behind the velvet rope | billie eilish wlw

CH4-i'm not sentimental

The bathroom was filled with the sound of their breathing, the air heavy. The rustling of clothing—buttons slipping, fabric brushing skin—added to the charged intimacy, each noise heightening the tension between Billie and Claire. Billie's perfume, warm with a citrus edge, mingled with their bodies' earthy musk, producing a deep and overpowering combination.

Billie's lips were only a whisper away from Claire's. The anticipation between them hummed like a live wire. But the moment was interrupted by a sudden, insistent knock on the door, a sound too harsh and vivid for the dreamy bubble they had created.

"Billie! Are you in there? Odessa's voice, sharp and urgent, broke through the room.

Billie's eyes snapped open, panic hitting her hard. She pulled away from Claire, the sudden space between them jarring, like waking up too fast from a deep slumber. "Yeah, I'm here!" -the words feeling awkward in her mouth.

"Lilly needs help!" Odessa's tone was clipped, each word landing like a blow. "A photographer shoved her—she fell on the stairs, and now she's bleeding. Badly. You need to go check on her!"

The urgency in Odessa's voice shook Billie, pulling her back to reality. She pushed past Claire, the need to act taking over. Odessa stood just outside the door, her face a tight mask of concern. Her eyes flicked briefly to Claire behind Billie. The look in them was unmistakable—an understanding, a judgment—something Billie didn't notice, but Claire felt acutely.

"Where is she?" Billie asked, her breath short, trying to steady herself.

"By the back entrance," Odessa replied, already turning to lead the way. "We have to get her to the emergency station."

Without a second thought, Billie surged forward, the door swinging open with a force that sent a gust of cool air rushing into the bathroom, dispersing the heat and scent of whatever had been there before.
Claire barely had time to register Billie's sudden departure, her mind reeling from the abrupt shift, the cold emptiness left in Billie's wake. Something twisted inside her—a pang that she couldn't name, a dull ache that she refused to examine too closely. Jealousy, guilt, something else altogether—she wasn't sure, but whatever it was, it rooted itself in her chest, heavy and unyielding.

Odessa's parting words were a whisper, meant only for Claire, their weight settling like lead in the pit of her stomach. "Girl, listen. You know, Billie has a habit of... ending things when they get overwhelming. If you're not ready for that, maybe think twice."

Claire's gaze hardened, the sharp edge of her defense snapping into place. "I'm not sentimental, Odessa," she replied, her voice cool and detached, though the words tasted bitter in her mouth.

Odessa gave her a look—a mixture of pity and warning—before turning to follow Billie, leaving Claire alone in the dimly lit bathroom. The air, once thick with shared breath and desire, now felt thin, cold, the silence pressing down on her like a heavy shroud.

Claire leaned against the sink, her mind spinning as she tried to reconcile the intimate moment she had just experienced with the stark, harsh reality that had followed. Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror, eyes wide with confusion, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. The adrenaline that had fueled her desire now coursed through her veins as something else entirely—something cold, something tinged with doubt and fear. She ran a trembling hand through her hair, trying to shake off the unease that clung to her like a second skin, but Odessa's words echoed in her mind, relentless and cruel.

For a moment, Claire felt something hot prick at the corners of her eyes—a vulnerability she hadn't allowed herself to feel in so long, threatening to spill over. Her throat tightened, a familiar burn spreading through her chest. She turned on the faucet, letting the cold water rush over her hands before splashing it onto her face, each drop a stark contrast to the heat still lingering on her skin. The water was sharp, shocking, but it did little to numb the sting of reality that had so abruptly intruded. She applied makeup with a meticulousness that bordered on obsession, each brushstroke an attempt to restore some semblance of control, to cover up not just the physical evidence of what had transpired, but the emotional bruises as well. Every other second, she glanced at her reflection, searching for something—anything—that would make sense of what had just happened, but all she saw was her own confusion staring back at her, raw and unfiltered.