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[17 July 2006] [House, M.D.] Andante
Title: Andante
Day/Theme: July 17/ All the dreams sing their song
Series: House, M.D.
Character/Pairing: House(/Wilson)
Comments: Unfortunately, due to the ordering of the themes, this piece is completely out of context. If you’ve been accompanying my drabbles from this month, it takes place before any of them. Also, I’m woefully inadequate with musical terms and theory—if I’ve made a mistake anywhere, or if you’ve a better suggestion for a song, please let me know.
Wilson had said it was done and over with.
Maybe it was, for him.
House couldn’t sleep: insomnia was his old buddy from way back when, and it came back to visit whenever he had something to puzzle out or a thought process he needed to digest. He’d long since learned to not to even go to bed, on nights like these.
After Wilson left, he pulled up the cover of his piano, removed the cloth covering the keys. While he was a slob, his apartment being testimony to this fact, he took care of what mattered to him. The piano was clean, in good condition, and regularly tuned. It was comforting, that. As a place where he often went to when he had problems, it was good to have it be in fit condition.
Not having picked out what to play, his right hand trailed along aimlessly, tinkering out a benignly boring set of keys, and his left one, the one that could still feel Wilson’s thumb on it, followed along with the melody. Eventually he settled down for an andante version of Norwegian Wood.
The guilty way Wilson had been this evening implied embarrassment, and the way he had been all but running away these past few weeks indicated fear. Wilson was usually bold with his conquering (and House would know, having witnessed him do so so many times); that he wasn’t this time around meant that he thought that House would mock and reject him.
And he might. He was still working on that.
His hands, always so sure, hit the wrong key, then another one. He cursed and started over from the beginning.
This had to be a recent development, since Wilson hadn’t exhibited before any signs of lust, or, more to the point, embarrassment over it. Probably dated to the day he decided to move out, which would explain his sudden and overwhelming urge to get the hell out. Epiphanies, what bitches, they never let you live your life the same.
What about himself, where did he stand in all this? Did his life have to change too?
He had to admit it, he was dreadfully curious. He had watched the last few years’ worth of Wilson’s romances, sometimes with a bucket of popcorn, and had a fair idea of the general plot. They meet in some quaint way that bears the retelling a dozen times over. There is instant attraction, followed by conversations over long lunch hours, which leads to dinner invitations. The length and content of the middle part varied, but whatever it was, the ending was always the same. House had seen this movie before. But he’d never been in it, never been the costarring actor. And unless he was wrong, the plot wasn’t the same. He wouldn’t fit into the dresses from the previous actresses, for one. And he knew what Wilson was like. There couldn’t be the shocking scene wherein the hero/heroine realizes her lover’s dark past, because House had already met all the skeletons in Wilson’s closet and, in fact, put some in there himself.
He didn’t know the ending to this film, and it was his to make. He could let it finish here, and that would be that. Over before it started. But that was too boring. He wanted to write that script, see to where it led. Wanted to be in the scene, feel what it’s like, for once, instead of sitting in the audience, looking at his watch and wondering when he could leave.
At some point his playing had gone from andante to presto.
Day/Theme: July 17/ All the dreams sing their song
Series: House, M.D.
Character/Pairing: House(/Wilson)
Comments: Unfortunately, due to the ordering of the themes, this piece is completely out of context. If you’ve been accompanying my drabbles from this month, it takes place before any of them. Also, I’m woefully inadequate with musical terms and theory—if I’ve made a mistake anywhere, or if you’ve a better suggestion for a song, please let me know.
Wilson had said it was done and over with.
Maybe it was, for him.
House couldn’t sleep: insomnia was his old buddy from way back when, and it came back to visit whenever he had something to puzzle out or a thought process he needed to digest. He’d long since learned to not to even go to bed, on nights like these.
After Wilson left, he pulled up the cover of his piano, removed the cloth covering the keys. While he was a slob, his apartment being testimony to this fact, he took care of what mattered to him. The piano was clean, in good condition, and regularly tuned. It was comforting, that. As a place where he often went to when he had problems, it was good to have it be in fit condition.
Not having picked out what to play, his right hand trailed along aimlessly, tinkering out a benignly boring set of keys, and his left one, the one that could still feel Wilson’s thumb on it, followed along with the melody. Eventually he settled down for an andante version of Norwegian Wood.
The guilty way Wilson had been this evening implied embarrassment, and the way he had been all but running away these past few weeks indicated fear. Wilson was usually bold with his conquering (and House would know, having witnessed him do so so many times); that he wasn’t this time around meant that he thought that House would mock and reject him.
And he might. He was still working on that.
His hands, always so sure, hit the wrong key, then another one. He cursed and started over from the beginning.
This had to be a recent development, since Wilson hadn’t exhibited before any signs of lust, or, more to the point, embarrassment over it. Probably dated to the day he decided to move out, which would explain his sudden and overwhelming urge to get the hell out. Epiphanies, what bitches, they never let you live your life the same.
What about himself, where did he stand in all this? Did his life have to change too?
He had to admit it, he was dreadfully curious. He had watched the last few years’ worth of Wilson’s romances, sometimes with a bucket of popcorn, and had a fair idea of the general plot. They meet in some quaint way that bears the retelling a dozen times over. There is instant attraction, followed by conversations over long lunch hours, which leads to dinner invitations. The length and content of the middle part varied, but whatever it was, the ending was always the same. House had seen this movie before. But he’d never been in it, never been the costarring actor. And unless he was wrong, the plot wasn’t the same. He wouldn’t fit into the dresses from the previous actresses, for one. And he knew what Wilson was like. There couldn’t be the shocking scene wherein the hero/heroine realizes her lover’s dark past, because House had already met all the skeletons in Wilson’s closet and, in fact, put some in there himself.
He didn’t know the ending to this film, and it was his to make. He could let it finish here, and that would be that. Over before it started. But that was too boring. He wanted to write that script, see to where it led. Wanted to be in the scene, feel what it’s like, for once, instead of sitting in the audience, looking at his watch and wondering when he could leave.
At some point his playing had gone from andante to presto.