Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dr. House walked into Cuddy's office first thing in the morning. Not that he was early or anything – that would completely ruin his image. He was, however, less late than usual.

House had a very specific issue to discuss with his boss: his best friend, Wilson. Wilson went through a divorce earlier that year (For the third time, for god's sake!) and Lisa Cuddy toying with his feelings by inviting him out for dinner was unacceptable to House. By now he had already figured out Cuddy wanted Wilson's sperm and not the organ they come out of, but none the less, that woman had to be stopped.

Sadly, before he had the chance to say anything, Cuddy handed him a case file.

"Take this. 38 year old male. Suffering from nausea, vomiting, and fever." She said, not even looking up from the papers on her desk. House is… surprised, mostly. His boss must not know him very well if she doesn't expect a fight.

"Is there any reason why I should?" he asks, emphasizing the d and widening his eyes.          

 "It's your job." She replies, finally looking at him. That's a weak argument and they both know it.

But before House has the chance to change the topic with a clever remark about Wilson's features on a baby, Cuddy rolls her eyes, leans forward in her chair, and looks House in the eyes.

"Look," she says, in a serious tone House likes to believe she practices in front of a mirror. "The patient is this best-selling fantasy novels author. We need him to get a good treatment-"

"And he will get that from me?"

"- because if he sues, he will have lawyers provided by his publishers. The treatment won't take long. The guy had some distance perception issues, so his friends brought him to the E.R"

House sent her a frown and redirected his eyes to the floor. He considered his options: he can bargain for less clinic hours; he can find an actual case, instead of a disoriented writer; he can use his information about the Wilson-situation–

"I think his series is called…" Cuddy starts and stops to type something into her computer, probably thinking the name of whatever unoriginal crap that overrated "writer" had managed to pass on as literature would change anything.

"There it is. The Champion" She looks up at House, studying his reaction. Based on the cocky grin she is seemingly trying to suppress, House's shock has gotten the better of him.

He really did mean to school his expression, but he already lost. The thing is: House didn't have many hobbies. He loved music, enjoyed poker and solving puzzles, but none of these were a good enough substitute to the activities he lost since the infraction. For example, one of the things he now had trouble doing, was reading. The pain made it hard for him to concentrate.

About three years into this miserable state, House stumbled upon a copy of "The Champion". A clinic patient left it behind and House took it (mostly out of spite).  The book was pretty thick and bound with a plain, yellow hard cover. House had regretted his decision to steal it once he realized the book was just a silly fantasy novel, and, of course, personally autographed by the author who dedicated it to "Oh captain, my captain". 

That week he had a tough case. His leg ached, and shutting himself up in his office didn't seem to get anyone off his back. So one time, to get Chase to leave him alone, he pretended to read the book lying next to him. As his (then new) employee walked away, a word caught House's attention on the randomly opened page in front of him. Then it hit him, his patient was faking symptoms.

He wasn't sure now what prompted that conclusion. He does know that once they discharged the patient he started reading the book (because he also noticed the word "incest" and was curios).  

What the grumpy doctor discovered between these pages amazed him. It was about the journey of "The Champion" in his search for glory. The Champion failed repeatedly, and House, being a fan of torturing his favorite characters, was officially hooked (There wasn't any incest though).

After this short stroll down memory lane, House comes back to his senses, grabs the case file, and storms out of Cuddy's office to ask the author all kinds of questions about the plot (and diagnose him, of course).  Right before the door closes behind him he sends the woman a look. He hopes said look conveys his dissatisfaction from losing.

****

Wilson is fine.

Well, his wife did cheat on him and he has to live with his obsessive best friend for some time, but really, he doesn't need House to go around and meddle in his life.

To be completely honest, Wilson isn't interested in Cuddy. Not in that way. But he knew that in his own insane way, House is. He is also fairly certain Cuddy isn't infatuated with him in any way whatsoever. Nothing about the diagnostician and the administrator being together made any sense. At all. But at the end of the day, Wilson just wants his best friend to be happy.

Besides, the oncologist can't really see the harm in this dinner invitation – He is eating dinner with a friend, and he gets to mess with House. Perhaps it would even be a good enough distraction from the thoughts that flood his mind lately.

Okay, so maybe he isn't entirely fine. Maybe he does have honest-to-god nightmares about being chased by Walt Whitman. But thoughts from his past always come after a break up. It's practically mundane to fall back into that excruciating cycle of poetry and shame.

 He just has to suck it up, and remember that Neil Perry is dead. There is only James Wilson now.

****

Todd Anderson is anxious. And nauseated. And embarrassed.

Charlie and Knox went to the cafeteria, so there's nothing left to do but pout at the clock in front of his hospital bed. Having spent most of his morning in this room, Todd can already recall his surroundings – the revealing glass wall, the cold-looking white floor, his very own bathroom across from him (really, what strings have been pulled here???), and of course, the never ending chatter and clutter of doctors and nurses just outside. He didn't like hospitals .The sounds made him think of death.    

Todd is an adult now, and his anxiety isn't nearly as bad as it was when he was a high school student, but it comes back occasionally. Especially when he is lying in a completely unnecessary hospital bed, his friends left the room, and he sees through the glass wall a tall man with a cane, limping determinately to his door.

The man enters without a knock, abruptly stops in front of the bed, and looks him up and down, more like you'd eye a chair in a furniture store than a human being. Mystery-man looks angry at something, and has icy blue eyes that seemingly never blink.

Rationally, the writer knows there is no way this person – who he had never even seen before – is mad at him. That doesn't mean he doesn't squirm under his accusing gaze.

"A-are you a d-d-doctor?"

Damn it! Todd thinks to himself. He didn't realize how nervous he was before hearing himself stutter. A fucking world renowned author, and the minute someone even slightly intimidating comes within proximity-

"Yes." The now proclaimed doctor declares, with a slight, daring frown on his face. "And you are going to tell me exactly how The Champion is planning to sneak into his sister's funeral in book 5."

That is not what Todd expected.

So, the creepy doctor is a fan. Todd can deal with that, The Champion has a lot of creepy fans. Of course, they usually aren't responsible for his well-being but it's still manageable.

The writer looks up to see the doctor impatiently staring at him while pressing his lips, urging him to answer the question.

"R-right." Todd cleared his throat and straightened in the uncomfortable hospital bed. "W-what makes you think he will even g-go to the funeral?"

"Please." Now Creepy-Man is wearing an extremely unpleasant expression on his face, clearly designed to tell whoever is on the receiving end of it just how stupid they are.

"I… c-can't really s-spoil an-any of th-" Here Todd takes a deep breath, trying to calm down under the doctor's relentless stare.

Slow down. He tells himself, a mantra that he used to obsessively whisper during his senior year of high school.

Appreciative of the way he's not being rushed to speak, Todd answers the question, now significantly slower.

"The book is still i-in writing," – breath – "a-and I can't really disclose a-any details yet."

The breathing and slow pace calms him down a little, and he finds that his stutter gets a bit better if he looks down at his hands other than try to make eye contact.

The fan-boy hums, and the writer looks up at him just in time to see Knox and Charlie walking through the door, each holding a respectable amount of snack packs.

The doctor abruptly spins in his place, turning to face the new people in the room. Todd watches as Charlie drags his eyes over the unfamiliar man, and cringes in second-hand embarrassment as his friend smiles in bisexuality and shoves all of his snacks onto a struggling Knox.

"Charlie Dalton." He extends a hand towards the object of his fascination, his sick friend forgotten on the hospital bed.

"And you are…?" Charlie lifts his brow inquisitively when the doctor is only looking down at his outstretched hand – his entire posture saying "boredom".

"Doctor House."

He turns back to face Todd, and away from Charlie's disappointed pout and hand quickly shoved in his coat pocket.

You are a grown man! Todd wants to remind him, but he is silenced by doctor House's next words.

"So, how long have you been having perception issues?"

"F-for about a… week now." This time he is looking down on his hands not only to avoid doctor House's gaze, but also his friends' accusatory ones. He knew they thought it weird he didn't go to get checked sooner, and how calm he was about the whole thing.

In all fairness, he thought it was just stress from the deadline for his next book that was getting closer and closer with every tick of the obnoxious clock in his living room. Despite what he told doctor House, it wasn't the first time he had this weird episode thing. It was the first time in two decades though, so that felt close enough.

"And then the other symptoms showed up." Doctor House stated, rifling through some files before looking at the puke designated bucket on the side of the bed.

"You are suffering from Alice in Wonderland Syndrome." The doctor said after some thinking.

Todd blinked in confusion from the absurdity of the name.

"Also known as, funnily enough, Todd's Syndrome." He looked completely unamused by the antic.

He still gets no response.

"So, AIWS along with the symptoms you've been having suggest- what are you doing?"

He is pointing to where Todd is trying (and failing) to discreetly itch his stomach over the hospital gown.

Doctor House is stepping towards him now, only stopping once the writer's personal space has been entirely compromised.

 Without warning, the doctor's finger is jabbing hard at his upper abdomen. Todd yelps (mostly in surprise).

Doctor House merely nods and mutters something about an ultra sound. Without another word he limps away from the room.

What an ass Todd thinks. Charlie probably thinks so too, judging by his shameless staring.

Chapter Text

After briefly interacting with the patient, House sends his team to perform an ultra sound. It confirms what he, of course, already knew: enlargement of the liver. House is desperately trying to extract good ideas from his team's differential diagnosis.

"Authors drink." Foreman states matter-of-factly.

It takes everything in House's power to not roll his eyes. Turns out he was not blessed with that kind of strong will, because he practically brings his Irises to the back of his skull while commenting: "If AIWS was caused by alcoholism, I would have already banged the queen of hearts. Always had a thing for her."

The diagnostician doesn't really have a drinking problem, but it's nice to keep his fellows on their toes. They stay sharp if they think a mental breakdown is heading their way.

House is standing next to the white board, leaning on his cane with both hands on top of it. Of course hepatomegaly can be caused by drinking, but he is a little tired of alcoholism being brought up whenever the liver is involved. As if the writer wouldn't have the decency to waste the diagnostic department's precious time with an interesting condition. 

"Liver cancer?" Cameron suggests, seemingly unimpressed with his clever Alice in Wonderland reference.  Her lack of enthusiasm would've been forgiven if not for her moronic ideas.

"You are ignoring symptoms!" He briefly loses his balance in favor of frustratingly tapping his cane against the floor, eyes still fixated on the board.

"It would be stupid to not even tes-" The woman is trying to defend her stand when House interrupts with "You are not even considering his AIWS!"

Must the entirety of his staff be so small minded?

He thinks he can hear Chase throwing an idea – there's definitely an Australian sounding whine coming from behind him – but he's already tuned out, entirely engrossed in the obscure list of symptoms.

Something is missing, House's mind keeps telling him. In the background, Cameron and Foreman argue for the superiority of each of their ideas. Their bickering is not nearly interesting enough for him to pay attention to, so House stays in his focused state until hearing a familiar voice coming for the doorway.

"Why is 'stutter' listed as a symptom?" Wilson inquires, squinting his eyes from where he is standing at the entrance to the office. House fully turns around – cane and all – to face his nosey best friend.

Before the diagnostician has the chance to explain his brilliant train of thoughts, Wilson is talking again.

"If the patient's liver is enlarged, it could be a sign of liver cancer. Do you need a consult?"

Cameron is looking up triumphantly. House holds his tongue, not mentioning the fact that, obviously, the oncologist just sees cancer everywhere.

"What about Infection?" Chase quips from his seat at the end of the table. "Epstein – Barr virus can cause hepatomegaly, and it's the most common cause for AIWS in children."

House mulls over the idea, then nods. "Aside from the fact that our patient is 38-" He stops to glare at Chase "Go run some blood tests."

The ducklings get up from their seats, and avoid bumping into Wilson on their way out. Once the door is closed, the dismissive doctor turns his attention towards the oncologist, who is now taking a fierce stance with both hands on his hips, looking at House pointedly.

"There was a note on the Tupperware."

House is a little shocked by his friend's accusation of food theft. Honestly, it's Wilson's fault. He could've asked anyone in the hospital who would be the worst roommate out of the staff, and they all, without even blinking, would answer House. A bit unfair, seeing that Chase is kind of a pain in the ass as well.

"Well, the pasta was very good. And I was too tired to cook so…"The diagnostician is trailing off unapologetically.

"You can't cook! And how is that an excuse to steal my food? Seriously, you can't even make yourself a sandwich?" Wilson's tone is utterly exasperated, and House decides he has had enough.

The limping doctor passes through his best friend and is now walking past the door. "Where are you going?" Wilson catches up to him effortlessly.

"Didn't you hear? I've got a patient."

"That you are going to see? Willingly?"

"What can I say? I'm just a soft hearted doctor who needs to sit by his patient's side while they are suffering. You should tag along, see if he looks cancer –y."

And so the doctors walk towards Todd Anderson's room. House is secretly hoping the encounter would encourage Wilson to read The Champion. There is a big part there about not being so trusting, and honestly, his best friend could learn from that a thing or two.

**

When Wilson sat in his office chair that morning he immediately understood that, no, this will not do. He gets up and walks into the balcony his office shares with House's. Wilson is peeking to see if his best friend is in already. Of course he isn't. The oncologist retreats to his own office, careful not to make eye contact with House's fellows who are already in drinking their coffees. He's really not in the mood for a casual conversation.

His morning is slow. He does his rounds, meets with a new patient, and is overall very much restless after his break up. It's a bit pathetic, isn't it? He and Julie have been practically over for more than a year now. Doesn't make it hurt any less though.

At around noon he sighs and walks towards House's office. He wants his best friend to mock him into getting his shit together. Before exiting his office door, Wilson thinks of an appropriate excuse to go bother House (not that House ever needs an excuse to bother him). He settles on calling his best friend out on taking his food from the fridge they now inconveniently share. As if Wilson is at all surprised by that.

The symptoms on the white board look interesting enough, and once the ducklings are out the door and House is sick of their conversation they walk together towards the patient's room and enter the elevator.

"Seriously though, why are you this curious? Is the patient hot?"

"No."

Wilson wants the conversation to continue. Wants House to make an inappropriate comment about the patient's body, wants House to wonder why he is asking and make a joke about getting him laid. But the diagnostician is quiet. Lost in thoughts.

With the ding of the elevator doors House limps out of it.

"He's an author of this book franchise I like."

"I didn't know erotic fiction writers reveal their identities in hospitals."

House scoffs in amusement. "Not that. It's the book I've been trying to get you to read for months."

"So… erotic fiction?"

"Not nearly enough of it" House mutters to himself.

"Maybe if you ask nicely he will dedicate a sex scene to you in his next book."

They are approaching the writer's room now, so Wilson refrains from making farther comments. Most of all, he really wants to meet the man who has somehow managed to pique the interest of Gregory House.

**

"He wasn't hot, he was sexy. There's a difference, Knox."

Todd thinks that maybe if he was a real person he could have participated in this conversation. Right now, feverish and crawled in the hospital bed with a stinky bucket by his side, he is much closer to a zombie.

"Fine, than go flirt with the sexy doctor while completely ignoring us. As if there's a difference."

Charlie's reply is cut short by Todd's pained groan. Those fucking migraines. His friends continue their conversation in whispers, letting him drift off into a fitful sleep. Fevers make the worst dreams. It brings him into his book. He is crying on his knees while his main character calls him pathetic. Todd's sorry. How can he let The Champion know he is sorry?

Things are thrown all around him. In his half asleep state he feels himself banging his head on the mattress. There's a hand cupping the back of his head to soften the blow. Todd brings it to his face and rubs it on his sweaty forehead furiously.

The Champion is now as broken as his author. Both are digging in the ground trying to find a ship's wreck. Why aren't they looking for it in the sea? There is no room for logic in these dreams.

"Todd!" the hand is on his shoulder and shaking him awake. He keeps his eyes closed, taking in the wetness on his cheeks and sweat drenched sheets. He opens his eyes and spots Charlie's poorly concealed tears above him.

At the foot of the bed there is Knox, looking seconds away from taking the bucket and throwing up himself. "You, um… You kept calling for Neil."

"Oh." Todd wants to cry. Cry for his current friends. Cry for friends from his past. Cry for himself.

He knows they are all thinking of the nights after Neil's death. Todd kept weeping at night. His friends kept sneaking into his half empty room. They would all sit on the floor through the night, not talking, not sleeping, just not wanting to be alone. Cameron would usually try talking. Back then it used to upset Todd. Now he understood that Cameron was just 16. They were all just 16.

"I didn't know you still… thought about him." Charlie is mostly talking to himself, looking taken aback by the reminder.

"I… well. I usual-usually don't d-d-dream about him, just… think of him. Occasionally." That's a lie. Todd thinks of Neil whenever he writes in an old notebook, every time Shakespeare is mentioned, each time he passes by a theater.

He'll think of Neil when it snows, will think of him when walking on bridges, when using the desk set his parents got him for his 17'Th birthday, the year after his death. He thinks of him whenever he sees a watch with a leather strap, or a green sweater. His entire mind would erupt in chorus singing Neil Neil Neil…  

It used to be fresh and painful though. Now it's just… there. A never ending music courtesy of his mind, who never quite fully moved on. His friends nod. Charlie goes to the bathroom, Knox brings him water. They sit in silence, since there's no need to dwell on the past.

Todd would dwell every once in a while, but only when he was alone. He has long ago mourned his friend. Now he only mourns their youth.

"Bad time?" Dr. House asks as he enters the room, not really looking for an answer.

Charlie stands up straight and Todd can see a man in a white coat walking behind the doctor. He spots a pair of warm brown eyes and it doesn't take his eyes long to find a beauty mark on the man's chin.

A flash of recognition hits Todd in the head like a baseball bat. He hunches over and throws up in his bucket.

What else are you supposed to do when seeing ghosts?

Chapter Text

His father said: "It's better to have a son who killed himself than a son who couldn't even finish the job."

Neil Perry have been slowly dying, withering away for years at that point, but that one sentence was the final blow. The gunshot that took him out of this world.

So once he reached his uncle's house in Canada, he got to work.

The name "James" comes from the Hebrew name Yaakov. It means "a man in control of his own actions and will" – at least that's what the book of baby names said.

Wilson spent hours at the library in his uncle's town, meticulously going through the pages in search for his new name – His "chosen name" as a sweet trans girl he once treated taught him – before settling on "James". The meaning felt appropriate for what he wanted from the rest of his life.

For his new last name no muscles have been pulled. It was simply his mother's maiden name.

So when Knox – Knox fucking Overstreet, who is here, in PPTH – whispers "Neil?", it takes him a second to comprehend the situation he's in.

Comprehension doesn't help. Wilson is just standing there, frozen, helpless. He can feel House's blue eyes drilling holes through him, questioning. He's unable to face his best friend. Possibly never will again. His mind is racing. What can he do to not make it worse?

He needs to get out of there. What can get him out of there? Wilson's eyes are fixated on the floor.

"I'll go get another bucket." He mumbles approaching the bed to take the current one in use – His mind is already planning his breakdown at the closest nurses station. He reaches his hand forward, when suddenly he can't move it anymore. A sweaty palm is desperately gripping at his watch, not letting him move. Wilson shuts his eyes closed.

"Neil." A gentle voice is saying from beneath him. Wilson can't see that face again, he won't. He's too afraid of turning into a salt pillar.

Tears are welling in his eyes, begging to be shed. He doesn't let them out. Wilson is trying so hard to ignore the iron grip on his wrist that just won't let go. The romantic in him thinks of it as a metaphor for his past not letting him go. The cynic in him tells the romantic to shut up.

"Neil." The voice is insistent, urging him to look. The oncologist takes a peek and sees… him. He is older, but it's him. It's Todd Anderson. His blue eyes filled with hurt, mouth pressed in something resembling anger, and Wilson is overwhelmed by the urge to make him smile, the same urge Neil Perry had felt all those years ago.

But the second they make eye contact, Todd flinches and let go, his eyes becoming cold, expression unreadable. If at Welton his eyes were the sea, now they were ice and Wilson – He didn't know what to do with that.

"Fuck."

Right, the other people in the room.

Wilson slowly turns around towards a fuming Charlie. His face is red and his fists are clenched by his sides. Neil loved him. He was his best friend since the day they met at the start of sixth grade. Charlie Dalton was loud and friendly and accepting. Neil Perry envied the free and determined way in which he held himself.

The passion Neil once admired was now directed at Wilson in the form of rage.

"You are dead." It wasn't a threat, it was a statement, an accusation.

"As a doctor, I can tell you that my friend here is very much alive" House frowns.

Of course, the only person who can make the situation even more messed up: Gregory House.

"He's dead." Knox whispers.

"I can explain," Wilson lies.

"How!? H-how the fuck ca-can this be explained?!" Todd is shaking with anger and the oncologist opens his mouth to answer, yet finds that he can't. Good thing Todd doesn't want to hear it.

"Did you…? You-You just left us! All this- all this fucking time! That's… I-I don't…"

Todd has tears silently streaming down his face, and Wilson wants to reach out. But you can either be the problem or be the solution, and his place had been made clear.

"Leave." Charlie says after a deep breath. So Wilson does. With his shoulders hunched and eyes prickling, he leaves the hospital room where James Wilson found his fall. No lie lasts forever.

**

It takes a lot to shock Gregory House, and even more to confuse him, yet he can't come up with a single reasonable explanation for what he had just witnessed.

"So… ex-boyfriend, I presume?" House breaks the tense silence in the room.

The patient scoffs.

Is that a yes?

"Well… this has been a pleasure. Your symptoms are not getting better, and my best friend is probably having a mental breakdown somewhere over God-knows-what, but we should totally do this again sometimes."

And with that the diagnostician leaves the stunned room. He has a Wilson (or maybe a Neil?) to find.

He checks the cafeteria (Wilson is an emotional eater), the roof (House's personal favorite freak out spot) and the oncology department's nurses' station (In case his best friend wanted to flirt with someone to get rid of the sadness) before going for the obvious choice: their offices' shared balcony.

The moment he sets foot (and cane) outside, the wind slaps him in the face. House mutters to himself that whatever is going on better be worth hypothermia, however he is way too curious to actually mind the cold.

Wilson is sitting in the corner closest to his own office with his knees raised and head facing down. He hadn't noticed his best friend yet. He's shaking – either from the cold or from crying.

It's not really relevant which one, House decides, groaning as he limps towards his friend and lower himself to sit next to him, setting his cane down by their feet.

"Just for the record, grown men don't cry, they brood."

Wilson looks up at him with raised eyebrows and says: "I want to be alone."

House would've taken this request a lot more seriously if it weren't for his voice cracking and the tears streaming down his face.

"No you don't. I know you. You are dying to talk about this and to be comforted."

"Well, you are not gonna comfort me, are you?" Wilson snaps.

"No." House admits.

They sit in silence before he asks: "So… Neil?"

The oncologist tries to groan, but it comes out more like a sob. House feels a pang of regret, but he doesn't apologize. Nor does he reach out. He wants answers and he is gonna get them, goddamnit.

"I… I'm so sorry." Wilson tells him between sobs. He sounds so broken House wishes he was different person – someone who could fix this – but he wasn't, so he just sits there, letting the tale unfold.

Chapter Text

Charlie is pacing the room. Knox is sitting in a chair next to the bed where Todd is sitting up (despite his dizzy head begging him to lie down). None of them say a word.

Charlie's steps give a steady rhythm to Todd's erratic thoughts

Step, step, step-

So Neil died.

Step, step, step-

But he's here.

Step, step, step-

In PPTH.

Step, step, step-

What do those letters stand for again?

Step, step, step-

That's irrelevant.

Step, step, step-

He looks the same.

Step, step, step-

Did Todd look the same?

Step, step, step-

Not really.

Step, step, step-

Obviously he's older.

Step, step, step-

He has facial hair now.

Step, step, step-

Also irrelevant.

Step, step, step-

Or is it? Todd worked hard on his beard resembling scruff.

Step, step, step-

Yep, definitely irrelevant. 

Step-

Out of nowhere Todd just leaps out of the hospital bed, surprising his friends (and quite frankly, himself) in the process.

The quick movement makes him see black and he groans in pain. Knox and Charlie rush to his side, trying to force him to lay back down.

"No, you- Neil's alive!"

Todd is struggling against their soothing.

"Todd, please just sit down." Charlie pleads.

"He's alive! That's a good thing!"

"Yes, but… We had a funeral, it's… We have to…"

Thoughts of the funeral come back to Todd alongside a wave of nausea. He throws up on the floor and sobs, curling up on the bed. He is so physically and mentally drained. Knox mutters a soft curse and goes to get a nurse.

Welton didn't hold a funeral for Neil, the school just tried to shove the whole thing under the rug. The dead poets were also very unwelcome at the one his parents organized. They had a funeral of their own instead. Charlie got them vodka, and each read the most morbid poems they could find. It didn't go very well – they just yelled at Cameron most of the time (he only deserved some of it).

Charlie wipes Todd's mouth with a napkin. He sits next to him on the mattress, causing the springs to creak. Charlie wraps a hand around his shoulders and Todd feels like a grieving boy again.

Knox returns with a nurse in tow. She glares at them, but her face softens when she sees the two men crying.

She cleans up the vomit, replaces the bucket, and even asks Todd whether she can "get you anything, sweetheart?" to which he replies with a shake of his head.

 After the nurse leaves, Knox collapses on the foot of the bed theatrically. As he lays there on his back he covers his face with his palms, elbows pointing towards the too-bright fluorescent light.

"We need a game plan." Charlie says, willing to jump into this head first, as always.

"A game plan? That's a pretty big name. We just need to find Neil and then…" Knox trails off, because none of them actually knows what then.

"All I know is…" Todd begins, his voice is hoarse. "All I know is, that Neil, he's alive. That… That has to mean… something."

Knox is peeking from between his fingers and looks at Charlie. They are both having a mental conversation that Todd is clearly not invited to.

"Todd," Charlie says gently after some silence. "Were you in love with him?"

The question is far too big for the calm manner in which it had been asked. It floats around the room, and Todd is confused. Charlie is asking whether he was once in love with his best friend, his roommate, a boy they all loved and Todd had no right to fall for. A question like that is supposed to change the entire texture of the air, it's supposed to make his friend take his arm away, and it's supposed to make some kind of… Todd doesn't know… an explosion?

Todd has no idea what he was expecting. Or, well, maybe he has too good of an idea. None of it changes the fact that when he replies: "Yeah.", the world doesn't end.

**

Todd had figured out he was "different" long before he ever got to Welton. He didn't always know the reason for it, but once he learned the term "homosexual", it became pretty clear.

So he did what every 13 year old boy on the verge of a sexuality crisis did: shoved it deep down and resolved to never address it.

That plan fell flat when he met Neil Perry. He was 15, and something awoke in him. Suddenly, he understood what all the boys around him meant when they talked about girls. He understood the fuss over crushes and butterflies in your stomach. It was so cliché, so pathetic, and yet he couldn't seem to get enough of it.

Neil was beautiful – absolutely breathe taking. Back then Todd was ashamed to think him pretty – It was feminine, and ridiculous– But as he struggled to fall asleep at night, listening to his friend's steady breaths, he could admit to himself that, if boys can be beautiful, the proof of that is lying in the bed across from his.

Sometimes he let himself believe that Neil felt the same. When he kept catching his friend staring at him during class, when they walked side by side on their way to the cave with their hands almost touching, when Neil kept telling him nice things. He was always so kind. Todd had never been treated this kindly before.

They kissed once. It was on Todd's birthday. Both boys couldn't stop giggling on their way from the bridge to their dorm room. They could hear Dr. Hager yelling at the "disregard that kids show towards school grounds", not suspecting bright Neil Perry and reserved Todd Anderson at all. Once they reached their room they could finally let out genuine laughs.

Todd smiled so hard his mouth hurt. He couldn't remember the last time he was happy on his birthday. Neil was the most incredible person he'd ever known. Light hearted, warm, welcoming, accepting. As Todd listed all his friend's positive qualities, his eyes wondered towards him.

When Neil noticed him looking, his eyes and smile softened. Todd was in awe. He mapped out every inch of Neil's face, and the latter just watched. He'd long ago come to find that his favorite detail in the brunette's face was the tiny little beauty mark on his chin. As Todd's eyes landed on his lips, they parted, and the smile disappeared.

Disappointed, Todd looked at Neil's eyes, but they didn't meet his gaze. Instead, they were focused on his own lips. Before the anxious boy could bite them, his friend approached him. All laughter was gone now. The air was tense, and Todd forgot how to breathe. Neil kept getting closer and closer. He then pressed his lips onto Todd's. It was so soft, and undemanding, questioning.

Todd forgot to move, forgot to react, to reciprocate. And then it was too late. Neil took a step back, huffed a humorless laugh and left the room.

Todd slowly sunk to his bed, he cried, cursing his fucked up brain for fucking it up. Out of fight or flight, his useless body chose freeze.

Neil came back right before lights out. They didn't speak to each other, and the next morning everything was normal again. They never acknowledged the kiss, and it was killing Todd inside. Because for at least one second, Neil thought that he, Todd Anderson, was good enough for him, and what did his pathetic excuse for an existence do? Proved him wrong.

But Neil kept looking at him like that, and Todd kept looking away.

During Puck's final monologue in "Midsummer Night's Dream", Todd became overwhelmed with his feelings. He saw his best friend up on the stage where he belonged and something bubbled in his chest. It was an intoxicating cocktail of pride, and love, and hope. In his mind, he had decided that if Neil can be this brave, so can Todd.

The plan was to confess his feelings later that night. The dead poets were supposed to have a meeting to celebrate their friend's achievement. Todd planned to wait until the early hours of the morning, when it was just the two of them in their dorm room.

He was so nervous, but buzzing with excitement while he waited to greet Neil as he exited the theater. But then – Well, we all know what happened then.

Chapter Text

From "The Champion 2: Jewells of the Sun", by Todd Anderson:

When Icarus reached the sun he burnt. I envied him my whole life. After all, isn't that the goal? To go big and leave something spectacular behind you? Because yes, Icarus fell, but what a sight it must have been. If I ought to leave this cruel earth, I aspire to do so while staring down God itself. Unfortunately, I was always more of a Sisyphus. I would reach the atmosphere and be lured away by gravity, before the sun could even greet my sore eyes. Before it could make them ache even more.

But now I've got it figured out. I have found the route for glory and as I pace around the entrance rays of light envelope me, calling for me to come home. How ironic is it that the person guiding me is my sister, right from the "home" we both escaped. We each crawled our way out with knives between our teeth and dirt beneath our fingernails. The knowledge that something else is there, waiting for us somewhere in this vast universe, was the only light source leading us out.

***

It took Wilson some deep breaths before he could begin speaking of Welton. Once he did his voice remained steady, only silent tears betraying the weight of the story. Up until the part of his suicide attempt, House's comments concluded to this:

"An all-boys boarding school!?"

"Gay."

"Destroying textbooks? In this economy?"

"Of course. Sneaking out at night to read poetry. How heterosexual of you."

"Are you talking about the guy who wants in my pants?"

"Daddy issues."

"GAY."

Wilson was grateful for his friend's (somewhat inappropriate) remarks. It lightened the mood to the point of a small smile on his part. His tears have dried by now to faint red stains on his cheeks. He waits for House to pop a Vicodin before getting to the hard part. Actually, he's waiting for the part to get easier, but his friend's urging glare reminds him that it never will. 

"So… after he dragged me home, and told me I'd be leaving for military school, I was just so tired. I think the idea of ending it had lived in my mind for a while by then. I was so tired, and that's when I realized: I'll never get a chance to rest. I'll keep going, I'll be perfect, and it would finish me completely, but no one would care. Especially not my father. It seemed so logical at the time – I'm never going to truly live, so I might as well make it official."

Wilson hurries with his next sentences, knowing that otherwise House would have to express his less then sympathetic opinions.

"So after my parents went to bed I went downstairs to my father's office. I knew how to find his gun. That wasn't even the first time I went looking for it. But… I don't what happened. I guess my hands were shaking so bad I somehow missed!" He lets out a bitter laugh.

"And of course by then the gunshot had been heard. And of course my father rushed to his office. And for a fleeting second I thought that maybe, just maybe, he'll be sorry. But then he started yelling, calling me useless, pathetic, attention seeker. All the things I already thought of myself and much, much worse." He breathes.

There's a silence between them. When Wilson finally dares to make eye contact he sees House looking at him attentively, chewing the inside of his cheek.

"How the hell did you miss?"

"What?" Wilson huffs out a surprised laugh. When his father said something similar, he meant it as an insult. House, however, is genuinely curious.

"I don't know but… I'm glad I did. Because all that crap they tell you when you are a teenager, about how things will get better, it's true. Or, well, at least it was once I escaped my father."

And it really did get better. Back then he was suffocating and felt as if the world was ending, and in a way it was. He was a teenager and his entire world was confined to his boarding school. That's not to say it was a small life or by any means meaningless, just that it was easier to take away.

House nods. Wilson knows it means he's happy he missed, too.

"After that my father sent me to live with my uncle in Canada. I guess he told the school and everyone else I died because it was less embarrassing than the truth."

Living with his uncle was different. Neil arrived there as a shaking, terrified kid, and was met with an enveloping hug from his aunt. His hair was then affectionately ruffled by his uncle. He cowered under both touches. His two small cousins immediately came to the door talking at a humanly impossible pace about the absurdity of their classmates believing that Santa Clause exists.

"So Hanukah is better because we don't lie." Concluded five year old David.  

The kids' restless energy balanced their parents' gentle and worried looks. Neil was so overwhelmed he couldn't even speak. And he didn't. Not while his aunt told her kids that they would see him later, not when she ushered him through the halls of the house to his new bedroom, and he still didn't speak when she deposited him to sit on the bed and crouched on the floor in front of him.

He only held eye contact because she refused to break it. Her kind brown eyes looked up at him, and she spoke softly, as if to a child, as if to her own. His aunt carefully explained that she wants him to go to therapy, and that that much is non-negotiable. She promised to him that whatever's on his mind, he can always come to her or his uncle, knowing full well that he won't take her up on that promise.

"They were a real family, y'know?" He tells House.

"They were loving and caring and all those other things parents are supposed to be. It even made up for eating kosher."

Wilson's mother was Jewish. His father wasn't. Marrying outside religion was frowned upon is both sides of his family, so he grew up somewhat neglecting his Jewish heritage. Welton didn't have any Jews, anyway.

"They sent me to therapy, been there for me through episodes of depression, let me act in school plays-"

"So why didn't you go on to become an actor?" House inquires.

"I don't know. Biology isn't so bad once no one is breathing down your neck, and… I wanted financial stability and independence, maybe even to pay back my aunt and uncle one of those days – they are still very much my parents."

His friend nods thoughtfully.

"Well, I've gotta go diagnose your boy crush." House told him while abruptly getting up from the balcony's floor.

"I'm still not gay."

House always had a fondness for challenging his friend's heterosexuality, but Wilson really hopes he wouldn't do something as insensitive as telling his long lost best friends that he has a crush on one of them. Oh, wait, it's House we're talking about.

"Listen," He frantically gets up to follow the diagnostician into his office. "I don't really mind you making gay jokes about me, but I don't know how well they'll land in this crowd. So please, for the love of god, don't go around talking about… that."

Besides he isn't even gay. How could he be? He has three ex-wives.

"Right… jokes." House doesn't use air quotes, but the rising of his eyebrows does it for him.

"House, I'm serious-"

"You paged me?"

Foreman walks in, looking irritated and uncomfortable. Well, all he really did was furrow his eyebrows and shift his eyes between the two of them, but that was a strong facial expression coming from him. Wilson gapes at his friend. He can't even recall House using his pager.

"Yes." House says and starts walking past his fellow.

"I'm joining you at the patient's house. You drive." By the time he says that he's already halfway to the elevator. Foreman sighs and follows his boss.

Wilson stays standing in the office, and tries to find it in himself to be surprised. He spilled everything he never told anyone, and his best friend in the entire world just leaves him here alone. That's just their friendship, Wilson knows that. And yet, his mind goes back to the friendships he once had with the poets, how different they had been not only from his one with House but also from one another. He's not even angry at his friend for leaving, just longs for the connections he once had. It's almost as if having only one friend is unhealthy or something. Almost as if you need a variety of people in your life who can each connect to different sides of you. Who would've thought?

Chapter Text

Foreman curses under his breath before following his boss into their patient's house. He usually waits for the car ride home to start swearing, but it's important to indulge yourself sometimes. At least that's what Cameron said in a weak attempt to flirt with House. What sane woman could ever want that guy?

Maybe Cameron IS insane… Foreman contemplates once standing in the foyer. House had immediately made a beeline for the stairs, undoubtedly looking for the bedroom, being the pervert that he is. It's a nice house, Foreman thinks. Granted, it's cluttered and without much natural light – but nothing the finished basement doesn't make up for. He steps through the hall leading towards the kitchen. The walls are filled with framed pictures and mismatched lamps. It looks as if all of the lamp shades were either thrifted or hand-me-downs, since each one of them is ugly in its own unique way.

Foreman has a good taste. It's a fact he clearly shows with his wardrobe, the people he dates, and the general way in which he holds himself. Good taste though, always comes with judgement, and Foreman has a lot of both and absolutely no outlet for the latter. He often despises the way some of his colleagues show their dismay towards patients, though. The way House acts all high and mighty when he discovers an affair, the way Cameron cares too much about everyone else's business, and the way Chase - for unknowable reasons - really hates fat people.

But Foreman holds himself to a higher standard, and keeps most of his opinions to himself. It's hard, because he has more opinions than all of the diagnostics department combined and is only half as petty. But he likes going into patients' houses, and he likes judging their personalities by seeing where they live, and he likes to do it by himself, without his boss, who seems suspiciously interested in this particular case.

So Foreman sighs, refrains from making any further useless observations from the interior, and bends down to check underneath the sink for mold. If he had kept to his usual routine and checked the fridge for interesting magnets, he would've noticed a slightly crumpled old photo of a class. If he were to squint at said photo, he would've thought to himself: Huh, that kid on the left really looks like Doctor Wilson.

***

House had learned a lot in the last hour. Take that, the math teacher in high school who called him lazy. He wonders what Mrs. What's-her-face is up to these days. Maybe he should send her a picture from his medical school graduation. Regardless, he can now see a clear connection between the challenges Neil Perry faced, and the ones written in The Champion, and just has to test his theory.

Foreman can look for environmental factors all he wants. House on the other hand, is going to do something useful - like uncovering Todd Anderson's sexuality. Interestingly enough, his search doesn't involve looking for dildos and rainbows in the nightstand. He does check, but that's only for his own piece of mind. Everything else is for Wilson's.

His best friend always denied the gay allegations and (even worse) assumed House was joking. But now Wilson's just… being an idiot. House should tell Cuddy not to ask him for sperm, or else she will get dumb babies. Maybe she should reconsider Wilson as the head of oncology, too, while she's at it. Despite his on growing frustration, he never pushed too hard, and mainly hoped Wilson would come to the conclusion on his own, but judging by the story he heard today, his friend is long overdue a sexuality crisis.

So, House's plan is pretty straight forward: Prove his patient used to have feeling for Neil Perry (and by extension for James Wilson), and get Wilson to admit his own blatant homosexuality in response.

And, if the two of them decide to give their relationship a shot, all the better. House may be an asshole, but he can recognize the concept of "The one that got away". The way he sees it, Wilson didn't even "get away", he sprinted away and never looked back. That's just unfair.

 After failing to find any evidence in the bedroom, he decides to take a stroll around the house. The bathroom's messy. The 3 in 1 shampoo, conditioner & body wash bottle doesn't mean anything. Gay people can be sloppy too, you know. There's a guest bedroom, and an unpacked suitcase is laying on the floor. House doesn't bother looking inside it. Instead, he walks downstairs and browses the photos in the hall. He sees a wedding picture featuring a happy couple surrounded by their loved ones. It displays one of his patient's friends (the one not flirting with him) as the groom. It's a bit odd, since as far as he could tell this morning none of the three wore a ring. Maybe it makes sense though, considering the bride is just so much hotter than the groom.  

Foreman's in the kitchen, and House doesn't want to run into him on his way to the living room, so the basement is next. He takes the somewhat rocky wooden stairs to it and feels the wall besides him in search for a light switch. He turns on the light and… he is met with what is probably the nicest basement he had ever seen. You could trap children in there and they wouldn't even cry for their parents. A mini fridge, couch and a big screen TV are assembled by the farthest corner of the room from him. And yes, the men cave doesn't help prove the author's homosexuality. However, it does prove he's a cool dude.

The basement is enormous, so the previously mentioned set up takes very little of the room. House wanders over to the big wooden desk holding a computer. It is scattered with papers, yet none of them contain coherent sentences. Anyway, House is much more fascinated by the murder board above it. He doesn't think the author is trying to solve a crime, but the amount of post its and strings on said board could've fooled even the brightest of mind (a category House obviously belongs to). He takes a step closer and sees the board is filled with poems. Some crumpled and torn from a notebook, some written with an elegant pen on a white crisp paper. But there's more on the board – random sentences, quotes, plot points in the book, and most surprising of all: sketches. Absolutely terrible sketches showing stick figures and far too strong strokes of pencil.  Todd Anderson should really stick to his day job. But nonetheless, House recognizes one. It's a doodle of a boy looking outside a window at pointy leafless tree branches. Behind him are floating glasses.

It's the first scene of The Champion, House suddenly realizes. He remembers liking that scene. The Champion is looking out of the window right after his sister ran away, and his father (the glasses) is scolding him for day dreaming.

He begins to recognize other scenes. The cave the protagonist finds, his sister's new house (which is really just a square with a triangle above it), torches, stages, practically every important scene in the series. Then House's eyes are drawn to a low corner of the board. The old paper pinned there shows a face and is titled The Champion. The face has no distinctive features. None, but a beauty mark on the chin, right beneath the mouth.

Bingo.

Chapter Text

One of the hardest things James Wilson ever had to do, was to listen to Mrs. Adelman speak of her daughter's pregnancy. It's not that she went into graphic details – She did, but he is a doctor, he's seen way too much shit to be disgusted by anything ever again – More that he had to sit there, smiling and nodding as if his entire existence, the one he worked so hard to build, wasn't torn to shreds a mere hour ago.

But he likes Mrs. Adelman. She is a great patient, and he is so proud of the progress she is making. He also knows how important it is that she feels comfortable enough to share details about her life that are completely unrelated to her illness. And yet, now that she left his office, he realizes how little he cares. And what a terrible thing it is. To not care. He remembers not caring. He remembers lying awake at Welton thinking about how little he cares for being alive, and he remembers accepting his indifference.  Now though, as an emotionally stable adult, he is terrified. Caring is what he built James Wilson's identity around. If it goes away, all that's left is…  Well, nothing good. Maybe he should go take a walk.

He is on his feet and at the door in a heartbeat. Usually he would take the elevator, but something in him needs to feel excreted, so he takes the stairs. His office is on the fourth floor. When he was younger he could've ran up and down there without breaking a sweat, but now it takes a toll on him, as he emerges from the stairwell panting and exists the lobby slower than ever. It feels good to have his lungs burn and his calves ache, so once he is out in the cool New Jersey air he keeps a fast pace and races through the campus of PPTH.

He keeps on going through grass patches and corners of buildings, and decides to pass by as quickly as he can once smelling cigarettes. So he keeps walking with his eyes trained on the floor until he accidently crashes into the smoker. He begins to form an apology when -

Oh. It's Charlie.

"Oh." Says Charlie, because one of them needs to keep their wits about them. An awkward silence stretches above them, as Wilson knows he can't run away now.

They stand there side by side with their backs against a wall, the only movements are Charlie taking drags out of his cigarette. For Wilson this is a conversation he has to start, but everything in his mind seems too big to be put into words. Every explanation is an excuse, and every part of the story is written in a language Charlie doesn't speak.

"Those things will kill you." He says dumbly.

"Yeah, unlike a gun shot." Charlie's eyes widen as he instantly regrets his words "Sorry, I didn't –"

"No I… I deserve that."

There's a silence again. Wilson really does think he deserves it. Any harsh word the poets want to throw his way he will pick up and keep in his heart, because he hurt a lot of people, and now he has to deal with the consequences.

"I get why you did it."

Charlie is looking down at his shoes while they make patterns in the dirt. Still, he must feel Wilson's quizzical look because he soon starts to elaborate.

"Killing yourself, I mean. We were kids, and we were trapped and everything seemed so unfair. Each complaint was met with an accusation towards us and… and I wanted an out, too. Doesn't mean I was suicidal, though."

"I'm not sure we even knew what it was." Wilson replies quietly. It goes without saying that mental health wasn't discussed when they were younger. It's clear Charlie thought of the topic a lot since then.

"But you didn't kill yourself, you ran away. You ran away from us too and I… I always thought we were a good thing in your life – kind of a family even, that – We wanted to protect you so badly…"

"You were. You were a good thing in my life." Charlie still won't look at him, and Wilson is tired, because how could he not know how much the poets meant to him?

"Then I don't get it. We loved you, Neil, why did you run from us, too? How could you have led us to believe you were dead?"

There are two ways people talk about death. The people who won't even say the word, and the people who will say it loud and angry and clear, as if they dare it to try and hurt them. Charlie was always braver than Neil. Probably braver than James, too.

"It wasn't enough." Wilson says softly. He knows that his friend, although angry, is old enough to understand that the "power of friendship" isn't a cure for depression.

"I know." Charlie admits in a pained voice and finally looks up at him. His cigarette is forgotten in a loose hand, and his eyes are a little wet.

"I did try to kill myself, actually." Wilson tells him now. Charlie tilts his head as a signal for him to continue.

Wilson explains what happened with as little words as possible. Someday, maybe soon, he would like to get drunk and spill his heart to Charlie. But now wasn't the time. There was trust to rebuild and energy to restore and even with the other man looking at him with patience and understanding, Wilson is terrified of overwhelming him.

"I should've seen it."

What can be said to that? Charlie couldn't have seen it, no one had. It wasn't his fault and it needs to be screamed towards the sky. But Wilson has no scream left in him right now. He can't talk about this right now.

"So, um, what's your life like, right now?" he gives an obvious subject change.

"It's good, I guess. I'm a therapist now. I work with schools." Charlie gives him a look, and Wilson understands it. Charlie is trying to help… him, in a way.

"Oh, oh! I have to tell you!" He says suddenly, remembering something. "Knox and Chris – You remember Chris, right? – They got married! And then divorced!" His expression is a combination of outrageous and shock.

Wilson exhales in disbelief. "Now that I think about it, his entire pursuit was pretty… messed up." And that to say the least.

"Yeah. No means no didn't really exist when we were kids, huh?"

They sigh. The subject of feminism is very much unrelated to their previous topic. Oh well. It's nice to catch up as if they are only old high school buddies (which they technically are).

"And what about you?" Wilson asks. "Marriage? Kids?"

"The real question is what about your doctor friend."

Huh. House did make a joke about that earlier. He didn't realize that Charlie was in on it, too. Most of House's bits were pretty one sided, but if this one wasn't… Well, there's no reason Wilson can't also participate.

"House? He is chronically single."

They chuckle for a second, then Charlie's face darkens.

"I, uh… I should really go back."

Yeah, he should. Because Charlie didn't abandon those people. He didn't abandon Todd.

But it's tense again, now that everyone else is mentioned – that others' hurt feelings are acknowledged. Neil's best friend walks away, and James just can't leave it at that.

"WAIT, CHARLIE?" he turns around.

"Are we… are we good?" What a pathetic question. I made the guy believe I was dead for years, and now I want to make sure there are no hard feelings?

"Damnit, Neil!" Charlie looks angry. Of course he's still upset. Of course he thinks the entire story is BS, and of course he won't forgive him –

"… The name's Nuwanda." The poet declares and breaks into a smile.

James lets out a happy, chocked sob, and runs to give his old friend a bone crushing hug. It's good. It's so good to be hugged and reminded of the good parts from his youth. Charlie pats his back awkwardly, but that doesn't make the hug any less genuine.

"We'll fix it, okay?" Charlie promises him. "It'd take some time, but we won't lose you again."

And yeah, James believes him.