.. tar heart

[dasia mae knight]

With her arms still tight around him, she tried to hug all the negativity out. For all her neurosis Dasia was, deep down, a bit of a hippie chick, and believed that practically anything could be solved with love. She feigned cynicism where Desmond feigned positivity. But right now she was brimming with affection, desperate for it to undo all the selfishness she'd been wallowing in for the past few weeks. It was with immense relief that she felt him return the hug, arms tightening around her and allowing her to feel as safe as she had before all this begun. Finally, she could start to allow herself to believe that it would all work out okay in the end. But that end point would come at the end of a long road. If Desmond was in a slump that was anything like the ones he'd told her about, the type that had driven him to the opposite side of the world, it would take a long time to pull him back to a state that resembled a healthy one. But this was good. Determination came naturally to the blonde, and now that she had a healthy detachment, a goal to work toward and some grit, she was sure they'd get there. As if you could will yourself out of depression, much less someone else. She made a mental note to chuck or at least cut down on her notebook collection, sure that the constant to dos and catalogs of tasks were not good for him, providing as they must at least secondary pressures.  "Don't be sorry," she says, and she means it. She stays where she is for as long as she can manage to, finally breathing in that scent in its pure form, intoxicated by it. His arms firm around her feels so normal, she wants the moment to last for as long as he'll allow it to, and she's inwardly flooded with relief when it seems like he's in no hurry to let go either. "I love you," she repeated, pulling away and kissing him on the cheek. She waves his protests away. "Truth be told, I'm pretty tired. We'll tell them I'm not up to it. What good's a baby if you can't blame all your anti-social indulgences on it?" she grins, her hand finding his, gently leading him back the way they came. "Or we'll have it, but I'll insist on it being girls only so you're off the hook. Dads excepted, of course." .................... notes: it's like i'm trying to give you nothing?? i promise that's not the case, however much it seems it. (BUT 3 PAGES) music: rupaul.

[desmond hudson]

One night on one of his walks, he thought about how simple it would be just to leave. All he would need was the clothes on his back and a notebook to jot whatever thoughts he hoped he would have. When he lived in Bali for that one year, he returned to America with a clear head and wrote a book which he received a national award for. He still had his house in Indonesia. He let his former housekeeper stay in it, as she had children and needed it far more than he needed the extra money in his bank account. But there was enough space for him, surely. For twenty minutes he weighed out his options, figuring there were more pros than cons. When he returned back to their home he was certain he was leaving and was ready to book a ticket. That was until he saw Dasia sleeping, her halo of yellow hair peeking out from under the covers. Fear brewed in his stomach and selfishness pricked his heart. He obviously didn't fly out of New York, and two days later they found out she was pregnant. As he poured his body over hers, his fingers ran along her back. He felt the steadiness of her heart against his and the muscles of her back with his finger tips. Desmond had forgotten how nice it felt to have her so close to him and for that moment he didn't feel his body begging for a little pink pill. His chapped lips press against her golden head, and his hand follows her hip as she pulls away. When she says she loves him, he feels a swell of guilt and he can't pinpoint why. He doesn't like to make excuses and his state feels like a cop out. He tries to shut the shaming gremlins from his mind, and is irritated by his own train of thought. “I love you too,” he pulls her to his shoulder again and gives her another peck on the head. He nods thoughtfully, his fingers looping through hers and holding onto her tightly. “Regardless, we'll get you your cake,” he negotiates. He doesn't want to rid Dasia or his fathers of their fun, knowing that their guests will spoil Dasia with luxury. “We'll get married in the fall, if that's what you want,” he drops the bomb quickly as they reach the front of the bakery. “You'll have to go in, they'll club me with a baguette if they see me,” he changes the subject smoothly, reaching into his pocket and handing her his wallet. .................... notes: PAGE THREE. omg music: DFA still

[dasia mae knight]

Her thumb runs against the back of his hand, across his knuckles. His skin is softer than he would probably like, since in his ideal world she could see him living in a cabin deep inside some woods, chopping wood for fires and coarsening his skin in the process. It momentarily occurs to her that when she pictures him in his ideal habitat, even she sees him as being alone. What hope could she have if she agreed he was better off that way? She shook her head to clear it. After all, just because something is your dream doesn't mean it's what you truly want, or what's truly good for you. Dasia had spent much of her life longing for a luxury lifestyle with a nice Oxford educated husband, who would be a doctor or a lawyer or some such, and would furnish her with a couple of kids and all the Chanel handbags she desired. Now that she looks back on that fantasy, the things seems clinical, devoid of any true joy. Now that he is less taciturn and more tactile, Dasia tries not to be lulled into a false sense of security. It feels wonderful to have him so close again, and she's relishing every small moment of affection, but she knows that she'll have to keep on top of the situation if it is to be resolved. It was inevitably going to be something of an uphill struggle at first, but still, she couldn't help but enjoy this little interlude. A bright smile crosses her face at the mention of cake, though she inwardly cringes at the idea of going back to the bakery. "If you insist. Don't let me eat too much of it, it's not good for the baby." She's fretting about the idea of having to re-enter the bakery when Desmond drops a bomb, with his usual apathetic aplomb. She stops breathing for a moment. Had he really just said that? So casually? She was lost for words yet again. Looking up at him from the crook of his arm, she tried to act casual. "We don't have to. Marriage is a pretty outdated concept, and having a baby doesn't mean we now suddenly have to conform." She's hearing herself and knows what she's saying to be true, though it doesn't quite sing to her true desires. "Though it might be helpful in terms of getting her a dual citizenship," she admitted, slipping on the gender neutral pronoun. "Sorry, it! I'm just so sure it's a girl," she said, smiling, flustered, blushing. Before she can say any more she's inside the bakery, pretending that she wasn't here mere moments before being called a cunt by her boyfriend. Thank God Rebecca is nowhere to be seen. Returning laden with cake, she gestures for him to grab his wallet, which is balancing precariously on top of the box.  "Home, or do you have anything you'd like to do?" .................... notes: IL THEM. music: silenceeeee.

[desmond hudson]

Desmond, who had been acutely against marriage for most of his life, had grown up slightly this year. Both his fathers' had encouraged him to ask Dasia to marry him. First George, who had immediately fallen for what he called, “the golden angel”. He had pulled his son aside that day and had explained, 'if you don't marry her I will!' Then after a year and a bit, Henry had taken his son's hand and dropped a sapphire ring in his palm. 'My mother's ring,' Henry had said, 'you should ask the girl to marry you.' Both of these propositions were met with a shake of the head and an explanation that he and Dasia didn't need a certificate to verify the seriousness of their relationship. He still felt that way but he knew that it meant something to Dasia, and for that reason he was willing to be a little selfless. Marriage was hardly a sacrifice if it made her a bit happier in the long run. He watches his girlfriend become dumbfounded and try react more rationally than she should. He supposes this is his fault, this isn't exactly the dream engagement. “It's not really about the baby.. well, it is, I guess,” he smiles as she struggles with her words, she's taking the wallet from his fingers and slipping away. Desmond leans against the hood of the black SUV, his cheeks have blushed over the just past events. He watches her through the window, interacting so casually with the clerk, who is in return so jolly towards her... he imagines he feels bad for her, given the scene Desmond had just caused. It is while he's watching Dasia exchange money for the cake that he remembers the weight of that wallet. The little pill that's jingling with the change, he looses his rouge and his face goes pale. He watches her a bit horrified, but she doesn't seem to notice anything different. He reasons with himself, how could she? It's smaller than a dime. When he returns, he gives a slight smile. Grabbing the wallet and then the box. “Can you open the trunk?” he nods, she has the keys. As he sets the cake safely in the trunk, he gives her question some thought. “You never gave me an answer,” he takes the keys from her hands and opens the passenger door for her. “I have a ring back at the apartment. You think about it and I'll ask again there,” he climbs into his own seat and buckles up the seat belt. “I don't really care  .................... notes: my faves. music: nothing!

[dasia mae knight]

Young Dasia would have been horrified by such a proposal. Whilst the overprivileged then-brunette schoolgirl would have been deeply impressed by Desmond's intellectual credibility, his coolness and his tattoos and beard, she would have assumed him to be obsessed with her. In all of Dasia's daydreams her husbands were obsessive in their adoration of her, buying her presents and taking her to fancy restaurants every night of the week. Desmond's family home, for instance, would have gone down a treat, being in a huge American gated community with tennis courts and housekeepers. Desmond's dads would also have gone down well with her champagne socialist ideals, and his profession was just glamorous enough. But Des was not like the man of her dreams. Closed off and begrudgingly affectionate, he was a million miles away from the devoted Prince Charming of her day dreams, and this proposal was even further from her vision of dinner overlooking the eiffel tower and a proposal on the Champs Elysees.  But this was better. Desmond proposing at all was like Morrissey opening an all you can eat meat buffet, and it was obvious that he was doing this for her. Her cheeks burned scarlet and she scurried inside the store, not trusting herself to say another word-- after all, the lady doth protest too much. She was giddy and it showed, a grin stuck to her face as she chatted happily with the clerk. If he was apologetic for earlier it was lost on her, blue eyes scanning the little photo of Desmond on his drivers license, visible through a mesh window in his wallet. Hudson. Imagining her own drivers license emblazoned with the name. It didn't matter that she wouldn't actually take it, not without a hyphen (her mother would have her head), it was such a warm thought that she practically skipped back outside.  Gratefully she allows herself to be unburdened, opening the trunk and trying not to seem too elated as she does. He pushes for an answer and her smile turns coy, her lip caught in between her teeth. As soon as he mentions that he already has a ring she can't help but stare at him, jaw dropped. "Desmond Grey Hudson, if I didn't know better I'd say you'd been planning this." She's teasing, knowing that that'd be a half truth at best, but that it could be half true thrills her. Forcing herself to calm down, she regains some composure. "In that case, I'll have to have a think." The grin returns, irrepressible in the face of her excitement. "Let's head back now, I'd hate to keep you waiting." .................... notes: whhhhyyyyy do i keep doing this to you. music: ab fab.

[desmond hudson]

His good mood was temporary and in the back of his mind he reminded himself of this. However fleeting, this was the best he had felt in about four months – the last time being when Dasia announced her pregnancy.. which was then obviously followed by grief and horror. He wondered when his first panic attack would occur, likely when he tried to sleep. That's usually when everything became exposed in a negative light. Though he was trying to relish in the moment, the constant reminder that this was not permanent was somewhat of a downer. He laughs at her reaction, a genuine laugh. He almost tells her that Henry gave it to him, but he decides against it, not wanting to ruin her memory of this moment. Desmond glances around the parking lot, surveying the stores and the cars. He takes a mental picture of the time he kind of/sort of/maybe asked his girl to marry him. “Well,” his shoulders rise and fall, “I'll be waiting then.” Her face kills him, it's so full of happiness. Her smile is so fucking wide that it looks as though her jaw will drop onto the pavement. If it'd make her this happy, he'd ask her to marry him everyday. The car starts with a quiet rumble. Desmonds hands fish around for a pair of sunglasses, he finds a pair of Ray Ban Clubmasters wedged into the center console. Inspecting them for a second (less flair, must make them Henry's), he fits them onto his nose. “Don't tell Henry and George,” he mentions, putting the car in reverse and effortlessly pulling out of the parking spot. “You can, but not until tomorrow,” he drives out onto the street. “This party, it'll be over two hundred of our closest friends and family” the last four words are an impersonation of George, “really, we should wait till tomorrow.” .................... notes: I also give you nothing. music: The Paper Kites

[dasia mae knight]

Before he can get the car into gear to leave, Dasia undoes her seatbelt and clambers across, her tanned legs straddling him as she sat herself into his lap. She pushes her lips up against his as she had done when they first got into the car, and she physically crosses her fingers, praying he'd yield to her more convincingly this time. The kiss skewers his sunglasses and it makes her laugh as she pulls away, adjusting them with the fingertips of both hands. The desire to tell him she loves him yet again seizes her but she represses it, happy enough looking at him through the lenses of the glasses. "Your secret's safe with me," she says, the fingers of her left hand making a zipping motion across her lips. She's so happy she could burst, not letting the niggling notion that this couldn't last get to her. Not yet. At times like these she's happy enough to allow the silence to persist, not so eager to fill the air with questions and nagging commands. Her hands smooth out the fabric of his shirt across his chest, the cotton soft and tellingly free of creases. It was laughable to think that she had wanted a big fussy proposal, not when he was such a utilitarian by nature. His minimalism was one of the things she loved most about him, a flair for brevity that made his writing so engaging was also what made him such a refreshing, honest person to be around. By lacking a grand romantic gesture, Desmond had made the proposal itself the grand romantic gesture, and it felt more sincere than anything she'd ever seen in a chick flick. Finally extracting herself from his lap, she lacked her usual grace, stumbling back to the passenger seat. "I don't know," she started, forcing a serious tone. "I think it would be most appropriate if you proposed in front of them all. Really let them feel involved." Just the day before she would have meant that, but having experienced the intimacy of his casual suggestion, all she could think was how desperately lovely it would be to have him present her with the ring all on their own, in his adorably retro teenage bedroom. "Just in case you were sweating it, I can't imagine not spending the rest of my life without you. You're stuck with me, ring or not... but a ring would be nice." .................... notes: so soppy. music: angus & julia stone.

[desmond hudson]

Desmond feels incredibly incompetent as she wiggles herself into his lap. It's the kind of physical contact that while he wants to be reactive to, he struggles to be so. He tries to push past the barrier that his mind sets up, the one that causes him to stiffen in discomfort and leaves his partner feeling rejected. His cold hands settle on her bronzed thighs, running up them gently and settling on the small of her back. She is warm to touch; while he feels like a cold corpse, she feels like life is running through her – which it quite literally is. He kisses her back softly, not urgently but sweetly. There is very little lust but there is a need to be close to her, her arms wrap tightly around her upper body and he rests his forehead into her collarbone. His hands feel the circumference of her body, thumbs expanding gently over her protruding stomach before drawing over her ribs. The moment ends as quickly as it's started, leaving him wanting to crawl into the warmth of bed. He's tired and he's cold, feeling almost feverish in the Boston air. The streets are busy with weekend shoppers, he takes notice of how many people there are dotted on the sidewalks. Fathers, mothers, sons, daughters and golden retrievers. Will they be the type of family that has a golden retriever and a summer home? Will he be the dad that wears velcro sandals with mid-calf length socks? God, he hopes it doesn't come to that. He puts his right signal on and stops at a red light. Fingers tap the steering wheel, following the beat of the late John Bonham's drums. Jesus, this station likes their Zeppelin. “Christsake, no,” he shakes his head and lets out a soft chuckle. Quickly he makes a right hand turn and then soon after a left. “It'll come,” he places a hand on her thigh and gives it a squeeze, “are you sure you're ready for a life of serious mediocrity? Less than mediocrity, actually. Years of me swearing over book reviews and fan clubs... being a total fucking princess while I woe over books I haven't even wrote, anti-socially drinking coffee at three in the morning, and refusing to go to anywhere? It'll be a horror story,” he starts jokingly but tails the statement off seriously, as he pulls into the driveway of the Hudson Estate he punches the gate code in. 2475. “Really think about it. I love you, more than anything I've ever loved and I'll love that baby equally.. You'll be things worth waking up for. But I'm a nightmare,” he taps the wheel again, pulling up the long driveway with ease. .................... notes: Fifty shades of mush. Love them so much. music: The Paper Kites

[dasia mae knight]

As he kisses her back Dasia practically melts into him, all the tension she didn't realise she'd been storing in her body easing with his reciprocation. Her fingers find the hair at the nape of his neck and to her surprise, she doesn't miss the feverishness of their early kisses. It felt like a maturing of the relationship, a tenderness that comes from truly loving someone and not just wanting to rip their clothes off them. It occurs to her that she's never felt this way about anyone before. Pulling away, she's smiling and still faintly blushing, always a little vulnerable in his presence. He's not alone in longing for bed - the idea of going back to a house full of strangers fawning over her had lost its appeal, and she'd much rather crawl into bed and nap. It had been an exhausting morning. Back in the safety of her own seat, she reflects. Slowly he was giving her a trickle of his old self, but there were still big walls between them. She chose to focus on the positive. Having been given an inch, she had every intention of taking a mile. "Are you sure? No, no, you're right. Let's go back to the strip club we met in, that's a more romantic setting to get down on one knee." That felt like decades ago, though in reality it had only been a few years. How things could change. One hand on her tummy again, she settled into her seat, wishing they were further away from home so she could nap there and then. Watching mansion after mansion whizz by, interspersed by lush greenery, it's not until Desmond gets into the full self-loathing swing of it that she sits up and looks at him.  Realising he'd talked himself into seriousness, she let the monologue hang in the air for a few seconds. He talks again and it's obvious that he believes himself, a fact that causes her heart to break for him. Turning fully in her seat, she shakes her head. "Don't. I'm not stupid Desmond, I know what I'm getting myself into." Softening, her fingers glide through his hair affectionately. "You are a princess, but luckily for you, I'm Prince Charming," she smiled, her hand falling to his and taking it. "You're brilliant and loyal and so loving, albeit in your own way. You'll be an amazing dad, I'm sure of it because you're the best boyfriend I've ever had. You have an incredible ability to make me feel safe, Des, and you have no idea how hard that is to find." "Now come on," she added, jumping out the car and going to the boot. "If I don't get to eat cake in the next twenty minutes I'm probably going to die." .................... notes: SO soppy. music: still angus & julia stone.

[desmond hudson]

The two of them have had a breakthrough. Though Desmond wonders how long this understanding will last. Sure, he's happy right now, but in twenty minutes? Twenty hours? Twenty days? The misery is impending and it is definitely to come. How long can Dasia put up with it? It wasn't exactly fair to her, putting the weight of his depression on her shoulders. Especially as they were about to start a family, what would happen when he was inevitably hit with an episode around the kid? The spur of the moment proposal suddenly didn't seem like such a good idea. He wasn't a fun person to be around about 75% of the time. Was the 25% worth it? Dasia becomes defensive on his behalf and he catches himself, he feels as though he just fished for compliments. He flashes a quick smile, “gee,” his hand stretches over to her to gently knead the back of her neck. “Had no idea you felt that way,” he mocks slightly with a fixed smile on his face. As he pulls into the driveway he notices a few cars, but not as much as there is sure to be. There's the maid's little Volkswagon beetle, the florist and two other cars which he assumes to be staff. In truth he's a little disappointed that there's anyone at all, he had sort of hoped the house would be magically empty. The last thing he wants is to make idle chit chat with strangers. It's only when Dasia mentions the cake that he's reminded of it, he's fully ready to bee-line it for bed. But he reluctantly follows her, popping open the trunk and tucking the large cake under his arms. Walking into the house, he's anxious and fixes his eyes on the ground to avoid having to greet anyone. He places the cake down on the kitchen table and looks outside. There's Henry talking to a grounds person, he's talking with his hands and his expression is slightly frustrated. “You tired? I'm fucking exhausted,” he looks as Dasia, pale in the face, “c'mon.” He picks up her hand and drags her behind him, leaving the same way as they came. .................... notes: this is POO music: nothing!

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[dasia mae knight]

Her impassioned defence of him is met with mirth, and she wouldn't have it any other way. Reassured that he was not teetering on the edge of an emotional breakdown (he was a good inch away from that, she felt), his affectionate gestures reassure her all the more. If his latent self loathing was going to get to him today was not that day. It was funny how someone could be so self loathing and so reclusive at once, and fleetingly she wished she hadn't given up on studying psychology as flippantly as she had. To the untrained eye Desmond might look like a narcissist, sneering and self regarding, so wrapped up in his own world that it was as if no one else existed. Over time Dasia had seen a different side to him than the one who judged her so harshly in that strip club. Desmond was alienated by a world he didn't fit into, and that he didn't fit was not by choice. She could see that. It was his nature, and he fought it hard and often, but always for her. Supporting her through college, supporting her dropping out, supporting her tantrums and her highs and her lows... in all that time he'd only asked one thing of her, and that had been that she quit her job. It was also something she hadn't shut up about since. Another rush of gratitude hits her and she swallows it down. Too much fussing would push him away, she'd learnt that the hard way. But she was irked by how much he saw the relationship as one-sided, as if she was some saint putting up with his bullshit every day of the week. "I need you to stop martyring yourself. I know you think I do a lot for you, but the truth is you do that and more for me. Not many guys would date an escort, much less propose to a former one. You're a twenty-five year old expectant father with the weight of an award winning reputation on your shoulders and two dads who, whilst they love you, expect brilliance from you all the time. I'm an overdramatic, erratic mess, and you put up with me as much as I put up with you. You're doing great, cut yourself some slack." She says the last four words sternly, emphasising that she means it beyond a throwaway turn of phrase.  Casting a cursory glance over the other cars in the driveway, Dasia adjusts her expression back to that false smile. It's not such a burden though, and despite not being in the mood to party right now (especially without a glass of wine in hand), she knows she'll get into the swing of it and end up having a great time. Following him into the house, her eyes linger on the closed cake box once it's down. The promise of cake had hung over the whole day and yet here she was, cakeless and extremely bitter about it. Before she can tempt herself by lifting the lid, her hand is being grabbed and she's being tugged out of the room. "I feel like I'm never going to get to eat cake again," she moans, though inwardly she's pleased not to have to deal with the monotony of party planning. "Where are we going? Do you want to go for a walk?" A pause. "Do you want a joint? Obviously I can't, but I don't mind if you do. It might settle you." .................... notes: i've gone from soppy to sloppy, so sorry! music: philip glass.

[desmond hudson]

TThough it is only half past one, every inch of Desmond feels exhausted. His knees hurt, his fingers ache, his back begs for support and his mind desires an off switch. He feels like an arthritic old man. The only thing he does have energy for right now is attacking himself. Poisonous self-hatred runs through his veins, penetrating his mental and physical state. Although Dasia's words should reassure him that he is the best he can be, they don't at all. If anything he's touched by guilt yet again and his only thought is how stupid he was to say anything at all. How completely idiotic of him to burden her with his concerns over his being. It wasn't her job to bear his insecurities, he continues to feel as though he fished for her pity. In response, Desmond gives her silence. This change of environment makes him slightly stiffer, or maybe the magic of the moment is gone. At the front door Desmond kicks off his Vans and on the counter he places Henry's glasses, he leaves an obvious trail that he's returned. The physical world around Desmond is often just as chaotic as his mind. Before Dasia the apartment was a constant mess, he had forgotten how to use coasters and went through a rotation of five dishes. He stuck dark towels over the windows to keep the light out and survived off of Mr. Noodles. That's another thing that agitated him about Dasia's speech, she was the one saving him and not the other way around. Despite her cries, Desmond doesn't let go of her hand. “You can have my piece later,” he assures her, his large hand pulling at her smaller one. “I think the only weed I have in my room is about six years old,” he pulls her upstairs, he socked feet hold little traction against the hardwood surface. He only lets go of her hand when he reaches his bedroom. He heads to the window and draws the shutters closed, a new darkness paints the already navy walls. His fists rubs his eyes furiously, and he slowly frees his legs from their denim cage. “Just have to take five,” he explains himself, his body hitting the mattress and his head collapsing onto a pillow. .................... notes: I'm sorry for how exciting this isn't. music: paper kites

[dasia mae knight]

Dasia slips her shoes off, about to let go of his hand to lean over and adjust his and hers neatly, when she's pulled up the stairs anyway. No time. The desire to tidy itches at her all the way upstairs, her head turned over her shoulder to look back at the shoes, roughly discarded as they were. She hoped George and Henry didn't think her rude. Being yanked up the stairs as she was, she placed her free hand on the bannister cautiously, concerned about slipping down the stairs despite the fact that her bare feet gave her plenty of grip. Pregnancy had done this to her, making her overly paranoid. Every time she entered a room she glanced around it for potential dangers, and every time she was embarrassed by the fact she was destined to be a helicopter mother. She promised herself she would loosen up with time. Once in Desmond's bedroom, the mess is enough that she doesn't even see it anymore. It's white noise. Knowing his parents there was absolutely no chance the room was left in anything but an immaculate, if very teenage, order, and that he could create so much mess in such a short time astounded Dasia. Instinctively she's straightening things here and there, pairing up shoes and folding up clothes to put away. But it's a pointless task once he's cast the room into darkness, and she abandons the t-shirts she's just folded to one side. She was tired, but she also knew she was better powering through it, especially given there would be a party in no time at all.  With Desmond in bed, she leans over and tucks him in, making sure he's nestled into the duvet. It breaks her heart to see him like this. She wonders if this would be all he'd do if she wasn't there to eventually drag him from slumber, and then she wonders if this would be all he'd want to do if she wasn't such an overbearing presence in his life. Sleep would be just about the only respite he got from her - his, and her's, since when she was asleep she couldn't nag. Guilt weighed heavy in her stomach. "Take as long as you need," she says kindly, kissing him on the cheek. "Worst comes to the worst, I'll wake you when everyone's gone." .................... notes: ok this was true poop.  music: philip glass.

[desmond hudson]

Through a cloud of unconsciousness he hears Dasia say something, but he's not sure what. He feels the blankets tuck in around him as though he's a small child. His hands barrel around the pillow and his face sinks deep into it. The pull of exhaustion leaves him motionless and unaware. The door clicks closed and he's sound asleep. It's a deep sleep, one not plagued with dreams or nightmares, there is nothing to distract him and shake him awake. It's just the kind of sleep he desires. Pure black, uninterrupted darkness. When he does wake it seems as though he has only been away for half an hour. But in reality, it's nearly nine o'clock and darkness has taken over the sky. He groans into his pillow, his eyes are covered in sleep and his index fingers rub them. His body is still heavy as he pulls himself from his sheets, sitting up on top of the bed. He pulls his usual routine: draw the shades, take a pill, put some pants on. When he pulls open the window he notices the crowd of people that have take over the lawn, the fairy lights making them just visible enough. There is conversation throughout the crowd, most of the people have been taken care of with a glass of champagne. He searches for familiar faces – mainly Dasia's – but sees none. Downstairs is the same story. He sulks through the rooms, hoping to be unnoticed. Mostly everyone is dressed somewhat up, and he in his casual attire is sure to stick out in a negative way. He can't hear or see Dasia. In the kitchen, the cake has been removed of it's cardboard box. It's lying on a platter; lifelike flowers with tiny ducks floating through, Desmond and Dasiap is written in cursive. He pours himself a glass of water and chugs it with a great thirst. He pours himself another. As he sips at this, he picks through the crowd with his eyes. .................... notes: this might be the worst one. music: paper kites

[dasia mae knight]

Leaving him to it, Dasia heads downstairs to see if she can lend a hand with party preparations. Over the next hour she's told repeatedly to sit down and relax, until defeatedly she returns upstairs, ready to take her time doing her hair and make up in the hope that it would all be over sooner. It feels ungracious to be wishing the party over before it's even begun, but as SUV after SUV pulls into the drive and all sorts of well heeled types start to pour into the property, she's intimidated and awkward and just wants to crawl into bed with her boyfriend. After over an hour of prep, she takes one final look in the mirror. Scarlet lipstick is spread across her mouth, falsies in place on her lashes, a deep red dress clinging to her body. This would probably be the last time she could fit into this dress, at least until the baby had been born and she'd lost its weight. If she lost the baby weight, that was. Desperately wishing she could have a drink, she heads back into the dark bedroom to dig around for her heels. Desmond, on the other hand, has been blissfully asleep the whole time. At least, it seems like bliss to her. Looking fondly at him, she picked up the jeans he'd left discarded by the side of the bed and starts to fold them, when his wallet slips to the floor. Placing the jeans carefully to one side, she bends over and opens the wallet again, keen to take a closer look at his (regrettably not very embarrassing) drivers license photo. A small smile tugs at her lips as she takes it in, running a finger over his beardless mugshot. She's about to put the wallet on his bedside table when she feels an odd bump in it, and for the briefest of miliseconds she wonders if it's a ring... but that would be stupid, he'd told her that was at home and besides, it didn't feel anything like it. Feeling foolish, she flips open the pocket to find a small, questionable pill. She stands staring at it for a second. Whatever it was, it was news to her, and whilst she wanted to believe that it could be prescription she didn't see how that could possibly be the case. After all, unless he was going to a 24 hour doctor, he hadn't had a chance any time recently... her stomach churns as she turns it over in her palm, trying to identify what it was. If it weren't for the faint sound of chatter from downstairs she'd wake him up to demand answers, but as it is George and Henry have gone to all this bother and she won't make a scene, not now. Regaining some composure, she slips the pill into her bra for safekeeping, replacing the wallet from where it fell. The rest of the evening is something of a blur. Gliding from guest to guest, gushing and smiling and accepting congratulations, she finds herself making Desmond's excuses and talking baby names with perfect strangers. George is completely in his element and gratefully she's guided by his extraversion, letting him introduce her to everyone and following his conversational leads. Eventually though, it all gets too much and she excuses herself - by then everyone was drunk and distracted enough not to mind, and she slips into the utility room, grateful for the peace and quiet.  After listening to the latest This American Life podcast on her phone, she's recharged enough to face another round of repetitive small talk. Instead, upon leaving the room she's met by Desmond, hunched over the sink and getting himself a glass of water. The sight of him gives her more of a shock than it should, and again she has to pause to compose herself before she closes the distance between them. "Hello," she says stiffly, barely making eye contact. People are noticing them, the happy couple, so she leans over and kisses him, though it's as unimpassioned as it would be if she'd been kissing a corpse. "Good sleep?"  .................... notes: this got unnecessarily long and for that i am sincerely sorry, please don't feel you have to match! music: philip glass.