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There’s no point in trying
House went back and forth, pacing in his room, drawing long circles, staring out the window, rain plattering against the window-panes. Something seemed off, he was rattled. Sure, he was always rattled, Alvie’s presence always seemed to have that effect on him, despite House having grown to like his odd mannerisms. And still, this felt different. Where did it all start? During the last therapy session with Darryl, this overbearing and calculating force of a man, who puts up a front of professionalism and an attitude that says he stands above it all. It reminded House of himself, a tangle of sarcasm and snarky comments so impossible to put up with it’s become an insurmountable task for other people to try nor even want to come into his life. He’s made sure of it, he’s unbearable, he pushes everyone away who even seems to have an inkling of care for him, and he’s miserable because of it. The storm outside picked up, the wind howling in the long halls of the hospital, the constant tap-tap-tap of the rain growing ever more unbearable…..Alvie was beginning to mumble his improvised rap again.
“Can you shut up for once? I can barely hear myself think, the rain is ticking me off enough already as is, nevermind your lackluster attempts of improvised “fact-spitting”” House snarled towards him, his words like poison searching for a crevice to creep into and burn.
Alvie sat up, confused. House was always bitter but this was out of the ordinary, even for him. “You know this is how I express myself, don’t want to have to undress myself, the words flowing out like a river, that’s something you need to forgive-...er? What’s up House, you seem out of it?”
“Nothing, everything is as it always is, I want out of here.” House responded dryly.
Alvie expected as much, he’s given up on getting an honest answer out of him.
“That’s what you always say. Man, you gotta let people into your heart sometime, it’s no wonder nobody’s come to visit you”. Alvie laid back down onto his bed, his mind already full of new state-of-the-art poetry.
He was right, House knew it, which didn’t help one bit, it never did. Who did he have left, who’s stuck in his life? He knew, of course. Wilson was the closest to a friend House has got ever since medical school, and he couldn’t bear him. Yet he always found himself drawn to him again and again. That wreck of a man, so proud of himself for always bettering the lives of others whilst watching his own fall apart. For some reason he couldn’t make sense of, he still cared for him. And still, if an outsider were to describe their relationship, friendly would be at the bottom of a long list filled with descriptions that are almost exclusively pathological in nature.
*****
House entered Darryl's office, much as he disliked the shrink he needed somebody to talk to, and throughout his stay Darryl has proved the only one not to be dismayed by deflections and accusatory comments. Who’s put up with him and fought back, seemingly unaffected by what was thrown at him.
Darrly saw House enter. He seemed sullen somehow, crestfallen.
“How have you been coping? You’ve been taking your prescriptions, you’ve been interacting with the other clients well enough, I’d say you seem almost stable enough for me to let you out of here. Though…something seems different today.”
House sat down on the beaten-up ottoman, the slightly oily, yet still hard leather gave way under him, crackling slightly. He couldn’t help but put on a crooked smile. It was uncomfortable, and that in itself brought him comfort.
“I’ve been…thinking about my own relationships, or lack thereof. How, once I leave this hospital I don’t really know what I’ll do myself. I’ve screwed up just about every relationship I’ve had, and….I enjoyed it. It was a game, to see how much the people around me would be willing to bear. They tried to help me with my addiction, in the beginning. And I pushed them away. I thought I had it under control, told myself I could stop anytime, could manage the pain without it if I really wanted to.” House rambled, visibly overwhelmed with his own emotions and thoughts, struggling to put into words what he was beginning to realize.
Derryl looked at him, waiting for further thoughts to spill out of the untangling mess in front of him. House returned his gaze, desperately awaiting a reaction. He was met with a blank stare. Darryl expected him to go on.
House sighed and tried to collect his thoughts.
“I spiraled further and further into my addiction. What I thought I could handle turned into a giant mess, and if not for those very same people I’ve tormented for decades I would now be six feet under, OD’ing on god knows what substance I would’ve gotten my hands on”. Still, nothing. Time began to crawl to a halt, the pattering of the rain turned melody. Tap-tap-tap, it went on and on. His skin began to crawl, the hairs turning upright one by one. He began to feel numb, blood rushing to his head. The world was closing in around him.
“I'm ...starting to regret what I’ve done. And what’s worse is I don’t know any other way to live”. House looked Darryl in the eyes, his heart still racing, his skin numb, his breath elevated. Tap-tap-tap.
“I think you’re beginning to realize, but I’ll spell it out for you. You need to apologize to those few people who are still around for you. Don’t expect them to forgive you. You’re miserable. You need people, and you hate the fact that you do. You don’t have to believe it will help you, you need to do it in spite of what you think to be true.” House was silent for a while, mulling over Darryl’s words. He was stating the obvious, and yet hearing him say out loud what House was beginning to grasp sent shivers down his spine.
House lifted his head, readjusting himself in the uncomfortable seat, the leather shifting slightly beneath him, its cracked surface digging into his skin. He opened his mouth, his tongue limp, unable to form the words in his mind. He rose, picking up his cane which leaned loosely against the wall next to him and sighed.
“You really need to replace this thing, it’s horrible.” He tapped the ottoman with his cane. “Your patients are miserable enough as is, don’t want the final straw to be an uncomfortable couch”. Tap-tap-tap, the rain continued.
*****
“We wish you well….and we hope to never see you again!” They joined in unison, erupting in laughter. House was beckoned towards the celebratory cake, to blow out its sparklers. The cake was decorated with pink and yellow frosting, forming parallel lines that began to spiral inwards as they reached a tuft of cream sat in its centre. It all seemed like a circus to House, yet he couldn’t help but feel small sparks of joy kindle inside of him.
“Let’s get this over with then, I don’t plan on staying here any longer than necessary. I wish well for the rest of you. I’ve been an ass to most of you, and for that I apologize.” He paused and looked over their faces, stopping when his eyes met Alvies. He smiled a crooked smile towards him. “Not that I’ll stop being an ass, just that now I’ll feel a slight twinge of pain alongside it”. Chuckles trickled out, and House joined, warming his heart. He looked towards Darryl, who was, quite unlike himself, smiling warmly albeit cautiously towards House. He nodded towards House, who in response blew out the sparkles of the cake that was waiting to be cut into.
****
House left the Taxi, glancing towards his apartment, 221B Baker Street. The evening was drawing near, clouds passing over the horizon in gentle specks. It was October and the air was humid, filled with a smell of petrichor and decay. Maple leaves rustled by, carried by a cold breeze, their surface colored a gradient of oranges, reds and browns. It made him feel melancholic. Autumn always did, now so especially. Tap-tap-tap, he made his way towards his apartment door, his cane clinking as he went. His keys jangled in his hands as he turned the key and stepped into his home.
He scanned the room. Nothing has changed, his collection of guitars still hung on his wall next to his sofa. His piano the same as it always was, beckoning him to play. A layer of dust had settled over every part of his furniture. It felt strange being back, though it had only been two months it seemed more like an eternity had passed. He went towards his kitchen and took a frozen meal out of his fridge. It felt cold, unloving somehow. Chicken breast with green beans. A small sticky note was attached to its bottom, reading “Wilson’s! Do not eat!”. He pushed aside a smidge of pain that began forming in his chest. He removed the sticker and put the still icy food into the microwave, its humming familiar. The food spun slowly inside, and as it did House again took in his surroundings. It all made him horribly sad, his heart longing for and reaching out for a presence no longer here…what was it he was missing? He glanced at the note laying on his kitchen counter. Again, an ache formed in his heart, a great crack into which he was beginning to fall, suffocating all but one emotion. In a daze, House reached inside his pocket, pulling out his phone, dialing a number, not quite aware of whose it was. The phone rang.
***
Wilson put down his briefcase and slumped down onto his bed, taking in the smell of the fabric. It smelled of Amber, whose side of the bed he hasn’t changed since her passing. Tears began forming in the corner of his eyes, slowly running down his crow’s feet and into the fabric. He missed her terribly still.
“The last few weeks have been exhausting. I miss you so, so much. I don’t know how I’m supposed to go on without you”. He was trying to hold back his emotions, to pretend it didn’t affect him.
“What’s worse is I miss House for some reason beyond my understanding. Nobody has filled in the shoes that House has left behind in the hospital yet, and no contact has been made by him or with him ever since he has been administered to the psychiatric hospital” He closed his eyes and imagined Amber lying next to him, trying to feel the warmth of her skin, the scent of her perfume, hoping to coax his heart into a sense of comfort he knew he would never feel again.
“Not that I should be surprised, considering the fact House has always been an ass, especially so after he broke down. You know how he could be” He wrought out a pained chuckle.
“And still, the first person House came to once he realized he needed help was me… what sort of a friend does it make me not to reach out to him after that?” Silence.
“If only you were here. You’d know what to say. You’d say how I’m still blaming him for your death, how I haven’t moved on…” His pleads were only answered by halted sobs.
An incessant humming started in the pocket of Wilson’s coat. He wiped away his tears, tried to calm his breathing and looked at his phone. It read “House, Gregory”. He hesitated for a moment, unsure of whether to answer.
***
The ringing of the line stopped. Staggered breathing could be heard on the other end of the line. House hesitated, he wasn’t sure whose number he called.
“Hello….I think. I can hear your breathing, it doesn’t sound healthy. You should get that checked out” House started, reluctantly.
“House, is that you? I don’t hear from you for two months, then suddenly you call me late into the night and the first thing you have to say to me is a deflection?” Wilso was bewildered, stuck between feelings of concern and anger.
House sighed, he should’ve known.
“I….I’m sorry.” He replied squeamishly.
“You’re sorry? *You’re* sorry? Are you telling me you actually learned something from your stay?” Wilson replied sarcastically.
“Listen….I need to talk to you, desperately. Can we meet? You can scream at me all you want once we do” He answered, ignoring Wilson’s accusation.
Wilson was startled, whoever this was, it definitely didn’t sound like the House he knew. The House he knew hid away his feelings, stabbed and prodded with his words and made a game out of every conversation they had to screw with him, to annoy and sabotage his life to see how far he could be pushed.
“No….yes, I don’t know!” Wilson pushed out. “You haven’t contacted me once, you didn’t send me a letter, nothing to let me know of your status. I’m your friend! Do you know how worried I was?” Wilson could feel his anger mix with sadness, a heavy weight forming in the pit of his stomach, tears welling up in his eyes.
“It’s not like they let me write letters! And you didn’t bother to contact me either!” He spat back at Wilson, replying to anger with anger in kind.
“But I need you now, please…I don’t know what to do with myself, but I know I need to talk to you” House pleaded.
Wilson was taken aback by the sincerity in House’s voice.
“Fine….I’ve never seen you this distraught. I’ll come by your place, give me 20 minutes” Wilson replied, the anger dissipating slowly, concern taking its place.
***
House hung up the phone. Something smelled burnt. He turned around, glancing at his kitchen counter to see trails of smoke creeping out the microwave. He quickly opened it and pulled the food outside, the scalding plate burning his hand in the process. He stared at it, blisters beginning to form where the plate had touched his skin. The pain didn’t seem to register. What was going on inside of him? Thoughts were racing in his mind, trying to make sense of the tangle of emotions inside of his heart. He was furious at himself, for exposing his emotions and for lashing out at Wilson. Did he really need him this badly, and why was he the first person House wanted to call? Everything around him seemed to remind of the oncologist, his presence still lingering in House's mind.
House limped towards the couch, sitting down in his usual spot, the leather cushion readily adjusting to the familiar form of his bottom. This is where they used to sit together, when Wilson needed a place to stay, watching TV and bickering, to see how much they could annoy each other. House was beginning to realize how much that man meant to him, how he longed to be near to him. Wilson's constant frown, an expression he had begun to find endearing, his tired eyes still filled with care for the world, his hope for good seemingly inexhaustible. He had never felt this way about a man before, maybe anybody.
***
Baker Street, 218…219…220..221B, was it? Wilson arrived at House’s apartment complex. The wind blew by in soft whispers as he opened the car door, the sky painted in hues of purple and dark blue as he glanced towards the horizon. He drew close his coat and walked towards the complex. A faint orange light could be seen glowing in the apartment House stayed in. Wilson trotted up the stairs, stopping in front of the door of the building. He looked over the assortment of different names on the bellboard, each beset with a little silver knob - Gregory, House, it read - its surface smooth and cold as he pressed it. A metallic ring could be heard from somewhere inside the complex, the sound traveling throughout it until it was slowly swallowed by its concrete walls. He waited a short while until a short buzz answered, allowing him to push open the door to face the familiar entryway. A washed out red carpet, dotted with little yellow triangles and squares lined the floor. The entryway led to a staircase that would take him to House’s apartment. He braced himself, recollecting his thoughts. Whatever came next would define what remained of their friendship, he needed to set aside his anger and talk, or rather listen to House.
Step by step he walked up the stairs, the sole of his leather shoes clacking against the floor and echoing shortly in the staircase. He stopped on the third floor, in front of House’s apartment door.
***
House stood in front of his door, awaiting a knock. He had heard Wilson ring the doorbell. He could hear him walk up the stairwell, each step deliberate. The intervals between them seemed to increase. It didn’t matter to House. Time crept to a halt as he was staring at the door, it would only be seconds until whatever needed to happen would happen. He couldn’t avoid the truth any longer, nor did he want to. Not that he could outrun it, even *if* he had wanted to. The sound of steps stopped, he was sure he could hear Wilson’s muffled sigh throughout his door. Tap-tap-tap, three knocks against the wooden door. House slowly opened the door, his heart racing as he once took in the sight of Wilson.
He wore a brown coat, buttoned up but misaligned. He looked exhausted, his eyes tired and slightly reddened still, his chestnut brown hair dishevelled and in dire need of a haircut. Bags had formed under his eyes, slightly purple, lined with small red capillaries. His chin and cheeks were full of stubble, a small beard beginning to grow into his usually shaven face. House was taken aback. Wilson frowned, furrowing his brow, waiting for House to sign him to enter. He stepped aside, letting Wilson pass into his home.
“You look ... rough, and so does your place? Has nobody come to clean it for you? And how come it smells burned?” Wilson paced the apartment, tracing back the smell of burnt food to the kitchen counter. House was following his movements, unsure of how to respond.
Wilson picked up the sticky note still on the counter.
“This is still from when I lived with you, isn’t it? You kept it? It’s been months!”
House couldn't muster the strength to look him in the eyes.
“I …I think I kept it as a reminder, I liked it when you lived here. Moreso I’ve realized I missed you not being here” House forced out, each word deliberate and unfamiliar in his mouth.
Wilson looked towards House. He had shrunk in on himself and seemed small. Concern again began to form in his breast.
“Is that why you called me? You said you needed me” Wilson inquired carefully.
House slowly walked towards Wilson.
“You’re the only real friend I’ve had…I know that now. And I treated you like garbage all the same. I wasn’t there for you when Amber passed, I didn’t support you when you needed me, and still you’re here. Why?” House kept his eyes focused on Wilsons.
“Because… if not me, who do you have left? Who would you have called and asked for support in my stead? You don’t deserve this chance. And yet here I am. I guess I've never been good at learning from my past mistakes either” Wilson chuckled drily.
Silence filled the room. The atmosphere was suffocating, full of anticipation. House could hear his own blood pumping in his ears. He limped towards the couch, settling down again in his familiar spot. He looked towards Wilson, beckoning him to sit next to him. He complied.
House was overwhelmed with emotion. This man in front of him was pathetic, unable to stand up for himself, ignoring his own well-being for the sake of a friend who he should’ve blocked out of his life years ago.
“You’re an idiot” House said, slowly looking Wilson in the eyes, his iris colored a warm brown, his pupils slightly dilated, the sclera reddened still. “And still, I need you”. Wilson returned House’s gaze. He scuffled towards Wilson and planted a palm on Wilson’s cheek. The stubble was coarse to the touch, the skin underneath soft and increasingly warm. He looked at Wilson’s lips, and again into his eyes. Wilson moved his hands onto House’s and nodded.
Slowly, he planted a kiss on Wilson’s lips. It felt awkward somehow, he wasn’t used to these kinds of feelings. He could feel Wilson reply, two hands reaching towards his cheeks, gently cupping his face as he continued to explore. House moved his hands onto Wilsons shoulders, his chest, gliding down until he reached the edge of Wilson’s shirt. He reached underneath, slowly tracing a line up Wilson’s navel towards his chest. Hair was distributed sparingly across his chest, forming a small corona around his areola, which House circled with his thumb. Wilson stopped kissing House and arched his back slightly, a soft, muffled moan escaping his mouth.
“Help me out of my shirt” Wilson breathed out. House did as he asked. He took in the sight of Wilson’s bared chest and torso. He seemed so vulnerable then, beautiful almost, shadows forming on his skin in the orange light of the floor lamp. House placed both his hands against Wilson’s chest and slowly pushed him down. He again placed his lips upon Wilson's, gently sliding his tongue into Wilson’s mouth. He tasted familiar somehow, their tongues gently swirling around each other, caught in a game of tug and pull. One hand wandered towards Wilson’s crotch, firmly and slowly pressing against his bulge. Wilson arched his back, nudging his hips towards House’s hand. House enjoyed having power over Wilson, to feel his body react in kind to his advances, to feel in control. Was that a good thing? He stopped. House retreated his hands, pulling away from Wilson who stared at him in slight confusion.
“What’s going on? I never expected you to, but I thought you wanted this?” Wilson asked, beginning to be caught between feelings of hurt and confusion. He picked up his shirt and covered his chest.
“And you just let me? You’re pathetic” House snarled at Wilson. “How can I be sure I really want this? Maybe I’m just using you to feel in control again, to feel power over you, to turn this into a game for my own amusement”.
Wilson blinked at House, ashamed for not realizing this as a possibility, for giving into him in a time of need. Was he this desperate for human connection to want to sleep with somebody who had never really valued him beyond a plaything to be toyed with?
“Maybe you are. No, let’s be honest, this is who you are still. I was an idiot to think otherwise. As you always say, people don’t change, especially not you.” He lashed out at House.
“I *wanted* for you to need me, I wanted to feel valued because of what I could offer you.” Wilson sat up, pulling over his shirt. “I never should’ve expected this to be anything more than just another one of your games”
House felt cold inside, in taking control over Wilson he had regained some of his senses. Did he ever want this, or was he just desperate to feel in control of his life again? Had he settled on using the only person he knew would come for him no matter the circumstances? He stared at Wilson.
“You’re right, you shouldn’t have. And I shouldn’t have called you. You should leave, now” House replied, the words lingering in his mind.
“That’s it? No apology, no rationalization. You just…give up?” Wilson answered. He felt betrayed, though he didn’t have the strength to lash out at House, not anymore.
“This is goodbye House, don’t contact me again. Do what you want to, I don’t care anymore”.
House watched Wilson put on his coat. He glanced back one last time, a look of grief and sorrow on his face. He shook his head and closed the door behind him.
House stared at the door. He had destroyed his last relationship, he had used the last person whom he still mattered to. He had nothing left now.
Outside his apartment, a blackbird could be heard chattering. Its song never reached him.