Archive of Our Own

Title: Intro to Philosophy
Author: htebazytook
Rating: NC-17 (barely legal smexings :o)
Disclaimer: <--
Pairing: House/Wilson
Time Frame: college AU
Author's Notes: Of course we know the actual back story now, but I can't help that these things pop into my head by virtue of being in college myself :P And can I just say that my beta sbluerazchoccie provided me with some awesome lines which I stole.

The Hippocratic Oath is written on the board.

"Maybe our pre-med student can tell us a little more about this!" the professor gushes. Wilson doesn't understand why she's unable to remember anyone's major except for his.

. . . Professor Landers is still favoring him with this look of eagerness that borders on hunger, accompanied by an entire throng of sorority girls with eerily matching expressions.

Okay, well, maybe he does understand why.

"Um. Well. What you have written on the board—yes. There it is," Wilson says. "And I . . . think he's pre-med, too." He's pointing at the asshole who sits in the corner alone and makes loud assholish comments and asks lengthy, falsely sincere follow up questions on the obvious topics Professor Landers doesn't seem to realize are obvious. Wilson has been waiting for an opportunity to piss him off for weeks.

"And I . . . don't think this class is required for either of us, especially me since I'm actually in med school. But whatever, I'll take a crack at it," the asshole says loudly. How he manages to lounge in that uncomfortable deskchair is beyond Wilson. "Okay, so, about this Oath business—I think you left some stuff out, professor."

"Oh! Did I? See, this is why we're so lucky to have our pre-med students." She's still staring at Wilson though so he turns around to face the asshole and hide, wants nothing more than to bang his head against the stupid deskchair. He has half a mind to stop answering questions, getting good grades, and asking Professor Landers how her day is whenever he sees her in the line at the campus coffee shop.

"Oh, yeah," the asshole continues, "we go through weeks of preparation and study to pay homage to the gods and goddesses called upon during the sacred oath—there's this whole sacrificial dance that goes with it . . . Definitely left out the part where we have to be Pro-Life—you can see how it's almost Biblical in its relevance to modern life—yeah. Plus, we have to spend a fortnight memorizing it under the light of the moon, seeing as how it doesn't translate well. But yeah, I think there was something about not doing harm in there somewhere. I honestly couldn't tell you, since I haven't taken it yet. At least, no-one's nailed the heart of a goat to my door yet."

"Well thank you for pointing that out, Gabe. Your input really is a valuable—"

"Greg," he corrects, rolling his eyes and already in the process of returning to his daydream.

Wilson sighs, disgusted by Greg's casual disdain for school, especially since he's presumably paying through the nose just to be here. Wilson works his ass off to get the grades he does. He spends the rest of class hunched over his notebook to avoid Professor Landers's eyes.

He stops zoning out at the words "see you next week!" but right as everyone starts packing up the professor catches herself and reminds them to Start Thinking about their projects. Wilson sighs and checks his watch, still dumping his books into his bookbag as she continues talking.

". . . So obviously it would make the most sense to pair up with somebody with the same major. The guidelines are on the syllabus. Okay, sorry for keeping you—have a good weekend!" she beams.

With the same . . . ? Greg waves cheerily at him from across the room. Wilson sighs, resigned to his fate.

He knows that the slow-moving sorority girls are going to ruin his plans for escape, and indeed, by the time he bypasses them Greg is looming in the doorway looking triumphant. His eyes are gargantuan up close.

"Fine," Wilson says. "Let's figure this out on Monday though, I have to get to class. Um, do we have to sign that sheet or—?"

"I took care of it."

"You know my name?"

Greg the Asshole laughs. "Yeah I think the whole class knows your name by now, James. And speaking of names don't call me Greg—my dad calls me Greg." He makes a face.

Okay, but that didn't explain how he knew Wilson's last name.

"I'm House. But you can call me 'House, MD' for added humiliation, okay?"

"But you're not done with—"

And then he's gone.

On Monday after class House beckons to him and walks off so Wilson is forced to trail along after, feeling like everyone's watching and laughing at him. After awhile and apparently no forthcoming explanation Wilson wonders if House is just fucking with him.

"Are we actually going somewhere or were you planning on giving me a guided tour of campus? I'm only an undergrad after all."

House snorts. "We're going to Towers, duh. Do you have any cash on you?"

"I am not paying for you. And I have to be at class in an hour so let's make this quick, okay?"

They're walking out of the building now and House doesn't really push the door enough for Wilson so he nearly trips over himself to get through it in time.

"Okay, dear, just a quickie, I promise."

They've finally escaped the cloud of cigarette smoke wreathing the patio and at this point Wilson's officially pissed off at the world. House's insistence on always staying just slightly too far ahead of him isn't helping. Wilson sighs loudly. "So, why don't we just do Socrates or something?"

"Yeah, I can do this project in my sleep, so whatever you want is fine. Hey, where's that cash?"

"It's paying for my lunch. Get your own."

Towers isn't air conditioned and that annoys Wilson even more. He finally manages to pass House though, pushing past him and into the cafeteria. They go their separate ways to fill up their trays and by the time Wilson is at the register he doesn't even care if he doesn't find House again in the crowded lunchroom.

Of course that's when he glimpses House's head bobbing toward him—Wilson didn't realize he was so tall, having only seen him slouched impressively over his desk before this. He's not carrying anything on his tray though, and Wilson wonders if he'd been asking for money because he couldn't afford to . . .

But then he remembers that the guy is paying for med school.

House budges in front of the people lined up behind Wilson, garnering more than a few dirty looks which he doesn't appear to think twice about, waits for Wilson to finish paying.

"Thank you," Wilson tells the cashier, feeling good inside for probably being the only person to do so all day.

"Ready yet, honey? It's time to go and your hair looks fine, really."

Wilson sighs loudly again. He's going to have to develop some kind of numbering system to measure the intensity of his exasperation around Asshole, MD. He'd rate this a 7 but he's afraid of just how far House will go. Wilson follows him anyway, getting sick of staring at House's back but the crowd of hungry, finals-stricken students isn't inclined to give a shit about Wilson's personal space so he's forced to walk in House's wake.

"Hey, you're going the wrong way," House says, grabbing Wilson's arm and jostling the already precariously balanced tray he's carrying.

"Watch it! What the hell is wrong with—oh."

It's nice and empty around the corner with the designated Greek life tables, just a few isolated girls with low self-esteem giggling amongst themselves. House leads Wilson to the farthest corner, hand guiding at the small of his back and kicking a chair out for him and Wilson's seriously disoriented by the sudden physical contact.

"I . . . didn't even know there were tables back here," Wilson says as he sits down, watches House follow suit.

"Well, we have to have some secrets, don't we, darling."

Wilson has to wait until he's done chewing a mouthful of salad to say, "You can stop treating me like your wife any time." It was honestly starting to freak him out.

"Oh, come on, Wilson—where's the fun in that?"

House calling him by his last name makes him feel like he's at tennis practice. Lots of the people he's met at college have this tendency to call him 'Wilson', though, and he's starting to get used to it. Still, there's something weird and affectionate about the way House pronounces it—probably just a residual accent from wherever he's from. Or, more likely, just continued mockery.

House leans back in his chair like he's some fancy executive with important things to say. Wilson dumps more dressing on his salad and tries to ignore the way every last one of House's mannerisms is getting under his skin. "So I think we both know a monkey could do this project. You really wanna do Socrates?"

"Yeah." Wilson wipes his mouth and sits up, feeling nice and professional and college-aged. "Just, you know, something along the lines of, What is knowledge anyway?, you know?"

"That's what Eve said, and just look what happened there."

"Right, yes, you did seem very devout. Can we be serious for two seconds here?"

"Oh, my apologies—gen ed is no laughing matter." Wilson wonders if House ever smiles. It's hard to tell when he's joking but Wilson gets the idea he's incapable of being entirely serious. "Anyway, why can't we do Aleister Crowley or Dr. Ruth—y'know, just someone really obscure who'd never quite made the very politically correct curriculum?"

"How would you know what makes the curriculum? You—you don't even show up to class half the time!"

"Hey, I have my own philosophy. What the hell do I need the class for? Are you gonna eat that?"

"What? Um, probably not but . . ."

House grabs the corn muffin off of Wilson's tray and takes a substantial bite.

"So what's you're philosophy, then?" Wilson asks, trying his damndest to stare daggers.

"Ah, but that would be telling."

"Yes. And that would be why I asked."

"Oh you'll figure it out soon enough." He swallows and reaches for a fry this time but Wilson snatches his plate away.

"So why haven't I ever seen you outside of Philosophy? If we're supposedly in the same career track, and at this point I am only supposing—"

"Strongyloidiasis, Tuberous sclerosis, Chagas disease. What more proof do you need?"

Wilson bites his tongue for a minute. "Don't you have friends—you know, people who actually want to be around you—that you could eat with?"

"Nope."

Wilson can't tell if he's being sarcastic or not. "Seriously?"

"Seriously, who needs 'em?"

Wilson can see House's point. It's nice to have one person to tell everything to rather than many people you can only tell certain things to. And he really hopes House isn't scoping him out to fill the position. Wilson has his own social obligations . . . well. In reality, the people Wilson eats lunch with on a regular basis are just in the same classes he is or know him for orientation or need a table to sit at or whatever. He wouldn't exactly call them friends. It's the end of the year and most of the people he generally hangs out with are pairing off, rooming together next year or dating. Wilson doesn't think of himself as a bad person—so why is he the last one standing?

He looks across the table at House and knows at the very least that he isn't the solution.

Still. Just . . . wasn't this shit supposed to be over and done with after high school? Wilson doesn't really need a best friend—he's an adult now. An adult living in a dorm room financed by his parents. With a curfew.

"So what other classes are you knocking out this year?" House asks him, having snatched up another couple of fries at some point during Wilson's reverie.

"Well I'm taking Spanish 'cause I thought it might be useful.

House smirks. "Not at easy as you were banking on, huh?"

"Ugh, it's so hard! I mean, you wouldn't think it would be . . ."

"When's your final? I can help you if you want. I'm good at languages."

Oh, God, they're bonding, now. They are. Wilson tries to think of another way to pester House about the damn project but the truth is he just wants to figure out what makes him so . . . funny. And he really wants someone else to talk to—listing his interests and accomplishments anew makes him feel both interesting and accomplished, curfew or not.

"Did you do your undergrad here?" Wilson asks. House nods, still sneaking more food against Wilson's will. "Did you have O-Chem with Benfer?"

House squints, his eyes this deep, unnatural blue like an indoor pool. Wilson hasn't really looked at him before. "I thought you were a freshman."

"Yes. I'm also a year ahead because of all my AP classes. Sorry I'm not as boring as you'd decided I was."

Wilson glimpses this little smile, this impressed look in his eye. He liked being outsmarted?

"Guess not. You're done with that right?"

Wilson nods, surrenders his leftovers to House.

It's the end of the year and it's way too temptingly gorgeous outside when Wilson wanders vaguely over to the music school. He's never been to this part of campus, really, thinks how much more fun the people playing Frisbee outside on the grass are having than his own pocket-protected colleagues.

He vows never to ever actually wear a pocket-protector himself.

These music majors seem to think he's invading their territory, though, and he gets more than a few dirty looks as he wends his way across a piano-tiled foyer and tries to figure out which floor he's on. There's no way he's actually going to ask somebody.

It's a tidal wave of sound once he gets to the second floor, trying to navigate while being bombarded with ear-splitting trumpets and shrill strings and underneath it all this relentless piano playing . . .

. . . that's coming from 2Y, the practice room House said he'd be in. Wilson stands there listening for a minute, trying to figure out what House is playing. Pianists generally fail to astonish Wilson—his mother plays and he's had plenty of friends who were forced into lessons. Even the really showy, talented people got old after awhile. Wilson had played alto saxophone for a year and a half in high school before the AP classes got to be too much, so he isn't really any kind of musical authority, but he thinks he's got a handle on what House is doing.

Stealing from the speedy up and down scales from the flute next door and using it for the background, picking up the pompous trumpeting down the hall and mixing it all together with the structured, boring-sounding thing the violin or whatever won't stop repeating. After House has got this all put together in some kind of order—and Wilson peeks in to make sure it is indeed House—he starts to change it, adding something to make it sound jazzier. He's improvising on his own improvisation, just starting to think about different rhythms and tempos when Wilson's interrupted by a disgruntled cellist storming down the hallway and pushing past him. Wilson mutters an apology and barges into House's practice room right in the middle of the new variation, kind of sad he doesn't get to hear where it goes.

"Glad you could make it. Refreshments are over at the buffet." House spins around on the piano bench, long legs flying up for a minute, clasps his hands in front of him and stares up at Wilson expectantly.

"There's not even a desk in here, House, don't you think we should go out into the lounge or—"

"People are annoying. It's quiet in here."

The cacophony of angry practicing from all sides begs to differ. "Is it?"

House flips a music stand until it's horizontal and slides it across the floor to him. "There you go." The lack of jazzy piano makes the room sound dead, furious fiddling aside. House is wearing this thin, body-hugging t-shirt, presumably for freer piano-playing, not his usual whatever jacket for the boring, chilly liberal arts building.

Wilson sighs (a 4 on the scale), sits in the extra chair, starts arranging his papers on the stand. "Too good for a desk, huh?"

"You know it. So we're doing the Prophet Muhammad or Machiavelli or someone right?"

"What is so bad about Socrates, again?"

"Well, I could tell you but I really don't think corrupting the youth is the best idea. Hey, maybe you should do the project on that!"

"Maybe I should do the . . . ?"

Oriental-sounding sweep up the piano. "Do you play?" House asks.

"Okay, you must have had coffee or something, you're so chipper all of a sudden—"

House's hand zooms close and grabs at the collar of Wilson's shirt, forcing him to stumble over onto the piano bench. His eyes are bright and diamondy today, whatever deodorant he uses highlighted by his recent musical exertion and he's much more nicely toned than Wilson remembers, fault of the t-shirt. "No, I don't, so why don't we get back to work on—"

"Ah, fuck it. It's not like she's going to actually listen to your presentation anyway." House spins Wilson around so he's facing the piano and his strength and the breach of personal space are both pretty unprecedented, aren't they? Wilson doesn't understand how this is supposed to piss him off. "I don't get that, by the way," House continues, picking up Wilson's hands and placing them on the keys, separating fingers into place, arm up against Wilson's while he does it. "Girls seem to fall all over you but you're one of the girliest looking guys I've ever seen."

"I'm not—I do not look like a girl."

"You sure about that? Have you looked in a mirror recently?" House lifts Wilson's fingers and presses them back into the keys where they meet with dissonance. House makes it sound even weirder and half-resolved by hitting another key next to his middle finger.

House looks over at him and Wilson has never been this physically close to someone who wasn't family or an over-zealous potential girlfriend. "Ever heard of the Tristan chord?"

"Uh?"

House smirks. "Never mind then." Looks at him with weird multi-faceted eyes. What the hell is so exciting about confusing the hell out of helpless first year college students, anyway? Some part of Wilson must know because his breathing is trying to speed up.

"You're on the tennis team, right?" House says after a minute of silence/trumpets.

". . . Yeah? How did you know that?"

House shrugs. "It's not hard to figure this stuff out if you pay attention."

"You're Sherlock Holmes, huh?"

"More like Encyclopedia Brown, I like to think. No? Okay, new topic: tennis is way lame." He leans forward for emphasis. Carrying on a conversation like this, half-turned toward each other and inches apart on a piano bench, is more than a little surreal. It is. Wilson isn't making this up right?

"Tennis is a perfectly exciting sport," Wilson says, exasperation lacing his voice and probably not helping his defense.

House shakes his head. "Didn't say that it wasn't a sport or that it wasn't exciting. Said it was lame. So, my question is, are you as lame as tennis is?"

"What the hell is this, the Spanish Inquisition? You just pull random shit out of the air and . . ."

"Jeez, Wilson, let a guy do a little research on his gen ed project."

". . . The Socratic Method?"

House is all deadpan honesty. "I thought you wanted to do Socrates. It seems to work on you, though," he adds, peering at him.

Wilson sighs an 8, getting annoyed with Asshole, MD all over again. "What am I, your personal experiment?"

"I dunno, do you wanna be?"

Wilson tries to stay annoyed, he really does, but it just isn't working anymore with the whole left side of House's body pressing into him and his voice so ridiculously gravelly. He just knows he looks like an idiot, staring at House with his eyebrows trying to maintain their affronted furrow.

House laughs a little. "Chill out. Don't take everything so seriously." He reaches across him—so much touching—and runs fast twisting fingers up the piano, harmony ringing in their wake. "Any requests?" Much too much of House's body heat barraging Wilson's senses. Close, cloud-colored, considering eyes boring into him.

". . . " Wilson says, heat flooding his face.

"Right, Queen it is." House turns back to the piano without seeming to notice, elbows Wilson out of the way a little.

He can't figure out which song it is at first. He can't figure out what the hell is wrong with him. Since when did the guy who had been ruining Wilson's good mood every Monday and Wednesday all semester stop getting under his skin in a negative way? Wilson can't think with House's fingers being all talented and sure of themselves over the keys.

How is House's company different from Wilson's usual crowd? He's not a blundering, directionless freshman, for one thing, but rather a cynical, directionless med student. He's undeniably smart. Maybe that's it—most of Wilson's classmates envy him for being smart, but House is more than able to look past that, seems unable to keep from criticizing and questioning everything. He doesn't take Wilson at face value. That said, neither is House swooning over him like the insincere, airheaded girls he's pointedly not dated.

No, Wilson is apparently the one doing the swooning this time. Maybe they should do the project on karma—might help Wilson figure out exactly what he did to deserve all of this.

What else? Well, let's face it, a lot of people are pretty stupid, not just hormone-addled girls. Wilson remembers the first day of class when Professor Landers had asked them to define philosophy. He distinctly remembers A lot of thinking, I guess, I honestly don't know, and It's like people's questions and answers among the responses. House isn't stupid, at least not intellectually. His social skills are lacking, but then again whose aren't?

Most of all though, Wilson just wants to see what he'll do next. It's fun coming along for the ride, especially since he has no idea where he'll end up.

The song's over, not that House sang at all, just hummed occasionally, Wilson feeling it through the bench. Boring violins fill the silence and House starts doodling scales.

"So what's your going rate for weddings?" Wilson asks. "Of course you'd have to get some repertoire other than Another One Bites the Dust under your belt."

"Sorry, I don't do requests. And it was Crazy Little Thing Called Love. God, Wilson, do you live under a rock?"

Wilson thinks he's starting to understand him, grins. "As reluctant as I am to stroke your ego, I have to admit that you're apparently somewhat decent at the piano." Wilson shifts around, rubs at the back of his neck, trying to stop himself from getting all sincere at House—it seems to be a pretty good way to expose himself to an assault of sarcasm. He doesn’t want House to think he's boring. "Are you forced to play at Christmas parties and things when you go home?"

House snorts. "I've had my own place since sophomore year. I hate my family."

"Well aren't you the adolescent bundle of joy. Oh, wait a minute, you were supposed to outgrow that weren't you?"

House shakes his head. "Can't outgrow my dad."

Wilson doesn't like how darkly House speaks about his father, doesn't want to know so he gets sympathetic instead: "Yeah, my brother can be a real pain sometimes. He's really needy—I mean, with good reason but, still, I don't always have the time or energy to make it all better. Hey, um, do you know any Glen Miller?"

"Do I know any Glen Miller, psh!" And House starts playing In the Mood unexpectedly simply and beautifully, filling out chords instead of just punching them. So this is what lives beneath his acerbic, obsessive personality.

"Oh yeah, and I brought some motivation, too," House says as he walks past him into Wilson's dorm room, pulls a bottle of bourbon out of his bag once the door closes.

"I . . . crazy me, but I thought you might have something beneficial to the project in there." Wilson just stands dumbly, feeling weird about House being in his room at night with his bed badly made and all the lights on and the window fan going, like he's invading somewhere only Wilson exists. After hours and away from studying where he unwinds in solitude.

"Oh, damn—forgot to pack that hemlock."

"And I was so looking forward to killing myself to avoid doing this thing . . ."

"More's the pity. Anyway, don't worry, it's not like getting caught drinking on campus would end in your expulsion or anything," House assures him as he uncorks the bottle, tosses the corkscrew somewhere obvious on Wilson's desk.

Wilson pinches the bridge of his nose, decides that anything headache inducing qualifies as over 10 on the exasperation scale.

"House, it's a Sunday night, it's not like anybody else is gonna be partying that I could blame it on—"

"Yeah, but, it's not the Sabbath for you so it's okay. Or would you rather I'd brought this over for you to sin with yesterday?"

"Okay, seriously, how did you know I was Jewish?"

"Well, gee, Wilson, do I have to spell it out for you?"

"I . . . think so, yes."

"Oh, but that would take the mystery out of your lack of participation in class during the chapter on Judiasm at a predominantly Catholic college. Can't very well get into all those sorority girls' skirts if you're—well, then again . . ."

Wilson blinks. "That's not . . ." Sighs. "We're doing Socrates, it's gotta be fifteen minutes long—go."

"Actually, about that," House begins, stretching out on Wilson's bed with the bottle in one hand, staring up at the ceiling contemplatively. "I was thinking maybe we could do Marxism or Reaganomics or something instead? I mean, I'll let you hammer out the details, of course . . ."

"What did Socrates ever do to you?"

"Recently? Well he's killing my buzz at the moment." House looks at him finally, looks kind of pissed. It's hard to know just how obnoxious he can be at House.

Wilson gives it up, sits on the bed next to him only to have the bottle shoved in his face. "Yeah, I don't really want a hangover during our presentation, thanks."

"Then you're more of a lame tennis player who looks like a girl than I'd thought."

Wilson glares, yanks the bottle away from him and takes a healthy gulp, blinks against the way it burns on the way down and looks up in time to see House smile, for once. Really smile, like he thinks Wilson isn't looking.

House's eyes ran the gambit from piercing to doey; his mouth with its carefully constructed smirks or unthinkingly parted lips; the unshaven, perpetual stubble making him look like a lowlife or a movie star depending on the mood.

Right now his eyes are focused, smile's fading on his mouth, stubble makes him look sexy in the insufficient dorm room lighting.

Wilson entertains the possibility that maybe the look House is giving him right now isn't just out of curiosity or the joy of tormenting him, but maybe contains a different kind of hunger altogether.

Wilson's never really had the opportunity to figure out if he's actually gay.

Wilson wants to kiss him.

"You're thinking about kissing me aren't you?" He's so horribly, attractively smug.

"What?"

"You are."

"No."

Wilson kisses him and House gets in a laugh before gripping his shoulder and kissing back. Wilson gets so so so dizzy from it, has to break away to stow the bottle of bourbon carefully on the floor.

"Everybody lies," House murmurs, pulling him back in.

House moans into a kiss which is turning Wilson on unfairly quickly, the slide of his rough cheek not very rough at all, just an extra piece of stimuli overwhelming him along with House's wet mouth and firm tongue and the feeling of his skin, bone and muscle coated in addictive softness. Wilson's hands race up House's arms, end up in his hair and at the back of his neck where he feels sweat—it's way too hot outside. The sound of the window fan isn't enough to muffle the wet, suctiony sounds their mouths are making, the beating of Wilson's heart.

"I kinda thought you, ah, hated me," Wilson says, the kiss ending so House can pull Wilson's shirt up over his head, push him down on top of covers and homework and laundry.

"Don't be an idiot. Ever heard of playing with your food before you eat it?" House is panting a little, rearranging himself over Wilson. "You had fun though, right?"

"Yeah . . . " Wilson hasn't entirely convinced himself of that yet. House's mouth trails down his chest, one hand sliding into his hair while the other one brushes teasingly over his cock, licks a line back up to his mouth. "Mm, yeah . . ."

They lie there kissing deeply for awhile, tongues interacting artlessly while Wilson's brain short-circuits and he realizes that he selfishly wants more, more sensation, feels a little guilty about it but House is being so enthusiastic . . .

Wilson can't help angling his hips up into House's hand, can't stop thinking about House's talented fingers over the piano as they unbutton and unzip, depart to pull Wilson's jeans over his hips and Wilson gets engulfed in heat and heart-racing anticipation, hears his jeans thump onto the floor, set a pencil or something rolling across the tiles. House's hand on his cock while he climbs back up Wilson's body to kiss him again and Wilson gasps, clutches at him and moves his hips in tandem, not even caring how easy he is while moans travel back and forth between them and House speeds up his hand, better, harder.

"Knew you were Jewish," House gloats into his mouth.

"Oh, come on, most people are . . . are, uh. Uh, that's good . . ."

"Oh, fuck, just look at you." House kisses him hard, jerks him hard for a bit while Wilson licks the roof of his mouth and sweats and wonders how long he's going to last. Wilson's hands scramble for the hem of House's t-shirt, slip up underneath. House pulls away, breathing much more quickly now, gets rid of the shirt, captures Wilson's arms to slam them down on either side of his head, settles over Wilson again for a lengthy kiss during which Wilson obsesses over the feeling of House's body, the too-soft, burning touch of skin on skin. Wilson tries to reach out and touch him but House only tightens his grip and kisses him harder and Wilson wants to faint, getting way too into the feeling of being trapped.

House's mouth travels to Wilson's neck, makes a few quick stops on its way down Wilson's body and oh God he can't think . . .

"Hey—hey, earth to Wilson! This is okay, right?" House leers, poised above his cock now, brightly blue eyes driving Wilson crazy.

"Yeah, blowjobs are where I draw the line, House." Starts to roll his eyes but ends up with them rolling back into his head because House is actually blowing him now and Wilson is absolutely certain he'll faint at such simple things as heat, wetness, pressure, motion, anticipation, desperation, some seriously pent-up lust . . .

Surprisingly, Wilson isn't worried about the short amount of time he's known House. He isn't worried about sleeping with a guy or a complete ass of a guy, at that. He just hopes that this complete ass of a guy he's just met doesn't take him at face value like everyone else, isn't gonna disappear after tonight or want him for this alone if they do stay in touch.

I mean, this is how things go in college, isn't it? Why is he so worried about what House really thinks of him? No need to be a baby about it, it's just sex . . .

Just veins on fire and brain gone missing and heart-pounding sex. Just House giving him a fucking blowjob and knowing exactly how to touch him.

It stops. Wilson's eyes fly open to see House tossing something aside and struggling out of his jeans on the edge of the bed, kicking off shoes in irritation.

"Is that . . . " Wilson sits up a bit, panting. "Is that lube? You were expecting this to happen?"

House raises his eyebrows, silly. "Never hurts to be prepared," he shrugs, kissing his way back up Wilson's torso.

Wilson sighs. He's not about to admit there's a stockpile of much cheaper lube, condoms, and even a stolen bottle of birth control for added security in a hollowed out book under the bed. Not that he's had much (i.e., any) occasion to use any of his carefully compiled sex supplies, being a busy freshmen with only the most intolerable girls for company. So unfortunately he can't brag about being even better prepared.

"What makes you think this is going to happen?" Wilson asks once House reaches his neck. House thinks about it, places a hand in the center of his chest and pushes him back onto the mattress.

"You remember that whole weak tennis dweeb argument, righ—shit."

Wilson's flipped them over, grins down at House and straddles his hips. "We never discussed weakness, I don't think. Do you even play a sport? Obviously not a lame one like me, but . . ."

House smirks. Oh, he definitely likes being outsmarted.

They make out for awhile like this, Wilson leaning over him and House stroking both their cocks until Wilson gets caught up in his own pleasure again and lets House reverse their positions, pull one of Wilson's legs up and smear the lube over his palms, rub Wilson's cock before he can protest while the other hand sneaks lower, slips into him and, come on, this is just weird.

"I just don't see how this is going to work, I mean . . ." He tries for indifference but unfortunately his voice is trembling. The way House's hand is gliding over him . . .

"Okay, you have to relax now." So House leans in to kiss him and this, this whole thing . . . Wilson feels way too grown-up and crippled with want in an all-encompassing, breathtaking way he's never quite achieved before. Is this a good thing or not?

"I really don't see what's so gratifying about thi—oh." Oh my fucking God this is a good thing. House's finger slams into his prostate again and Wilson half-groans, half-shouts and grabs his shoulders. House laughs, licks his way back into Wilson's mouth and adds another finger.

"So you wanna find out how your RA feels about gay sex on the Sabbath? Shut up."

"Yeah, you too. Mm, God."

House departs, nicks a condom out of his jeans, rolls it on with shaky impatience. He seems reluctant to take his own advice once he's actually inside Wilson. Whispers fiercely into Wilson ear while he fucks him. "So, ah, so good. God you're fucking gorgeous." Flashes of white light every time he thrusts deeply enough, addictive unfinished bolts of pleasure whenever he doesn't. Wilson isn't picky. The fullness and the heat and the mere knowledge is overwhelming without those occasional electric thrusts pressing perfectly into him. Wilson can't stop squirming around, wants House to hold him down again, definitely isn't going to admit to it.

"Hold—fuck—hold me down again while you do this, oh fuck—"

"God, can you get any hotter?" House kisses him and complies, starts fucking him harder, steadier and it's so good—he's so good at this. Does he do this with all his Intro to Philosophy partners? Wilson's desperately close, totally self-absorbed now and barely aware of the continuous groans leaking out of his mouth whenever House's tongue isn't down his throat.

House is shaking, sweating, holding still deep inside him before thrusting quickly and making Wilson too weak with pleasure to vocalize it, eyes rolling back again and seeing only whiteness. House pulls out as he starts to come, sweaty hands gripping Wilson's wrists tighter and slipping around.

But before Wilson can fully process House's release he feels House's fingers back inside him, deep deep deep and fast and just as unbelievable as before, a hand jerking his cock until he comes breathlessly, trying to curse or say House's name maybe, instead just breathing hard and high-pitched into House's neck.

Whatever happens next is a blur of staggering around to turn off lights, condom going somewhere, cooling off in front of the fan, tripping back into bed, House saying something clever and putting his arm around him.

"Hey, wake up. Come on, move." Wilson's being pushed somewhere, doesn't care, settles back into covers and hears the crunch of a notebook somewhere by his feet. Feels sheets and a body twisting around behind him. Thunk of feet onto the floor. He closes his eyes tighter, willing the world outside into peaceful darkness but the insides of his lids remain an oppressive, glowy red. It's not nighttime. He hears a zipper, the whoomph of clothing. Hears breathing. Wants silence. Can't sink back into sleep.

Wilson opens his eyes to House getting dressed at the foot of his bed.

Shit, Wilson thinks.

Shit, he's awake. Shit, it's bright . . . why is it so—oh, right, the window is wide open. And it's tomorrow. Shit. They have to present the founder of Western philosophy in two hours. House looks edible in the morning light and Wilson just slept with someone physically incapable of giggling and who understands sports and it was fucking amazing and yep, it's still 9 AM on tomorrow and wow he is getting a headache.

Shit.

Why had they procrastinated it for this long anyway? Yeah, it was an easy A but it still had to get done.

He feels eyes on him, squints up at House but can't make out his expression. But his body's too anchored in sleepy contentment for him to move, no matter how panicked he may be. House sits on the edge of the bed to yank his shoes on and looks at him and now Wilson can see that his eyes are pretty and sad and dark blue. He really needs a guidebook for this guy.

"So yeah, there's not enough time now. It'd probably be for the best if we just skipped today."

Wilson clears his throat. "Oh. Oh, of course. I mean we can just work on it . . . later. When are you—?"

"Yeah, later sometime. Okay, I've really gotta get going, so. I'll see you later, right?"

". . . Yeah? I mean, yes. Um, House—" House is halfway to the door, turns around looking as panicked as Wilson feels. "Um, so, are we—"

"Bye!"

The door snicks shut. Fantastic.

They never exchanged phone numbers. Wilson can't help feeling a little cheated. Still, it's probably nothing—it's not like they'd been hanging out every hour of every day before . . .

It's Wednesday. Mostly he wants to know if House's disappearance was because Wilson was terrible in bed or if it was just the way things went. Thinking that probably makes him a bad person, but there's too much hope hovering around all that dread in the pit of his stomach for him to address any of it, yet.

Obviously Wilson could've thrown together some bullshit and stood up in front of the idiots in the class and bullshitted until Professor Landers got tired of looking proud of him. But there's this part of him that takes pleasure in the idea of getting House a failing grade. His indecision had persisted until, before he knew it, he was walking into Intro to Philosophy empty-handed with House nowhere in sight.

He walks bravely up to the professor with excuses on the tip of his tongue but she cuts him off: "Oh, don't worry about it, James. It's just that time of year, and for goodness sake, you're pre-med . . ."

Wilson sighs. "I'm really sorry about this." He makes sure to look earnestly into her eyes. "Do you think maybe I could do some kind of extra credit or . . ."

"Well of course you can go today, dear."

Shit. "Uh, that's not exactly what I—"

"Yeah, lets just go today, Wilson." It's House. It's House it's House it's House. Shit.

Wilson refuses to turn around and look at him, waits for House to slide into his peripheral vision, grinning falsely at the professor and holding something in his . . .

"So can we go first, professor?" House asks. "We've gotta set up all this stuff before we can present Socrates, right Wilson?"

House looks just as confident as he always has, looks to Wilson for agreement but Wilson, entirely unhelpfully, stands there dumbstruck because suddenly his blood is on fire and he can't speak. And as he watches House make up some bogus story about their absence, he thinks only of his heated skin and talented mouth and strained words ringing in his ears.

"Come on." House drags him into the room.

"I think we passed, don't you?" Wilson says, catching up after class.

"Eh, doesn't really matter."

"Yeah, I know, but—"

"No, really. It doesn't matter—I'm not even enrolled in this class."

"You're not even . . . ? Okay. I know this may be a silly question but . . . why the hell are you taking it?"

"I was bored. Philosophy's interesting—mostly bullshit, but interesting. Freshmen are hilarious. You're . . . intriguing, I guess . . ."

"Hang on. Are you . . . are you trying to say you only took this class in order to stalk me?"

House shrugs. "Call it what you like. What are you doing tonight?"

"Well you did leave a perfectly good bottle of alcohol in my room."

"You mean you didn't use it up drinking away the sorrow of losing me?"

"Hardly. Is that why you left it? What a thoughtful gesture."

"Hey, just be glad I didn't settle on The Rolling Stones or Sun Tzu or someone when I so nobly took it upon myself to do this entire project. I'm not even in the damn class, remember."

". . . You . . . really are coming over tonight, right? I'll pay for your lunch and everything."

House glances over. "Well in that case . . ."