.. tar heart

[desmond hudson]

The air hangs tensely, he can feel her rage piling up and he's betting on an outburst when they get home. He's significantly less outspoken than her and one of the most frequent comments they get from people is how unlike each other they are. The pair are the definition of opposites do attract. Desmond is a man who is prone to locking in the chaos. He allows it to build and doesn't burden it upon other people. His anguish is used as muse and almost always released into his journal. In fact, The Yard Sale is very aligned with his life, prompts and quotes from it are reflective of his 2013 journal. He is a man of few words, described more as grumpy than soft spoken, and stand-offish rather than shy. He would much prefer letting problems resolve themselves, than face it head on. Dasia's different though. She finds the fact that he is so difficult to undo incredibly frustrating. When she has a problem, it's bound to come up at some point. He has been scolded for the baby thing before and he knows it won't be the last time. As her tone gets sharp, he turns his head and continues on his path. He rightfully know this won't fix a thing, she'll just get angrier. The hormones don't help but it would happen regardless. Dasia is persistent, unfathomably stubborn and passionate; these are the things he loves most in her. But in this very moment he wishes she would quit. His fists are clamped and he tries willing himself into another vortex. No such luck. He knows as soon as he sees her that Rebecca would make it worse. Even if she wasn't a past lover, Dasia's radar would be going off and she would assume she was. Rebecca (who had to let Desmond down in the end of it all) was so sweet and harmless that Dasia's immediate resentment pisses him off. His brain feels heavy, like it's going to implode. That fucking pill. As Dasia's tone gets witchy, Desmond automatically shakes her grip off him. He gives her a glare and turns around, completely forgetting Rebecca's presence. As an afterthought he chucks the car keys at Dasia. He tries hard to hold his tongue but as he swings the door open he slips up, “drive yourself back, you're being a fucking cunt.” .................... notes: I couldn't tell at all.. PAGE TWO music: Nothing still.

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[dasia mae knight]

Pregnancy hormones hadn't changed Dasia's fundamental personality traits, but they had intensified them by about a thousand. Her emotional spectrum was heightened, she was barely capable of feeling normal for any stretch of time, given that she'd cried over their running out of Lucky Charms cereal, over Des refusing to switch to decaf, over a bad hair day. Just yesterday she had been making tea and spilled some, leading her to literally cry over spilled milk. But when she was happy she was ecsatic, high on the excitement of becoming a mother. Even though she'd had abortions and she wasn't ashamed of them, if she was really honest with herself she had wanted to be a mother her whole life. The only difference was that in her childhood fantasies of a happy family, the dad had been just as happy as she was with the situation. And that's what this was really all about. Superficially irritated by Desmond, Dasia was in reality deeply wounded by his apathy, and had an acute sense of despair whenever she wondered if it would always be this way. Visions of Des failing to muster fake interest in their child's finger painting floated through her mind, of him refusing family vacations... She shook her head to clear it, knowing that wouldn't be the case. Desmond was a lot of things, but he wasn't cruel. In fact, he accommodated her more than anyone else ever had, despite being so very different to her. Every day he made a fresh effort to appease her, fighting his very base nature to try and keep her happy. Immediately she regretted her sharpness. After all, were they not in a bakery that he hated, having driven her there in a car he hated, being in a city he hated visiting? So what if he had exes. It wasn't like he was throwing himself at the girl or vice versa, and besides, she was a mother. This title was usually revered as a cult status by Dasia. Guilt flooded her and she bit her lip, trying to stop more vitriol from spilling out. But it was too late. Sighing as the keys were thrust into her hand she blushed, paralysed with the shame of it. Rebecca's eyes met hers and she offered her a kindly smile: she knew. It was a comfort to have the moment of solidarity, a little slither of understanding from someone who knew what it was like to have your whole gamut of emotions turned up to eleven. "I'm so sorry," she said, feeling ever more grateful as Rebecca batted a hand to say it didn't matter. Collecting the bag of baked goods - god bless the cashier for intuiting that they'd be having it to go after all - she stepped out into the street, looking for which direction he'd gone in. "Des, please, stop. Don't make me run after you," she called, defeat heavy in her tone. "I'm really sorry!" Catching up with him, she knows it sounds like she's trying to get herself out of trouble and she hates that. Grabbing his arm, she pulls him round to look at her. "I am. I'm sorry. You're right, I was being a cunt," her voice waivers, threatening to crack. "I'm just so, so scared," she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. Fighting back hot tears, she looks up from her feet to look at him properly. "And I really want to eat this apple pie."  .................... notes: blaaahhhhhh this was poop but 2. pages. music: oasis, embarrassingly.

[desmond hudson]

It wasn't as though he wasn't excited about the pregnancy or his future as a father... okay, maybe it was. He'd only been a fraction of excited once and that was more a secondary excited, the kind that comes in supersonic waves from another person. That was when Dasia announced she was pregnant, with a pure and total giddiness. That last time they had good sex as well, he couldn't imagine how devastating a feeling that must be for Dasia. But he wasn't rejecting out of madness or bitterness toward his future child. Though was true that he didn't do names or genders because it kept the complicated reality at bay; he did hide from legitimacy of it out of fear. Desmond knows the power his reaction has on her and keep can't help but do it. As he lets the glass door fly shut behind him, he pictures her blonde head tilting and salty tears spilling from her pretty aqua eyes. He still finds himself walking away and avoiding her. His mind is raked and it feels clogged, there is either too much thought or not enough. It feels like he's trying to solve a math problem and it's just not working out. This is why he doesn't do his own taxes, because it literally feels like a fucking brain hemorrhage. His wallet feels heavy in his pocket, the weight of the pill makes itself known. He's so tempted to just pull it from his pocket but his dignity stops him from doing so. His long legs lengthen stride when she hears her behind him. He has no clue where he's going, but a destinations shouldn't be hard to find in Boston. He just needs to get away from the pressure of her. When she grabs his arm he shakes her off and spins around, “what?” He hears her speak but he doesn't truly listen, her eyes are thick with tears but he doesn't budge from his ground. “What are you scared of?” pill, cigarette, even a beer will do. Usually he'd see her threaten to cry and hold her, he'd try make it better for her. But he's in a mood, “I trying with you. I'm just fucking... not doing this here,” he ultimately decides, turning around to continue walking, he chucks the full coffee in the trash bin.

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notes: ok, this is fifty shades of terrible. I just really wanted it up before I went to work
music: Nothing still.

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[dasia mae knight]

If Dasia could transport herself anywhere right now, she'd be stuck between two options: her empty yoga studio at Equinox back in New York, or her childhood bedroom in London, where her mother could dote on her whilst offering the odd jibe about how she'd warned her about the dangers of ever trusting a man. She and Desmond had been friends for years before their relationship took on any sort of a romantic element, so she couldn't ever claim that she didn't know what she was getting into, and yet she somehow still managed to feel let down by him. It was easy to forgive him for not wanting to come to her yoga classes, or for refusing to let her read his manuscripts. But Dasia couldn't stop fretting that this was the start of something terrible, a dark apathy in Desmond that would only continue - or worse, intensify - once the child was born. It felt deeply unfair that she should be carrying the burden of this baby in her body when he'd had an equal share in its conception, and she made a mental note to fight ferociously for mothers rights the second she had a spare moment that wasn't absorbed with stressing. So in eighteen years, then. As upset as she still is, its laced with frustration and irritation at his inability to communicate. The blonde is seized by the urge to stomp her feet and scream. With a privileged upbringing and a tendency to get her own way, on the rare occasions things really weren't going to script she could have a tendency to lose it, and whilst she disliked this quality in herself and strove to overcome it, somehow today it felt deserved. But fighting fire with fire was not a tactic that would work with Desmond, who disliked game playing almost as much as he disliked the Kardashians. If he even knew who they were. So with great difficulty she pulled herself together, coarsely wiping away tears with the back of her hand. His question irks her deeply - what didn't she have to be scared of? Not only was she going through the most daunting event of her life, she felt like she might as well be doing it alone. But to say this would be to provoke, and instead she opted for the kind of emotional repression he should be more comfortable with. "Nothing, I'm not really scared. Forget I said anything." It was amazing how easily she could pretend like nothing was wrong. Dangling the car keys from a finger, she held them out to him. Like fuck was she going to be doing any driving here. But he's walking away, discarding his untouched coffee... that was the biggest red flag of all. Not particularly wanting to follow him but not feeling like she has a choice, she falls into step with him, pretending like nothing has happened. With phone in hand she checks her itinerary. "I need to pick up some stamps, I promised my mum copies of the scan. I also want to buy your dads some flowers to say thank you for being so wonderful to us for the past few days." They pass a trash can and she pushes the bag of baked goods into it, suddenly not hungry. At least she wouldn't have to lie in her food diary later. "Anything you need to do?" .................... notes: i gave u nothing and i am sorry. music: my roomie chatting away to her boyfriend, joy

[desmond hudson]

A few months back Desmond had been sitting in his study. His upper body was hunched over the heavy oak desk, and a cheap pen was propped in his hand. Dasia had already gone to bed, but he was utterly sleepless at three am. He was scratching out lines in a notebook, his elegant but completely illegiable handwriting was being cut by black lines. When the pen ran out of ink he was exasperated, it was like the math problem situation. His mind was crushed with the weight of shit, it felt like he was trudging through think masses of molasses in order to attain thought. If he could pinpoint the moment where it all started going to shit again, this would be it. The inability to write was worse than amputation, it was paralysis of the mind. From then on he felt like he was spiralling out of control, he had extreme difficulty staying level. He takes the morphine to be steady and right now he's losing his cool. While he's not usually a very chill person – he is highly anti-social, opinionated and slightly manic – he is certainly not high maintenance. But right now he feels it and he probably looks it. As his thick eyebrows grow cross at Dasia, his ghostly skin become moist and his fists flex to contain the tremors that motor them. As he moves forward down the plaza's sidewalk, he hears her behind him running off a list. He wish she'd stop. Not that she'd disappear or that she'd leave him alone, but that she'd stop with her lists and her questions. Lately she's become such a to do person and that works against his current state of mind. He needs her to just be still and not so preoccupied with to-do lists or hammering out the future. After several feet, he reminds himself that she can't. This is the flawed part of her passionate personality trait. “Enough of that,” he turns to grab her phone from her long fingers and slides into into his pocket. Desmond is on an aimless mission, having left the parking lot of the plaza, he's leading her onto a street. The walking is relaxing him and his heart rate is gradually steadying. The fog in his mind is slowly lifting and he's becoming more rational. “Sorry, come on,” he places an arm across her shoulders to pull her up to pace, but drops it once she's next to him. “I went to school there,” he nods to a fancy brick building far off in the distance, knowing that she'll be interested in this. “I dislocated my knee in that field... played football for a few years, dads' liked it,” he comments, looking at the freshly cut green grass which is several yards from them. “Ended up paying some kid who was bigger than me to knock me out, knee still pops out sometimes,” he laughs softly, shoving his hands in his front pockets as he recalls his own stupidity. .................... notes: Desmond & Dasia might be my OTP over Caesar & Vegas and Cat & Harry. music: Black Rebel Motorcycle Club

[dasia mae knight]

With every step Dasia likes Boston less. It was true that the city was much more similar to London than New York and that this used to be something she took comfort in, enjoying the wide streets and soothed by the presence of historical buildings, but not now. No, now it served as a reminder of how very far she was from home. Falling into step with Desmond wasn't easy as he took such purposeful strides, but she was determined to, eager not to show any strain. However, the reassuring weight of her iPhone is suddenly pulled from her hand, and she has a moment of pure panic. She watches with horror as the phone is pocketed, with it its lists and lists and lists of things that needed doing disappearing into the depths of Desmond's pocket. Feeling more vulnerable than ever without the phone, she set about trying to remember everything she could from the brief glimpse of the lists she'd had. This aimless wandering was not on the agenda. Her brain ticking over with reminders to pick up the cake, to text her sister, to essentially remember to breathe, she was preoccupied. Before she could stop herself she was biting her nails, reigniting a habit she thought she'd lost to her childhood. She's about to tell him that she's had enough, she wanted her phone back and she wanted to go home, when Desmond's arm is around her shoulders. Like a shock blanket around the shoulders of someone who's just watched their house burn down, it was a small gesture of comfort that brought her back into the moment. She stopped fretting about the lists.  All too soon his arm is gone, but she's already mollified. Blue eyes follow him pointing to a beautiful school building just visible. She lit up. Picturing teenage, surly Desmond skulking around that beautiful building was a thrill, and she grabbed his hand, leaning into him to get a better look in that direction. "I can see it now. Were you a teenage goth? Maybe emo?" her elbow nudges him playfully, and she's relieved that it's starting to feel normal again. Then he mentioned his knee, causing her jaw to drop. "Des.... that's really self destructive behaviour," she said, her voice loaded with concern. Hearing herself makes her cringe, so she laughs, shaking her head. She lets his hand go, running hers through her hair for the umpteenth time. "God," she starts, glancing at him. "I love you so much, you know that right? I'm sorry to nag." .................... notes: so sorry, this was so rushed bc i was late for work! BUT ME TOO. music: new order.

[desmond hudson]

Since that night, where the ink in his pen ran dry and he found he had very little to write let alone say, he hadn't quite been the same. He was distant, distracted and moodier than usual. These were all things his partner had picked up on and had asked him about. Are you okay? He didn't know the exact answer to that question. He felt devastated and empty, but he could not define why and she'd want to know that. Desmond knew that his lack of muse stemmed from something else, but when he racked his brain it felt swollen. He didn't have a good enough answer for her question. But just like that, all his bad habits started coming out of the woodwork. There was the coffee, which admittedly he never gave up, but now he was making it clear that he hadn't. The cigarettes, those really ticked Dasia off. He never smoked around her, for obvious reasons, but he was keen to leave her to take a cigarette break or even shove a couple Nicorette gum in his mouth while around her. The morphine was a new one. And if he couldn't get that, there was the Valium, which has always been of easy access in his bathroom cupboard. There was also the insomnia, which like the coffee had never quite left but had escalated. He's not sure if Dasia has noticed his late night strolls around the city of New York, but he's quite positive she hasn't as if she had she surely would have said something. Sometimes he'd find himself half way across the other side of the city, or in a bar near their apartment. Now that the sun was rising earlier in the day, he found that he was walking with the sun rise. Coming into their home as a sherbert orange painted the walls. It's Dasia's nervousness and his sudden but surely brief coolness that make him gesture towards his school. The nature of it wasn't that Desmond desired to be mysterious but it was that was the result of him being so private. She was one person he should share things with, but he didn't feel it necessary. As much as she wanted to know him, he always found that he was out in the open and there was nothing to say. But after taking his temper out on her, his guilt ebbed away at him. As the view of his past entered the horizon, he took the opportunity to make it up to her. He stifles a laugh at she nudges him, giving the question thought. “I don't know, I was a lot of things,” he can recall the struggle of adolescence; the yearn to belong and be accepted had flushed away when he was twenty-one. He kicks a loose stone on the sidewalk, “yea, I realized how stupid it was immediately after it happened.” George had been inconsolable after the incident, giving Desmond no choice but to quit sports... oh, the horror. “Some kid jumped off that roof,” he nods at the school again, “he screamed, 'I am the lizard king!', and just fucking swan dived. High.” Roy Collins, one of his fake friends, they decided to drink and eat shrooms instead of going to prom. While Desmond had passed out at home, Roy and a couple other had headed to party on the rooftop. After saying this he get a bit depressed with nostalgia and gives Dasia a small smile. “It's alright,” he says, reaching his large hand over to ruffle her bleached golden hair, “love you too.” .................... notes: I'm giving you nothing, I'm so sorry. music: Salinger documentary. Muse, obviously.

[dasia mae knight]

Indulging fantasies of having a family with Desmond had come so easily to Dasia in the past. She'd spend hours thinking about what their children would look like, how many she'd like to have, what genders she'd opt for in an ideal world... she would pour over childhood pictures of them both, hoping that her children would inherit his perfect nose and outrageous symmetry, whilst maybe they could get her eyes, her lips. It had been so easy a fantasy to indulge, staunchly against being young parents as Desmond had previously been. What was particularly noticeable in these fantasies was the man himself. It was immensely easy to imagine the two of them still being together in their elderly years, Des wheezing and Das chastising him for decades of smoking. He would finally grown into the old man wardrobe he'd donned his whole life, whilst Dasia would determinedly cling to her penchant for ruby red lips. Yes, she thought, they were destined to grow very old together, and of that she had no doubt.  It was the getting there that wasn't so simple. Imagining Desmond even in his thirties seemed unthinkable-- he was so stubborn, but also so at peace with the person he was, she couldn't imagine him ever changing very dramatically. Nor would she want him to. But how could he be the surly, introspective, enigmatic writer when their child was young and eager for affection? It would be all well and good, easily explained, in their teens. But young children, they wouldn't catch the literary relevance of his malaise. If she couldn't distance herself from his moods and learn not to take them personally, what chance did a small child have? It was insane to think about. Trying not to let her anxiety creep up and get the better of her, she made herself a promise to watch him more closely from here on out. Not being one for grand emotional displays, the clues for Desmond's inner state of being were most often given away in almost imperceptibly small manifestations. His claim that he was a lot of things gives her pause for thought. She herself was not so many things - a brunette, for one, a feminist for another, but really she blended in with the crowds at her prestigious all girls boarding school in one of the home counties of England, every bit as much of a privileged princess as everyone else in her class. But no, she had principles. She watches as he points out the point of impact of his poor friend, wincing as if she could truly see it. "One of your friends?" she asked, feigning indifference. This was a move she'd become rather obsessed with lately. Completely convinced that he would take the hint and propose to her any day now, she had taken to trying to remember every passing friend that he mentioned, lest she be the one to rally the troops on his side of the room. If Desmond ever proposed (and Christ knows whether he would or wouldn't) she knew he'd have barely ten guests in total to invite, so it felt important to her that she force him to expand his social circle.  "I was thinking," she clears her throat, unsure how her suggestion would go down. "How do you feel about moving to London?" .................... notes: i suck. music: silence.

[desmond hudson]

For a long time, life for Desmond and Dasia had been utterly simple. They had just hit their second year anniversary in April and before this year there had never been significant bumps in the road. Yes, he found Dasia grating at times, but those instances had been quite easy to push through because in all honesty he found her the least annoying person. He was also sure that she found him impossibly boring, stubborn and unmotivated – how could she not. But these were all little things, things that were dismissive and forgettable. Love is patient, love is kind, but ultimately love is difficult. You might swear you love somebody, but wait till you see how they react to financial woes, grief or pregnancy. The more intimately you know someone, the more visible their flaws before. In this case, the tragedy of Desmond's depression may not have been so clear to Dasia who only had experienced it in friendship. The days where he could easily reject an invitation or pretend to be out of town. He doesn't outright answer her question but just sort of shakes his head and pushes his hands back in his pockets. Her next question makes him feel a sense of exhaustion. Desmond has always had a plan of solidarity. He had imagined being a exclusively a writer. Not one of those writers that works full time as a barista and part time writes internet articles called, '21 Animals Who Are Total F*ckboys'. But a book publishing writer. Which he had done. His next step contained a lonely bliss. He never imagined himself settling and had labelled himself as unmarketable. There was no wife, no kids, not even his cats (well, maybe Solomon). He imagined he'd live his lonely life in a secluded cabin in the woods, uprooting himself from the city. Avoiding the question will tick her off. He takes a minute to contemplate, “no.” Pulling his hand from his pocket and dragging it through his hair, he gives more of an answer. “I never pictured myself moving city to city. I hate New York, it just happened to be where everything fell,” from the other pocket he pulls out a pack of Nicorette and tosses a couple of gum in his mouth. “Maybe the countryside, I don't even know how immigration works. I more wanted to end up in New England.” His jaw tenses up while speaking and chewing away at the bitter gum, he takes another consideration. How about you? I know you miss home. .................... notes: this is blah. music: Shakey Grabes

[dasia mae knight]

At a glance, Desmond and Dasia seemed like polar opposites. True enough, many people thought that this was the secret to their mutual attraction. Where Des was reserved and very private, Dasia could not be more open to questions and questioning others herself. She was blonde and decked from head to toe in designer clothes, a small materialistic streak she was only just about managing to grow out of. Desmond was scruffy, so much so that it transcended a mere physical attribute and became a personality trait. But these were superficial things. Truly, deep down, they weren't opposites at all. Their bookshelf was stocked with titles that were contributed by both parties, and it would be impossible even for them to distinguish who brought which. For all her openness and willingness to chat, Dasia had a deep inner life she seldom let anyone else catch a glimpse of. Her shared life with Desmond. When they had each other to themselves, she was mostly comfortable with silence, happy to co-exist without co-depending. Despite his lack of open affection and conciliatory words, Desmond had made her feel more safe than anyone else ever had before. At least, he had up until now. To others he wouldn't seem any different from his usual self, but to Dasia there were endless small cues that he wasn't himself. She'd cried and he hadn't held her. Even the usual small doses of affection he doled out had been notably absent of late - she never woke up to find his arm wrapped around her anymore, she never looked up and caught him looking at her, he hadn't surprised her with a bath and a glass of her favourite wine after work in a lifetime... admittedly she couldn't have the wine, but somehow she wasn't convinced that this was the reason he'd ceased. For the first time ever she felt like she was annoying him just as much as everyone else did. She'd been cast out into the cold at the time she most needed a morsel of warmth. His outright reluctance cuts right through her, despair flooding from her chest outwards. Every word he says makes her feel worse. He's acting like she's asked a casual question about where they should go for dinner, shutting her down so easily it leaves her speechless. She regains herself. The thought of being stuck out in a cabin in the New England woodland somewhere is enough to make her want to throw herself into ongoing traffic. It had been a romantic idea once, but now it felt like a death sentence. What would she do when Desmond inevitably spent his days away from the house to avoid the baby? Or worse, what would she do when he hung about, avoiding the baby even when he was in the same room? "My mum would be a great help with the baby," was all she could manage to say, hoping he'd hear the subtext. Because you won't, she willed herself to add, because I'll be a de facto single mother and I'd rather die than do so in New York. But instead she just avoids his eye, not trusting herself to say another word.  .................... notes: i promise i'll give you something next time, so sorry! music: bill callahan.

[desmond hudson]

It's been a while since Desmond has felt like himself, so long that he wonders if this is him for the rest of life. He feels stripped of personality and filled with grief, for this he also racked with guilt. There has been a few times where he's coming close to being open with Dasia. Once when he mentally couldn't leave bed and his body felt as though it was being weighed down with boulders. Another after a night of wandering and finding her in the kitchen with worry painting her face. Then there was now, as she holds all these expectations he can't honestly fulfill and he doesn't know how to express why he can't. But there is the stigma of mental health. He doesn't truly feel it's a good enough excuse and that he should persevere forward. There are moments where he thinks his issue is only fleeting and that he'll snap out of it. And though the pills make him dopey as hell, they make him far more tolerable. He believes. He knows what she's saying. He hasn't been helpful or accommodating to her pregnancy at all. He put on a good example of how a father should act. This makes him stress more than he puts on. As she stands there avoiding his eyes he feels heavy yet again. The fog is coming back and he's can't walk away from it. “Let's go back to the car,” he says, not avoiding the conversation but trying to steer himself mentally. His sneakers hit the pavement more slowly this time, he is managing to keep his cool on the outside. “I want you around,” he starts, chewing at the gum, “I just think...” He's fishing for the answer, it's hard. There's part of him that wants to shed stereotypical masculinity and cry. He can't feel anything but at the very same time he feels it all. Dasia waits, she expects. He doesn't blame her at all, she's the type that deserves the world and he's the type that has never been able to give it to her. His hands roll over his face, fatty palms rub his chocolate eyes and his fingers knead his temple. “I think,” he starts again, beginning to give something away, “I'm having a hard time.. it's not you or the kid, it's just me.” The sense of relief that he thinks should wash over him does not. Instead he feels bare and uncomfortable. “If you want to go to London, even just for a short while, I get it.” .................... notes: I'm so sorry about this. music: nothing

[dasia mae knight]

A cloud passed overhead and instantly Dasia felt cold, even under the thick insulation of her boyfriend's flannel shirt. It smelled mostly of detergent but even then his scent lingered on, faintly tinged with tobacco and the cologne she'd bought him at Christmas. She pulled it closer around herself, breathing in that smell though it made her want to cry. It felt like forever since she'd been close enough to smell him properly, long gone the afternoons tangled up on the sofa, the closeness they'd once had in bed now replaced with half a foot of space. It was a wonder to her how she could be physically so close to someone so frequently, and yet feel more further away than ever. Constantly she wonders what's going on behind those dark eyes of his, where he goes at night and who, if anyone, he confides in. If she had her way, he'd be in therapy.  But she knows better than to suggest such a thing. She's torn  between desperately wanting to tell his dads he hasn't been himself and not wanting to upset him-- there was a very real risk that additional fuss would only push him further away, after all. But what else could she do? She nods mutely as he suggests going back to the car, though they can't go back without the cake at least. It's too much. Deciding she needs to text Henry right now, slender fingers fish around her purse looking for something that she soon remembers isn't there. "Please may I have my phone back?" she asks, though it's a formality as already her hand has slipped the rose gold iPhone from the pocket of his jeans. Slight of hand was something she'd mastered in her old days as a call girl, after all. She's half way through typing out a very serious 'we need to talk about Desmond' text when he says something that made her blood run cold. I want you around...I just. Like someone saying "no offence" before they say something deeply offensive, all Dasia could hear was one thing, loud and clear: I don't really want you around. Really finding it hard to breathe now, she lets the screen on her phone fade to black without sending the message. She feels sick. He's stumbling over his words and it surprises her how much she hopes he chokes on them. Next came the 'it's not you it's me' gambit, quickly followed by the suggestion that this was somehow her idea and not 100% his. She's seething with rage and disbelief, her mouth opening and closing wordlessly as she tries to find the right words to say. She wants to tell him to go fuck himself, but then what? She's carrying his baby. Any dramatic flair up would only give him just cause to repeat their need for space. Then comes the desire to plead with him, but her pride quickly quells that one. Rooted to the ground, she stood staring at him in complete disbelief. Finally, five little words came to mind, five words that summed up her feelings in one. "You need to see someone."  .................... notes: i lied. music: 24 hours in police custody.

[desmond hudson]

The situation was complex. He felt alone but he wasn't, and he knew he was drowning Dasia with him. His presense was lacking. He was around practically all the time, but his mind and nature were missing in action. Did Dasia blame herself for this? He wasn't sure but he hoped not. If Desmond wasn't covered by the fog, he'd probably be more excited by their new addition. He would be awkward, fumbling around his words like a newborn foal does on it's legs. But he would feel the situation, he'd go through it with Dasia. If he had just written The Yard Sale and she'd gotten pregnant, he would have been ecstatic over the news. It just so happened that they were going through this during the worst moment. As soon as he dares to look at Dasia he knows he's said the wrong thing. Immediately he wishes he could rewind and read off his script. No, baby, I want you in New York. Let's work together for the baby's sake, then he'd grab her arm and march into the distance. That would have been the right thing to say, she'd have been pleased with that. But he wouldn't have been able to muster up the enthusiasm, nor would he have been able to act it out. She looks hurt and that flogs him with guilt. How could he have made that sound better? What does she expect him to say? Then she stops and he stops a couple feet from her. A variety of emotions flicker over her face, he's prepared for a bomb to go off. His own facial expression is steady. His under eyes are black with tiredness, his eyes are a bit red with his own frustration. His small lips are tight and he looks devastated with himself. He doesn't fight her words but looks down at the ground. “I know,” he studies the concrete, his hands still shoved in his pockets. .................... notes: this is nothing music: The National

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[dasia mae knight]

If she had one fear greater than that of being a single mother, it was the fear that she had misjudged her partner this whole time. She can still remember when her little sister Agnes answered the house phone all those years ago. Her little nose scrunched up in confusion, her big brown eyes widening with horror. It had been their dad's wife on the phone. The wife they had no idea about, the wife who'd birthed two children to him much the same as their mother had. The wife based in New York, with the ring and the Bentley and the children destined for Ivy League schools.. and all this time, her all-knowing mother had known precisely nothing about it. Cassandra Knight was an unbelievably savvy woman, and for her to have been duped by someone as ordinary as Dasia'a father, well, it had been devastating. Much as she denied having daddy issues, it was the single most formative experience of Dasia's young life, and since that day she vowed never to truly trust any man. And here she found herself. Standing opposite him, an icy feeling of cold realisation trickled through her psyche. She'd let him in, and now, like all men inevitably did, he was showing her his true colours. Like Dasia's father, Desmond was duplicitous, he lied, he snuck around and didn't tell her where he was or who he'd been with. Like Dasia's father, he was suggestion she'd be better off in London, without him. It was a realisation that would have crushed her, were it not for one fact - she didn't believe it, not deep down. Looking at him, there were hints that he was struggling. They hadn't been together for decades, and it wasn't like he came up with smooth lies to cover up the cracks in the relationship. No, he was pretty comfortable not covering his tracks one bit. But still she couldn't help but wonder, what if he wasn't so different after all? His eyes fall to the ground and immediately she feels racked with guilt. Here was a man she knew to have struggled with mental illness in the past, and what was she doing? Demonising him, comparing him to the one man she trusted the least. She'd made it all about her. Suddenly it seemed so stupid to have expected anything but this reaction from him. Having a baby was a huge thing, a colossal thing for anyone, and she strongly suspected that many of Desmond's emotional difficulties stemmed from (or caused him to, at the very least) dislike himself. Of course he would think himself unworthy, and this in turn would drag him down, whilst making it impossible to voice anything to her. She'd been so excited about the whole thing that he'd never want to drag her down... she felt wholly responsible for it all. Throwing her arms around him as he speaks, she hugs him more tightly than she ever has before, tears rolling down her cheeks. "Oh Des," she says, burying her face in his neck. "I'm so sorry." Her hand finding his, she squeezes it. "I've been so selfish, dragging you out here and berating you for not being enthusiastic enough. If you need space I can give you space. Let's find someone you can talk to, okay? Did you see anyone before that you think you could strike things up with again? Do you want me to talk to George and Henry?" She's asking too many questions and she knows it. "Forget it. Let me just cancel this stupid baby shower, we can talk about it at home." .................... notes: this was v badly written. music: another episode of 24 hours in police custody.

[desmond hudson]

Desmond remembers when he was getting to know Dasia, or when he thought he was, because there are really two sides to her. There's the public Dasia, who is bubbly and kind, who seemingly puts herself out there. Then there's the private Dasia, who is guarded and sensitive – private Dasia doesn't show herself often outside the home. When he was first officially introduced to Dasia he'd already made an impression of her and it was hard to get over it. Having seen her first in a strip club it was hard for him to get over her job title, he had been highly judgmental and for a long time that was all he saw in her. When he'd finally gotten over it, he was introduced to sensitive Dasia. The Dasia who could hold a grudge for ages and who called him out for being sexist. He was afraid he was going backwards with her. These past four months had been draining for them both and he was sure she was keeping track of all the offences he made. Soon the vulnerability of Dasia will have extinguished, that was his greatest fear. He'd become stony and unemotional, but this didn't mean it wouldn't kill him if she left. Days before he'd had a nightmare that shook him awake and draped him in sweat. It was one of those dreams that felt so real that when he awoke it took a solid ten seconds to realize that he was in another dimension. In the dream he was in bed and waking up to find his girlfriend covered in red. He could feel the blood on his skin and it was cold as well as tacky. Her stomach was ripped open and her eyes were wide open, the colour of marble. The dream didn't last long, when the horror pushed him away he had to grab at Dasia's forearm to feel her pulse. He hardly slept for days after. Then she leaps onto him and as his arms catch around her back, he sighs deeply. Better. He pulls her closer and rests his chin on her shoulder as his hand holds the back of her head. He shakes his head, still not knowing quite what to say. He's deeply rooted with shame but the compassion she's giving helps, and he doesn't want to let go. “I'm sorry,” he breathes in her hair, the sweet smell of her shampoo filling his nostrils. “Make them happy, it's fine,” he's hesitant to let her go, “you'll have fun. Get spoiled.” .................... notes: this is so garbage, I'm SORRY!! music: Death from Above