alder smoke blues .

[desmond hudson]

<sub>-----DESMOND reacts to her rejection, calm and collected as ever. A twelve hour car ride, stuck in a tiny rental car with him, he expects she thinks it would be hell. And if she was that uncomfortable in his apartment, standing in the gap of his entrance like a deer caught in headlights, it probably was best that she didn't tag along. He could fore see the two of them fighting over radio stations; he himself yearning for the smooth psychedelic jams of Jimi Hendrix, her probably aching for something that would make his ears bleed. She'd want to stop for food, and he'd just want to drive straight on. Taking all of this into consideration, he spits out the opposite of what his mind tells him, just don't be sorry when I start writing, and stick around Chicago for the year. A filthy joke, his fingers gently scratches at her knee to reassure her that it was in fact a lie.

-----THE SMALL man behind the counter watches them, his big brown eyes suspicous as Dasia slides from Desmond's back. Des focuses on his female company for a moment, amused as the delight that spreads across her face. The girl may play hard, but in truth she so much more basic than she lets on, more of a little girl than a woman in many instances. He tears his eyes from her, and makes his way to the counter, looking gracious when he sees a familiar package of cigarettes ready to go on the counter. Ah, you're quite the man, Anwar, he praises him, watching as a proud smile fills the older man's face, crooked teeth displaying. He loves everything about the man - his silent disposition, the way his teeth sprawl about his mouth, the fact that he knows Desmond like a book, and the fact that Des didn't even have to ask his name, it's displayed clearly on his name tag. Anwar's maybe spoken three words total to him, and for once, he is the one making up most of the conversation, it's refreshing.

-----BEHIND HIM Dasia babbles on, chewing on some sort of candy. He raises his brows at her, shooting her a brief look that says really? But instead of stiffening up, and trying to zip past the situation as he usually does, he stretches his arm around her, pulling her into his frame. Ah yes, my darling wife, love of my life, bane of my existence, he turns her, and places his warm hands on her cheeks, staring into her eyes, his dimples beaming beneath his facial hair. I am quite fond of her, he boldly winks as her, his hands sliding from the flush of her cheeks into his pocket. Twelve? he asks, leafing through bills in his wallet, eventually deciding to hand him a twenty.

-----MUSIC dr dog
-----NOTES just my OTP. and holy f, page 3.</sub>

[dasia mae knight]

The joke sends a jolt of panic through the girl, her body tensing even as he brushes against her knee. "That's not funny," she says stiffly, moving seamlessly to the bubbly, waffling version of herself and into the sterner version, the humourless person who took everything gravely seriously. Subconsciously, her arms tightened so minutely that he probably didn't feel it, the kneejerk reaction to physically cling on to him rather than watch him walk away too muchto be allowed by her sense of pride.     But by the time they arrive at the store and she's back to worlds of pain, she's forgotten the instance entirely. Well, at least until he actually left for Chicago, when she would probably start calling him every half hour just to make sure he still intended on coming home. Sugar coats her fingers as she tears through the packet of sour candy like a woman starved, and she's finished one of them before Desmond can even pay. But that's good, depriving her of distractions from their charade. She raises his 'really?' look with one of confusion, as if she can't understand why he'd react like that. She's expecting him to deny it outright, and has her whole "....five years of marriage and this is how you treat me?!" act ready, when he surprises her for what must be the tenth time that day. He plays along. More than that, his hands are on her face and she's glad for their size, since they're going a good way to hide that god forsaken blush. She's just staring at him even as he pays, a faint smile on her face as her mind plays catch up with her body.   Impatient to the core, she snatches the $20 bill and puts it down on the counter, pulling off the $5,000 watch from her wrist and putting it down on top of the note. "An apology. We should have invited you to the wedding. Come darling, we need to talk about redecorating that squalid little apartment of ours." Waving to the man, she took Des's hand and dragged him out of the store, shoving the other bag of candy into his pocket as they went. Once outside she was hesitant to let his hand go.  "It was a beautiful ceremony, wasn't it? I'm so glad we chose Blurred Lines for our first dance, and that a cat was your best man. Wouldn't have had it any other way." Notes:  THREE PAGES. That's got to be a world record... Listening: my mum telling me I'm late for work.

[desmond hudson]

<sub>-----ANWAR keeps smiling, wrinkles multiplying as he watches the two of them. Dumbfounded? Desmond can't tell, he's a mysterious man. Desmond's bear like hands hold Dasia's fine features, looking like plastic but feeling like flesh. Bouncy flesh, but soft and life like, still the same. The young woman is awestruck, he watches a smile smile etch across her doll-like face. Just the feedback he was looking for, and he continues to beam, showing his smile from all degrees as if he couldn't be more proud.

-----AS HIS fingers dig through his wallet, diving for a twenty, it's swiped from his grasp. Brown eyes catch a glimpse of green flicker through the air, Dasia setting it on the counter with a slight force. He glances at her fidgeting with her watch for a split second, before his fingers pocket the cigarettes safely in his jacket. Suddenly there's a change in Anwar's facial expression, Desmond looks up to see the smile vanish from his face, and his eyes dart down to the twenty-dollar-leaf on the counter. In consquence, Des also looks down, the massive watch sitting gloriously on top of the bill. She runs her mouth, and he looks at her, not with shock or dismay, but with sudden immediate interest.

-----HE FEELS a tug on his hand, that golden hair fans through the air and he's pulled forward, nodding at the shop clerk with less grace than he entered with. As he's dragged out of the shop, that cat-on-a-leash metaphor comes to mind, his feet trudging behind the steady click of Dasia's stilhettos. The girl's running her mouth, but it's about the seventh time that evening that he's failing to listen. Black vans hit the pavement quietly, and his hand remains folded over hers, the rhythm of his pace steadying at time goes on. As a minute of silence passes, so does his role of husband, his silence smothers it, as it did on his honeymoon. He flicks his eyes at Dasia, who is so tall in her heels he barely has to look down, he offers the faintest comfort in a half smile. Having little words to offer, no caulous bullshit to propose, or whimpsical poetry to thread her ego with, he slips his fingers from hers. His arms reaches above her waist, pulling her into his pace, pressing his lips to her golden crown of hair affectionately and continuing the path to home.

-----MUSIC nada
-----NOTES sorrrrrry, I gave you nothing.</sub>

[dasia mae knight]

Ridding herself of the watch has raised Dasia's mood immeasurably. Physically lighter, her wrist looks all the better for losing the clunky waste of money, and she's not as sad as she thought she might be to see it go. As a teenager she'd been adept at separating men from their money, and as a stripper she had often gone home with men only to rifle through their wallet whilst they snored in the background. Her kleptomania had lessened over the years, what with her hatred for men simmering down to a mild disdain, and her income enjoying a healthy increase as she became more established in her line of work. But the watches proved irresistible. Glinting away on bedside tables, in gym bags, even on wrists... her magpie compulsions were immediately ignited by the sight of a Swiss timepiece, and she had drawers at home filled with her souvenirs. It felt more like a serial killer collecting tokens from his kills than a prostitute robbing her clients, and she couldn't be sure if that was a good or bad thing.     But that watch she was glad to see go. With her hand still interlocked with Desmond's, she swung her arm gently, tugging his along with it. "Oops, looks like I hit your mute button again."  She doesn't mind. Instead, she eyes a taxi, the yellow cab proving tempting though it was only a five minute walk at most. It felt like his fault that her feet hurt. Maybe if he hadn't judged her so much, the power of her sheer ignorance would have overcome even this pain. "I'd murder someone for a gin and tonic. Why didn't we buy tonic? Do you even have gin? I can't believe you distracted me with candy, you cheap bastard."   She's pulled in for a sort of half-embrace, feeling him kiss her on the top of her head. It feels vaguely patronizing... or maybe distant is a better word. Abrasively platonic. She pulls herself away from him, folding her arms and hunching her shoulders against the cold or him or both. When he's this silent for this long she starts to hear herself, to tune in to her own bullshit and to put herself in his shoes, imagining how tedious he must find her. Despite the affectionate gestures and warm words, the longer the silence goes on the more she feels like she's just being indulged. In a characteristic mood swing, she's suddenly on a low where just minutes ago she'd been so high. Arms still folded, when she speaks her voice is quieter. "What do you get out of this friendship? Tell me honestly." Notes:  dasia is clearly a big fan of covering the same ground multiple times. Listening: beethovennnn.

[desmond hudson]

<sub>-----HE MERELY glances at her while she mentions gin and tonic, giving a small look of disgust and a shake of his head. Like a true beat poet, the only alcohol he allowed within the chambers of his apartment were the golden tastes of rum and whiskey; gin only reminded him of rubbing alcohol, which then reminded him of sliced elbows and other childish injuries. As predicted, his silence begins smothering, and he feels Dasia tear away from him. It's as if a band aid is being ripped from his skin, his right side is no longer warmed by her tiny mass, but empty and cold. He reads fear in her eyes, discomfort and insecurity in her posture, and her words confirm that insecurity. Desmond feels himself boiling with annoyance, his head feels as though it's going to explode with confusion. He falls back into character, becoming a child and walking right past her.

-----TWO FEET from Dasia's statuesque figure, his hand shoves into his pocket. He digs around, finding the box of Marlboros immediately, and the lighter a draining few seconds later. Masculine hands rip open the box, leaving the plastic cover carelessly on the pavement. Cigarette slides into his mouth, and one hand blocks the breeze, while the other lights. It's a gesture that's so well rehearsed, it's almost quite handsome. His mind begins to settle as he walks on, feet still heavy, but his pace much quicker than it had been. A steady stream of smoke floats above his wavy brown locks, fingers rub between his eyes, weaning away the annoyance brought on by Dasia's doubts. Her questions. God, her fucking questions.

-----BY THE time he's brave enough to look behind him, his cigarette is squished on the pavement, and Dasia is an insect in the distance. His heels turns and he retreats back, brick by brick he builds a wall to stop himself becoming so easily distraught. When he reaches her, his hand racks through the mass of hair on his head, what do you get out of it? Annoyance drips from every vowel, tongue licks his lips before he speaks, honestly Das, what is it you want from it? What are you fucking afraid of? Desmond drags out his words, they're hard but his eyes look softly at her, I'm fucking trying, but you have to give me something to work with.

-----MUSIC kyuss
-----NOTES idk idk idk</sub>

[dasia mae knight]

As soon as the question slips out from between her lips she knows it'll hit him like a slap in the face. It's one thing to question the legitimacy of their connection when he's brushing her off, or ditching her to elope in Bali. But when they're freshly reunited, and he's offering her sweet little snippets of sentiment? She kicks herself, livid that she'd go and ruin a good moment. Raking the clawed fingers of one hand through her hair, she sighs heavily as he seizes up, clearly not responding well to having his intentions questioned. "I just..." she starts, but it's too late and he's already walking determinedly away from her. Even if there was a vague possibility of her keeping up, she wouldn't try to.    She turns and leans against a lamppost, the cold metal chilling her shoulder though the thin sweater. Unsure of what to do with herself - shit, she even left her handbag at Desmond's - she picks at a loose thread, tugging at it and watching as the sweater threatened to unfurl. God, she could be so stupid. And he had the Sour Patch Kids. Just as she's thinking about hailing a cab and leaving her stuff to collect another time, his footsteps approach and there he is, back to finish what she started. She's not quite ready for it. Overfull bottom lip caught between those pearly white teeth of hers, she bites down hard as he throws her question back at her. She'd have thought the answer would be obvious to anyone being asked, but now that it's her... she's scrambling to collect her thoughts, back pressed against the lamppost as she tries to edge away from the interrogation, even physically. All his questions are killer, all of them with answers she doesn't know or worse still, doesn't want to verbalize. His last sentence paired with that soft eye contact of his calms her down a little, sending a pang of guilt through her chest. "I'm scared that what you want and what I want are different..." she says, groaning inwardly at the cliche choice of phrase. "Not like that. Like.. whatever. I'm..." she's struggling, and she has to look away from him. Her hands absently fiddling with that loose thread the whole time, she raises it to her mouth and pulls it loose with her teeth, blowing the tiny strip of navy fabric towards the ground. She still can't look at him. "I feel like I lost you because you met a girl, and one day you're going to meet another one and I'll lose you for good." Notes:  my boyf is so mad that i'm ignoring him to write this. Listening: endless complaints.

[desmond hudson]

<sub>-----HE BOILS with frustration, and in the depths of his mind, that brick wall is falling through. Eyes follow as Dasia shrinks away into the nearby lamp post, and it's as if she's thrown away her high heels, the way she cowers from him. He spits his questions, his brows furrowed like a mad man, and there's remorse for his tone of voice. Maybe he should have kept walking, ran away from the problem instead of confronting it head on; would he have been better waiting for Dasia's mood to lift and for her to flounce back into his apartment like she predictably would? There's a part of him that believes this, but another part of him that is eager to know, and this is what causes him to close the space between them.

-----HE MOVES forward, eyes deciphering if she's going to fight with him, or give him reason. When it's the latter, his heart stings beneath his chest. Anguish over comes him, and he's tempted to hold her close, drag his hand through her hair and do something terribly cliche like tuck it behind her ear. What do you think I want? he questions with anticipation, unsure of what he wants himself. In distance, he's stoney. He wants to be left alone, he wants to write, to drink his coffee, and smoke his cigarettes. But Pearl's changed that, or maybe he was never that way to begin with. She's made his history, and now when you look on paper, there's a version of him that seeks companionship.

-----DESMOND arm stretches over her, his hand gripping the post, and his head bowing. What do you want? he asks her, ruffling his hand through his hair weerily. He's eyes avert from hers to watch the ground, while his hand reaches into his pocket, crumbling the plastic of the candy bag, and pressing the hard metal of his housekeys into his hand. I wouldn't worry about it too much, sweetheart, tongue licks at his cheek, he's hovering over her and gripping onto the post like a crippled man. There's little chance of anyone tolerating my bullshit, and I prefer the company of books.. you've got me for life, sorry.

-----MUSIC simon & garfunkel..
-----NOTES he's just jealous of our three pages.</sub>

[dasia mae knight]

His question is so frustrating that it's a battle not to roll her eyes. What does he want? She's got no fucking clue what he wants, hence why she asks on a regular basis. But deep down, she knows that it's she who doesn't know what she wants - Desmond's seemingly happy to continue as they always have done, whilst Dasia is the one constantly prodding and provoking. It's almost a trick question when she asks him it, as she's really hoping what he'll reply with is exactly what she wants, and suddenly everything will make sense. But no, she still doesn't know what she wants from him, and as a result he's plagued with inane questions that he's answered a thousand times before.    It's definitely cold now. Suppressing a shudder, she runs slender hands up and down her arms, trying to contain some warmth. Her skin is covered in goosebumps, but whether that's from the cold or the confrontation isn't clear. As he steps closer she tries to step back, before realizing she's cornered herself. As usual. "I think you probably want me to stop asking these stupid questions," she says quietly, her eyes meeting his with the ghost of a smile on her face. As he talks, she's overcome with a need to have him close. She slips her arms around his waist, attaching herself to him in a way that was more akin to a clingy child than a good friend. Her arms are tight around him, her whole body pushed against his. When she speaks her voice is muffled against his chest, and even now she's trying not to add make up marks to the litany of stains on his t-shirt. "I don't know what I want," she admits, and it hurts to. "Obviously I want you here. And I want us to stop falling out, I know that's mostly my fault. I just want us to be okay, are we okay? I sometimes feel like you hate me." Notes:  HOW COULD HE NOT BE. THREE PAGES. Listening: nadaaa.

[desmond hudson]

<sub>-----HE IS perplexed by the situation. With his head bowed, eyes reading the grey pavement, he reads poetic descriptions of the value shadows in his head. In his pocket he's rolling his house keys, digging the ragged edge into his palm, sawing at his flesh cruelly. Hazel eyes meet hers briefly, and he fails to smile at her comment, instead lifting his shoulders and then dropping them. His mind is a thick fog of confusion, and when he looks at her it only becomes thicker, he's in a moment of paralysis. Unable to do anything but remain silent, and cling into the pole with such determination, the blue of his veins are visible.

-----WHEN FEELING returns to the tips of his body, his hand lifts from his pocket, and he pulls Dasia in closer. Fingers comb her bleached hair, the soft stands falling right through his grasp, his chin rests upon the mass of blonde. When Dasia speaks, he feels his heart ache, it weighs heavily in it's cavity, as if there's a fist around it. His mind is still murky with insecurities, and when he opens his mouth to speak, he shuts it immediately, sensing only words of inadequacy and self doubt at the tip of his tongue. Instead he presses his lips against her hair, and lets his hand slip from the post to her shoulder, holding her tightly in his arms.

-----HE IS a coward, and he begins to feel like one as the moments pass, selling his own shortcomings as reasons not to be honest, or not to even speak. Das.. he clears his throat, hand gently caressing the back of her neck, thumb stroking the curve of her shoulder. I never hate you, I do love you.. so much that my head feels like it's going to explode, the candid words leave him, silently, calmly, and without reluctance.I love you.. you're fucking everything, that's what I get out of this.

-----MUSIC brenton wood. i blame him.
-----NOTES boom. level 3 of cheesines achieved.</sub>

[dasia mae knight]

With his arms around her, it's as if she's cocooned against his broad chest. His body warmth is a welcome plus, and it's the warmest she's been since leaving the apartment what felt like forever ago. There's also a sense of shared confusion, with neither party able to answer the other's questions with anything resembling clarity of thought. The silence stretches on between them, but it's less painful now. Without the option of eye contact, she's feeling less vulnerable, even if she's clinging to him like a child. His fingers grazing against her neck sends a shiver through her body, every inch of her skin feeling like it's charged with static electricity, volatile energy bubbling just under the surface.     She can't remember the last time he had touched her prior to now. Every so often she'd launch herself onto him in a hug, or brush up against him... but he was always the passive agent, no more affectionate physically than he was verbally. It complicates matters. For so long she'd believed that she longed for his touch purely because it was so elusive, and that if she could prompt him to just graze against her, her curiosity would be done. But he'd carried her, held her hand, hugged her... and she craved it more than ever. Even now, in his arms, she was desperate for his touch, hugging him as if she could hug him any tighter than she already was.     When he speaks she falls very still. Just the sound of him clearing his throat makes her heart jump up into hers, and she's holding her breath to hear him. What he says takes all the air out of her lungs anyway. Looking at him with something between all out confusion and deep affection, she just stares while she tries to process what he said. It was good. She'd gotten that far. She was reassured. But it was so heavy, so unlike him, so shooting-pains-in-the-chest much... before she could stand and question herself a moment longer, her delicate fingers found his face, and she stood up on her toes to push her lips up against his. Notes:  literally no dialogue I'M SRY, BUT AH. Listening: iggy azalea. i think i love her.

[desmond hudson]

<sub>-----HE HAS little idea what impact his words have. They're strong, and genuine, the certainty he speaks with scares the hell out of him. But as he talks, it is without consequence, no 'what-ifs' cling onto the just past, it is only after these flow to his head. There's only a sliver of him that believes something positive will come from this, but he mostly believes she'll freeze. He can almost feel her hands slip from his waist, her words cutting his ego, and he can see her sulking off into the shadows. It's such a vivid picture, his grip loosens, already preparing for the expected.

-----SOMETHING else happens though, he's untying himself from her as she slips away, only to look at him. It's the most vulnerable Desmond's felt in his life, more vulnerable than he had been handing his book over. And he looks it, his brown eyes lose their severity, and you can see his youth behind them, the naivety that he tries so furiously to shelter. He's trying to read Dasia, did she even hear him? He questions while she slithers her fingers around his face, the negative outweighing the positive, as for a second he believes she's going to drop kick his head across New York City. It's not until her lips meet his, that it clicks in, and the suddenness of this hits him, daggers trail along his spine.

-----THOUGH it doesn't take long for him to react. Pressing his own lips deep into hers, his hand holding the base her head, knotting her golden hair desperately between his fingers. He tenderly presses her against the light post, scooping his arm along her back. There's an edged sweetness to his movements, a pause as to which his brain switches off, and he quits thinking. When he eventually pulls away, he lends his head against hers, he reconnects his mind, but there's so much thought it's difficult to pull words. He soaks up the tenderness, cheekily slithering his hand up her bare back, and giving her bra strap a pull. C'mon, let's go.

-----MUSIC too ashamed to say.
-----NOTES i give you nothing. but massive amounts of love & cheesy.</sub>

[dasia mae knight]

Oblivious to his fears, Dasia too is anticipating crushing rejection. It was so typical of her to see an inch and take a mile - clearly, the fact he'd slung an arm around her shoulder meant that he must want desperately to kiss her. Hell, saying he missed her probably meant that he wanted to get married and have three children, all blessed with 'D' names. Dasia was confident in her ability to read men like picture books, but Des had never been just any man. He was a cipher. But with her lips making contact with his, her fingers raking through the hair at the nape of his neck, she's suddenly struck by a radical idea - maybe he's not a cipher, and he's actually just not interested.    The thought doesn't have much time to stew. Just as panic begins to creep through her frame, his lips are pushing back against hers, and she's grinning into the kiss, all the tension in her body just dissolving away. Her back arches against his touch, her smile widening so much that she's practically sabotaged the moment. It's an unnaturally sweet kiss for her, and even with the lamp post between her shoulder blades she's not tempted to wrap herself around him any more than she already is, for once avoiding the opportunity for raunch. It's so different to kissing clients, so much so that she'd actually forgotten how much of a pleasure it could be.     She pouts as he pulls away, though this too is sabotaged by a grin that refuses to budge. Laughter spills from her as he tugs on her bra, shoving a sharp elbow into his ribs. "Sorry, I should have said earlier, but you now you owe me $50." She slips her arm into the crook of his, tugging him along. A weight's lifted between them, her new calmness present in her slow movement, not to mention lack of passive aggressive questions. No doubt her neurosis would surface later, when she'd go into all out panic mode and try to make sense of everything. But for now she was happy to let it lie, the cool air blowing her hair out around her shoulders. "You weren't kidding about your beard. You must condition it." Notes:  oh tee pee. Listening: iggy still.

[desmond hudson]

<sub>-----DESMOND returns her smile, not being able to help it as he feels her lips widen. Dasia's so happy it kills him, and if he were stalking himself from his bedroom window, 'people watching' as they had not to long ago, he would hate himself. He'd watch as he and her intertwined in the yellow glow of the street light, their smiles pressed against each other, sickeningly happy with each other, and he'd judge them. 'Nicolas Sparks', he recites in his own head, 'has had a horrible influence in today's youth.'

-----HIS NEGATIVITY is sidelined, and when she jabs his ribs, he jostles with painful laughter. Hand wraps around her hip, unable to keep himself for pulling her back against him for a kiss, merely sealing something that had only begun. Her arm links with his, and the cat-on-a-leash comparison fails him, because for once their speed is matching, and his head is not focused on the moonlight draped sidewalk. Maybe it's the adrenaline flowing through his veins, but he doesn't feel the need for a cigarette. His fix is tethered to his arm, and when he glances up at Dasia, he grins under his thick beard.

-----DESMOND knots his fingers through hers, and his gaze is fixtated on her, her smile radiant as ever. At her comment he scratches at the nape of his neck, shrugging in agreeance, fair to say you're a fan? His pace lopes along with hers, he's again at a loss with words to say, this time he's not wrecking his head over it. You alright, Das? when he speaks he glances at her, running his thumb across her much tinier knuckle.

-----MUSIC nada
-----NOTES faves.</sub>

[dasia mae knight]

Deep down, she's got a list of potential issues forming. What was this? What were they going to call it? Was it even a thing? What about their friendship? What about their mutual friends? What if he disappeared again? What if he died? It's a small taste of the thoughts she know will flood her mind as soon as she's without him, but with his arm in hers she's able to stifle them down, her current wave of happiness crushing down any little doubts. She squeezes his arm as if to confirm it, tilting her head against his shoulder.   His hand finds her hip, pulling her into him. Being kissed again feels so different to instigating the kissing, and her cheeks flush as she reciprocates. As they walk she realizes it's not only her angst about him that has melted away, but her angst in general - usually self conscious, she for once wasn't thinking about checking her reflection in the window of a parked car. She wasn't fluffling up her hair with her fingers, conscious of limpness. She wasn't adjusting her outfit, pulling at jewellery and adjusting hemlines. She was happy.    "Oh, I'm a fan," she agrees, nodding along. He's clearly struggling for things to say but she minds a lot less now, the glimpse into his psyche plenty for her to go off of for a while. His question forces the corners of her mouth to stretch into a yet wider smile. "I'm alright. Are you alright, Des?" She leans her body into him, breathing in that smell again. "I've switched my brain off. Actually, you switched my brain off for me." They finally reach the steps for his apartment, and she immediately disentangles herself from him to pull the shoes from her feet. "Jesus, that's better." Notes:  so short i'm so sorry, i was rushed! Listening: still iggy. still.

[desmond hudson]

<sub>-----DESMOND's usually weighed down by a deep melancholia, which seeps into his system like steady rain. Even in the height of his success, where he sits on the best seller list, and rips up fan mail daily, he is filled with gloom. There is a reason why he spends many of his days with his blinds shut, and hunched over his pastel typewriter, sometimes his head becomes so heavy he has to ignore the commotion around him. He must block out the screech of traffic with Pete Seger and friends, and make himself blind to the normality of daily life by pulling the shutters tight. With such disability, he finds the best way of dealing is plain ignorance.

-----TONIGHT has become different though, melancholy is fading away in Dasia's presence. He doesn't have to try push at his gloomy conscience, because it has settled down. He's sure that when he wakes up he'll be filled to the brim with panic, and smoking his cigarettes one after the other. But he tries not to think about it, he keeps the future at bay, and a smile plays faintly on his young mug. That smile keeps when she speaks, and he can easily relate to what she says, finding his own mind isn't quite as active. Yea, yea, he speaks pulling up to the steps of his apartment, I'm great, actually.

-----SHE IS much shorter once again, holding her silly shoes in one hand, he ushers her within the entrance. As they make their way up the stairs, Desmond's pace is slow and patient, not at all rushed to get back into the safe confides of his apartment. He keeps his hand threaded with hers, only to let go once they've reached the door. You should know, his hand slips from hers into his pocket, frowning as his hand grabs the bag of candy, and rolling his eyes as he passed it off to her. His thoughts pause until he pulls out his keys, fitting one into the lock. He crooks an eyebrow up at her, the cheekiness of a school boy revealing itself in a grin, that your clothes are coming off once we get in there.

-----MUSIC dawes
-----NOTES so close to 4 pgs. FOUR.</sub>