Dear diary, today I was promiscuous and my sister was masochistic.
The last week was all kind of a haze for House. Not the good kind of haze, but hazy all the same. Which was, in itself, probably a good thing. It wasn't exactly something he wanted to remember clearly. Just a lot of pain, and feeling like shit, and throwing up, and staring at the ceiling, and grumbling at anyone who came near, which for the most part was just Phedre. He vaguely remembered after moving into Alcuin's bed going on a rant about all the stuff that had probably gone on in it, but he wasn't sure if anyone had even been in the room at the time. He remembered seeing Joscelin a few times, standing there like some Fabio-shaped statue looking extremely disapproving.
The worst of it was past now, for which he was exceedingly grateful. He still felt like shit, but he could actually stand up without wanting to die, which was definitely an improvement. He heard Phedre leave at some point during the morning, and so he got out of bed, pulled on some clean clothes (she'd actually washed some of his and left them folded on the dresser - what was she some kind of saint?), and had a real look around the room for the first time. The bed was nice, that was for sure (though again, he didn't want to think about what took place on it), though the clothes in the wardrobe were ridiculous. What a pansy. He shuddered when he found bottles of oil and condoms in the night stand, and flipped through a sketch book that was filled with what looked like tattoo designs. Only they were mostly flowers and other girly shit. What a pansy, redux. There were a few textbooks here and there, but also in the nightstand he found a small notebook.
He groaned a little as his leg throbbed when he sat down on the edge of the bed, and flipped through it. It was written in French, in delicate, curling (what a pansy, part three) handwriting, and after skimming a few pages, House realized that it was Alcuin's diary. Oh, score. He had a feeling that he'd have to read some of it while squinting through his fingers, but after a week of hell he was entitled to some entertainment. And he was far too miserable to give a shit that the kid was actually being nice to him be giving up his bed.
He decided to take the opportunity of Phedre being gone to escape from the confines of the room for a short time as well. It was a bit of a feat to make it out of the room, across the living room, and out the front door, and once there he didn't get very far, just sat on the steps. But it felt good to breathe fresh air, especially since he could do so now without feeling completely nauseated.
... okay, maybe a little nauseated. Maybe he should have brought his bucket. Meh. Nature was his barf bag.
He leaned against the wall, propping his bad leg up on a step and rubbing it with one hand as he opened the diary with the other and began to read.
The worst of it was past now, for which he was exceedingly grateful. He still felt like shit, but he could actually stand up without wanting to die, which was definitely an improvement. He heard Phedre leave at some point during the morning, and so he got out of bed, pulled on some clean clothes (she'd actually washed some of his and left them folded on the dresser - what was she some kind of saint?), and had a real look around the room for the first time. The bed was nice, that was for sure (though again, he didn't want to think about what took place on it), though the clothes in the wardrobe were ridiculous. What a pansy. He shuddered when he found bottles of oil and condoms in the night stand, and flipped through a sketch book that was filled with what looked like tattoo designs. Only they were mostly flowers and other girly shit. What a pansy, redux. There were a few textbooks here and there, but also in the nightstand he found a small notebook.
He groaned a little as his leg throbbed when he sat down on the edge of the bed, and flipped through it. It was written in French, in delicate, curling (what a pansy, part three) handwriting, and after skimming a few pages, House realized that it was Alcuin's diary. Oh, score. He had a feeling that he'd have to read some of it while squinting through his fingers, but after a week of hell he was entitled to some entertainment. And he was far too miserable to give a shit that the kid was actually being nice to him be giving up his bed.
He decided to take the opportunity of Phedre being gone to escape from the confines of the room for a short time as well. It was a bit of a feat to make it out of the room, across the living room, and out the front door, and once there he didn't get very far, just sat on the steps. But it felt good to breathe fresh air, especially since he could do so now without feeling completely nauseated.
... okay, maybe a little nauseated. Maybe he should have brought his bucket. Meh. Nature was his barf bag.
He leaned against the wall, propping his bad leg up on a step and rubbing it with one hand as he opened the diary with the other and began to read.