"I'm... surviving," George said, walking toward the couch to perch himself on the arm, running a hand through his hair. He was suddenly so tired.
"Let's sit," he nodded to the empty cushions, "I don't have the energy to clean up right now. I'll save that for tonight when I can't sleep." Come to think of it? When was the last time he had slept? The night before the Ball, probably. The night after had been a silent vigil in Charlie's living room. Maybe a rigorous round of cleaning up his tantrum will knock him out.