Chapter Text
It was midnight and once again, Wilson found himself alone in a hotel room, waiting for something to happen, maybe a call – God, he hoped he’d get a call – maybe a visit from House. He knew it was hopeless to keep waiting; at the end of the day no one came to save him; no, no one came to save him when he was a desperate teenager, bleeding out in the stalls at school; no one came when he tried to overdose at college after failing a test and proving everyone – his parents, friends and colleagues – right.
He was back again in this dark place, this endless pit that always ended up swallowing him whole no matter what he did or how hard he tried to stay away from it. His scars spoke volumes about the times he was engulfed again and again by depression—it felt stupid to try to run away from it, hopeless even, but he knew that he had to keep on going; he had so many responsibilities to attend to that he couldn’t really afford to not be okay right now.
He gripped the blade harder, remembering every mistake he ever made, every word that came out of his mouth that simply sounded wrong, every time he got called a freak – and of course, they weren’t wrong about that, what a disgusting freak he was – and a faggot; then suddenly the image of House crossed his mind. House would probably laugh at him and mock him for being like this. He chuckled.
House.
God, that man; He was the main reason Wilson kept smiling, the reason he kept pretending he was okay, House was everything for him and Wilson couldn’t afford to lose him, not again, not after losing Amber and almost losing House twice. He wanted to live to see him happy, to eat shitty food together and watch crap tv while simply enjoying each other’s presence. But it was hard – so fucking hard – to stay alive, to want to live. To wake up every day feeling miserable and lonely.
He couldn’t leave yet.
He had to say goodbye and tell House it was not his fault – how could it ever be his fault? – so he wouldn’t worry about Wilson and blame himself, just like he did when he couldn’t save Amber. No, Wilson would not let House live with this guilt. He needed to say goodbye.
ring…
ring…
– Wilson? –
Hearing House on the other end of the line hurt more than Wilson wanted to admit—he sounded like he had just woken up – another thing Wilson messed up, he knew House had a hard time sleeping and he had just woken him up – and for once, Wilson felt panic settle deep in himself; he felt like he was shattering but he couldn’t back down, not now.
– Hey – Wilson held back tears, hoping House wouldn’t notice how miserable he was right now. –How are you…. How are you doing House? –
Wilson was not the type to call at night and he was most definitely not the type to call House, of all people, so this was a rare occurrence that House was going to use to mock the hell out of him.
–Wow, is it the end of the world? James Wilson, calling at– House sat on his bed and checked his alarm clock –twelve thirty; that’s a new one– He sat waiting for a response that never came, all House could hear through the speaker was a harsh and uneven breathing that belonged to Wilson, that certainly meant something was up.
Silence filled the line, for minutes that felt like hours for both of them – House, waiting for something that gave away what the hell was happening; Wilson, trying to make a coherent sentence with the mess that was happening in his brain – He should’ve thought about what he wanted to say before calling House, what an idiot he was – while trying not to break down in the process.
–look House, I just need you to listen–
–what, are you going to confess your undying love for me?– House said in a snarky tone, in a stupid attempt to lighten the mood.
–No, no– he sighed, a deep one at that – just, please – he begged, his breathing became unsteady as he kept talking – listen to what I have to say this one time, just this one time –
The other end of the line went quiet.
Wilson needed to say it or else it was going to eat him alive; he felt his stomach churn, the nausea hitting him too quick, almost making him gag. This was too much, toomuchtoofuckingmuch but he had to do it; he loved House, he didn’t care if it was romantic or platonic – his brain was going too fast to focus on that either way – and this was his way of showing it, so why couldn't he just say it?
–You’ve been a good friend, House. I want you to know that no matter what happens– Wilson went quiet—he sat on the floor, took a deep breath and prepared himself for what he was about to say – no matter what happens it will never be your fault. I’m really sorry for everything I've done…I’m really sorry for what I’m about to do. You don’t deserve to have a burden on you—all I’ve ever done is inconvenience people, mess things up, but I promise it’s going to end tonight–
–Wilson- wait–
–You said you’d listen House, just let me finish – He held the blade against his wrist; this was the best way to go – I’m sorry for the times I yelled at you and judged you and- god- I just hope you can forgive me one day. I’m sorry House, goodbye – He hung up.
...
Everything was quiet, too quiet for his liking, actually – it only made his mind louder and louder, every fiber of his being screaming for him to just get it over with, to kill himself right now so no one would have to bear his presence and his sulking any longer.
He dragged the blade across his skin–deep, raw. It felt too real.
Now there was truly no turning back.