Jason Compson IV (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
whatisay) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2015-02-10 09:36 pm
whatisay) wrote in thecapitol2015-02-10 09:36 pm
Entry tags:
They Sulk Behind Your Back, All the People That You Meet [Closed]
WHO| Jason Compson and Trés Jolie
WHAT| Jason gets fitted and realizes his mother's in cahoots with a queen.
WHEN| About three weeks into the Arena.
WHERE| D8 Stylist's quarters.
WARNINGS| Usual Capitolite entitlement.
Up until nearly three weeks in, the Escorts are mostly working intense amounts of overtime, spending far more hours in the Tribute Center and sleeping on couches than they are in their own homes. Jason lets Jolie know via a laconic text message that he won't be able to make their Tuesday fitting. It's not until well later that he finds time to stop by the District Eight workroom.
Jason's appreciated the reprieve from small talk, at least. He hasn't seen Swann since the retreat, and he's both grateful and upset by that, largely because he isn't certain what he should say to her and because he suspects she's avoiding him even moreso than he's been evading her. It's not like what happened between them is anything scandalous; she was sick, she came to his bedroom, and they shared a bed in a tableau almost painful in its innocence. Still, they'd spent the train on the way back in separate cars, using the excuse that they'd missed breakfast as a foolproof reason to keep their heads down and their mouths full of sausage patties and toast if anyone tried to engage them in conversation.
Jolie's romantic misadventures aren't a secret either, although the gossip isn't news Jason's terribly interested in. He can't say he understands what would possess a person of Jolie's birth to stoop to sleeping with a Tribute, and to tell the truth the queen's been dragged down quite a few pegs in Jason's already limited esteem.
The offending suit, having been slept in three nights out of the last week, has seen better days. Jason has a styrofoam cup of coffee in his hand and smells like cologne over a new age massage parlor. He's been using camphor fumes to stave off the migraine he's been fomenting for the last six days and ginger caps to tamper the nausea of sleep depravation.
Jason knocks on the doorframe, where the door's cracked, before entering a lair that could never be mistaken for anyone's but Jolie's. "Swann's not here, is she?"
WHAT| Jason gets fitted and realizes his mother's in cahoots with a queen.
WHEN| About three weeks into the Arena.
WHERE| D8 Stylist's quarters.
WARNINGS| Usual Capitolite entitlement.
Up until nearly three weeks in, the Escorts are mostly working intense amounts of overtime, spending far more hours in the Tribute Center and sleeping on couches than they are in their own homes. Jason lets Jolie know via a laconic text message that he won't be able to make their Tuesday fitting. It's not until well later that he finds time to stop by the District Eight workroom.
Jason's appreciated the reprieve from small talk, at least. He hasn't seen Swann since the retreat, and he's both grateful and upset by that, largely because he isn't certain what he should say to her and because he suspects she's avoiding him even moreso than he's been evading her. It's not like what happened between them is anything scandalous; she was sick, she came to his bedroom, and they shared a bed in a tableau almost painful in its innocence. Still, they'd spent the train on the way back in separate cars, using the excuse that they'd missed breakfast as a foolproof reason to keep their heads down and their mouths full of sausage patties and toast if anyone tried to engage them in conversation.
Jolie's romantic misadventures aren't a secret either, although the gossip isn't news Jason's terribly interested in. He can't say he understands what would possess a person of Jolie's birth to stoop to sleeping with a Tribute, and to tell the truth the queen's been dragged down quite a few pegs in Jason's already limited esteem.
The offending suit, having been slept in three nights out of the last week, has seen better days. Jason has a styrofoam cup of coffee in his hand and smells like cologne over a new age massage parlor. He's been using camphor fumes to stave off the migraine he's been fomenting for the last six days and ginger caps to tamper the nausea of sleep depravation.
Jason knocks on the doorframe, where the door's cracked, before entering a lair that could never be mistaken for anyone's but Jolie's. "Swann's not here, is she?"