We learn in school that scent is the strongest sense tied to memory. A long-faded odor can magically awaken a memory you've buried so deeply inside your brain it takes you by surprise as it emerges. A memory you've so thoroughly suppressed that you almost don't believe it happened. It takes on the fuzzy muddiness of a dream when it plays back in your mind's eye. But no dream can be relived with the scent of pine needles. It pushes into my brain like a forest fire - it annihilates all of my clarity and leaves me devastated. The trees around me groan in the intense wind, small branches cracking and pelting the ground in bunches. My jacket flutters in the breeze, but I can't feel the crisp air. I feel too warm, like stepping out of the shower into a steamed bathroom.

My bow is drawn taut, and the squirrel is in my vision. But the wave of feelings that crashes on my consciousness makes the arrow fly high into the night sky, piercing the stars instead of the animal. It scurries away, darting under a pile of leaves to live another day. A strong wind picks up and blows the aroma of pine back toward me, and I white-knuckle the bow in my hand. I haven't thought of that night in any detail since it happened. I've spent most of my time actively trying to forget it, an act of futility at its best. We didn't talk about it afterwards. I didn't see her at all after I shot Coin. After Prim and Finnick's deaths, we were both too out of it to speak in the few instances we passed each other back in Snow's mansion. I moved back to Twelve with Peeta, and she moved to Four to live near Annie and the baby. She has even spoken with my mother, but never reached out to me. Of course, our lives have overlapped through the years following the Rebellion; a haze of ceremonies and anniversaries where I glimpse her like a ghost amidst a crowd. But the only remnant of that night was in the hungry look she couldn't shake when she looked at me. And the desperation that I knew was evident in my eyes.

When I find her that day, she's up in a tree. She looks like a vulture on a fence post, studying the ground with a cocked head, arms akimbo and eyes as dark as coal. The air hangs thick with the smell of the evergreen trees that line the woods of Thirteen. The limbs of these trees are weak though, and I don't know how she's managing to stay so still. Her deep brown eyes are faraway, glazed over as she stares out into the slowly setting sun. I don't follow her gaze; it reminds me of Peeta to see the orange of a sunset. Instead I survey her. I play back in my head the conversation that led me here.

...

'You know, when Finnick and I were Mentors, we saw you at your first Games.' Johanna's admission is so abrupt I look up from assembling my rifle with wide eyes. She laughs at my discomfort, as she always does, and shakes her tousled black locks. 'You were so stinking virginal. So when the Games were over, we were probably more surprised than anyone that they were choosing you to front this Rebellion.'

I have enough right of mind to be pissed. Why shouldn't they choose me? Because I've never stood up for anything? Because deep down, I'm just still some poor teenager from the forgotten District? Maybe, but I'm insulted. I have at least that much pride. 'I guess it's not every day that they get beat at their own game.'

She nods, letting out a whistle. 'That's fuckin' right, Twelve. Finnick and I didn't think you had it in you.'

'You talked about me a lot, hm? Not much going on the decadent world of Hunger Games Victors?' I shoot this question back at her and she looks genuinely surprised. Good, I've at least gotten though a bit of this hardened veneer she has over her.

She covers it with another hardy laugh, dissembling her rifle as quickly as she can. Her hands work well now. At first she was shaky from the morphling withdrawal, but now she's steady. Her strong hands, used to the hard labor of cutting trees and wielding axes, can move fluidly in the intricate lock systems of the rifles. I often find myself staring at them. 'What else are we going to talk about? The weather?' I chuckle at this. 'Anyway, then we meet you in the Quarter Quell and there you are. Surrounded by this pure, blue aura like some kind of virgin queen. If Finnick wasn't so in love with Annie, he would have given up all his money to try and corrupt you.'

My hands still on the gun. I can hear Soldier York barking out different orders, and Johanna begins to put the rifle back together, her body less tense. I guess the day is over. She looks at me, and I can't move. I look up into her eyes. 'Corrupt me?' I ask dumbly, furrowing my brow. Johanna's laugh pierces the otherwise somber room, prompting us to be on the receiving end of an icy glare from Soldier York. Johanna rolls her eyes at the woman, but quiets down anyway. I find my resolve somewhere and frown. 'Well, he could've tried all he wanted. But I never would've fallen for his 'handsome victor' routine like everyone else. I'm not that stupid.'

She snorts at this, placing her rifle back on the rack. 'And what routine do you fall for, girl on fire? The lovelorn puppy-dog? Or maybe the steadfast stud?' I harden my gaze at her. How she knows explicitly how to get under my skin is unnerving. But we've been 'friends' long enough now, that I try not to be offended at her derisive talk of Peeta and Gale. Instead, I think upon it, genuinely giving the comment some thought.

We've walked through the center to the dining hall out of habit, but in the exchange of glances, we both realize we're not hungry. We opt out of dinner wordlessly and return back to our compartment, where Johanna strips out of her uniform the moment the door closes. I try my best not to stare, as I always do, when she bends to pick up her government-issued pajamas. She looks at them, scrunching her nose in disgust. From past experience of being on the receiving end of her penchant for nudity, I imagine Johanna doesn't sleep with clothes on. I think if she could live in the nude, she would. I envy her lack of inhibition. I don't, however, envy the painful road it took her to get to a place where she lacks for a care in the world. I don't know who I am if I'm not worrying about someone. She drops the clothes back onto the floor, opting instead to pull her casual uniform on and sit on her bed.

'Neither,' I say suddenly, and Johanna looks at me, confused. Her mind seems to file back to the last question she asked me, and she is still confused once it registers. 'I wouldn't fall for either. I don't think I like it being so ...easy.'

She protrudes her lower lip, giving me an approving nod. 'I can understand that. Love is weird. You don't want it to be easy. But you don't want it to be so hard.' She ponders this for a moment, rising from her bed to stand. I'm still standing in the middle of the room for no reason, awkwardly clasping my hands in front of me. What about her always makes me feel so exposed?

'What about you?' I ask as she walks toward me. I try to ignore the hitch in my breath that happens, and the warmness spreading through my body to my fingertips as she gets closer to me. She's like a fire, sucking all the oxygen out of the room with a whoosh. It's not the first time I've thought they picked the wrong person to be the "girl on fire."

'Me?' She tucks hair behind my ear, in a gesture so intimate and surprisingly tender, I can't suppress a shudder. When I open my eyes, she's smirking that insufferable smirk. 'I always want what I can't have, Everdeen. I'm a glutton for punishment.'

'Like what?' The question comes out of my mouth in a breathless whisper, but she hears it. She looks at the top of my head, then her chestnut eyes travel to mine, holding me transfixed. It's like I'm always floating, but when she looks at me, I'm suddenly still for the first time. It's inevitable like the claw of the hovercraft from the Games. Sucking me in, no matter how I try (or don't try) to struggle. The way she gazes at my lips, like a hungry wolf in a field of sheep, works up that fear-thrill emotion only she can pull from within me.

'Wouldn't you like to know?' Her hand slides across my jaw as she drops it to her side, pushing passed me to leave the room. I'm suddenly alone and acutely aware of how hard my heart is beating. When I emerge from the room to find her, she's nowhere in sight.

...

'I can't find Johanna,' I say breathlessly, running into a small room with just Finnick and Haymitch. They share a look before turning their attention to me. They don't seem particularly worried that a recent torture victim has gone missing. 'Hello? Did you not hear me?'

Finnick places his hands together, putting them to his lips. 'What happened?' The way he asks it, like I'm a toddler who spilled her milk, ignites an angry flurry in my stomach.

I mask the anger with a shrug of my shoulders, but the guilty look I throw the ground doesn't fool either man. When I look back up at Haymitch, his tired eyes are looking at me confidently. 'We were just talking. All of a sudden she just took off. I didn't really think anything of it, except she didn't come back. I kind of figured she might be here with you guys.' It's not entirely false. But they don't need to know everything about me. They already know too much.

'Go find her,' Haymitch says tiredly, waving his hand toward the door. Finnick looks at me, shrugging his muscular shoulders.

'Why doesn't Finnick go find her? I've already looked for her for over an hour.' I'm afraid of what will happen when I find her. She frightens me in a way I've never experienced a fear before. There's no impulse to fight or flight. She makes me want to do something I've never done before: Give in.

Finnick smirks. His chiseled cheekbones make him look like a conniving cat when he grins like that. The air of practiced pompousness reminds me of Johanna, but she shrouds hers in a prickly cloak of thorns. Finnick wears his like a crown. 'She doesn't want to see me, brainless.' He uses Johanna's term for me and I turn sharply toward him. The way he looks at Haymitch, like they both are in on another of my life's secrets, makes me irrationally angry. 'She won't come out for me. She'll come out for you.'

So I search Thirteen for her, and after almost two hours of walking, I find her holed up in this tree. I know she can feel my proximity - a leftover skill from the arena. We are all so acutely aware of each other's presence. I don't feel as close to Johanna, like I do to Finnick. Something about her has kept me at bay - either intentionally or not. Not because of the sharp words that always spill from her lips - I am smart enough to dodge her barbs without a care. It's the dangerous way she looks; the piercing way her eyes seem like they're looking right through me. Peeta would do the same thing to me; he could read me better than I care to admit. But his reasons for wanting to get to know me were always on his sleeve. Johanna seemed to enjoy the squirming silence it would invoke when her impossibly deep gaze would bore through me. But her intentions always seemed just beyond my reach.

"Johanna, it's getting dark out. Come down." I'm using a more annoyed tone than usual, because this has been a tiresome task. There were so many crevices in Thirteen, including many with copious amounts of morphling, in which to look for her. But of course, as usual, she had to be in the most inconvenient place possible. It was like she was born to make my life more difficult.

"They sent you to babysit me?" The way she says it, like I'm the single most incompetent person for miles, irks me more than it should. It's probably the result of the rolling snowball of irritations that Johanna throws my way. She is incapable of direct gratitude, which I understand, but it seems like she gets a thrill out of making it hard for me to like her.

"I'm the only one here who can shoot you out of that tree."

She lets out a laugh, a nice one, that makes me smile in spite of myself. This swinging pendulum of emotions I have for her, from anger to happiness, only serve to confuse me more. Of course, there's always the wave of something that hits me when her heavily lined eyes meet mine that is akin to nausea, but isn't wholly unpleasant. I don't like to think of that. "I don't seen any arrows, Twelve."

The teasing way she uses my home District never fails to make the corners of my mouth turn upward. Everyone has a demeaning nickname: Finnick is Fishboy, Annie is Crazy (but not in front of Fishboy), Beetee is the surviving half of Nuts and Volts, Haymitch is Soak (as in, soaked in liquor), and Peeta is Baker's Boy or Puppy-Dog. Even Gale is usually just Stud, or The Cousin. But I have acquired several sarcastic monikers, an arsenal of verbal pricks she uses to nudge me. Mockingjay, Twelve, Brainless. I think she's maybe called me Katniss about four times since I met her, usually when she's mad at me. Before I can respond, the tree rustles and a pinecone comes hurtling out of the tree, striking me straight in the forehead.

The cackle that follows boils my blood, and finally the lithe woman emerges from the tree. She shakes the pine needles from her hair, and brushes her uniform lightly to get any remaining sticklers off. I place my hands on my hips, glaring at the darker woman. "What was that for?"

Her eyes darken in a way I've rarely seen them since the Games. This is the dangerous look that both palpitates my heart and sends a shock through my body that ends somewhere I hadn't any idea it could land. I have to fight myself to keep from blushing under the intensity of her stare. It's like looking into a fluorescent lamp too long - it makes my neck sweat and my eyes blink hard. "For being a pain in the ass."

"Right." We walk together back into Thirteen. When we get back into the compartment, she waves off my offer to let her shower first. So I take a long, hot shower until the water turns cold, and emerge back into the room where Johanna is sitting on her bed, using a rag to clean out under her fingernails. "You'll want to give it a minute to get more hot water," I inform her and she nods dismissively. I notice she's actually fairly clean already. There's a slight sheen of water glistening from her pale skin, and when my eyes travel downward, I can see the three or four dirty rags on the ground at her feet.

She notices my stare and kicks the rags under her bed. When her eyes meet mine again, she's unabashedly staring at my body. The thin towel is wrapped around me as tightly as it will go, but I suddenly feel like I'm wearing nothing at all. A precipitous rush of adrenaline runs through me, and I walk toward her. Her brown hues go from desire to uncertainty with a blink of her lined eyelids. I tuck the corner of the towel loosely into the top, and without a word, I straddle her hips on the bed. Finally, I can feel how fast her heart is beating, too.

Her hands grip the sides of the bed, unwilling or unable to touch me. I cup the sides of her face, my fingertips probing the small scars on her neck. Her eyes are unfocused, but I finally catch them and I can see she's straining to keep herself composed. I want to say something clever. Something sexy. Something worthy of the hungry, wild look she has. But I'm too inexperienced or too nervous to do either. We just sit there like two flames licking at the sky, incapable of touching for fear of being consumed and becoming one.

But luckily, Johanna doesn't care about my faintheartedness. Her hands spread over my hips, feeling the warmth of my skin through the towel. Those dark eyes never leave mine as she continues to rub my abdomen and my back with her strong, capable hands. No one has ever touched me like this before. But the nagging feeling in the base of my brain tells me even if they did, it wouldn't feel like this. I rest my hands on her shoulders. She looks at my hands briefly, then back up into my eyes.

I lean my face toward hers, our lips just a breath apart. I can smell her - the mix of earth and pine, like it's the vapors I need to live. I inhale deeply, my lips trembling at the anticipation of contact. My eyes flutter closed, and I press my warm forehead against hers. Our noses bump awkwardly, and Johanna tips her head to the side so they settle together perfectly like two cogs in gear. If someone had told me that the Earth ceased spinning for those moments, I would have believed them. But when her lips meet mine, time and space become one rushing river.

Her fingers stay on my waist, gripping me through the abrasive material of the towel. Those hands I had spent many confusing nights thinking about were stroking me gently, with a tenderness that did not reach her lips. Instead, the kiss was ravenous and frenzied, like coming up from under water on the brink of drowning, gasping for air. Her body shifts, using her strong legs to push us both farther back on to the bed. I can hear her kick off her boots, our mouths still dueling, our bodies still clinging to each other. Her hands ride up my sides, landing on the top hem of my towel. Briefly our lips pull apart, allowing panted breaths to fill the room with their sound.

Beautiful brown orbs glance up at me, silently begging permission. I think the blatant hunger in my eyes is enough confirmation, and the towel spills at her feet with a swift flick of her wrist. Her arms cross in front of her, pulling her own shirt off and tossing it onto the dresser next to her bed. Her arms wrap around my back, and a whimper fills my ears as our bare skin meets for the first time. I don't know if it's mine or hers, but it sounds intoxicating. Her lips find my neck, hungry kisses ricocheting off my collarbone down to my chest.

My mind becomes only clear with one thought: Johanna. I can't remember where we are, or what we're doing here. The walls have no importance for me. The only senses I care for are physical: touching her, tasting her, hearing her. Her tongue slides across my breast with a deliberate sweep, and I make a noise in the back of my throat I've never been able to replicate. Calloused hands make their way to my backside, grasping the firm flesh tightly in her hands. Shortened nails dig into my skin, as I dig my own into her back. She runs her wet lips back up the dip between my breasts, her fingers grazing my inner thighs. The different points of contact are driving me crazy with need. Her thigh rises between my leg, the rough canvas of her pants grinding against the wetness pooling there.

I gasp into her mouth, and when I catch her eyes they are aflame with need. "Off," I wheeze, pulling at the button of her pants impatiently. I hear her chuckle hoarsely as she fiddles with the button. I slide off her lap, immediately missing the warm contact of her body. Touching her was summertime, every moment I've spent without it has felt like a never-ending winter. Her pants drop to the ground and she steps out of them. She leans over to me, brushing my hair behind my face.

"Are you sure?" she inquires softly, pinning me to the wall under her intense gaze. I nod, seizing her lips in another kiss. She cradles me in her arms, pushing me toward the front of the bed. My limbs secure around her tightly, and I struggle against her attempts to detach from my body. "Lay down, Katniss," she orders impatiently. The way my name rolls off her tongue sounds like the low growl of a panther in the woods. I oblige and am rewarded with her warm, naked body pressing against mine.

Her mouth hungrily savors my breast, and I find myself pushing my hips into her thigh for a little release. This results in another one of her infuriating grins, but this time I don't mind. I underestimate her agility as she gracefully repositions herself between my legs, curling her arms around my thighs. Her mouth bites at the sensitive flesh of my inner thighs, slowly teasing her tongue in curlicues toward my center. Another pathetic whimper bubbles from my lips. "Please," I manage to say in a whisper. I gaze down the plane of my stomach to see her eyes nearly black with desire. They close as she presses her tongue flat against me. My hips buck on their own accord, and she pulls them back down against the bed.

Her tongue feels like the slide of a silk scarf as she dips into my folds, plunging so far inside me her nose bumps against my clit. The sudden contact makes me jerk again, but her strong arms keep me grounded to the bed this time. She finds a slow rhythm, a maddeningly slow rhythm. She draws lazy circles over my clit, punctuating each twirl with a small suck on the sensitive bundle. It's almost more than any of my senses can take when she inserts one digit inside me. I let out a muffled howl, propping myself up on my elbows to get a better view of the woman driving me insane. She's focused on her task, giving it her whole as Johanna does to everything she's ever done. It fills me with pride to be on the receiving end of her attention. For a moment our eyes meet, and I'm struck how incredibly sexy she looks with her hair messy and a few strands sticking to her forehead where a small layer of sweat has formed. She has an air of darkness about her that I want to tumble into and never emerge.

I put my weight on my one arm, using the other to run my fingers through her hair. Suddenly there's a stirring in the pit of my stomach that I've never felt before. It reminds me of the way Johanna's stare makes me feel, but spread through my entire body and about one hundred times more intense. It feels like electric shocks pulsating through my body. I let my head drop back, rolling my hips as I feel an intense orgasm wash over my entire body. Her name spits from my mouth, and I continue chanting it like a folk song until she finally emerges from between my legs.

She rubs her mouth on her bicep, panting breaths shaking her chest as she holds herself above me. I become aware of how stifling hot the room has become. A quick glance to the window finds it fogged with condensation. Probably due to the steam from my shower, but I think the friction between us has made its mark on the panes as well. When I focus back on her, she's crawling off the bed. I grab her by the arm, pulling her back to me. I kiss her lips, tasting the salty sweetness of my own arousal on her tongue.

"Katniss," she says, in that predatory grumble that makes me weak in the knees. "You don't have to -" I cut her off with another kiss, aggressively switching our positions so her back is pressed against the mattress. Johanna Mason might give herself to everything she does, but I do, too. I won't leave this moment, this room, without knowing what my name sounds like from her throat when she climaxes.

Of course, I have no idea what I'm doing, so I move on instinct. My lips find her neck, using the tip of my tongue to swipe the sweat from her pulse point. I nip at her jugular, culling wonderful moans from her mouth. My hand finds its way between her perspiring legs, for the first time feeling the wetness of her arousal. She lets out a long hiss, grabbing my hand with hers and forcing me inside of her.

I take her lips in another kiss as I plunge my fingers inside of her, reveling in the tight heat of her. Never in my life have I felt anything that feels like what I felt that night. Staring into her dilated eyes as she moves with me, like we're two rowers going out to sea. Perfect movements, so deeply connected I can't tell where she begins and I end. I use my free hand to pin her arm to the pillow above her head. I hear her leg slide on the mattress and suddenly her thigh is between my legs, pushing against me. I lean down on her, trying to get myself off as I push inside her with more urgency. I bring my head down next to her ear, urging her to come for me in a hushed whisper. Her hair smells so deeply like pine, it's forever etched in my memory like stone.

I can feel my own orgasm beginning so I press my thumb onto her clit as I penetrate her again, curling my fingers inside her. I want us to experience this together. My efforts pay off as the string of expletives she's been moaning become my name, and the sound pushes me over the edge again and my hips shake against her leg. I rub my hand over her center, coating myself in her scent. I take one of my fingers into my mouth, sucking the liquid from my index finger. "Oh come on," she pleads in a mocking tone, smiling at me.

That night was spent like ships on a storm. A calm would wash over us, prompting sleep in which we'd fasten to each other. But soon our bodies would shift, bare skin meeting bare skin, and a squall would appear and we'd consume each other once more. Two lit matches feeding each others flames until the ferocity that propelled us also consumed us. We finally collapsed as the sun peered into our windows, each of us spent and bordering on exhaustion.

...

When I wake up that morning, she's gone. How she got up without waking me is a mystery to this day. But when I find her at Training, we converse cordially. Or, at least as cordial as we've become. She insults me, I deflect her. But we never, ever speak of that night again. It hangs over me like a raincloud for the rest of our days in training, until the day I leave for the Capitol. I bring her the bundle of pine, the smell that has been so woven with her in my brain. I make her a promise.

And I never see her again.

And I never forget it. Not after I go back to Twelve and settle in my home in the Victor's Village. Not after Peeta and I spend the next few months getting back into ourselves. Not even after he and I have sex for the first time. Tears spill onto my pillow after Peeta has fallen asleep, my suffering as silent as the night. I suddenly can imagine how Johanna felt coming off the morphling. It was the only thing dulling the ache inside her heart, never mind the physical pain. After months of not seeing her, I realize she was the only thing soothing the ache inside me. The need for her is so great I feel like I've lost a limb. My nerves ache in phantom sensations of her lips on mine, her hands on my skin, her breath in my ear.

It makes me feel a little better to think maybe she hates me. That maybe she blames me for losing Finnick. Maybe she's even mad that Prim died. Maybe she's forgotten all about that day, that it just blends with all her other flings I'm sure she had before and after me. But on the rare occasions my mother speaks to me over the phone, she mentions how Johanna inquires about how I am. I'm not prepared emotionally when she tells me how wonderful Johanna looks, how full of life she is. I wanted to believe she harbored hatred for me, but my mother insists Johanna is so well-adjusted and happy, it makes me more miserable. Reality can be more crushing than death.

After months of suffering, I finally open up to my doctor. I tell him about this recurring impulse I have where I step in front of a Capitol train as it hurdles into the station. Every time I go there to receive a visitor or get a package, I have to physically stop myself from stepping on to the tracks. But it's not as if I want to die. He then explains to me something called l'appel du vide, French for "the call of the void." The urge to jump off of a cliff, as if it was a viable option, before we recoil and realize it isn't. He drones on about something about 'inherited from our genetic ape ancestors' and 'perfectly natural' but I drown him out. The call of the void. That's what pushes me. That's what wakes me from my sleep and prolongs my grief. I want to get lost in her darkness again. I need to.

As I stare up at the moon, my feet digging into the soil, I wax romantic thinking of how she might be looking at the moon tonight, too. Does she remember the moonlight falling on us as we tumbled in her sheets? Does she think of how my eyes looked reflected by the stars, like I think of hers? Most importantly, does her body ache with such force that she thinks she might die if she can't touch me again? Did I survive the revolution just to suffer? Fight every day to just to live, if there's nothing left to live for? Without Prim, without Peeta's life in danger, what do I live for?

Before I'm cognizant of what I'm doing, I'm standing at the train platform, waiting for the midnight shuttle. A scribbled note and one packed bag later, I stare down the tracks and wait for the inevitable white light to illuminate the station. There's no one else taking this red-eye train tonight but me, but the solitude is comforting. For the first time in months, I don't have to stop myself from standing on the tracks as the loud whistle pierces the sky, scattering the nearby birds. I settle myself into a seat near the window, my bag on the cushion next to me. I lean my forehead on the cool pane of glass, watching Twelve disappear into the distance. My eyes look upward toward the blanket of stars, and I wonder if the sky is this clear in Four. If not, I will miss how bright the constellations are here. But I'll get over it.