thecapitol | Shame Can't Be the Home Where You Live [Open]

Entry tags:

Shame Can't Be the Home Where You Live [Open]

WHO| Jason and semi-open
WHAT| Caroline Compson dies and Jason exists in the aftermath.
WHEN| At least a week prior to reaping for the mini-Arena.
WHERE| Compson Manor
WARNINGS| Death, grief, emotional repression.

Jason stops coming to work on Monday, with no more warning than a text to Swann saying can't drive you today and a text to Peggy home from work. After that he lets his phone battery run down, and the few messages that get in before it dies pile up in his voicemail or inbox. He doesn't contact his coworkers, nor does he cancel the meetings with Sponsors he was supposed to be present for.

The servants are all fired. Jason tells them to vacate the premises but they don't, for two main reasons: the first being that they doubt, validly, that Jason would keep Benjamin and the horses fed and cared for, even for a few days, and the second being that Jason doesn't even seem to notice that they're there. He grabs a whole pack of caps for his vaporizer and takes up a sort of vigil on the couch in the moldy, once-beautiful living room, and smokes, at first with a kind of furious intensity and then out of a mechanical inertia, as if it's easier to just keep refilling the cap and staying where he is than to get up and perform any of the many tasks that have laid themselves out at his feet.

When night falls he doesn't even get up to turn on the light, just sitting there on the couch until sleep ambushes him and then retreats in the morning. Freedom is a ball and chain that keeps him stuck here. A few times he feels something like a fist twisting in his gut and he gets up, paces, runs his hands through his hair (which has gotten greasy and lank), and actually putting his body in motion helps to release that tension. His eyes sting and so he smokes more and tries to sleep again, passing between waking and resting with little acknowledgment for when he crosses each border.

Outside the gate stays closed, accessible only by fingerprint or intercomming to the house. The potholes and rotten belongings in the yard stay where they are, leaving patches of brown, muddy, dead grass underneath them if removed. The whole building sags a bit, as if it were sighing.

Jason's out of work for five days.

-/-

In the news, there's an obituary with ebullient recitations of the virtues no one who knew Caroline would ever say she had. It goes on to say that she's survived by her one son, Jason, as if Benjamin were shuffled out of reality when he was corralled up on the property, excised from the collective memory of the public.

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She wants to answer, wants to cry because she never wanted Caroline to die, only to stop holding Jason in chains. But maybe this is what it took, because she's only sad for Jason, not for the actual death of someone that she knew, however vaguely.

Before she can say a word, the gate opens and the intercom switches off, and Swann's left with an open mouth and no one to hear what she has to say.

She takes the handle of her trunk and begins to wheel it up the path to the house, carefully brushing away any tears that can spring up before she gets there. She reaches the drooping porch and lugs the trunk up the steps, then pauses at the door as she decides whether she should actually knock.

She doesn't. She gently turns the knob and enters, glancing down as the floor creaks under her. Closing the door behind herself, she looks around and tries to remember the layout of the house from twenty-odd years ago, when the Compsons still held parties. Eventually, she just takes a few more steps into the foyer and calls out, "Jason?"

He considers not answering, not out of spite but simply because actually making the effort to raise his voice seems like a cruel task to ask of him, but eventually he manages. "Living room," he calls, sitting up and resting his forehead on the heel of his palm.

It used to be a beautiful house, but by now the damage is so deep that nothing short of a total renovation will bring it back to anything worth commentary aside from its size. It smells like decay. It smells like it's been given up on for years, with the immediately messes handled but any of the more intensive and gradual upkeep abandoned, shifted onto the shoulders of ghosts. There are no family portraits, aside from a painted one that sits above the fireplace, which hasn't been used in months. Quentin's jewel sits next to Jason's father's on the hearth, but both are covered in dust and the wreaths around them have shriveled and browned.

The last time Swann turned the corner into the living room was over twenty years ago, her in a pink outfit with a dyed fur stole, both of her parents making an appearance, the chandeliers filled with light instead of cobwebs.

The stench is almost overwhelming in the first few seconds, but Jason calls again and she forgets how unpleasant it is, how dusty and frightening neglected everything around her is, too filled with concern to have any other other thoughts. She drags her trunk behind her, following his voice more than her memory of the house.

She wears black this time, from the small, veiled fascinator pinned into her hair to her shoes, where black silk ribbons tie up her ankles like a dark ballerina. There's a sort of scurry toward him when he's in view, and she leaves her trunk at the entranceway in favor of crouching down to take his face in her hands, thumbs running along his cheeks.

"It'll be all right," she murmurs, and she doesn't sound at all sure, but she doesn't know what else to tell him. "I don't want you to do this alone."

He isn't expecting her to touch him, or rather, isn't expecting to be touched at all, having spent the last three days in absolute seclusion. He pulls away from her, not out of repulsion but just because it surprised him.

"There's nothing I'm doing. I'm fine, Swann." He sincerely believes it, too, and is entirely oblivious to the fact that he hasn't eaten in days or that he's still wearing what he saw her in last, or that he skipped work at all. The last few days are an impenetrable wash. "I needed a few days to make funeral arrangements."

She looks mildly hurt, her brow furrowed above her nose, but doesn't say or do anything besides reach for him again, for his hands this time. She stays crouched, cocks her head, and her face twists with more concern than she already had.

"Jason, it's been three days and no one's heard from you. You haven't changed your clothes, you haven't washed your hair or shaved, you haven't... have you eaten? Where's Ben?" Swann glances up with an odd sense of urgency, like she's afraid that Jason's grief has taken his brother too, starved and neglected him just like everything else in the house.

"I ate on Sunday." The Wednesday sun is almost down. He doesn't pull away from her again, lets his hands rest in hers after ducking his head down to grab the cigarette with his teeth.

"I don't know. What are you around here looking for Ben for? If he starves that's one less load off my shoulders." He tilts his head as he hears Ben's cry from outside. "See? He's fine. Probably upset that the wind knocked over one of his toys or something."

Swann bites her lip for a second, squeezes his hands gently. "It's Wednesday night, Jason. You have to eat, please. I'm not looking for Ben, I just want to --"

Benjy cries out and she lets out a breath of relief, because at least he's alive and around, and she can feed him after she gets Jason taken care of.

"You have to take care of yourself. I brought food, you'll feel better if you eat and take a shower, change your clothes." She reaches up and strokes his cheek again, her fingers brushing over three days' worth of stubble. "Please. People are worried about you."

"When did it turn into Wednesday? Why didn't anyone tell me it was Wednesday?" Jason looks vaguely angry, not at himself but at his phone for daring to expire, or maybe at the servants for having existed even though he fired them. "I only meant to miss Monday, I didn't figure anyone would hold it against me for taking a day off after my own mother up and had a damn stroke."

He puts his hand over hers, but any emotional connection they usually say eye-to-eye seems locked away, trapped in that reservoir of emotions that's been dammed up.

"You're worrying yourself over nothing. I'm alright. It's not like Mother didn't have one foot in the grave for the last twenty years anyway." He gets up off the couch again, mulling the cigarette in between his lips. "I'll take a shower."

"I don't think there's anyone else here, and your phone died. No one's upset with you, just worried. I've been taking care of your Tributes, the stuff that Emily and Cassian can't handle." Her thumb runs along his cheekbone, sharper than normal from lack of food and proper sleep, and she only moves when he stands up.

"Okay," she says, and she doesn't tell him that he's not all right, that he's obviously not all right. She takes a step back so he can head toward the bathroom, wherever that is, and so she can set out food for him. Hunt Benjy down and give him some food too.

"Maybe Mother could have taught Ben to remember the days of the week before she dumped him on me." He should say thank you, and maybe he will, given time. He shuffles off to the downstairs bathroom, then nearly forgets to take his clothing off before stepping in the shower. The water's hot, and it vaguely occurs to him that it's all to him now. No competition for it from Quentin or Mother or Ben.

He scours himself red, scrubbing himself hard enough to hurt.

Outside, Ben is with one of the servants, a teenage boy who is kicking a ball around. Benjy is sitting front of what the Compsons have called "the graveyard" for years, a collection of brightly-colored bottles and baubles lined up in rows that Benjy tends to with mindless and incomprehensible diligence. He doesn't look at Swann with any recognition but with a sort of placid acceptance of her presence here and smiles.

"Shit," the boy says, "has Mr. Jason figured out we didn't vacate yet?"

Swann follows him to the bathroom and closes the door before returning to her trunk and beginning to unpack food containers. She sets out lasagna and salad and fresh bread, a slice of cake, all on plates she brought from home because she didn't know what to expect. She places them on the coffee table for him and then retrieves a container bearing a large brownie, decorated with frosting and sprinkles, before managing to find her way outside.

She's surprised to see the boy, but she only pauses for a moment. "No, but don't worry about it. Thank you all for staying, Ben needs you. Jason does too, even if he'll never admit it." She reaches into a small purse at her side, made of black fur with an emerald closure, and fishes out a wad of bills, which she offers to the boy. "I don't know what he pays you. Is a thousand enough for the rest of the week? Please stay until arrangements are made, Jason can't handle Ben alone. I'll pay, if he won't. Just stay away from him."

That done, Swann goes to Ben and crouches down, beaming at him and speaking softly. "Hi, Ben. You probably don't remember me. I know it's been a long time. I brought you this, though." She offers him the container with the brownie, unsure of whether he'll take it. "There's more food in the house, too."

"You're Swann Honeymead, right?" The boy takes the money from her - he's poor by Capitol standards, servant class, but he doesn't grab at it like a Districter who would imagine it to disappear any second now. "Guess it's true what they said about you two in the magazines."

Ben grabs at the brownie as if it were a small stuffed toy and not food, and the boy crouches down and takes it from him, then breaks off a piece and coaxes Benjy to open his mouth and take it.

"We get four hundred a week. This'll buy us off until mid-month." The boy pauses, then, feeding another piece to Benjy and kiping a mouthful for himself, adds in a quick "thank you".

Back in the living room, Jason's gotten dressed in a fresh set of clothes and wound up back on the couch, sitting with his knees spraddled and staring at the wall again. He glances at the food, but feels no compulsion to eat. He wonders if his mother was the netting holding this whole place together.

"Yes, I am," she says, and doesn't address the tabloids and their nasty comments. "I'll bring more if Jason doesn't figure out something by then." Still crouched, she smiles at Benjy again and strokes his cheek before standing back up and fishing in her purse once more. She finds her card and holds it out to the boy. "Here. If Ben needs anything, please let me know."

Swann heads back to the house, finds the kitchen and fills a glass with water, then brings it to Jason. She sets it on the table and sighs, picking up the fork she brought and trying to hand it to him. "Please eat something, Jason, please. You can't starve yourself."

The boy whistles a bit and tucks the card into his pocket. "You must have the patience of a saint. I can say that now. He's not my employer anymore."

Ben smiles, eyes a bit unfocused, and licks some crumbs off his lips. Every time he gets another piece of brownie he grins.

Jason takes the water but doesn't look at the food yet.

"I'm not starving myself. I'm just not hungry. I'm fine." Maybe he hasn't eaten in so long his stomach's forgotten what it's for, he thinks. Maybe he's hungry enough it's making him nauseous. "Besides, aren't you the last person to be badgering someone to stuff their face?"

She shrugs. "Maybe I just understand him better than other people do. Everyone has someone."

Swann strokes Ben's cheek again before she leaves.

Inside, she rubs her temple lightly as Jason refuses food. "Maybe I am. But you always try to get me to eat, so I suppose I should return the favor." With a sigh, she sits next to him on the sofa, close but far enough away that he won't feel overwhelmed with her presence. "Please try, Jason. You're going to get sick if you don't eat. Trust me on that one."

"It's not that the food doesn't look nice. It's fine. I'm just not hungry." Jason sighs and takes the fork from her, poking at the lasagna before he takes a piece. He swallows it and it doesn't seem to taste like anything, not through any fault of its own, and all the while he can't explain why he feels so disconnected and vacant and heavy because God knows he didn't have a wonderful relationship with his mother. God knows his life will be easier now.

Swallowing seems to remind his body what he was missing, and though he still doesn't enjoy the next few bites he takes he does them less reluctantly.

In a terrible way eating new food seems to be erasing the last dinner he had with his mother, the meal before Jason retired to his bedroom and Caroline went up to bed, the last thing either of them had had. Now it's one less thing they have in common.

"I'm not sad, Swann."

She's pleased that he's at least putting food in his body, whether it's to appease her or because part of his stomach is aware of its own emptiness. All that matters is that he eats.

"Then what are you?" she asks lightly, resting her arm on the back of the sofa and then her head on her arm as she watches him eat. "You don't seem anything else, any other feeling. Only sad. Sad doesn't have to be crying and wailing. Sad can be a lot of things."

"Just tired. Angry, maybe. She chose a damn inconvenient time to die. I don't know." Jason runs his hands over his face and takes another sip of the water. "I'll be alright when I get back to work. I'm just..."

He sighs and sits back, wincing as the food in his previously barren stomach sends a pang through him. He doesn't have words and he's long since choked down any physical response to these sorts of emotions. "I should probably start looking for places for Ben."

"It makes sense to feel like that." Swann gently reaches to brush some of his hair behind his ear, long where he hasn't put any product in, and nods. "But don't go back to work just to have something to do. It'll make you crazy at the worst times, when you're with Sponsors."

He sits back and she tentatively scootches closer, unused to there being a distance like this between them. She expects he'll push her away if he can't stand her being close, but she hopes he won't. "I can make a list of some places," she tells him. "So you don't have to do all the research yourself."

"Well, according to everyone I was crazy already anyway. Maybe now I'll just get a little leeway to keep being the only sane man in the building." The idea of dealing with Sponsors makes him feel ill, and he winces again at the prospect. He can imagine the same tragedy theater there was when Father died. The condolences, the expectation of a certain dignified devastation, the way people will want to somehow latch onto the loss like lampreys.

He half-laughs quietly and doesn't push her away. He even leans in to her slightly. "I could leave him in a cardboard box on the side of the road. He probably wouldn't know the difference."

"They're all idiots. The people who matter know you're not crazy." She watches him wince and it makes her press her lips together, because she knows he's not ready to face the world yet. He wasn't even ready for her, and only let her in because she would have broken in otherwise.

She doesn't know when he'll be ready for the world again.

Closing the gap between them, she wraps her arms around his middle and lays her head on his shoulder with a sigh. "No, but you would. You'd regret it someday." She knows he wouldn't. "We'll find him somewhere that they'll take good care of him."

"Says you." After a pause, he wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her to him, too, turning the affection she shows him mutual even though his effort is a bit half-hearted. "I just don't want to send him anywhere too expensive. It's bad enough I'm stuck with him when everyone else in the family dies or runs off, but I'd rather he not bleed me dry over it."

He feels like he probably should feel something besides exhaustion and annoyance, but that's all he can skim from the top of whatever well he has deep inside.

"I'll need to call Maury at some point. Maybe I can foist the funeral expenses off on him."

Honestly, it's more than she expected, so Swann's satisfied, curling in the space between his body and his arm. She nods a little. "We'll figure it out. Somewhere good but not pricey. Maybe there's somewhere out in the country."

She strokes his side and then brushes her fingers through his hair again. "It's the least he could do," she says, and they both know that Maury won't pay for the funeral. "You can call him tomorrow, don't make yourself do it tonight."

"I wish she didn't have to have one. She'd crawl up out of her grave if I didn't. She'd-"

He pauses, losing that sentence midway as his throat chokes up for a second with what he refuses to call sadness. He takes a drag of the cigarette instead and another sip of water, then transfers the plate of lasagna to his lap so he can eat it without having to move Swann much.

"I'm going to have to run out the last of the savings on a circus she'll be too dead to appreciate, surrounded by people telling me really wish they'd visited in the last twenty years but got distracted or whatever." He sighs. "Maybe I'll be lucky and Maury will have had a stroke too."

She feels his moment of stiffness, but only strokes his side again, nodding. "I know. It's awful. But I'll be there, you don't have to do it all alone. Just... you know, pick a day. Have her pressed, and everything else is just decorations, you know? Flowers and food and stuff. You deal with Maury and the guest list, I'll get florists and caterers started. It just has to go step by step."

Twisting her neck a little, she stretches to kiss his cheek. Swann is good at planning, at organizing. It's what she can offer, to lighten his load by arranging for things to be done so that Jason doesn't have to.

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