Chapter Text
House leans his forehead against the frosted window of the car, his eyes circling to keep up with the movement outside of it. Random Rules by The Silver Jews blasts through his headphones. He listens inattentively, because even the loudest volume on his MP3 can't drown out the noise of his parents arguing in the front seat.
“Why don't you just drive, Blythe?! If you know everything?”
“I’m just saying, we need to get off the interstate in a mile and we’re in the left– Gosh, slow down, John! You're gonna kill us!”
“He could've just taken the damn train. Why’d I have to drive him all the way up here, huh?”
“He’s your son! Don’t be ridiculous! We need to say goodbye to him, help him move in.”
“Yeah, you're gonna help him move in. Parking is expensive on these campuses, we can't afford to–”
“Watch out!”
“I wasn’t going to hit him! Christ, woman!”
He's trying very hard not to listen. But the blank transitional spaces that come between each song feel like prison, walls closing in on him indefinitely. Only fifteen more minutes of this. Thank fucking God.
Despite having been here on a tour, and aching to finally be away from his dad, he's nervous. Stomach-tightening-hands-shaking nervous. He tries not to let it show. That'd be a dead giveaway to his mystery roommate. A loser. A sissy. Whatever.
They arrive at John Hopkins in one piece, mostly. House steps out of the car, pulling his headphones to hang around his neck. He opens the car door quickly, grabbing two large suitcases out of the trunk. His backpack is tightly secured on his back, and he blinks at the intimidating building in front of him. Home, he supposes.
“Let me help, darling–” his mom starts, scrambling out of the car and rushing to one of the suitcases, closing the trunk.
“Ma, I’ll be fine. Just– Drive safe. 'Kay?” He turns around, slightly flustered as he gives his mom a hug. There's at least five other students standing outside alongside him, moving in at the same time. His mom looks up at him, tears in her eyes. “C’mon, mom. It's fine. I’ll call, I’ll come for breaks. Go, I’m good.”
His mom nods, wiping away a tear, rubbing his back softly. “Have fun, Greggy. Be careful and don't be too messy!”
House laughs, nodding, waving her off as she gets back in the car.
His dad’s not even looking at him. He immediately drives off when his mom is back in the car, not even a wave.
He scoffs, but he'd be an idiot to say he's surprised.
House rolls both of his suitcases into the doors, pressing the elevator button. Room 221B. His roommate was randomly assigned, so he doesn't have a clue who he is. Or if he's gotten here before him. The whole thing is freaking him out just a little bit.
(A lot a bit.)
When he opens the door to his dorm, his stomach unknots slightly. His roommate hasn't arrived yet. He can pick a side, can set his stuff up. He mentally cheers, laying his suitcases on the bed against the left wall and dumping his backpack on the desk across from his bed.
The room isn't big by any means. Just enough to fit two sets of beds, tall boy dressers, and desks. There's a tiny sliver of walking room, and they share a bathroom between the two of them. It's alright.
He stores his MP3 in his back pocket, casting his headphones back over his ears, before starting the unpacking process.
He air-guitars along to a Pink Floyd song in between hanging clothes in his wardrobe, cursing himself for not bringing his own guitar. Halfway through the hanging he gets tired and ends up just chucking his clothes in anyway. So much for neatness.
He gets a little too into Comfortably Numb, pounding out the two minute guitar solo on his pretend instrument, vocalizing terribly. It feels good. Fun. God, he hasn't felt this good in a while.
But of course his enjoyment must come to a screeching, embarrassing halt. He turns around, seeing a boy with chestnut hair standing in the doorway.
House immediately pulls his headphones off, the sound now rippling from his headphones into the rest of the room, filling the silence. The boy is smiling. “Hi,” he stretches a hand out.
House steps forward and takes it, shaking his hand. “Hey.”
He smiles pleasantly. “I'm James Wilson,” the boy (apparently James) says softly, suitcase at his side. “Nice to meet you.”
“House. Greg. But, uh, House is fine,” House explains, returning a slightly forced smile (He messed up my fucking guitar solo).
“You can call me Wilson, then, if you'd like,” Wilson chirps cheerfully, lifting his heavy suitcase onto his bed.
“Nobody helping you move in? You got shitty parents, too?” House chuckles, finally reaching to turn his MP3 off.
Wilson shakes his head, zipping his suitcase open. “It’d be harder to say goodbye if they'd helped me move in,” he blushes, mumbling.
House bites on the inside of his cheek, not saying a word. He goes back to folding his underwear instead.
Sometimes he forgets that it's not normal to hate your father. He kind of assumes it's a given that comes with growing up. All fathers are terrible, all mothers compensate for that fact by being suffocatingly kind. It's not like he has much of a frame of reference; he’s had maybe three friendships throughout his entire life. And his theory was supported by all three of them. (Okay, maybe not Jason. But that's because his dad’s dead. Suicide. So in a way, he supposes it does fit.) His frankness tends to drive people away even when he wants them to stay close.
Wilson seems different. Naive in a way. All bubbly and kind. Didn't even say a word about House’s embarrassing display of air-guitar.
Weird.
After two hours of moving in, House is finally done. He's exhausted two entire albums by dinner time and he’s incredibly hungry.
He notices Wilson sitting at his desk, legs propped close to his chest, writing in a notebook with a textbook in front of him. He frowns – classes don't start for another three days.
(Did he just get stuck with a total nerd?)
House approaches, leaning against the wall and staring down at Wilson with his arms crossed.
Wilson looks up, going from furrowed brows to a light smile. “What's up?” He asks, putting his pen down.
“Wanna grab some food?” House proposes, trying very hard not to cringe at himself. He doesn't do this. He doesn't initiate.
Wilson hesitates for a second. He stares between his early schoolwork and House. And he quickly shuts his book, pen tucked where he left off, and nods. “Yeah, alright.”
(House sighs a mental breath of relief.)
“So,” Wilson starts as they walk down the hallway in pajamas and loafers, “What's your major?”
“Biology,” House shrugs, fairly uninterested, “Pre-med. So figured it didn't really matter what I did before then.” He presses the down button on the elevator. “You?”
“Undecided. Leaning towards chemistry, though.” They step into the elevator and House pretends like it's not awkward. “Pre-med as well.”
“Cool,” House says, tapping his foot. “I've never lived with anyone before,” he confesses as the elevator closes. There's a pang of panic in his chest at sharing something earnestly, even if it's minute, with someone he barely knows.
To his surprise, Wilson smiles. “Me neither.” The elevator dings and they step off in sync. “Do you snore?”
“Not that I know of,” House chuckles back as they make their way through the doors leading outside. “You? Frequent nightmares? You seem like the type.”
Wilson apparently knows exactly where to go to get to the dining hall, which is both incredibly helpful and vaguely confusing. Regardless, he laughs at House’s comment. “Also not that I know of.”
“Good.”
For the first time in a while, a long while, House thinks that things might be kind of alright. He hasn't had an actual friendship in years. He hasn't had the opportunity to have a friend in years. Maybe a roommate is a blessing in disguise. Sort of like a sibling? A built-in best friend?
But he's never been good at the whole effort part of friendships. He can't force himself to pretend to be interested in the things his friends might like the way other people seem to be able to. In the simplest terms possible, House isn't afraid to disappoint. He's afraid to make genuine connections. Afraid to disappoint the people he actually likes, which is why he just… doesn't like anybody.
(With minor exceptions, which have all ended poorly. So.)
“You coming?” Wilson’s voice echoes in his ears as he notices they're standing in front of the dining hall. He seems concerned.
“Yeah,” House says back quickly, snapping himself out of it.
Wilson ends up paying for both of their meals with his student account.