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

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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 runs her hand back and forth over his chest, resettling her head on his shoulder as he moves to eat. It makes her happy that he's eating, makes her feel useful and, more importantly, satisfies her need to make sure he's all right. To ensure his health over her own.

Swann shrugs lightly. "It doesn't bother me," she says, and it's only partly a lie. The smell bothered her, at first. "It's not like I love you for your house." She's glad she came, glad she made sure that Ben was taken care of and that Jason at least got up and functioned a little bit. The showering and eating is a good start.

"Are you going to stay here?"

"Sure it does." Swann's used words like 'love' before, and usually Jason can handle them, but now it feels like swallowing cold oil. He exhales deep.

"I don't know. Maybe. Maybe I could sell the land and have the building bulldozed." That's a lot of work, though, and right now it feels like too much, and so he doesn't think about it too hard. "She just- God I'm left with everything to handle. I always am, I don't know why I expected any different. I'm so angry, Swann."

She looks at him, a little surprised that he's opened up at all, but pleased all the same. She understands why he would be angry, understands because she spent many of her formative years filling in for her mother, being her surrogate for the public, for her father's sake. Taking care of a life that wasn't Swann's to take care of, from the time she was too young to even be taking care of herself.

Reaching for his hand, she twines their fingers together, lets her nose graze the line of his jaw. "I know. But I'm here. I'll help you get through it all, figure everything out. Whatever you need, however long you want to take. We just go day by day for now, one thing at a time. Today, all we need to do is get food in you."

"There's nothing to get through," he insists again, like he could banish the momentousness of the situation by just refusing to acknowledge its gravity. "I just need a few days off work, and the funeral, and sending Ben somewhere. A little time to just be angry and get things done."

Just practical things, which leave no room for mourning, either for his mother or the childhood he never really had.

He gives her hand a squeeze and picks at the salad. "I'm not going to lock myself up being sickly for twenty years, Swann. I promise."

"It's still stuff to get through, there are a lot of things that need to be done." She says it gently, but she can think of a long list just from having been through a few rooms of the house. Even if Jason wants to demolish the house, it can't simply be done overnight -- all of these things take planning and work and meetings. "It's a process, it can't all be done by the end of the week."

She sighs. "I know. I just want you to know it's okay, to take as long as you need. It might not be over in a few days. That's all I mean."

"I can't afford to take forever off, unless I really do leave Ben by the side of the road." Jason keeps trying to push away from the idea that there's anything happening besides the practical inconveniences. He's busy and irritated and stressed out and overwhelmed, that's understandable. Respectable, even.

The way his throat tightens again and his eyes sting and his head spins a bit is nothing but the product of all the smoking and bad sleep and not eating. He starts to arrange his tower of logic to protect himself again.

"Maybe I could just burn it down."

"No, but I mean, you'll still need to meet with lawyers and realtors and whoever else, you know?" She runs her fingers through his hair, feeling in his arms the way he tenses, stiffens, and hooks her ankle around his. "Ben will be taken care of, you'll just have details to wrap up over the next few weeks. That's all."

"Don't say that," she says quietly when he gets dark. "It's all going to be all right. It will. I promise."

"Right. It'll be alright." He sighs again and pulls her close.

"It'd be kind of freeing, just burning it." He doesn't tell Swann that in his fantasies about it, he doesn't leave the house, just sits here on the couch while the whole place fills with smoke and collapses. "Make it look like an accident, get the insurance claim for it."

She wouldn't judge him if he told her, would probably relate to that thought more than the idea of burning it for insurance money. But she won't push him either, even if she suspects that there's not only greed in that thought train.

"The land is probably worth more if it's not burnt up. Sink a couple thousand assi into renovations and this place could sell for a fortune." She says it all distantly, curled up to him, then shifts and straddles his lap facing him, her knees sinking into the moldy velvet sofa. Her arms wrap around his neck and she just hugs him, holds onto him, their chests pressed together.

"Maybe."

He doesn't look at her as she pulls herself on to him, but he does hold her close - tightly, tight enough that she can feel that tremble in his arms and shoulders, the way his heart starts racing as he remembers that time in the past that he cried into her neck, inarticulate and damaged and beyond eloquent expression.

"I'm alright, Swann. I promise." He's telling himself more than her.

Her face presses into the crook of his neck, her head resting on her own bicep, and his tremble shakes both of them, his heart pounding against his ribs so hard that she can feel it over her own. She blinks slowly and her fingertips run along his shoulderblade idly.

"I know. I'm here anyway." It's whispered, and they both know he's not all right, and they both know she won't push it out of him, will let him bottle it up until he explodes if he prefers. "I'm here."

It's what he always tells her when she's upset or sick, because the physical act of being there has always mattered so much to both of them, her with her absent mother and him taking up the mantle of the ghosts in the house. And he finds some comfort in it, in her, her breath against his neck and her hand along his shoulder.

"I'm tired," he says finally, when that tremble has faded and his jackhammer heartbeat with it. "Do you mind, just...? If you have nowhere to be."

There's silence between them, and she can hear every inhale and exhale. Her fingers go back and forth, slowly, mindlessly, and his trembling passes to her even when she tries to fight it and be strong. She feels like she has to hold on for the both of them, like he's done for her in the past.

"I'll stay as long as you want." She sits back a little, so they're face to face, and brushes his hair back again, behind his ear, and finally smiles just the tiniest bit. "When do I ever have plans in the evening without you?"

"Point." He tries to meet her smile back, just the faintest one, but he can't seem to manage it. Everything's left him exhausted, too exhausted to play along even with affection he genuinely feels. That heavy choking feeling inside seems to suck up all the energy it takes to even move. "Just for tonight. My bedroom's down the hall, I promise it's nicer than the rest of this place."

Jason cleans his room because he doesn't allow anyone else in it, and there isn't much to get dirty or require upkeep. He kisses her, but there's no feeling in it, just a dutiful obedience to their relationship. He can't seem to feel anything right now. He doesn't move to get up, either.

She can see him trying, feel it, and it doesn't surprise her that he can't smile or kiss her like it's anything but an obligation. She understands, and she kisses his forehead before standing up and offering him her hands. She pulls him down the hall like she has any idea where she's going, but she trusts he won't let her pass the right door.

All she can do is squeeze his hand tightly as they move along.

He makes sure they get to the right door, which leads to a spartan bedroom with nothing but a closet and a night table and a nearly-empty bookshelf. It's not that the room isn't big enough for more, but that Jason's never bothered to populate it, using it only for sleeping and storage in the closet.

He breaks away from her and lies down on the bed, curling up on his side, facing the wall. He's in a strange bind, wanting the companionship but barely able to interact, finding it hard to even keep up with any words Swann says to him because his mind keeps wandering, not to other locales but to getting lost in that cloying opaque impenetrable mist.

He just knows he can't bear to sleep alone tonight.

Swann glances around, and he was right about it being nicer, in that the scent of mold hasn't completely permeated everything the way it has in the rest of the house. He pulls away and she lets him, watching as he curls in on himself, rolls up the same way she does, like a wounded animal, protecting the softness of their stomachs.

She unties her shoes. Takes the headpiece out of her hair. Slips out of her dress and leaves it on the floor before joining him on the bed, wrapping her arm around his waist and pressing her cheek to his back. She lets her feet touch his, runs her fingers along the nape of his neck.

There's not much else that she can think of, and so she just hums her lullaby, the one she'd played for him, soft and almost under her breath. It's as much for her as it is for him.

For a while, they both stay awake, neither talking. Jason listens to the lullaby and holds her hand over his waist. After an hour, he slips off, the tiredness finally turning into sleepiness.

He doesn't sleep well. Four times during the night he untangled from Swann, then walks down the hall, not a somnambulist but not truly conscious either, and waits at the bottom of the stairs for some sound that doesn't come. He paces for a little while and then returns, crawling back under the covers and catching another handful of hours.

A little bit before dawn he wakes again, then rolls over and clings to Swann, burying his face in her shoulder, saying nothing.

Swann falls asleep only after Jason does, when his breathing and heartbeat slow down and drag her into slumber as well. She wakes each time he does, but she only follows him the first time, watching from the doorway as he waits and paces. She figures he's fine as long as he's not hurting himself or her, and Ben is safe with the servants.

When he rolls over, she wakes and yawns a little, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and stroking the back of his hair, his neck. They stay that way for a while, quiet, until she finally breaks the silence. "Feel any better?"

It's a while before Jason answers. He breathes in the smell of her, listens to her heartbeat, tries to hold on to something he knows certainly is there. He wants to get up and go back to the base of the stairs, because in the space between sleeping and waking he thinks he can hear his mother shuffling around and he knows on that surface logical level that that's impossible.

He knows it'll go away eventually, that a few weeks after his father's death he stopped waking up in the night thinking he heard the clink of the decanter, but he never felt the need to check and make sure back then. Now he does, for the fifth time since they laid down here.

"No."

Her fingers keep combing through his hair, and she nuzzles at his ear in the meantime, waiting for him to let her in, to tell her what he's thinking. He's at least being slightly less distant physically, and she takes that as a good sign.

"I can make you some coffee," she offers quietly, although she doesn't want to leave him and she certainly doesn't know where the Compsons keep their coffee. She doesn't know if her comforting is doing him any good, and it makes her feel like she needs to give more. But she doesn't have much else to give.

"Is there anything I can do?"

"No. I don't want coffee. I don't want anything."

He wants his mother, as much as he won't admit it, as much as his conception of 'mother' is less the woman herself than the idea of motherhood that he feels was denied to him since childhood, the idea of the stable if unhappy life he had just days ago, Caroline standing in as synecdoche for the world before Jason's life's structure came crashing down or for the affection and protection he craved but knows he didn't receive even once since Damuddy died.

He's an adult, and yet the desires that are starting to break through the dull wall are all so infantile, so basic, wrapped around the most heartfelt instincts of the human psyche.

"I don't think there's anything you can do. You go on to work. I'll be alright." He kisses her forehead. "I'll eat breakfast, I promise."

The heartbreaking thing is that, if he would admit it, it's probably one of the few things that Swann could provide, at least for a little bit. That's something she knows, gives freely to some of the younger Tributes she's met.

She looks a bit like she might cry from helplessness, and shakes her head. "I don't want to leave you," she tells him, voice wavering. "You shouldn't be alone."

He might lose it if she begins to cry. Either from anger or frustration or just hopelessness, he doesn't know, but he swears that if she starts crying he'll do something he'll regret. He'll scream at her or cry himself or flip over the bedside table. She'll punch a hole in the dam and Jason doesn't know exactly what's behind it.

He turns away and faces the wall again. "I want to be alone, alright? Just for a while. Go to work. Come by tonight."

She's not crying. She doesn't want to cry. She's not going to cry, or at least she is convinced of that before he turns away from her, leaving her slightly stunned and feeling like he punched her in the stomach. There's a moment where she's not entirely sure he didn't.

"Okay." It's barely a breath escaping her, and she climbs out of bed to put on her same clothes from yesterday, tie up her shoes before she looks back at him. "I'll... I'll see you later," she says, and walks out, wiping away just a little bit of mistiness from her eyes as she walks down the hall to the living room.

Swann cleans up everything from yesterday, takes the rest of the food and packs it in the refrigerator -- it's enough for several full days of meals. There's another stack of plastic containers that she takes out back and leaves next to Benjy's collection of objects, cakes and soft cookies and intricately decorated cupcakes. Sweet buns shaped like little rabbits, little lunch packs with sandwiches cut to resemble bears and cats.

She heads back through the house and then out the front door, down the steps and to her car. She waits until she's sitting behind the wheel before she breaks, pressing her face into her hands. It takes her a few minutes of sitting there under the barely-risen sun before she can sniffle and wipe her cheeks, then drive herself home. She has to shower and change her clothes.

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fucked up capitol babies ;_;

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