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House, M.D. » Boundary
G.House/J.Wilson, slash

The boundary between consciousness and sleep is mysterious; there’s not a clean break, no before and after. Instead, the two intermingle, slide together messily, entrench themselves in one another. You never know where one ends and the other begins. Drowsiness is obvious; it soaks through a person like water through a towel, saps energy, forcefully drags you away from awareness. Lucidity. But it feels good, so good to give into the foggy haze that slips around you (fits like a glove), pushes you away from reality. Kidnaps you for a few hours. Before you know it your thoughts move autonomously; they shake themselves away from your control and spin stories. Your mind moves fast and you’re in places you’ve never been before, seeing beauty or pain, feeling things deeper than you could in reality (deeper than life lets you feel).

Sleep is only thought about when the images supplied by a swirling mind are particularly interesting; the only other reason to dwell on hours of vegetation is if said state is unreachable. When thoughts come too fast, when muscles can’t relax (when even the opiates of medication can’t shut your body down), sleep is chased after. But she’s a coy mistress; she’ll smile at your desperate attempts while leaving you awake, painfully aware, twisting at your sheets. It’s only when you give up that she opens her arms, embraces you, pulls you away from your vision of reality, into the bliss of diluted senses and enhanced emotions.

House can’t sleep.

He can’t let go, can’t relax. And so he lies in bed with the spins, due to the extra Vicodin that slid down his throat so easily. The drug pours through him but doesn’t take him where he needs to be; leaves him somnolent but unfortunately awake. He rubs his eyes, changes positions and feels the cool sheets pull over his warm body. It sends an unexpected rush of nostalgia though him; his mother’s cool hands on his body when he was sick, bringing down his fever. She always had cold hands. House thinks of this, thinks of his mother for a moment, then pushes the thought away (don’t dwell on things unchangeable. On things that were wrong from the beginning.) He rolls over onto his back, closes his eyes and concentrates on his breathing. Deep breathe in. Hold. Out. But the sound of his breathing echoes in the room, comes back to him, sounds ragged. Gasps of a dying man. So he goes back to breathing normally. Why is sleep so elusive? His cases for the week have been closed; he’s not in pain. There’s no reason for his restlessness, and yet it stirs in him, coiled. Ready to spring; it’s a nervous energy that needs an outlet. An outlet that House doesn’t want to provide.

But if he wants to sleep anytime soon, he will.

Eventually, his need for sleep wins out. It begins in his mind; he imagines fingers tracing his jaw, moving toward his lips. He opens his mouth, allows access and a solitary digit slides inside. He takes it, slides his tongue over it and then it’s removed. Moved lower. Traces down his body, digging nails in along the way. Heat floods his body, moves down toward his hips and he feels himself begin to harden. His hand goes to his mouth; he licks it quickly, then moves it lower. And then it’s not his hand; it’s the hand of a lover, a brunette with a sheepish smile (with sarcasm that almost matches his). It begins to feel good, this friction, and he gasps silently, sucks in air that coats a dry mouth. He’s going fast now, and in his mind his length has been taken in his lover’s mouth; a tongue caresses his head, moves along his shaft in deft circles. His breathing comes faster still and he swallows, detaches his tongue from the roof of his mouth, where it had been glued. He’s gone a few moments later, blind and deaf in a sea of crashing pleasure. It moves through his body, makes him write as he rides the sensation to an end. His heart begins to slow down and he’s inside his body again. He grimaces at the wetness on his hand and reaches blindly out for the tissues that sit (mostly) unused on his dresser. When his stomach and hands are clean, he thinks a moment about getting up to throw the offending tissue away in the bathroom but thinks better of it, shrugs, and tosses the already-stiffening paper behind the headboard.

When his head hits the pillow again, he knows he’ll be asleep soon. He smiles into the pillow and lets his thoughts go, falling away into the vast abyss of dreams, but not before an arm moves lazily around his waist, breath hits his ear.

“Next time, just wake me up.”

А это маленький бонус:

“REMNANTS”

At night I sit in silence, harshly bathed in midnight’s glow,

Steeped in clouds of anger while the shadows ebb and flow.

I hunch within this big black chair and bow my head in shame.

Another day has ended and I’ve played my foolish game.

I’ve done my clinic duty, senses locked in stubborn pride.

Aloof …

Apart from others, nurse my leg pain; justified!

In a grim hotel a friend sits like a prisoner in a cell,

The thoughts I hold apart from him, I’ve not the grace to tell.

I steel myself; deny a truth I cannot quite disguise

Each time I hear his teasing words or meet his smiling eyes.

I stiffen at my desk and feel the effort take its toll,

And I clench with inner tension as I fight the breeched control.

Tomorrow I resume the mask and greet another day,

One more coward’s compromise and one more price to pay.

I can’t reveal the fear in me; control must be complete.

To lose this constant vigilance would bring my soul’s defeat.

My heart decries the solitude, but I dare not let it show.

My whetted tongue is a lancer’s blade … wherever I might go!

Another day is ended and again night comes around.

I escape once more to break the spell on my private, hallowed ground.

Still I feel the surge within, defying primal chains,

And within its throes I weaken ‘til I’m unsure what remains …

Resolution banks the inner fire, but only for a while.

Emotion fills my mind with guilt I cannot reconcile.

Again I wait in darkness, just as countless nights before.

But the heart within me quickens at the click of the office door.

I rise with limbs atremble, the pain seeking quick release,

And I curl my fist in fierce control, but the tremors will not cease.

Before me stands my caring friend with his warm and friendly grin.

I shudder as he says to me: “House … where have you been?”

What can I say? I stand aside and he steps beyond my door

While I find a spot of interest to study on the floor.

He says I’ve had him worried.

“House … is something wrong? I’m going to stop for a beer tonight.

“Why don’t you ride along?”

I lift my eyes to study him; perhaps I comprehend

His desire to share my burden and be more than just a friend!

In formal stance I grip the cane, clench that fist behind my back.

I know his love could mean as much as the Vicodin in my pack.

The surge I’d felt within my heart is taunting me again,

And we both begin to realize we’re not like other men.

My courage falters further and my shoulders turn to wood.

I lift my head and meet his gaze, and tell him:

“Yeah … sounds good.”

I see a sparkle light his eyes as he turns back toward the door.

His gift is like a lifeline … and maybe something more?

I stare at the spot where he had stood … with hopes I can’t suppress,

And wonder if I’ve found an end to these years of loneliness.

Tonight I sit in silent joy, awash in the pale moon’s glow,

Holding back emotion, which I still don’t dare let show.

It seems I’ve found a truth at last and it fits me like a glove,

Opening a path I’ve longed to tread, paved with friendship, trust and love.

Oh God … which is worse?

Needing him?

Or denying vague remnants of a cripple’s curse?

Астальдо
я последнее время ток на англ и читаю))
(в середине Оскара Уайлда оригинал "Портрет..")