primadonna girl || wilbur soot

Chapter Fifty-Nine

[REAL LIFE]

Clara sneaks out of Salem's place before the girl wakes up. It's bad enough that Clara arrived at her best friend's doorstep at ten pm last night, sobbing her eyes out. Salem was already in bed, and she had to stay awake an extra hour to hold Clara as she cried, whispering words of comfort in her ear.

Clara left Salem a note on the counter thanking her for her troubles before being on her way, tiptoeing out in the same clothes that she arrived in. It's fairly early. Definitely too early for Wilbur to be awake. Especially with the amount he drank last night. Clara wants to gag just thinking about it. She'll have to sanitize her apartment, scrubbing at the walls and the floors and the cupboards just to be rid of that smell, just to be rid of that feeling.

Honestly, she's not sure what's going to happen when she sees Wilbur again. But what she does know, is that her signature souffle pancakes make any hangover feel like Christmas.

She's making souffle pancakes for the one person she was able to be fully vulnerable with, for the person that exploited that vulnerability perhaps without meaning to last night.

Her eyes are still puffy as she fits her key into the lock, hands shaking slightly. Her vision goes blurry. She knows she's going to smell it, she knows she's going to smell it, she knows she's going to smell it-

Huh. She doesn't smell it.

Clara steps inside, looking around suspiciously as she takes off her shoes. Even if Wilbur had somehow gotten himself to a secondary location, his smell would definitely still linger somehow. The current smell of her house is bitter and nasty, and something just isn't quite right... but it's not vodka.

Her eyes first go to the kitchen, and that's where her questions are answered. It's too early for George to be awake, but he is anyway. He's sitting on a stool, consuming a bowl of cereal while scrolling through Twitter, dubiously quiet. And he's got a bottle of perfume that's been practically drained sitting next to his bowl on the counter.

He hears Clara walk in, and his eyes immediately soften. Not breaking eye contact, he sets down his phone and walks over to her slowly.

"George, I-"

She doesn't finish her sentence. She cuts herself off as George wraps her tightly in his arms, holding her as if this hug can solve all of her problems, can solve the issue of last night.

"The smell was pungent," he murmurs, their hug likely looking comical because of him being shorter than her. "Sorry for draining your perfume. I didn't make it much better but-"

Clara interrupts him by pulling back to shake her head aggressively. "No. Thank you."

When she doesn't whisper, George puts a finger to his lips. She cocks an eyebrow at him quizzically, and with half-hatred and half-disappointment, he puts up a pointed finger at their sofa.

There, a figure rests. Wrapped in the blanket normally at the foot of George's bed, face down, is Wilbur. There is no sign of life except for the steady movement of his back as he breathes deeply, still in deep sleep.

Just looking at him makes her insides curl. She hates her instincts right at that moment because her first thought is how cute he looks when he sleeps. But then it all comes back to her at once, sending her reeling.

"Oh," she mouths at George, who grimaces weakly.

"I'll leave you two alone," he tells her deeply, speaking quietly. "But if you need me, just shout and I'll come running."