Affliction
Jan. 10th, 2013 12:43 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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house_wilson_ghcTitle: Affliction
Word count: 459
Rating: R (for language)
Pairing: House/Wilson
Summery: House did not like to admit that he needed anyone, but God dammit, he needed Wilson.
Disclaimer: Don't own anything.
House did not like to admit that he needed anyone, but God dammit he needed Wilson. He needed his hands, his lips, his touch. He needed his calm rationale and his quiet reserve.
House had never told Wilson how he felt, preferring instead to show his affection through actions – soft caresses, gentle whispers, and the lone rose once left on Wilson’s desk. It was Wilson who told him that he loved him, Wilson who said he’d never leave him, Wilson who’d promised a future together. It had been such a long time since House had felt anything other than pain and disgust – disgust for himself, disgust for his acquaintances, disgust for life in general – and he’d swallowed every word of it.
But, despite all his claims and promises, his professions of love, in the end Wilson was too afraid to be with House – afraid of people’s reactions, afraid of being in love with his best friend, and afraid of losing him. At least that’s what House kept telling himself. It couldn’t be his surly demeanor, his sarcastic responses, his addiction. It couldn’t be that time he promised to call, but forgot. It couldn’t be that time he destroyed his favorite tie, or the time he made him crash his car. It was all Wilson’s fault. It couldn’t be him. It couldn’t be him. It couldn’t be him.
House had had his fair share of misfortune, but he never thought that he would have his heart broken like this, and he sure as hell never thought that Wilson would be the one to do it. No winter had ever been this cold, and the summer would be unforgiving. Wilson had promised that he and House would remain friends, but Wilson was not House’s friend, he was his soul mate. It’s hard enough to remain friends with somebody who you’ve casually fucked, but what about someone you’ve made love to, somebody you held while they cried and who slept naked, intertwined with your body?
House had no idea how to live without Wilson and he refused to find out. He would go to Wilson’s house and beg him to marry him, plead with him to take him back. He’d serenade him if he had to; shout it from the rooftops, the mountaintops, anywhere, everywhere.
House sighed and rubbed his temples knowing that he would do none of those things. He would take a Vicodin, ride his bike to work, and get lost in a case, hoping it would make him forget Wilson’s smell, his taste, his touch. And, when that didn’t work, he’d eat another pill, and then another, and another, and then maybe, just maybe, he’d fade away.
On Wilson’s dresser there sat a lone, dying rose. He stared at it and cried.
Word count: 459
Rating: R (for language)
Pairing: House/Wilson
Summery: House did not like to admit that he needed anyone, but God dammit, he needed Wilson.
Disclaimer: Don't own anything.
House did not like to admit that he needed anyone, but God dammit he needed Wilson. He needed his hands, his lips, his touch. He needed his calm rationale and his quiet reserve.
House had never told Wilson how he felt, preferring instead to show his affection through actions – soft caresses, gentle whispers, and the lone rose once left on Wilson’s desk. It was Wilson who told him that he loved him, Wilson who said he’d never leave him, Wilson who’d promised a future together. It had been such a long time since House had felt anything other than pain and disgust – disgust for himself, disgust for his acquaintances, disgust for life in general – and he’d swallowed every word of it.
But, despite all his claims and promises, his professions of love, in the end Wilson was too afraid to be with House – afraid of people’s reactions, afraid of being in love with his best friend, and afraid of losing him. At least that’s what House kept telling himself. It couldn’t be his surly demeanor, his sarcastic responses, his addiction. It couldn’t be that time he promised to call, but forgot. It couldn’t be that time he destroyed his favorite tie, or the time he made him crash his car. It was all Wilson’s fault. It couldn’t be him. It couldn’t be him. It couldn’t be him.
House had had his fair share of misfortune, but he never thought that he would have his heart broken like this, and he sure as hell never thought that Wilson would be the one to do it. No winter had ever been this cold, and the summer would be unforgiving. Wilson had promised that he and House would remain friends, but Wilson was not House’s friend, he was his soul mate. It’s hard enough to remain friends with somebody who you’ve casually fucked, but what about someone you’ve made love to, somebody you held while they cried and who slept naked, intertwined with your body?
House had no idea how to live without Wilson and he refused to find out. He would go to Wilson’s house and beg him to marry him, plead with him to take him back. He’d serenade him if he had to; shout it from the rooftops, the mountaintops, anywhere, everywhere.
House sighed and rubbed his temples knowing that he would do none of those things. He would take a Vicodin, ride his bike to work, and get lost in a case, hoping it would make him forget Wilson’s smell, his taste, his touch. And, when that didn’t work, he’d eat another pill, and then another, and another, and then maybe, just maybe, he’d fade away.
On Wilson’s dresser there sat a lone, dying rose. He stared at it and cried.
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Date: 2013-01-10 10:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-16 01:45 pm (UTC)