thecapitol | I Cannot Decipher Conversation in Your Head [Closed]

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I Cannot Decipher Conversation in Your Head [Closed]

WHO| Jason Compson and Swann
WHAT| Yoga, kites and long drives.
WHEN| Sunday.
WHERE| Swann's place.
WARNINGS| Capitolite cluelessness. Shameless shipping and graphic sexual content.

He doesn't go to the cemetery with his mother, and that means that Benjamin gets out of having to go, too. Caroline whimpers and whines her way through the morning, talking about how lonely she'll be standing at the headstones of her husband and her eldest son, acting as if Jason's indifference to ritualized mourning is giving her physical pains. When Jason outright calls them psychosomatic, Caroline retires to her bedroom, making little mewling noises, and he sighs and insists that some Avoxes accompany her to the graves no matter what fight she puts up.

"I'm head of the house," he tells one of the few servants who still has her tongue, "no matter that she's my mother. She tries to shake you off, you follow and make sure she doesn't have a chance to blame me that she didn't get to grieving today."

By the time he gets to Swann's he's got the start of a headache and his mood has dipped below its baseline sullen and into fully cranky. He isn't late, but he would have liked to give himself a cushion of time, and instead he couldn't take the smoother, scenic route and had to near run a red and do his smoking while driving. As he'll supposedly be changing into new clothes as soon as he's here, he's looking relatively simple in dark jeans and his coat and a collared shirt. A flourish of embroidery on the cuffs speaks to opulence; the bad stitching on those same sleeves reveals that luxury to be an affect only. The kite is in a bag covered in tissue paper at his side.

He realizes he doesn't think Swann's seen him in casual clothing. He knows it likely won't matter soon, but he makes sure his hair is nice before he appears. He might as well keep up appearances around her, even if she knows better.

He rings the bell.

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Swann, on the other hand, has a leisurely morning, quiet as always. The only noise that's ever in her home comes from either her or Marcel, so it's calm and peaceful as she has breakfast in bed, reads the paper, then gets up and does her own yoga routine, knocks it out to wake her up so that she's ready to try and teach Jason.

Which, even though she wants him to learn, she has questions about how patient he'll be with himself, to clear his mind and center himself.

She's still barefoot and in her yoga clothes when she bounds to the door, ponytail bouncing behind her. She opens it with a wide smile, peering up at him.

"Hi, good morning! Come in!"

"'Morning." He can't quite bring himself to call it a good morning, even if, he must admit, it's a little better for having Swann in it. He doesn't plan on telling her about the trials of this Sunday morning, but somehow there's a sense of camaraderie to it anyway.

He comes on in and sets the kite on a table in the hallway, figuring if this goes disastrously he can distract her with the gift, like a cockatiel.

"I hope you're not planning on putting me in florals."

"Maybe later, there's always time for dress-up."

She grabs his wrist, used to pulling him around by now, and takes him to what was once a guest room. It now seems to house a miniaturized wooden wardrobe, doors open to reveal that this is where Marcel's extensive costume and sweater collection lives. Through the doors to the walk-in closet, there are obviously a lot of craft supplies and gift wrap, and glitter stuck in the carpet.

Two yoga mats lie on the floor, one pink and monogrammed, the other a sensible black with a small gray logo in the corner. They're directly in front of the large glass doors that lead to a balcony, obviously to benefit from the sun.

Swann drags him toward the attached bathroom, where a pair of black yoga pants (for men) and a lightweight white shirt with a v-neck are folded neatly atop the hamper.

"Here, you can change in here."

He's relieved that she's sensitive enough to his tastes not to try to force him into something he doesn't want to wear, although he supposes that that's the mark of a decent Escort. Even he has to bend his will sometimes to try and keep the Tributes with the illusion that they have some agency.

"These are nice." He takes the garments in his arms and closes the bathroom door behind him.

For a moment after putting the clothing on, he looks at himself in the mirror, the way that the sway of his spine makes it look like he has more of a stomach than he really does and how all the muscle in his body seems to have been left in his arms and shoulders at the expense of everything else. For a variety of reasons he never really was involved in sports or exercise; he's naturally a bit graceless, even going so far as to be outright clumsy; he had thin skin for teasing as a child and couldn't bear to put himself into the spotlight for more of it.

He would say he isn't shy so much as, perhaps, sensitive. His insecurities usually manifest as anger and he can't be that around Swann; she picks it up like a magnet carries iron out of sand.

He opens the door. "I don't look stupid, do I?"

It had been obvious to Swann from the moment he agreed to let her shop for him that she needed to go simple, preferably neutrals. Luckily, yoga shops tended to make this easy -- she supposed that, even in the Capitol, men were less prone to want decorative work-out clothing than women.

But, to be fair, Swann goes out of her way to find adorable yoga clothes. She had, after all, started her career in fashion, and doesn't intend to give up her love of it.

She's lingering a few steps from the door, where an audio system is loading up some very calming, new age music, and she presses play before glancing over at him. Her face breaks into a wide smile.

"No. Not at all. Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be." He goes over and stands at the edge of the dark mat, eying it as if it's dark water that he's going to have to jump in, that urban myth has told him might contain sharks or snakes or tentacles that will pull him under but that logic says is entirely innocuous.

But he smiles back at her, because even if he isn't sold on the idea he knows there's a limit to how sullen he can be before Swann starts to take it personally. "Alright. You're the teacher."

Swann stands on her own mat, then sits, folding her legs neatly underneath herself. She pats his mat for him to mimic her, and then starts to explain.

"Okay, so this is a really easy routine, it's designed to be done in the morning, to clear your head and open your body, so that you can have a good start to your day. The first position is Child's Pose, and it's pretty much the most important pose in all of yoga. All you need to do is fold forward and stretch out, resting your head on the mat."

Slowly, she demonstrates, keeping her backside flat on her heels even as her arms stretch out toward the door, her forehead resting down on the mat.

"Try to get your torso flat to your thighs, but it's okay if you can't. It's more important to feel your hips open and your back sort of gently stretch. It shouldn't ever hurt. Tell me if something hurts, so we can stop."

He follows her motions, keeping his gaze trained on her as if he doesn't seem to be looking at a woman or even a person so much as an instruction manual of flesh and bone. He feels clunky, like someone made from cement and wire trying to ape a flower as it opens for the sun.

Still, he gets his feet under him and stretches out, thinking how strange the name for this pose is when he's so rarely, if ever, seen an actual youth in it. His shoulders bend a bit much for him to get his torso flat, but he can reassure her anyway.

"Alright, nothing hurts yet. How many positions are there?"

"Not that many in this routine, it's a pretty quick one. Good for beginners, and to see if you like it."

She rolls her head toward him, so that she can see better if he's doing anything wrong, something that might strain any part of his body. She remains folded in half, comfortable.

"Okay, so now you just want to breathe in for a three-count, then out for a three-count. Fill your lungs and your diaphragm, and when you exhale, pull your belly button toward your spine, like a hook is pulling them together. In, two, three... out, two, three. Just close your eyes and let your mind slow down while you focus just on breathing. All you need to do is breathe."

Her voice has softened, almost like a part of the music -- she's not chirpy anymore, she's calm and relaxed and quiet.

What he lacks in grace he also lacks in rhythm, to an extent, and even something as simple as a three-count seems to have a seasick, unbalanced quality to it. Still, he tries his best, focusing on breathing, feeling like the morning air is harsher on his lungs and nose than it should be. His neck is not at the most comfortable angle; Swann might want to fix that.

(When he closes his eyes and tries to think about just breathing, he idly wonders how it felt for Quentin to drown.)

Listening to the body seems to give him the strange feeling of coming into his own meat, as if he's just now paying attention to the muscle and fat that make up his corporeal form. He feels as if he can sense the blood's tide in his temples, and he's certain that that quiet gallop in his chest is his heart.

"Is the music necessary to this?"

"I usually like it, but I can turn it off if you want," she says, unfolding herself to lean over and gently adjust his head and neck. Her hands are delicate, using only enough strength to actually shift him. "That should feel a little better."

She's starting to realize that he might need actual correction in his poses, that she'll have to show him and then move him as necessary to get him to do it properly, particularly as they get more complicated than 'kneel and bend forward'.

Resuming her pose, she keeps talking and moving.

"Breathe in one more time, then, as you exhale, slowly rise up, keeping your hands on the mat, pushing down into your knuckles. Lengthen your spine, that's more important than straight legs. Imagine that your tailbone is tied to a chandelier. This is called downward-facing dog."

"I think silence might be a little better." His cheeks flush when she puts both her hands to the side of his face, fixing his position, but his eyes stay on the mat, the strange manufactured dunes and creases of rubbery material.

He takes a deep breath, then goes with what she's explaining. He's rarely straightened his spine - it's not a gesture that comes naturally to his body language - and doing so feels as if his form's being rearranged by some force beyond his own musculature. His blood seems to go scattershot, haphazard, as if it's no longer flowing through his veins but is pooling at random intervals.

"Alright. Tell me this one isn't supposed to feel comfortable."

Help, Swann. Help.

"Okay, okay."

She quickly stands and moves to help, hands on his hips to realign them and fix the pressure he's feeling. She moves his feet back slightly, widens his stance, then breaks away only long enough to turn down the music.

"Is that any better?" she asks, kneeling beside him and placing gently pressure on his sacrum, hands facing opposite ways. "Push down on your hands, don't try to hold all your weight in your back."

"Yeah. Better. Feels like all the blood's going to my head, though." He closes his eyes again, trying to get in tune with his body and not just her hands on him. He hears a little pop as something in his back realigns.

He tries breathing deep, not because he expects this is going to work but because he knows Swann wants him to try, will feed on that attempt like a hummingbird drinks sugarwater.

She straightens his neck, puts it in line with his spine. "Don't let your head hang, that's why it's happening. Your back is a line, keep it straight from the base of your skull to your tailbone."

Swann runs him through another few moments of breathing, then slowly lowers his hips downward. "Okay, we're going into a plank, a line from your neck to your heels" -- she supports his torso through the movement -- "and then bring your knees down so that you're on all fours. You're doing really, really well, Jason."

He straightens his neck and the pressure in his head seems to abate a little. He exhales deep again, then goes into that plant motion, a little surprised by how much it feels like a swoop. It's a relief to get his knees down, into a pose that doesn't feel like he has to focus on every line in his body to keep from looking like some ungainly disaster.

His blood, however, seems intent on continuing the trend of embarrassment, and it starts to collect.

"You don't have to lie to me." He looks up at her. "And what, you do a rep of forty?"

"I'm not lying," she says, staying low on the floor as she crawls back to her own mat into the proper position. "You are doing well. You've never done this before. But no, yoga isn't really about reps. It's about opening yourself up to feel more calm and peaceful."

She smiles at him, then keeps explaining. "This is called cat cows. You're going to arch your spine down first, and your neck back, then arch all the way up and bring your neck down, so your head follows the curve of your spine. So down and back, up and forward."

She demonstrates, her motions smooth and careful, and adds on, "Inhale on the down stretch, exhale on the up stretch."

He goes through the motion as she explains it, watching as her body length switches from convex to concave and back, like an eyelid opening and closing with blinks. The motion isn't intentionally sexual, but the arched back- it's as if his brain can't help but take her fluid motion and speed it up into a sort of fantasy-

"Can we go back to child's pose?" His face is turning red, moreso than it was when he was letting gravity flush his head with blood during the downward dog pose.

Swann opens her eyes and glances over at him.

"Oh. Okay, yeah, sure. Just sit back," she says, immediately folding into the proper pose. She wonders if he's feeling overexerted, or if he just really hates yoga. She imagines that maybe he's trying to be nice by making her go backwards, rather than just standing up and saying that it's all stupid.

He does, doing his best to stay in the pose while he tries to wrest his body back under his control. Tension appears as a crinkle at the corner of each of his eyes, between his brow.

"What about the mental side of this? How do you do that, the clearing the mind bit?"

"Go back to focusing on your breathing, and just let everything flow out of your body," she says. "Spread your hands on the mat, and imagine everything in your body and mind moving up, up through your spine and your arms and your hands, and then let all of it come out of this tips of your fingers and out of you, until you're empty and clean of all things that cloud your peace."

Even as she talks, her breathing becomes more steady and heavy, and she lets her eyes close.

Edited 2015-02-20 22:19 (UTC)

It all sounds like mumbo-jumbo to him, honestly, but he does as she says, spreading out his hands (unringed), his eyes closed, his breath forcefully measured. He imagines his skull as a vase of water, draining out slowly, but while he's sure Swann's has a smooth bottom his feels full of rocks and rusted metal that rear up out of the base.

In that moment he hates her, truly and fully, with a sort of unmitigable and inarticulate fury that comes from feeling controlled by someone who doesn't even know they're playing upon a piano's strings. But he tries to let tat go, imagines that coming out his fingertips and pooling across the floor in a languid and ugly puddle, tries to imagine himself a smooth basin.

He feels the uncomfortable physical reaction abate too, and he breathes a sigh of relief that goes deeper than any of the deep breaths Swann had his take earlier.

"Alright. Let's try it again."

Swann, meanwhile has found that place in her head where everything is okay, where there's no tension or panic or overwhelming anxiety that makes her shake involuntarily and cry. It took her nearly a year after her ill-fated attempt at death to find this place, endless sessions where she was sure she'd never get her true moment of peace.

It took practice, it took effort, like everything else in the world.

But when she sits up, she faces him, rearranging her legs into lotus position and resting her hands on her knees, head cocked to the side.

"Are you all right, Jason? We don't have to keep going if you hate it."

"I don't hate it. I don't. I'm fine."

He doesn't look nearly as at peace as Swann does, but the blush is starting to run back down his neck from his face. Unprompted, he tries to go into that downward dog pose that came after the first one, taking care to keep his head from hanging.

He wants to find that peace that he can see on her, that makes the muscles in her face go loose and her eyelashes fold gently over the curves of her eyes.

"How's this?"

"It's good," she says, reaching out to twist his hand, make sure that the line of his arm is correct, "but I think what you need right now is savasana. Corpse pose. I was saving it for the end, but I think it'll help you more than any other pose. Come on."

She shifts to lie down, feet shoulder-width apart, arms loose at her sides with her palms up. "Just don't arch your neck, keep your throat soft," she tells him, "and don't let your chest sink down. Keep your spine aligned."

Closing her eyes in the warmth of the sun through the glass doors, Swann focuses on her breathing, regulates, then starts to talk again.

"Everything is leaving you. The world is gone, it's flowing out of you until you can only feel peace. Even where the world wants to cling to you, remember that you are ice and it can only slide through your body until it's gone. Everything is calm. Everything is still. Have patience and let the stillness find you. You are not emptying the ocean, you are quieting it. Shanti... shanti... shanti."

And then she is quiet.

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lol i'm terrible at yoga making shit up

i'm better with pilates but i've been forced through enough yoga that i can rp it lmao

i flunked my only yoga class ;A;

that's a gift

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