Chapter Text
House hasn't slept well lately and there wasn't a reason at all, it's been a long while since he had a challenging case. Despite this, he's still found himself awake at odd hours of the night, tired but incapable of ignoring the pain in his leg enough to fall asleep, no matter how many vicodins he took to knock himself out. His thoughts were roaming around his head, like there was a ping pong match playing in his brain, his eyes have stared at the ceiling above him for hours. Whatever emotional turmoil inside him was, it was making his leg ache sharply, even more as the restless nights have gone on.
On top of that, House has somewhat pissed the pharmacy guys off so much that they were refusing to give his favorite drug! He even had a prescription this time! They were acting like petty idiots! He quickly managed to steal some oxycodin and pocketed as many cherry flavored lollipops as he could when the others' backs were turned. Then House limped away victorious, going home earlier than usual, unnoticed from Cuddy and thus escaping any of her possibile complaints.
When House entered his apartment that evening, he couldn't even reach his bedroom, stumbling and falling, too tired and in pain to walk even a step more, the fall crushed his leg under his own weight as he yelled and collapsed on the couch.
House didn't know how many times he ended up high or drunk just to try and fall asleep only that week, he even raided his last hidden emergency stash of painkillers and any other drug that would less his pain. He had a special vicodin bottle, inside of it there were an assortment of different colored pills. House didn't care to sort them out, dry-swallowing whatever pills his hands could grab. He was hurting and anything would do some good in his opinion, he just wanted to numb himself, to desperately stop feeling his body, to stop feeling at all.
That night House couldn't fall asleep either, the pain was unbearable. So, he has continued to eat pills the rest of the night, hoping he would eventually pass out into oblivion, but nothing was changing. He switched the painkillers for some alchool, half a bottle of whiskey was sitting innocently on the coffee table as he grabbed its neck and drank from it greedily. He then found some weed stashed between the couch's seats, probably stolen at some point from Wilson's office and then was forgotten about.
House has been sitting in his living room, his hurt limb was between his hands as he's been massaging it to relieve some of the dull ache remaining, despite all of the substances he had assumed.
Broken. House was broken. And not the Japanese style broken, where they gather all the pieces and repair it with gold. No. House was just irreparably broken. The pieces were jagged and if anyone tried to pick them up, they'll end up hurting themselves. House was made in this way, he knew no way out, he didn't know how to not be this way. He has been broken all of his life, since he was born. How could he not be?
Broken. Bro-ken. Bro Ken is broken. Heh. I'm funny. I'm sad. I hate myself.
House is finally stoned, he's also a bit drunk. He doesn't remember how many, or even, what exactly he's been taking.
He's thinking about Wilson, about his dumb face and his stupid ties, about his big brown eyes and cute dimples. The fond way Wilson always looks at him, it makes House weak, overwhelmed, dreaded, like he's leading his best friend to worship a false god, dragging him into sin and hell with him. Since House and Wilson have become a couple, the thought hasn't left his mind. Everytime they wake up tangled together in the morning, the way Wilson preps little kisses on the back of his neck to wake him up, the way he coaxes him out of bed with the promise of coffee. The way House clings to Wilson, following him in the kitchen like a lost pet sticks to its owner. The older man would place his head on the other's shoulder, arms wrapped around his waist, hugging him from behind, Wilson's back against House's chest. While the younger man prepares their morning coffee, the other would try to nap some more and end up drooling on him. Or he would dig his nose on Wilson's neck and kiss his jaw, tickling and distracting him from his task, trying to convince him to go back to bed, he would sneak a hand under Wilson's shirt, tracing lines on his skin. How disgustingly domestic they have became.
House smiles bitter at his own thoughts. He doesn't deserve Wilson, everybody could see it, everybody knows it. The soft man will eventually get bored of him, like he did with his ex wives. As soon as the honeymoon phase will end, they will be back as only best friends. Wilson will realize that they're better off ignoring whatever happened between them and life will go on, back at their usual normal life.
House has been tired for a long time, tired of the pain, tired of feeling his own body, tired of living. He closes his eyes, his mind flowing, his body light and the drugs finally making him feel like he's enclosed in a bubble of desensitization, he can't move as the feeling traps him in a hug which is pulling him down. Limbs too heavy to lift, eyelids too heavy to keep open, as House can finally sleep.
I want to love him but I'm incapable of it. I want him to love me but I'm selfish. He cares so much about others, when I would kill everyone just for his attention. I'm so in love with him, I want to kill myself.