House knows that he’s easily the oldest dancer in the company outside of the instructor and one other man who he can’t quite accurately gauge age on, but he doesn’t care. This isn’t his whole life, it’s just something to keep him busy, something outside of medicine and the puzzles. In college, he’d had lacrosse, and for a while that had been enough - school and lacrosse occupying his mind and body. But it stopped being enough, his competitive side (or addictive side) wanted to dial it up to eleven and he’d started dancing to get better on the field. It had worked, but more than that, he’d really gotten into dancing in its own right. He’d never have guessed, if you’d asked him before, that he’d get into ballet let alone miss it after he graduated. For the first few years after med school, being a doctor was enough. Or maybe it wasn’t, because almost from the start he’d been pushing too much, jumping from job to job when hospitals couldn’t handle him. He hadn’t been at Princeton less than six months before Wilson, in a desperate bid to keep House from losing this job, suggested that House pick up a hobby. Something that’ll tire him out enough that he won’t have enough energy for the bullshit chaos he usually causes in the hospital. Wilson had meant upping his usual runs to something like joining a local doctors’ sports team or something, but House had decided to pick ballet up again.
That had been almost five years ago now. Wilson’s suggestion had worked, more or less. He hadn’t lost this job, but he also hadn’t stopped pulling truly asinine shit at the hospital. If anything, it seemed like being twice as busy gave House twice as much energy.
Today’s rehearsal isn’t very different than any other day’s rehearsal. This aspect of it, the routine, makes one wonder what House gets out of it. House, who thrives on things being always different, always needing to be worked out and relearned. There’s another aspect to his personality, though, a perfectionism that needs an outlet, needs something to focus through, to work at again and again until it’s perfect. Music had been that for a long time, but it’s a mix of practiced perfection and something to unwind with. Ballet is that for him now, something to work through again and again until he’s got a move down, a routine down, perfect, better than the last time, better than the next dancer. It’s a way to push himself, push his body to be better, more responsive, to give him exactly what he wants when he wants it.
It’d be a lie to say he wasn’t also in it for the butts. Young dancer butts were better than any porn he could get his hands on. House isn’t a stranger to sleeping with fellow dancers - he’s done it before - but nowhere near as much as some. He keeps an ear to the ground on gossip, knows who’s fucking who and who’s cheating on who. Rumors are entertaining, and more than once he’s pushed false information through the rumor mill just to watch chaos ensue. Despite the bullshit that he obviously pulls in the company as well as at the hospital, he’s more well liked than he strictly should be. Well, maybe that’s not quite accurate. He’s tolerated because he’s good. Really good. Tolerated and sought after for help in smaller, private practice sessions, but he very rarely if ever lets anyone in. Just enough that the directors feel that he’s working well enough within the company, but not so much that it intrudes on his need for solitude.
He leaves the practice, his bag thrown over a shoulder and a towel draped around the back of his neck, and he’s downing a bottle of water as he heads off for the room that he knows will be empty for him. He’s setting his things down, plugging his iPod into the stereo there, and begins to stretch again when he catches Chase’s reflection in the mirrored wall. He’s got one leg up on the barre and he’s stretching towards it, eyes locked on Chase’s in the mirror. Chase is a ridiculously pretty new dancer, built arguably more like the young women than the young men, slender and lean rather than overly muscular. And that ass… he had, in House’s opinion, the best ass in the company, beating out several of the female dancers. Speaking of asses, House is quite aware that from their positions, Chase is almost invariably staring at his ass, which he’s objectively ranked in the top ten. Why pretend no one’s looking? Everyone’s looking at everyone. Especially on days that the men who usually wear loose pants choose to wear tights.
no subject
That had been almost five years ago now. Wilson’s suggestion had worked, more or less. He hadn’t lost this job, but he also hadn’t stopped pulling truly asinine shit at the hospital. If anything, it seemed like being twice as busy gave House twice as much energy.
Today’s rehearsal isn’t very different than any other day’s rehearsal. This aspect of it, the routine, makes one wonder what House gets out of it. House, who thrives on things being always different, always needing to be worked out and relearned. There’s another aspect to his personality, though, a perfectionism that needs an outlet, needs something to focus through, to work at again and again until it’s perfect. Music had been that for a long time, but it’s a mix of practiced perfection and something to unwind with. Ballet is that for him now, something to work through again and again until he’s got a move down, a routine down, perfect, better than the last time, better than the next dancer. It’s a way to push himself, push his body to be better, more responsive, to give him exactly what he wants when he wants it.
It’d be a lie to say he wasn’t also in it for the butts. Young dancer butts were better than any porn he could get his hands on. House isn’t a stranger to sleeping with fellow dancers - he’s done it before - but nowhere near as much as some. He keeps an ear to the ground on gossip, knows who’s fucking who and who’s cheating on who. Rumors are entertaining, and more than once he’s pushed false information through the rumor mill just to watch chaos ensue. Despite the bullshit that he obviously pulls in the company as well as at the hospital, he’s more well liked than he strictly should be. Well, maybe that’s not quite accurate. He’s tolerated because he’s good. Really good. Tolerated and sought after for help in smaller, private practice sessions, but he very rarely if ever lets anyone in. Just enough that the directors feel that he’s working well enough within the company, but not so much that it intrudes on his need for solitude.
He leaves the practice, his bag thrown over a shoulder and a towel draped around the back of his neck, and he’s downing a bottle of water as he heads off for the room that he knows will be empty for him. He’s setting his things down, plugging his iPod into the stereo there, and begins to stretch again when he catches Chase’s reflection in the mirrored wall. He’s got one leg up on the barre and he’s stretching towards it, eyes locked on Chase’s in the mirror. Chase is a ridiculously pretty new dancer, built arguably more like the young women than the young men, slender and lean rather than overly muscular. And that ass… he had, in House’s opinion, the best ass in the company, beating out several of the female dancers. Speaking of asses, House is quite aware that from their positions, Chase is almost invariably staring at his ass, which he’s objectively ranked in the top ten. Why pretend no one’s looking? Everyone’s looking at everyone. Especially on days that the men who usually wear loose pants choose to wear tights.
“Can I help you?” he asks, not bothering to turn.