gloss asks as he sits in a chair across from her.
“Fine,” she says before knocking back the entire drink and setting the glass on a side table.
“Johanna--” Cashmere begins but is cut off.
“Look. I’m really not in the market for pity, or some fucked up therapy session. I know you, and everyone else, feels bad for me. You don’t need to say it." Her words are harsh but her voice is defeated. They don’t match.
“You’ve been here 4 weeks--”
“3 weeks and 4 days,” Johanna interjects bluntly, correcting Gloss.
“That’s just a long time. Is what he means.”
Johanna shrugs.
“I can try and talk to someone, get you some time at home. There--”
Johanna cuts Cashmere off again, “Don’t you see that this is part of the punishment. And that going back is too?”
“We know that, but you just deserve a break.”
Johanna stamps out the butt of her cigarette and immediately lights another, “You guys can keep me company all you want. But I’m not getting a ‘break’ until I’m beat to a pulp or something.”
Gloss stood and filled her glass again, white knuckling the bottle. He began telling some story that was supposed to be funny about the newest Victor. Valor Ayers is his name, and he has 6 younger siblings with matching fiery red hair. His Ma had worked in the perfume factory, and made wonderful sponge cake. He was having no trouble settling into Victor life. But, the things he said at the banquet were too good.
“I mean, by Panem, the kid needs no coaching! Cufflinks! He was complimenting cufflinks! Identified the stone and everything!” Gloss seemed flabbergasted.
“Well, he is doing Jewelry making as his talent,” Cashmere chimed in.
The story might have just all been more you had to be there for it thing, or maybe Johanna was just so hollow nothing was really funny anymore. She could see the humor in it. But the talk about the newest Victor brought a knot to her stomach.
“Have you told him?” her voice interrupts their chattering.
There’s a beat of silence.
“Not yet.”
Johanna nods once. She understands why they haven’t yet. The months between the games and the tour are hard enough adjusting. She just hopes someone tells him before Snow does. She wonders if Snow will show footage of her personal consequences in addition to Haymitch’s now. Or if the vintage 20+ year old tape is sufficient for him.
Cedar's griping from just less than 4 weeks ago rings her in her head. It was on the walk to the train station, he made a point to walk her alone. Haymitch was a lesson. An example plainly laid out for her by the President himself. Johanna was the idiot for believing for a second that the consequences ended at having no one left to love. She’s now a reminder, another example, of just how aptly Snow keeps his word.
Johanna can tell the others know it too, even if they don’t say it aloud. It’s clear with how they look at her. A mix of pity and fear.
“So,” she stamps out the cigarette, “is our new Victor going to be bedazzled then?”