A/N: This story is a collection of drabbles based on some beautiful poems that are, sadly, not mine. Also, this will be House/Wilson by the end, so there's your warning.
I. The Coastguard Station – Henri Cole
At dawn, a few recruits have a smoke
on the patio above the breakers;
across the sand path, I sit with my books,
hearing their animal coughs.
Strangely, watching them tranquillizes me.
Their big clapboard house
is illuminated all night,
like the unconscious, though no one enters.
Even in hallucinatory fog,
their pier is flash-bulb bright
and staunch as Abraham.
Overhead, a gull scavenges like a bare hand.
An officer, in orange overalls,
stares like a python
up into the window where I am.
What does it mean to be chosen?
To have your body grow into a hero's
and have done nothing to achieve it?
To seize a birthright, unobstructed?
To dominate with confident bearing?
That is their covenant,
even cold-stupefied and lethargic:
hearing the blessing of Isaac to Jacob.
Naked and a little drunk,
I sit chafing at it,
the nerves in my teeth aching,
lording it over the rest of me.
Why do I appear to be what I am not?
To the world, arrogantly self-sufficient.
To myself, womanish, conflicted, subservient,
like Esau pleading, "Bless me also, Father!"
I hate what I am and I hate what I am not
--
Greg wipes ineffectually at his eyes, knowing that the sweat on his face and arms will only make them sting, but he's soaking wet and hot and uncomfortable, despite all of the measures he's taken to feel nothing at all. Giving up on feeling human, he presses himself against the window, hoping the cool glass will temper him. Instead, he just slides and sticks, slides and sticks, leaving trails of himself all over. He mumbles and laughs to himself and concentrates on breathing through his nose, the beer and bumps on his breath enough to make him dizzy all over again. He sees some of the Coastguard boys smoking in front of the bunk across the dirt road from his. He sees them in their stupid pretend uniforms and he's never been so glad to be naked in all his life. He knows that'll change, but at this moment, he's drunk and young and unafraid. Let them look up. Let them see. Assholes.
Greg is sixteen years old and once again his father has sent him to this hellhole for the summer. It's not bootcamp, but it's not far off. A hundred military brats, wannabe officers, divided by loyalty but united in a common goal to be sheep. Coastguard. Navy. Army. Air Force. Marines. They all found their brothers in arms the first day of camp. Greg drifted over to the few guys he knew, the sons of his father's friends. The carbon copies of their own fathers. He runs with them, makes fun of the others with them. Sometimes, like tonight, he gets drunk with them. But he'd rather kill himself than be one of them. Like he ever could be.
"Jesus, House. Put some fucking pants on." Everyone comes back in a wave, and normally Greg would jump to cover himself, but the glass of the window feels too good on his skin, and he's pretty sure he puked on his fatigues sometime on the walk back to camp from the local slut's house party.
"Kiss my ass," he answers, and for a moment he wonders if that is enough to get him out of this. Sixteen, and he still hasn't told his dad that he's not going to be the next junior officer.
"That's insubordination, son. Drop and give me twenty." Greg turns and looks at Allen. He's not joking. He never jokes about orders. His father is a colonel and he thinks he'll inherit the man's bravery. He thinks that he's entitled to it. Greg thinks he's a cowardly piece of shit, too ignorant to understand his own actions. The other guys are looking at them now, too. Some are embarrassed, whether by Allen's pompousness or Greg's nudity, he can't tell, but most of them are eager to witness some humiliation. Greg resents the expectations. But he's always one to oblige. At least in this game.
"Why, Mattie, if you wanted me on my knees, all you had to do was ask," he lisps, hating himself for the affectation but lapping up the laughs of the others as Allen blanches and backs away.
"Fag," he mutters, and then everyone leaves Greg alone. He turns and stares out the window again. He studies the muscles in the young men's forearms as they take turn taking drags on their last cigarette. He studies their fingers, their throats, the way the smoke hugs their lips when they exhale. Suddenly too tense, he turns away, grabs his towel, and heads to the showers. Predictably, Allen comes to him there, and even though he's found himself staring at the young man more than once, Greg is glad that he's not there to suck him off but to beat the shit out of him. He knows he needs to have a discussion with his father before doing anything like that. His dad once tried to explain to him the meaning of honor. "It's doing your duty, being a man," he'd said. But that hadn't meant anything to Greg, so he'd looked it up. Honor was about integrity. Dignity. Pride. Greg might not want to be a soldier, but that doesn't mean he has no honor
