Drunken mess
A muffled sound. House wonders what she’s saying, he wishes he could pay attention. But her echoing voice piercing through his head will have to do. It makes his heart ache. In moments like these, where either a million people are screaming, or one person in screaming at him, is the only time his brain goes quiet. Actually, being able to let his brain breathe, god it felt amazing.
“Are you even listening to a word I’m saying?!”
“Nope! Picturing you naked! It's quite enjoyable you should try it some=”
“Greg, I swear to Go=”
“Uh I don't mean to interrupt but there's someone asking for a picture with you?”, a voice behind Stacey says. His head peeks in, it's the lead singer, Crandal.
“Sorry! Busy!”
“No! no he's not.” Stacey is quick with her answerers, always has a comment to add or an answer to give. Guess it's the responsibility of being a manager.
House lousily stumbles towards the other end of the backstage, he’s exhausted. Almost 1am and these people still want to take pictures. God damn.
**********************************************************
Wilson can’t tell if he’s walked a mile, or just taken a step. Either way he has to go backstage, he has to find this guy, whoever the fuck he is, he brought something out in him. A feeling of something other than constant misery. Damn it’s been a tough week after the divorce. Moving out, moving into a new place, calling with lawyers nonstop during the day, drinking and sleeping during the night. Sadly, he still has to pay taxes, for food, and his lawyer so not showing up to his job is not an option. Wilson works at a bank, a classic 9 to 5 where you break your back sitting at a desk the entire day then walk home miserable. Wait, has he been walking or standing? Where... Is he?
“Uh... can I take a picture with your guitarist?”
He doesn’t really know if he messed up saying any of that. Hell, he might have slurred all of those words but God damn that didn't matter right now. The guy he asked disappeared in front of his eyes. He either messed up his words so bad the poor guy didn’t understand a thing or... Or he is going to get what he wanted.
*******************************************
“Okay who’s the moron who”
There he is.
That same face.
This time it actually is quiet, which means his mind is racing.
Who is he?
What does he want?
Is he...drunk?
Well, he obviously is drunk I mean... just look at his face. Flushed cheeks, sweaty forehead, dried mouth. Classic.
“So, you’re the idiot who takes pictures at 1 am?”
...
*************************************
That same figure stumbles in closer to him. He has a cane now. And he doesn't have the guitar on his shoulder anymore. Well, obviously, he’s not on stage. Get ahold of yourself Wilson. Are you standing straight? Are you laying down? No, he can’t be. Is he talking? Wait he’s not talking so that has to mean the guy is talking to him, right? So why isn’t he responding?
“Uh yous... playwg guitarh.”
“Noo the clarinet is more my style bro.”, the taller guy answers. Wilson can’t tell how long ago he gave that answer.
“Let’s get this over with, where’s your phone?”, he sounds agitated. It sparks a smile on Wilson’s face.
“I’ms Jamhshw”
“Yeah, okay ‘Jamhshw’ I’m Madonna, where's your phone?”, he’s sarcastic, agitated and it somehow still brings him to laugh. Laugh so loud everyone left backstage is looking at him. Whatever.
***********************************************
What. The. Fuck. He’s been laughing for a solid 30 seconds. Damn he’s really drunk. Wait why does House care? Usually, he would just leave, somethings stopping him though. Whatever.
“Heysh, whersh is my cars?”, the shorter guy was slurring his words again.
“How should I know? And you know you can’t drive carS, you can only take one pal!”, sarcasm. He used it often to avoid serious, complicated or just boring situations. But this, this was definitely not boring.
“Hey, `yourd myw friemd?”
Nope.
“CAn you driev me homew?”
No.
Absolutely not.
There is no way.
No way.
Not a chance House was going to
“Yeah, sure why notwsh?”, he imitated James at the end, but wait.
Wait.
What did he just say?
What did he agree to?
...
*********************************************************************
The next few hours are a blur for James Wilson. Theres's driving, someone yelling, frustrated groans, yawns, a bathroom and an alarm ringing.
The lights were back, fuck his head hurt, it wasn’t like the night before. They weren’t flashing, just hurting his eyes.
‘Work.’
Labeled on his phone screen.
“Is that you?”
Who...
“Who the fuck labels their alarm?”
“Where am I?”
“Pft right, blackout. Uh Gregory House” he says while yawning. “The one and only lead guitarist you asked to take you home, but then so casually forgot your address, at your service!”, damn this guy was agitating.
“Oh.”
“Oh?”
“Uh, well House, I’m sorry, is there any way I can pay you back?”
“You know a hooker named Stacey?
What.
Wilson just looked at him with quite a bit of concern (little bit of fear too).
“Just turn the damn alarm down next time.”
“Next time?”
What does he mean by next time?
“Probably not the first, nor will be the last time a person will have to save you drunk in the middle of the night. Would be nice if that person could get a bit of sleep hm?”
“Right, yeah.”, he says scratching the back of his head. His jaw is clenched and he’s looking down.
“I should probably call in sick at work, uh... do you, mind... driving me home, promise I’ll tell you my address this time.”
“Oh, I totally mind! I’ll drive you in an hour, a talent this good need his beauty sleep!”
With that he stumbled back into the hallway. Wilson had a funny feeling in his stomach. Whatever it was probably from the alcohol.
*******************************************
That aching alarm clock was still in House’s ears. Damn you. This is what he gets for trying to be nice. Never again.
A weird feeling in his gut. Whatever it was probably from the lack of sleep.