Cataclysm

Disclaimer: Disclaimed.

Chapter Six

She had screwed up. How could someone so smart do something so stupid?

Vulnerability. Fuck it. Fuck sympathy, too. Fuck forgiveness, weakness, emotions.

Fuck civility; if holding back hatred meant replacing it with tears, then 'civil' could go screw itself. Clare certainly had.

"It's not your fault."

What, did he really think she needed reassurance from him, of all people? If anyone could gauge guilty behaviour, she certainly didn't trust it to be him. So why had she let him in? Why was Jake waiting silently for her to shed light on the situation, while every time Eli interrupted her day she was pouring her heart out to him? She let him turn her into a version of herself she couldn't stand, whether that entail crying in his presence, or punching him in the mouth. She felt psychotic, schizophrenic, unstable. He stripped her of self-control.

She threw her head back, the burn of tequila searing the walls of her throat.

Had she really cried in front of him again?

Had she really been dwelling on it for 26 days?

Imogen and Eli had come home, exhausted after sitting through a painstakingly drawn-out play and the long drive that ensued afterwards. Eli had insisted that, given the distance between Toronto and Stratford, they should opt for a matinee showing, but Imogen hadn't deemed that thoroughly proper for 'date night.' Dragging their bodies down the hall from the elevator, they were just outside their door when they heard someone softly singing the wrong words to "Paisley Jacket." Interest piqued, Eli took the few extra steps around the corner, disbelief at what he found in a heap on the floor.

Minutes later, Eli heaved Clare up from the carpet, tossing her body over his shoulder after she nearly stumbled into the door of apartment 422. He had tried to let her walk herself, but for the sake of safety and discretion in the eyes of their neighbours, he had to veto her drunken independence. Imogen was tapping her foot outside of their own door, waiting impatiently.

"Who does this?" she hissed, glaring as Eli and his incoherently-mumbling cargo passed her.

"I know, I know," he muttered. "Clare, where is Jake?" he asked clearly. Clare perked up from where she had been hanging limply on Eli's back.

"On a business trip in San-Fran-cisco," she exclaimed, exaggerating the "o" and giggling.

"And where are your house keys?" Eli asked, setting her gently on his couch, perching himself on the coffee table across from her.

"Inside my house."

"Right," Eli sighed. "So what were you doing in the hallway?" Clare stared at him blankly for a moment, cocking her head to one side.

"I wanted ice cream, but then I realized I forgot my shoes! I have such bad luck," she whined. Eli smirked.

"Ice cream and tequila? Luck may have been on your side after all, Edwards." Clare began to laugh lightly, and Eli smiled at her, unable to channel all of the hostility he'd been building the past few weeks while she was in such an obliviously drunken state.

"Eli, what are we supposed to do with her?" Eli looked over Clare's shoulder to Imogen standing in the kitchen, one arm crossed and the other supporting her chin. He furrowed his brows, and looked back to Clare, doe-eyed and distracted with a magazine she had pulled from a nearby table.

"Well, we can't exactly call the super at 12:30 in the morning. Can she... sleep on the couch, or something?" Imogen looked at the floor, offended by his hesitance in asking.

"I'm not very well going to make her sleep in the hallway, Eli, of course she can." Eli frowned.

"Imo, I know... I'm sorry. Thank you." She looked up at him, smiling slightly and nodding.

"Well, I'm going to bed," she began, but was interrupted by Clare giving an enthusiastic, "Goodnight! Thank you! Your couch is super comfy, it's awesome, Imo!" Imogen regarded the drunk woman in her living room with vague distaste, nodding before retreating to her bedroom. Shaking his head, Eli looked to Clare.

"Are you okay sleeping here?" Clare began to laugh, disregarding the question.

"Do you remember that time after winter formal my sophomore year?" she asked excitedly, and Eli couldn't help but groan at the memory.

"I knew going to that dance was a bad idea," he muttered, dragging a hand over his face. Clare laughed giddily.

"You were dating a dancer, dummy, there was no way out of it!" Eli grinned at the memory of trying to talk Julia out of it, only to receive a look which made his arguments instantly null-and-void. "But remember after? You both got me drunk!" Eli's eyes lit up, as he scraped his mind for the details.

"Oh yeah! You'd never even had a drink before, and we went to that party... oh, God, whose house was that? You threw up all over their porch!" Clare snorted.

"It was Dave Turner's house, he told his parents it would only be a few people, remember?" Eli couldn't help but chuckle.

"Jeez, Clare, that was one rough night... we had to force the first drink down your throat, and rip the eighth one out of your hand. Jules and I didn't even have time to join in, we were too busy chasing you around and apologizing to everyone you knocked over." They laughed together for a minute, both smiling contentedly as the memory faded.

"You're not supposed to be nice while I'm acting out my hatred for you, you know. That's not fair" she mumbled, looking at him genuinely. Eli frowned.

"Is that what you were doing? Drinking because you hate me?" Clare slumped her shoulders, nodding her head.

"Drinking to try and hate you." Eli smiled sadly, looking away. "You didn't mean it, did you?" He looked back at her, her eyes suddenly sad and desperate.

"Didn't mean what?" he asked softly, hoping for the sake of civility that he hadn't meant it at all.

"When you said I was a terrible friend..." she trailed off, looking at her fingers while wringing her hands together. Eli sighed.

"Of course I didn't, but what else was I supposed to say? You haven't been giving me a chance, Clare." They sat in silence for a moment, inspecting each others' expressions. Clare studied the straight slope of his nose, his lopsided lips, his green eyes, recognizing each and every inch of his face from years ago but also discovering a much more mature appeal beneath the surface. His jaw was more mature, more defined, and his chin was darkened with need of a razor. He was still just as distractingly handsome as he had always been, but instead of making her knees weak, it made her heart ache.

"Stop that," she whispered, the slightest of smiles tugging at the corner of her lips. Eli was taken aback.

"Stop what?"

"Making me remember why I used to think you were pretty neat," she breathed, leaning forward, elbows on her knees. Eli's breath hitched, noticing her eyes unmoving from his lips, and he instinctively leaning his forehead against hers.

"Clare, I'm still pretty neat," he answered, and though he had meant to make her laugh, the moment began to feel much more heavy. Clare closed her eyes, and Eli watched her eyelashes flutter slightly before she let out a slow breath and leaned backwards.

"I'm sleepy," she mumbled, already half-asleep. Eli stood up and grabbed the blanket that was draped over a nearby chair, and held it out for her. She took it gratefully, shrugging off her sweater and collapsing into the pillow on her right. Eli mumbled a "goodnight" and was about to walk away, when Clare, whose eyes had flown open to carefully inspect the pattern of the pillow beneath her, began to whisper.

"Red flowers," she muttered, using a finger to trace the delicate floral design, "My favourite." Eli stood still, watching as she lowered her hand and closed her eyes, drifting into unconsciousness before he smiled and whispered back.

"I know."