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“So what?! Tell me that you hate me, and leave! Tell me that I need to detox on the Vicodin, tell me exactly what you think is best for me, and go cry yourself to sleep over the guilt.” House waved his cane through the stuffy air of his apartment, wishing that Wilson would just shut up. They go through the motions every day. House insults Wilson, Wilson quips back, House hits a nerve, Wilson yells. Either one of them leaves, and then either one of them comes scuttling back every time.
Wilson stood in the doorway of the kitchen, barricaded far from House by the sofa.
He shook his head, hands on his hips. “I don’t hate you, House. You’re insufferable, frustrating, you spend all my money on yourself and never pay it back, might I add— You don’t help me when I need it, you manipulate people to get what you want, you’re a bastard!” And Wilson sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, doe eyes flicked away from the taller man.
“But I don’t hate you. I don’t think I can.” Now he was closer, inching up like a dog to the food he knew he shouldn’t have. The food that smells delectable. The food that would, inevitably, make him sick.
House’s icy glare left Wilson’s face, scanning the ground, keeping his head down like he always does in these moments; sheepishly. It’s not submission, it couldn’t be! But it felt like it. It looked like it.
“Just go find someone else to lecture. I don’t have time for this.” House moved to plop down on the couch, but before his cane could thunk , Wilson stepped forward.
“House.”
Wide blue eyes scanned the soft face, the dark eyes that loomed with something more than platonic.
“House,”
Weight was shifted from one hip to the other, then to the cane.
“You terrible man.”
Wilson lunged forward, locking their lips together, and the air they shared was suddenly so humid . House was still, stiff, unsure , but something told him to open up. His head tilted, mouth slotting into Wilson’s. It felt right.
Three ex-wives. Three chances for either of them to figure all of this out. But it took an argument, out of anything else.
Wilson was always so nice to them, too nice, but after a while he lost interest. Once is on him, twice is a coincidence, but three?
Some things were consistent throughout all the marriages. His job, his sugar-sweet attentions that soon became bland, and… House.
Now that he’s mentioned it, House tends to seem, well, jealous.
The wife, the girlfriend, the occasional (common) flirty nurse. House sees it, and House comes running.
I mean, of course House would want Wilson all to himself! House has always been there. He started this whole thing. He’s like a parasite. He’d never leave unless he managed to suck all the life-force from your body, only leaving an infection in his wake, to cross the blood-brain barrier, to plague you even when he’s gone.
Oh.
He never considered why .
It couldn’t be that, could it? What with his basically-marriage with Stacy, the constant sexualizing of Cuddy, and the hookers , for Christ’s sake—House couldn’t be gay.
Wilson was even less gay for that matter! Of course he loves women! He acts sweet, he gives them pleasure, he neglects them- He knows he should be there, but he’s just with House . Always.
Oh god.
“Wilson,” House started, voice low with more emotion than it should have been, lips shiny from the saliva they shared with each other.
“House- I’m—uh— Jesus— I’m not gay, you know.”
“ Neither am I , is what I’m supposed to say, right, Jimmy? It’s what you want to hear from me. A kiss between two buddies isn’t a gay thing, right? But I’m not going to tell you that, even with as tempting as it is to jerk your chain around.”
“But the hookers—”
“But the ex-wives, and make sure you highlight the ex part of that,” House interjected, “I’ll fuck almost anything, Wilson. Women, a few men here and there, a few women dressed as men, men dressed as women, men who have transitioned to women- need I continue? I may have been told just how wrong it was my entire shitty childhood by my shitty dad that being anything other than straight was a death sentence, but what’s your excuse? I still turned out a little off-kilter— in more ways than one— but you took the yellow brick road straight, well,” he chuckled, “ gay to the emerald city with the sparkly castle and the field of flowers.”
Their faces were still too close to each other to have this conversation, but neither had much intention of moving.
“House, I—of course I know my own sexuality. I’m not,” and Wilson caved, the metaphorical scales falling from his eyes.
“Congratulations, you’re officially the last one to realize.”
Wilson’s expression contorted into a pained look, his brows creasing his forehead and wrinkling his nose.
“You mean this—all of this—everything—were you… courting me?”
“After the second wife I thought you would realize! It’s not my job to inform you of these things!”
“You never thought to help me out? Let me know? House!” Wilson pressed his fingertips to his closed eyelids, fretting like a disappointed mother.
“I thought all the innuendos about railing you would get through at some point! Once you stopped reacting to them I decided the waters had been tested and you didn’t want me.” House’s brows furrowed and he ran a hand over his untidy graying hair. “Just—come here,” House’s cane, meant for the couch, dropped to the floor with a crack, and when Wilson removed his hands to look, House gripped him by the lapels and crashed their mouths together in a near-sempiternal meeting.
Now they had time to savor the experience, the sensation and consumption of it all.
House tasted of coffee, Wilson smelled like bergamot and vanilla. House’s lips were chapped, Wilson’s were too soft for comfort.
It was different, the feeling of cracked lips and stubble against Wilson’s mouth. He was so used to a barrier, lip gloss and smooth skin. Now it was raw, and true, and exposing. He felt winded. He felt like a corpse on an autopsy table, House’s forceps deep in his stomach.
Wilson finally let go, moaned into the kiss, and House lapped it up like a rabid dog.
He took and took and took .
He wanted to tear Wilson to shreds, wanted to curl up in his chest, be the one to keep his heart beating. He needed to inject all of Wilson’s blood into his own veins, feel the warmth and the revolting amount of care in his cells.
Insistence gets them nowhere with the way they blur the lines with each other, the way they feed off each other. Wilson, insisting he is and will always be better than House, more loving and niceties and basic human kindness (secretly wishing he could be more evil, wishing that he didn’t have to abide by the rules he set for himself); House, insisting he will never sacrifice himself like Wilson, never care enough to get knee-deep in the pool of positivity (secretly wishing he could be more gentle, more outwardly-loving, wishing that goodness didn’t equal vulnerability in his mind). But they’ve blurred. In the end, they want each other, need each other, the balance they grace each other’s lives with.
They are one in the same. They will never be alike. No matter how much they might grovel, any insistence against their relationship and the conditions it entails is an empty promise.
Codependency and hard-loving. Quiet death and harsh life. This was nowhere near comfortable.
They already had everything they ever needed. Here, now, with each other. A whole decade and then some.
This couldn’t work.
It had to.
House nearly fell down into the couch, the familiar pang of pain in his thigh forming faster than manageable. Wilson tripped onto him, just barely missing his bum leg, and stared in the all-too-concerned-motherly-Wilson-stare. House huffed.
“Don’t give me that look. I’m fine.” He rummaged in his blazer pocket for the pill bottle they were both apprised of and dry-swallowed two Vicodin. He set the bottle on the coffee table in front of them and when Wilson was convinced, he shucked off his suit jacket in a fervor and leaned back in.
“You know, Wilson, for a straight guy you’re really ah-!”
Wilson’s hand had found its way down to House’s crotch and pressed. He raised his eyebrows when he felt the concavity of House’s genitals.
House’s breath faltered, only for a moment. “You know how I didn’t mention the women who have transitioned to men part? Yeah, about that,”
“House, I already knew, I just—I guess I forgot.”
“Well I don’t exactly go around waving the transvestite flag. Except around Cuddy, still not convinced that she isn’t, y’know-” House gestured with his hand, eyebrows raised.
“House! Stop deflecting!”
“I’m not deflecting! Seriously! I told you as frankly as you’ll ever hear it from me.”
“Okay, fine. Just tell me if you feel uncomfortable with anything.”
“Well these underwear are starting to get—”
Wilson slapped a hand over House’s mouth, scruff tickling at his palm, and House’s eyes grew impossibly wider. The other hand worked at the buttons on House’s shirt, the damn things.
Wilson eventually loosened his grip, and House licked the sweat from his hand. Wilson recoiled as if his skin had been touched by a flame, looking to House in shock. He was grinning.
“You taste good.”
The brunette shook his head and shoved the blazer and button-up off House’s shoulders and down his arms.
“I’m serious, I wish I could eat you whole. You’d be so much better than lo mein.”
“You know I’m not into vore, right, House? Men, possibly. It’s news to me, but that will never be.”
“Just one bite?”
“I wasn’t aware that Gregory House was an anagram for Hannibal Lecter. Cannibalism is against the Torah, you know. Not very kosher.” House's perversion of consumption wasn't unexpected, necessarily, and Wilson would be lying if he said it didn't make his cock twitch in his briefs. But, being the man he was, Wilson locked it away for later, for when he was alone in his bed, his shower, the backseat of his car.
Blue eyes glimmered as he started calculating his response, and Wilson’s hand found its way down House’s pants to seal the genesis of unseemly conversation that would certainly ruin the mood. Certainly.
Lithe hips thrusted up at the touch, fingers consequently slipping further into wetness and heat. House huffed out filthy remarks when his cunt was prodded at, fumbling around Wilson’s arm to unbutton and unzip his jeans, shoving them and his boxers further down his pelvis.
A sigh escaped House’s lips. It was so soft, Wilson didn’t think House could sound so soft. He figured House had lost it with the dead muscle.
All this time and he’d never considered fucking House into submission.
Calloused fingers grasped at the cushions of the leather couch, knuckles white with strain. Wilson stepped back to remove House’s sneakers and jeans, and discarded them on the floor, for once uncaring. He spread House’s thighs wider, paying no mind to the dent of lost muscle as he snuck his hand back under the waistband, rubbing over House’s small, engorged cock.
House looked so beautiful like this, head splayed back onto the couch, mouth dropped open in a silent moan. All the wrinkles and creases of his face only added to this, depths that Wilson needs to study more often. Dimples that have only grown stronger with age, that darken whenever he smiles. Behind that cold façade, he always wants to smile at Wilson, show him how much he loves him. That regardless of all the bullshittery and late nights, Wilson is the only one he can truly trust, the only one that ever comes back for a second, and third, and five-hundredth time.
Maybe Wilson knows this.
“I can— ah! —hear you thinking,” House’s eyes were shut, but he could feel Wilson’s internal crisis. It fizzled under his skin.
“I really wish you would have said something before, House.” Wilson subconsciously wiped his fingers on the inside of House’s thigh before pulling them from the dark cotton.
“Wilson-”
“Seriously, House. I know our relationship is based on puzzles and silence and double-entendres, but you should’ve spoken up since it was that serious! I could’ve—well—I could have gone without the last two wives then! I loved them, I really did, but, just, you were always there. Maybe that made it stop short. I could have avoided hurting you.”
House’s head tipped to the side as retorted, “You know I objected to the marriages.”
“You ALWAYS object to my seeing anyone else! I can’t have any friends, lovers, acquaintances outside of you. Every time I talk to a nurse I wish you would just grab my ass instead of babbling on about our, dare I say, untrue, sex life. You always have to make things harder for everyone.”
“I’m a man, Wilson. You obviously didn’t reciprocate my attraction, at least not consciously. I’m a man, and that wasn’t it for you. And I came to terms with that,” House sighed. “Besides, what’s a little flirting between boy best friends?”
“You don’t—oh god. You don’t think I would have liked you better if you had never transitioned, do you? Because I like you now, House. You’re an ass, but I love you.”
House’s eyes flicked down to Wilson’s legs, the couch cushion, the woodgrain of the floor, fidgeting with the bottom hem of his shirt. “It might have helped speed things up.”
“I want you, House.”
“You’ve wanted me, but I’m a man. That’s the drawback of being who you really are—harsh reality, hm?” The gravelly voice wavered with small tremors. Wilson would've missed it if he wasn't so far down the rabbit hole he was, undoubtedly, in now.
House’s head turned to face the window, his profile lit up with the orange of the sunset. Wilson brought his hand up, gripped House’s chin, and pulled him back to reality. “That is not true, House. It’s— okay —it’s not your fault I never realized. I just didn’t want to accept it. That has nothing to do with you.” Wilson’s thumb grazed over House’s bottom lip, and his mouth dropped open from the sensation.
Wilson wanted to lay prostrate on the floor at House’s feet, show him just how serious he was, now that he truly comprehends the ache he feels for the man.
Their gaze fixed into a furious connection, the focus burning between them.
“Don’t lie to me, Wilson.”
“I’m not.”
House dropped his gaze and started to unbuckle Wilson’s belt. His bottom lip jutted out as he focused on the task.
“I want you to fuck me. I want you to do it right. ”
Wilson stared down at House, nodding his head as he registered what he’d said word for word.
“Yeah.”
Wilson pulled his wallet out to find the condom he knew he’d stashed away, and House nearly slapped the packet away.
“Don’t need it.”
“I just wanna be safe with-”
“I don’t want safe.”
Wilson clenched his jaw, swallowed the excess saliva pooling in his mouth, and set his wallet on the coffee table. He turned the both of them to lay House down softly, so Wilson could be on top of him, fully.
“Don’t-”
“What, House?”
“You’re being too gentle. I’m not going to break, you know.”
Wilson brushed a hand up under House’s shirt, gently, watching as House’s throat bobbed. Felt the small domes of his chest, the pointedness of his nipples. No scars.
Wilson decided not to mention it, pulling the shirt up further to see his stomach, the salt-and-pepper of his happy trail, the way House’s muscles twitched under the touch. House wasn’t used to being seen, known like this—felt like this. With care and reverence, tasting of worship, a silent devotion on Wilson’s tongue to the being below him; a homemade man, a god in his own ways. But his wings never grew in enough to burn.
He bent down to kiss and nip at House’s sides, his tongue now overwhelmed with salt and the faint flavor of residual soap. Deft fingers loosened his tie before they returned to House’s hips.
“What are you doing,” House questioned, stated, monotonous.
Wilson paused, the warmth of his breath leaving a wet spot on House’s flesh, and looked up.
“Worshiping."
House’s lungs refused to move, every muscle in his body tense.
Wilson lifted his chin from House’s abdomen, his hands now on his own thighs. “I can stop if you want, House-” But House shook his head, albeit feeling choked by the idea of Wilson’s continuing. He knew what foreplay was, obviously. He knew what sex was. This, oh this , this must be love. Showing love, making love. He might not survive the night.
Wilson dropped back down, now removing House’s underwear to nip at inner thighs, the softest flesh thus far. Pale scars garnished the skin, stretched with age. Wilson did not comment on them.
House’s wavering hand met Wilson’s hair. He scraped lightly at the scalp with dull nails, ruffling through dark locks, sending waves of fuzziness through Wilson’s body. Wilson hummed and licked a stripe over House’s vulva, far too aware of the erection straining and leaking in his own underwear.
House’s eyebrows contorted, the notch where his nose and forehead met shadowed with the position, and Wilson wanted to smooth it out with his thumb. His eyes were closed, but Wilson didn’t expect him to keep them open. House could never look at what made him vulnerable.
Wilson spread the puffy labia, tongue dipping down into House, nose rubbing against his clitoris. Wilson craved more, the years of unknown yearning catching up to him.
He groaned into House’s pussy, rutting his own cock into the cushions, his impulses too dire to deny.
Unrestrained whimpers began pouring from House’s mouth, and his grip in Wilson’s hair tightened. He fidgeted with the strands. Wilson was skilled, his reputation as a panty-peeler— of which House could never let up on —now confirmed by firsthand experience.
Wilson shifted his focus to House’s erection, lapped at it with his soaked tongue as he plunged two fingers into the flushed cunt.
House’s hips bucked. His whole body was feverish. Whimpers morphed into groans of urgency, an ensemble of ‘Jimmy’s cascading from his mouth. The name tasted right.
The digits curled as they thrusted into House, and Wilson pulled his mouth away for a moment. House whined with the absence of heat. His eyelashes fluttered as he searched for Wilson’s gaze. “Shhh, House— you know you deserve this, right? I haven’t treated you all these years like I should’ve, but I want you to know that I want you to have this. I want you to know that you’re good. ”
A choked sob (moan?) ripped from House’s throat, the praise leaving his composure weak, and he watched as Wilson bent down to place a kiss at the tip of his cock. House was gone. His whole body stuttered as he struggled for words, but he could only chant Wilson, Wilson, Wilson.
The waves of pleasure dissipated. Slowly, the feeling in House’s limbs came back to him.
Wilson wiped his fingers and mouth off with the bottom of his shirt, and they both caught their breaths in the silence of the room.
House was wordless as he blinked his eyes into focus to peer down at the tent at Wilson’s crotch. Wilson noticed House’s ogling and blushed, somehow embarrassed about the fact he was hard after that.
“You gonna use that thing or what?” House wiggled his eyebrows with a grin plastered on his disheveled face.
“House!”
“‘M serious, you better start putting it to work before the sun goes down.” Of course House has to joke. It would be foolish to assume otherwise, after such an intimate moment.
House propped himself up, feeling the wetness of the leather beneath him. They’ll clean up later.
He pulled Wilson’s member and testes from their cloth prison, and Wilson strangled on his own breath. “Fuck, Wilson, you shouldn’t have waited that long.” It was a modest size, cut, and House ogled even more now that he could touch it. It was so heavy in his hand, the perfect weight in his palm; all he had to do was scrape his thumbnail right under the head and Wilson keened. Precum eagerly dribbled from the slit.
His mind told him to have a taste; who was he to deny himself a treat? So he bent down and fellated the tip, the flavor spreading over his taste buds. House groaned and rolled the balls in his other hand, Wilson almost collapsing from the sensation.
House guided Wilson forward so he could rut into his folds. The thrusts were jittery but the movement was easy from all the slick; they both moaned when their cocks met, Wilson from desperation and House from overstimulation.
House urged him on as Wilson’s head fell into the crook of his neck, panting from the exertion.
“Oh, Wilson—baby— yeah, that’s- ah! that’s it,” House lifted his good leg up to wrap around Wilson’s hips, to spread himself more for him, to give so much more. The edge of the belt and fabric of the pants Wilson wore left House’s skin red, but he ignored it for the greater good.
Their roles had been switched so suddenly it gave Wilson whiplash, but it was hard to think about it when he was so very close, so committed to the want of release.
“Does it feel good, Jimmy?”
Wilson nodded into House’s shoulder, barely holding himself up with the arm of the couch House rested on. God, he was so determined. He seemed like a rabid animal to House, chasing his most primal instincts, chasing the deepest pleasure. House discarded the idea of actually fucking when he had Wilson on him like this, teasing his hole and massaging his renewed erection.
He distantly wondered what Wilson’s insides would taste like, how he would twitch under the scalpel in an unorthodox surgery, one to rummage around in his guts and feel the pumping of that beautiful heart between his fingers. To coat himself in the blood of his lover, to become one with him, forever; to sew his mind next to the beating organ and know what causes him to love; to mingle with the other cells in his body and travel throughout and understand what it’s like to explore every orifice.
But that would pollute Wilson’s perfection, his round features, his doe eyes, the warmth he always exhibited. House would always overpower, always fight for dominance, leave Wilson cold and unmoving.
All he wanted was to be with Wilson, be one , but he’d reject like incompatible bone marrow.
Wilson’s cheek bumped into House’s forehead, sweaty and flushed; House carded through the damp hair at the back of Wilson’s neck. He held Wilson close as he became even more uncoordinated, his rutting slowing to languid strokes.
The head of Wilson’s cock caught on the side of House’s cunt, and shockwaves rippled through his being. House rode it out, much more cognizant of himself through this climax, his only clues being the pretty moans that he swallowed back down.
Wilson came only seconds after, crying out in relief as the semen spilled all over House’s lower stomach; he’d waited so long that initially the release hurt, but as his body finally calmed down, his head felt like it was stuffed full of cotton.
He collapsed on top of House and mouthed at the parts of his neck that were exposed, littering his jugular with little bruises and soft kisses.
House laid his head back, his throat a guilt offering for Wilson to devour. Wilson deserved to be able to rip open the carotid, cover his mouth and chin in the sticky heat of his blood, to take what House wanted to give to him. But maybe House doesn’t even deserve to be able to offer a gift, he shouldn’t be allowed to look at Wilson at all.
This, for now, was enough. If House could not die by Wilson’s hand, he would have to wait. Wait for the next chance to make Wilson lash out, and then savor the hurt. (What’s with the Vicodin then? You said you didn’t want to be in pain.)
What was it, dying is easy, living is hard? To die underneath Wilson would be the most honorable death. He doubted Wilson would ever give it, no matter how needy he was, no matter how much he begged for the terrible end.
It was not important. Wilson on him, kissing when he could bite, was important.
Wilson batted his lashes at House, looking far too innocent compared to the man House knew he could be. House’s gaze softened as he traced Wilson’s moles with his index finger, dipping into the dimples as he came across them. Beautiful, beautiful man. Why didn’t they have that argument sooner?
House wanted to open his mouth, let all his pent-up feelings escape the prison of his heart and head. He wanted to scream, stand atop the steeple of the nearest church and scream his profession of love. He wanted to fall to the ground, wail in ecstasy about how much he truly cared. He wanted Wilson inside him, more than he had been, more than possible for the mortal bodies they inhabited.
He wanted to lie down with Wilson, share a bed, and blanket, and pillows; lie down and mutter sweet nothings against Wilson’s neck, something like a prayer of the damned, anything that could, for a moment, trap them together and never let them part. He should let go, speak, tell Wilson.
Tell Wilson.
No. His mouth was too dry. His throat only clicked as he swallowed. His bones trembled inside their cage of muscle and flesh.
They wouldn’t speak of this. It’s against the rules. Unpalatable. Push it all down, make sure the lid is screwed on tight. It’s not in their nature to speak of these things. And no one needs to know. So no one will know. And House and Wilson will pretend never to know. (Until, inevitably, the knowledge becomes too much to bear.)
Maybe they can wait.