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)
thecapitol2015-06-05 08:36 pm
whatisay) wrote in thecapitol2015-06-05 08:36 pm
Entry tags:
You Live Your Life Like You're Stuck in Hell [Closed]
WHO| Jason and Peggy
WHAT| The tat for a earlier tit.
WHEN| The day after Jason's fight with Swann.
WHERE| D7 Suite
WARNINGS| Jason and Peggy, so mentions of bidding, abuse, violence and general Capitolite awfulness will abound.
Jason could probably have timed this headache to the minute if he hadn't just gone ahead and ignored the warning signs with a sort of dogged stubbornness that rejected how every single time he spikes his stress levels, every single time he can't sleep the full night afterwards, every single time he wakes up in the morning seeing halos and floating spots he's going to spend his evening with an icepack on his head in a dark room. He could have raced through the work he has here and driven home and been back at his mother's house with earplugs in by now, but instead he's locked inside the District Seven bathroom, lights off, wincing in time to the music he can hear through the wall from Cassian's work studio.
If he and Swann hadn't had the fight that set all this off, maybe he would call her, ask her to drive him back to her place. But even having made up some he can't get the things she said out of his mind, and they almost take on a physical volume that makes the throbbing in his head worse. He rests it against the cool tile of the bathroom wall, trying to ignore the way his blood feels like clotted sludge shoving its way through each vein, pushing through space too tight for it. He grabs at his hair because the feeling of ripping it away from his scalp is at least the smallest distraction from the pain.
With his phone on the lowest volume setting, he picks his way through Peggy's speed dial code before holding it out on his knee, so it's not right next to his ear. He barely waits for it to be picked up before he asks: "Peggy? Are you busy?"
WHAT| The tat for a earlier tit.
WHEN| The day after Jason's fight with Swann.
WHERE| D7 Suite
WARNINGS| Jason and Peggy, so mentions of bidding, abuse, violence and general Capitolite awfulness will abound.
Jason could probably have timed this headache to the minute if he hadn't just gone ahead and ignored the warning signs with a sort of dogged stubbornness that rejected how every single time he spikes his stress levels, every single time he can't sleep the full night afterwards, every single time he wakes up in the morning seeing halos and floating spots he's going to spend his evening with an icepack on his head in a dark room. He could have raced through the work he has here and driven home and been back at his mother's house with earplugs in by now, but instead he's locked inside the District Seven bathroom, lights off, wincing in time to the music he can hear through the wall from Cassian's work studio.
If he and Swann hadn't had the fight that set all this off, maybe he would call her, ask her to drive him back to her place. But even having made up some he can't get the things she said out of his mind, and they almost take on a physical volume that makes the throbbing in his head worse. He rests it against the cool tile of the bathroom wall, trying to ignore the way his blood feels like clotted sludge shoving its way through each vein, pushing through space too tight for it. He grabs at his hair because the feeling of ripping it away from his scalp is at least the smallest distraction from the pain.
With his phone on the lowest volume setting, he picks his way through Peggy's speed dial code before holding it out on his knee, so it's not right next to his ear. He barely waits for it to be picked up before he asks: "Peggy? Are you busy?"
no subject
He's heard Districters comment about his brother's suicide that it's suiting that a Capitolite would value life little enough to throw it away. He knows it's crap, that there are suicides out in the Districts too, but there is something to be said for the weight that Capitolites put on their survival. Their very recreation tends to be drugs, mind-altering substances and risky experiences, as if their lives are collateral in every day deals.
"I guess it's just...more trouble than it's worth to die. Just because it's harder than living doesn't make life easy." He takes her hand moves her fingers to a place on his temple. "It feels like someone's driving a nail in there with every heartbeat. Jesus."
no subject
"I've always seen dying as easier." But maybe that's because her life is harder than the average Capitolite's. District life is hard, and succumbing to starvation is easy.
She allows him to move her hand and she very gently starts rubbing his temple. "Let me see if I can help."
no subject
Real people. Sometimes he doesn't realize that he says such things, believes them so deeply that there's no reason he wouldn't. And sometimes he does realize, like now, and feels uneasy, not thinking Peggy will be angry but as if he's shown a bright light on something ugly and lurking in the corners of their friendships.
"That helps a bit. I think I just..." He rubs his jaw, where the pain's lancing down from his head. "I need to stop talking. Silence. Silence is good."
no subject
Now, she just looks down at him, and for a moment there is no mask. There's no smile. There isn't even anger or resentment, since she's long become used to the way all Capitolites will forever see her as just a Districter, even the Capitolites who care about her most.
Instead of any of that, she just looks at him. It's the look of someone who is observing something they already knew was there, something they accepted a long time ago. Something that cut deep once and has now scarred over until it doesn't feel like anything anymore.
She stays silent. She rubs his head gently and tends to his pain. She won't say a word more if he doesn't.