028. Piano (House/Wilson)
Title: To Hear And Understand
Characters/Pairing: House/Wilson.
Prompt: 028. Piano
Word Count: 756
Rating: Somewhere between PG and PG-13.
Spoilers: None especially, except for the very end of "Sex Kills." It could make sense even if you don't know what happens, though.
Author's Notes: I am pretty much a failure at writing slash, so if this is atrocious, I apologize. Also, since this fic centers so much on piano, I am providing downloads to the pieces mentioned. They are the Prelude in A, the Nocturne in C-sharp Minor, and the Prelude in G. All were written by Chopin.
Wilson sometimes gets back to the apartment before House does. The apartment is different without the presence of his friend. It almost seems as though his footsteps echo in the silence.
He'll find himself talking to the air, narrating the events of the workday. He doesn't say them in the same way that he would to House, preparing himself for sarcasm. Readying witty remarks.
No. He whispers his day to the air of House's apartment as though it were a lover. He confesses the time or two he's swept off to the bathroom so that he can wipe at the tears that threaten to spill after a particularly heart-wrenching appointment. He describes the food he ate for lunch as though it is exquisitely fascinating.
But usually, after five minutes or so, he feels like a raving lunatic.
Inevitably, invariably, he turns to House's piano and plays Chopin.
His parents always wanted him to learn piano.
For the first few years of lessons, he subsisted on half an hour of practice scattered throughout the week. He trudged to his lessons. His teacher would sigh and correct his hand position, his inconsistent tempo. He didn't care -- it passed the time.
One week, his teacher pulls out the Chopin "Prelude in A." It's a simple little piece and at first he doesn't want to play it. (There's a picture of Chopin at the top of it, and he looks like a pansy, anyway.)
But next his teacher starts a recording of Artur Rubenstein playing the piece. The dolces were so sweet and soft and comforting. Suddenly his hands are too big and clumsy for such an adorable little piece. But suddenly he has to play this prelude; he has to play it just like Rubenstein.
He goes home and practices it an hour a day. Every time, the notes are softer and sweeter. Graceful, even. The little piece is memorized.
Every week after that, his teacher gives him another Chopin prelude and the house is full of soft sweet sadness. They move on to the ballades, the nocturnes, the mazurkas.
Before they get to the Chopin sonatas, he gets accepted at McGill. Amidst organic chemistry and the seminars on infections diseases, he doesn't have the time to find another piano teacher.
He's always finished playing before House gets back. He knows House would have a field day with his "sensitive sweater man" music, and he's usually careful to wait until House is absorbed with a particularly difficult case. That way, he doesn't have to watch the clock.
Tonight he's misjudged the case. Or his friend. The door opens when Wilson's in the middle of the "Nocturne In C-sharp Minor" and he doesn't realize it at first because it's quintessential Chopin and he's being swept away by the music. For a moment, while he's still so focused, it doesn't matter what House will say once he finishes playing.
"You never said you played piano," is what the diagnostician says when the oncologist stops being a pianist.
"You never asked."
"You like those sensitive romance composers?"
"I like Chopin, yes." (Why didn't he stick with sounding like a raving lunatic? It would've been easier to shut up.)
"Play something else, then."
"No." And yet it's so hard to refuse. It'd almost be like giving House a gift. Some kind of screwed-up "thank you" for taking him in when his wife has decided she doesn't give a damn about him any more.
"Play."
So Wilson starts the "Prelude in G Minor" with all of its rage. And it's perfect because inside he's raging at the blue-eyed man who's watching him as if he, the perfectly healthy man who never did become a pianist, is somehow lacking.
But perhaps it's the magic of Chopin, because as he plays, the rage spends itself. He's breathless at the end.
House just looks at him. He stares him in the face as if he's not sure what to think.
Wilson doesn't think either, not then. He starts to get up from the piano. And their faces hit somehow. And they're kissing, without planning it or any of the normal hesitation.
It's not awkward, as it should be. (Perhaps residual Chopin magic?) Strangely enough, it's perfect, not like his usual first kisses. It's brilliant.
He's no longer the doctor who only plays the piano when no one can hear.
(It might not matter tomorrow. They might agree to forget the kiss. But for right now, it is perfect. It is enough.)
Someone has heard and understood.
Characters/Pairing: House/Wilson.
Prompt: 028. Piano
Word Count: 756
Rating: Somewhere between PG and PG-13.
Spoilers: None especially, except for the very end of "Sex Kills." It could make sense even if you don't know what happens, though.
Author's Notes: I am pretty much a failure at writing slash, so if this is atrocious, I apologize. Also, since this fic centers so much on piano, I am providing downloads to the pieces mentioned. They are the Prelude in A, the Nocturne in C-sharp Minor, and the Prelude in G. All were written by Chopin.
Wilson sometimes gets back to the apartment before House does. The apartment is different without the presence of his friend. It almost seems as though his footsteps echo in the silence.
He'll find himself talking to the air, narrating the events of the workday. He doesn't say them in the same way that he would to House, preparing himself for sarcasm. Readying witty remarks.
No. He whispers his day to the air of House's apartment as though it were a lover. He confesses the time or two he's swept off to the bathroom so that he can wipe at the tears that threaten to spill after a particularly heart-wrenching appointment. He describes the food he ate for lunch as though it is exquisitely fascinating.
But usually, after five minutes or so, he feels like a raving lunatic.
Inevitably, invariably, he turns to House's piano and plays Chopin.
His parents always wanted him to learn piano.
For the first few years of lessons, he subsisted on half an hour of practice scattered throughout the week. He trudged to his lessons. His teacher would sigh and correct his hand position, his inconsistent tempo. He didn't care -- it passed the time.
One week, his teacher pulls out the Chopin "Prelude in A." It's a simple little piece and at first he doesn't want to play it. (There's a picture of Chopin at the top of it, and he looks like a pansy, anyway.)
But next his teacher starts a recording of Artur Rubenstein playing the piece. The dolces were so sweet and soft and comforting. Suddenly his hands are too big and clumsy for such an adorable little piece. But suddenly he has to play this prelude; he has to play it just like Rubenstein.
He goes home and practices it an hour a day. Every time, the notes are softer and sweeter. Graceful, even. The little piece is memorized.
Every week after that, his teacher gives him another Chopin prelude and the house is full of soft sweet sadness. They move on to the ballades, the nocturnes, the mazurkas.
Before they get to the Chopin sonatas, he gets accepted at McGill. Amidst organic chemistry and the seminars on infections diseases, he doesn't have the time to find another piano teacher.
He's always finished playing before House gets back. He knows House would have a field day with his "sensitive sweater man" music, and he's usually careful to wait until House is absorbed with a particularly difficult case. That way, he doesn't have to watch the clock.
Tonight he's misjudged the case. Or his friend. The door opens when Wilson's in the middle of the "Nocturne In C-sharp Minor" and he doesn't realize it at first because it's quintessential Chopin and he's being swept away by the music. For a moment, while he's still so focused, it doesn't matter what House will say once he finishes playing.
"You never said you played piano," is what the diagnostician says when the oncologist stops being a pianist.
"You never asked."
"You like those sensitive romance composers?"
"I like Chopin, yes." (Why didn't he stick with sounding like a raving lunatic? It would've been easier to shut up.)
"Play something else, then."
"No." And yet it's so hard to refuse. It'd almost be like giving House a gift. Some kind of screwed-up "thank you" for taking him in when his wife has decided she doesn't give a damn about him any more.
"Play."
So Wilson starts the "Prelude in G Minor" with all of its rage. And it's perfect because inside he's raging at the blue-eyed man who's watching him as if he, the perfectly healthy man who never did become a pianist, is somehow lacking.
But perhaps it's the magic of Chopin, because as he plays, the rage spends itself. He's breathless at the end.
House just looks at him. He stares him in the face as if he's not sure what to think.
Wilson doesn't think either, not then. He starts to get up from the piano. And their faces hit somehow. And they're kissing, without planning it or any of the normal hesitation.
It's not awkward, as it should be. (Perhaps residual Chopin magic?) Strangely enough, it's perfect, not like his usual first kisses. It's brilliant.
He's no longer the doctor who only plays the piano when no one can hear.
(It might not matter tomorrow. They might agree to forget the kiss. But for right now, it is perfect. It is enough.)
Someone has heard and understood.