House MD Fanfiction

Alive

Hilson, smut, funeral arranging, 2,922 word
By: vanishing_time

He began to cry only on the third day.

Until that everything was dull, muted and surreal. He kept telling himself that he was just hallucinating, that he was having another chemo treatment he’d forgotten about, and these were just the side effects. That if he survived and got better, things would go back to normal.

Well, as normal as they could be.

He volunteered to arrange everything, partly because deep down he knew the truth and kept hoping the planning could help him step back into the reality, partly because he didn't want to assign the burden to anyone else. It felt personal and somehow axiomatic, and everyone agreed with that without saying a word. He was willing to do anything that could keep his thoughts on a rational level; but it was no use, and getting drowned in false persuasion became more and more comfortable. When he ordered the flowers, chose the photo (he caught himself gazing at the selected one for over an hour) or dialed yet another number on his cell phone, then he could almost convince himself that this was, if not a hallucination, then a dream.

He didn’t break down when Blythe throw herself in his arms, and though he felt like throwing up, he kept his voice calm and soothing as ever, like he’d published the news to a family member of yet another patient. He murmured comfortingly when she cried on his shoulders, kept stroking her back, eyes staring blankly into the air, thinking this was not fair, parents should never be forced to bury their children. At moments like this he could almost forget about his illness, though that was far from relief.

When Foreman offered to have a drink with him, he politely sent him away; so did he with Thirteen, her glistening, red eyes were something he couldn’t bear to see. He said no to Chase and Park, he rejected Cameron's call. And all the while through his exhausted perspective he kept imagining he was only dreaming.

Finally he dialed Cuddy’s number, watched the blinking of the screen, then aborted the call before she could pick it up. She hasn't called him back since then.

And then there was nothing else to be done but to merely cling to his memories, the red wine falling to dust on his tongue, though pondering of the good times made him feel more awful than the reminiscence of his faults or hisfaults. He kept asking himself what he should have done differently. He kept playing scenarios over and over in his head, while he clearly knew what he did wrong and what he did right, and he was aware it was pointless and there was nothing that could be changed now.

Had he been selfish?

Was he supposed to be a better friend?

And if he’d been a friend good enough, what more should he have done?

Was he supposed to be more than just a good friend? More than a best friend?

The hatred he felt for him was so burning and so intense he trembled in his bed when he stirred from his indistinct, dusky dreams, in the same clothes he was wearing that day, not bothering to change. Flashes of flames, collapsing bricks, muted screaming, suffocating, a body smoldered to soot in his mind... He stuck his eyes into the darkness, watched the dance of the shadows on the wall, cold sweat, or maybe tears trickling down his temple, listening to his heartbeat. He despised and missed him so much, he moaned and dug his fingers into his face, wanting to peel off the skin, tear the flesh to shreds, claw his own eyes out, do anything that would distract him from the suffering. His chest hurt, his life hurt, everything hurt, and he was painfully aware of the short time he had left, and he knew that he had to step out of the agony somehow, had to move on, but was incapable, and he thought this hell will last for eternity.