Clapton's heavy steps trail an almost zig-zag stride as he finally reaches your bed, collapsing into it with a small "oonf". He immediately makes himself at home, laying starfish on your bed.

He came in drunk, secretly invited to some party you still raised an eyebrow at when he mumbled about it trying to climb up the stairs.

He glances over at you. "A-Aren't you coming to bed?" he slurs, a stupid, drunken smirk on his face. What an idiot.