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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Spoilers Jason's going to burn the house down and dance on the ashes.

"Damn. Here I was thinking they just didn't particularly like me." He brushes at her hair, breathing softly and slowly. "Gritta's turning out to be a bit of a boon. Wouldn't have guessed that when I first saw her. Easily one of the best to work with, besides the Addams girl."

Jason no! Swann is trying to get the most value possible out of your property, she can't do that if you've scorched it all.

"I know, it's a huge surprise!" She smiles at him, blinks and sighs. "I mean, you must be down to... your Tributes are all pretty good now, right? I can't think of any problems with any of them, really."

"They're commercial enough. It's just a matter of getting them to kill people in the Arena. At least I got rid of Dorian." Jason sighs and pulls her close, his arm around her waist. "Well, didn't get him back. I'm sure if anyone thought I actually had any say in Dorian getting retired Maxwell would show up at the District Seven Suite with more goddamn candles and light me up with them."

Their foreheads touch for a moment and then she ducks her head down to tuck it in the crook of his neck, closing her eyes and letting her eyelashes brush his skin. "Maxwell is just... I don't know, I guess he's in love. And then that wasn't his Dorian or something, so he has a hard time dealing with these things. Even since he came back, he's been sad."

While she completely understands Jason's irritation with the situation, it's still the kind of romantic story she's been trained as a Capitolite to have a weak spot for, to want to root for.

"Well, boo hoo for him." Jason has no such ability to root for the love lives of others; that would require a level of empathy he can't reach. All he knows is that Maxwell is a pain in his side, someone who doesn't accept the social restrictions of being a Tribute.

He rubs Swann's shoulder. "I wish they'd sort all these couples and the like into the same District, at least."

Swann also has a soft spot for Maxwell in particular, who had been one of the first Tributes to be kind to her when she arrived, rather than merely tolerant or openly hateful.

"Sometimes I think the Gamemakers are worse at feelings than we are," she says, half-laughing. "They stay all cooped up in there and forget that the Tributes are going to be mad and that they'll be separated from people they care about, and that they have to live with the other Tributes in their District indefinitely. They don't take personalities or anything into account, you know?"

She sighs. "I don't know. I think it's gotten a lot more complex than it used to be, and maybe the Gamemakers have forgotten that, at least on the level of dealing with the Tributes. And they may not be Citizens, but they're still people that we have to deal with. At least before, the Tributes understood the system. I think maybe I would be a little irrational too, if I didn't understand and I came from a totally different world."

"We're perfectly fine at feelings. We have each other, don't we?" He knows he's lying to himself, and to her, and he doesn't even care enough to try and believe it. They're fucked and won't be getting unfucked soon. They've been fucked since they were children too young to realize the insane environment they were growing up in.

"At the very least, it's a pain in the ass for us. I've been trying to discourage them from palling around with the other Districts, because it looks bad for the spirit of the Games, but it's all gone out the window since then." He chews the corner of his tongue. "Is this bedroom blind?"

She smiles and nuzzles against his neck. "We could be worse," she says, and she does at least believe that's true, because there are degrees of honesty and actual love between them that many Capitol couples of their standing can't say they have, even when they're more put-together from the outside.

"Yeah," she says, nodding. "Bedroom and the bathroom, same as at Daddy's house. Anyway, I guess we can't expect them to stop making friends in other Districts if they have to keep going to all the same parties and events and live in the same tower together. It's not like the old days, where they were so busy that they couldn't get friendly, and then it was into the Arena. It's human nature, I guess."

"I say we should cull them all and start over," he says, although he doesn't really mean it. It's just another cruel thing he spits out without thinking through. He pauses for a bit, then pulls her close, and murmurs rather than really says out loud.

"I'm starting to think the Games might be something more to keep us distracted and occupied than for the Districts." He rubs a hand over her shoulder.

"There are a few I'd keep." She's teasing, kisses his skin where she'd had her nose just a moment ago. But then she looks a little confused and turns her face up toward him.

"Distracted from what? The Rebels aren't that strong, we keep catching them."

It feels all wrong, to secondguess the government in earnest, and Jason can't shake the feeling that he's about to have the door kicked in and be shot in the head for it.

"Then why haven't we destroyed them? We have the technology and power to build Arenas that simulate outer space or a candy utopia, but we can't suss out some rebels? There must be a reason we haven't gone scorched earth."

It does feel wrong, wrong and foreign, like she's put her clothes on backward or something. And while she knows they're safe, it does worry her stomach, to even have the ideas.

"Well... they're pretending to still be one of us, right?" she reasons. "Citizens and Tributes, acting like they haven't switched sides. Which means they'd be more careful to never do anything. So the Peacekeepers can't find they until they mess up and do something."

Her brow knits as she thinks. "I don't know. Maybe the Rebels aren't as organized as we think? If it's a bunch of singular terrorists, that's a lot harder to squash than a big group."

"But how can they even manage anything if the entire city is under surveillance?" He breathes deep, feeling a sort of anxious distress that he can't pin down - it slips out from under any attempt, like a bubble in water under plastic.

"Think of everything that's gone wrong lately. The officers at the crowning. The nonsense at the date auction. Tributes suddenly coming down with illnesses. Something's wrong and it's getting harder and harder to believe what they sell us about everything being under control."

The wrinkles between her eyebrows deepen, and she tries to think, but her brain is working faster than she can sort the thoughts out into things that make sense and things that don't.

"I don't... I don't know, they must have some way. Maybe they have a mole in the Peacekeepers." The idea that something bad is happening makes her want to hyperventilate, and it feels like her lungs have shrunk a bit. "The illnesses... would they hurt themselves, though? It happened to all the Tributes, and they said it was just an effect from bringing them here. That makes sense. Things have to be under control, because if they aren't, then what are they?"

She's clutching his shirt harder than she means to.

"Shh, shh, it's alright." He feels her tense up and seizes on the opportunity to be the strong one again like a dog lunging for a jugular. He didn't mean to scare her, but in a horrible way it feels good to be able to comfort her, to not be alone in vulnerability.

He runs his hand over her shoulder, then smooths her hair, kisses her forehead. "I didn't mean to get you worked up."

"I'm okay," she says, and she's not, she's shaking, because if things aren't how they're supposed to be, then it's wrong, and what will they all do, and it scares her because there are no plans, there's no contingency, and it doesn't matter what she does to try and fix it all.

She looks up at him and there's still fear in her eyes. "What are we supposed to do?"

"I don't know." He can tell she isn't as alright as she's saying, but he figures she needs to believe she's alright and so he doesn't tell her otherwise, doesn't correct her. He sighs and touches her nose with his.

"I promise if I figure it out, you're coming with me, alright?" He looks for the answer in her face. He knows what he's saying is amount to treason.

She does need to believe it, needs to think that she's strong enough to be okay, because otherwise she'll break down from fear. Swann isn't afraid of death, isn't afraid of the end, but she's afraid of the unknown, just like she's be raised to be. Indoctrinated to be.

Her eyes are so big when she fixes them on him, and it's what he says that actually seems to calm her down a bit. She nods and bites her lip anxiously. "I'll go wherever you go, Jason," she whispers. "No matter what."

"Good." He brings her head to his shoulder and keeps stroking her hair, holding her almost like someone would a baby. "I know you will. I'm just being paranoid. I'm sure of it. There's nothing wrong, nothing that stops us being safe at least."

He can't say the same for a lot of the people around them, but he's sure he and Swann aren't getting swept up into seditious nonsense. They know how to toe the line.

She sighs and stops shaking so hard, closing her eye and nuzzling against his shoulder. "Right. We're safe," is all she can murmur, because of course they are, they have some of the most important blood the Capitol has ever known in their veins. The Honeymeads are bulletproof and everyone knows that the only thing capable of hurting a Compson is himself.

They're safe because it's the only possible outcome, because no one can climb to their height, scale their mountain that they share with the Snows and Reagans of the Capitol. The elite, their Olympus.

Swann draws her legs up into her skirt, curled into a ball in his arms, and breathes in the smell of camphor and cologne and bath products, everything that makes up Jason and envelops her in a feeling of safety only rivaled by how she feels when she hugs her father or Eta.

For a while they just lie there, holding each other, certain if nothing else of each other and the strange bond they share, one that seems to overlap but not exist entirely within the concept of love. There are too many other words to describe it: need, desperation, fear of being apart. It seems too large and clunky to fit in a neat category with four slender letters to hold it.

He eventually opens his eyes and sits up, bringing her up with him so they're sitting together. "Let's go fly those kites, alright?"

She feels better to lie there with him, her breathing evening out as she listens to his heartbeat and the other sounds his body makes, just functioning. Swann is relaxed when he sits them back up, and looks at him, her chin perched on his chest.

"Okay," she says, nodding and gently slides away to put on shoes.

He stands in front of the mirror and fixes his hair, realizing with surprise how gaunt he's managed to look in even a few days of minimal eating - his father's strong cheekbones do that for him. His eyes still have dark circles, even though he isn't tired.

When he goes out to the kitchen, Eta has packed them both a lunch.

Swann trots out after him in a rare pair of flat sandals, cream and made to look as if there's a bunny rabbit on her feet, its puffball tail at the end of the piece that separates her big toe. She takes the lunches from Eta with a smile and then reaches for Jason's hand.

"Ready?"

"Sure."

Somehow, his car is the one thing that seems to have been completely unscathed by Caroline's death, still as gingerly-tended as it always was, clean and sleek. He opens the door for her and lets her in, then starts it.

He even has the radio on to some benign classical music station.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject