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“House, what’s that smell? Are you cooking…”
Wilson entered House’s kitchen and noticed a cooling rack on the counter.
“…brownies?”
House peered over his back as he pulled another batch out of the oven.
“Special brownies.” He said playfully, raising his eyebrows.
Wilson smiled for a moment at the joke, then realized that the strong smell filling House’s apartment wasn’t exactly brownie-like…
“You’re serious?!”
House smirked. Wilson buried his face in his palms.
“Jesus, House, the whole street can probably smell these! And why are you making so many? Planning to hand them out at tomorrow’s conference?”
“Oh Wilson, you know I wouldn’t be caught dead at a conference.”
Wilson took in the scene in front of him. House was wearing an apron and oven mitts, and he was actually...smiling. Wilson sighed. If only House’s good mood was due to something other than drugs.
“Well, do you have a group of stoner college pals you forgot to mention?”
“Nah bro, just one.” House said in an exaggerated, surfer dude voice.
It took Wilson a second to understand. “Wait, you don’t mean me?”
“Obviously I mean you. In case you’ve forgotten, you are my one and only friend. And that title comes with some perks!” House opened the fridge and fished out two beers, handing one to Wilson. Reluctantly, he took it. Then House offered him a brownie.
“No way.”
“Why noooottttt” House whined.
“Because I’m not eating pot brownies with you House!” Wilson whispered, looking around as though the room was bugged and cops would burst through the door any second.
“Why not?” House challenged. “Afraid you might have fun?”
“I don’t need drugs to 'have fun'. I think you’re forgetting that what you’re doing here is illegal.”
House rolled his eyes. “Oh c’mon, like you’re one to talk, Mr. I-roll-joints-for-patients.”
Wilson hesitated. “That’s different.”
“I think you’re just a big chicken. Little Jimmy, always afraid to break the rules.” House gave him a pointed look as he took a bite of one of the brownies. “You know you want to.”
“You can’t peer pressure me into getting high with you!”
It turned out House could peer pressure him into getting high. Very high. And very drunk. Reality seemed to be vibrating slightly and if Wilson was being honest with himself, it felt amazing. Wilson was sprawled out on the kitchen floor, staring up at the ceiling in total satisfaction. He felt giddy and spaced out but in a pleasurable way, like he was floating. All of his problems were somewhere far away, duller and easier to ignore.
Also, he was hungry.
“Weren’t we making grilled cheese?”
“No bread remember. Or cheese.” House was lying next to him on the floor. Wilson wasn’t entirely sure how long they’d been there, or why they’d ended up on the floor in the first place.
“Of course, why would I expect you to have anything other than Chef Boyardee?” Wilson stared harder at the ceiling. “I can kind of make out the shape of a bird in the paint swirls.” He half raised his arm as though to point, before flopping it back on the ground.
House squinted, studying the paint. “I think I see Cuddy’s boobs.”
“Are you ever not thinking about Cuddy’s boobs?”
“When I’m thinking about her ass.”
“Right, should’ve been more specific. Are you ever not thinking about Cuddy’s boobs and or ass?”
“Sure. When I’m thinking about your ass.”
“Shut up.” Wilson kicked House lightly in the shin and tried to ignore the small jolt of excitement the comment had given him. House used the same sarcastic tone for almost everything he said, which made it hard to tell when he was being genuine. It was usually easier to assume he wasn’t. No point in reading into things too much when you're crossfaded.
“Or your eyebrows. I mean look at those things. How did they even get so bushy?”
Wilson’s reaction time was significantly delayed, so it took him a minute to realize House was lightly tracing the perimeter of his eyebrow with his finger. His heartbeat quickened at the touch.
“What are you doing? Stop it!” Wilson swatted his hand and inched away from House.
House sighed. “We’re totally burning out. It’s way too early to be lying on the floor. We need more juice.”
“I think I’d fall asleep before another brownie kicked in.”
“Good thing I’ve got other options.”
That piqued Wilson’s curiosity. He watched as House pushed himself upwards and limped out of the kitchen. When he returned, Wilson was leaning against the counter and fiddling with his phone, munching on Wheat Thins that House could not remember owning.
“What are you doing?” House asked as he emptied the contents of the bag onto the counter.
Natasha Bedingfield’s Unwritten began playing at full volume from the phone. Wilson blinked in surprise.
“Hm. That’s definitely not what I meant to do.” Wilson scrolled through Pandora with confusion. By the time the chorus started he still hadn’t accomplished whatever he was trying to do. But it had given House enough time to pack a bowl.
“Just leave it and focus on this.” House handed him an elegant looking brown pipe that was packed to the brim.
Wilson wondered how long House had owned the pipe and how many times he had used it. He guessed it shouldn’t surprise him that House’s interest in drugs wasn’t strictly limited to Vicodin. Besides, he had to admit that weed was like candy in comparison.
“Can we at least smoke by the window? I don’t need your neighbors hating you anymore than they already do.”
House rolled his eyes, still not understanding Wilson's concern with neighbors. “Fine.”
They opened a window and pulled up two kitchen chairs across from each other. House grabbed the box of Wheat Thins from Wilson and took a handful.
“Do I even want to know where you got so much pot?” Wilson said as House handed him a blue lighter.
“I know a guy.”
“Now I definitely don’t want to know.” Said Wilson in between coughs as he took a hit.
“You probably know him too. His name’s Rich, the janitor on the 8th floor. Always wears Sketchers Shape Ups.”
“The tall one? With curly hair?”
“That’s him.”
“His name’s Carl. You notice his choice in shoes but you can’t remember his name?”
“They're ridiculous shoes.” Said House said with a grin.
Wilson burst out in laughter. Sketcher Shape Ups were pretty funny. In fact, everything seemed hilarious right now and he couldn’t stop laughing. He was stoned out of his mind and House was right there with him, that bastard. It felt absurd that he’d ended up in this situation but there he was. Listening to Natasha Bedingfield telling him to release his inhibitions (was this song on repeat?) and watching House smile at him through a cloud of smoke.
A perfect night.
House was quiet for a moment, watching Wilson as he took a hit and blew it out the window.
“You already knew how to use a pipe. And here I was thinking you were a model, rule- abiding citizen. Have I been deceived? He asked facetiously.
“I did go to college you know.”
House leaned in and gave Wilson a look that could only be read as flirtatious. “So besides ol’ mary jane, did you get up to any other 'experimentation' back then?” He asked in a low voice.
Wilson bristled at the implication. Then he paused for a long moment to think. House held breath without realizing it. It felt like the fate of the world depended on what Wilson was going to say.
“I did grow out my hair during sophomore year. Definitely not one of my brightest ideas.” House exhaled and immediately began cracking up.
“I think I’m gonna need photo evidence.”
“Not in your wildest dreams.” Wilson laughed while also making a mental reminder to find a new hiding place for all his photo albums.
Wilson stared out the window for a moment, his eyes focusing on the streetlights until they became shapeless glows. It dawned on him just how crossfaded he really was. How crossfaded House had purposely gotten him…
“Wait a minute, why are you asking me questions about college? You only get me this messed up when you want information!”
“What? Me?!” House recoiled in mock offense. “Seriously? Relax. All I want is to have some fun with my BFF, no ulterior motive. Fingers crossed.” He held up crossed fingers as proof. Wilson smiled at the meaningless gesture, deciding to believe House for now.
House turned to blow the ash out the window. He couldn’t bear when Wilson smiled so genuinely like that. It was like looking directly at the sun, so bright he had to turn away.
As the night grew later, their energy faded. Wilson was slumped on House’s couch, feeling more comfortable and relaxed than he had in ages. It was hard to keep his eyes open, he was only half paying attention to the nature documentary they’d put on earlier. House sat next to him with his legs propped up on the coffee table. The apartment was dark save for the light from the TV. House snuck a glance at Wilson, who looked like he might fall asleep any second. It was the middle of the night and Wilson was still wearing his tie. How could he possibly still have his tie on? It was green with dark blue stripes, one of the eye-catching ones Wilson only wore when he was trying to get laid.
“That tie is atrocious.” House said, rousing Wilson from his trance.
“Since when do you know anything about fashion?”
House held the tie in his hand and smoothed his thumb over it. He secretly loved that stupid tie. It was soft to touch and for some reason he was having trouble putting it down. House wondered what it would be like to smooth his thumb over Wilson’s shirt instead. Or underneath it, over Wilson’s chest. House inhaled slowly. Don’t go there. Never go there.
“It doesn’t take an expert to recognize an ugly tie.” Why was he still holding it? Why was he continuing to speak? Was his brain shutting down?
“Then why are you still staring at it?” Wilson countered. “Just like my eyebrows- you act disgusted yet you can’t look away. Interesting.”
Dammit Wilson. House let go of the tie, letting his fingers linger on Wilson’s shirt for a millisecond longer than he needed to.
“Think of it as a sort of fascination. A scientific interest in your inexplicable, bizarre quirks.”
Wilson looked at him strangely. Now he was really screwed. His argument didn’t make sense, his defenses were lowered and Wilson could always see through him, shit, he’d let himself get carried away and now-
A loud turkey vulture cry came from the TV and they both jumped slightly. Then, slowly, they became reabsorbed in the documentary. House was relieved that the moment had passed and that he’d gone undetected. But that relief was mixed with a hint of disappointment that he did not want to understand.
An immeasurable amount of time later, House was roused awake by the sound of Wilson getting up to pee. When Wilson returned he sat close enough to House that their legs were pressed against each other. House tried his best to ignore it, but his leg might as well have been on fire. It was impossible to focus on anything else. The sound from the TV faded into the background as House became hyper aware of Wilson’s breathing, of every twitch of a muscle, every slight shift in position.
He thought about what Wilson had said earlier, when he’d accused House of wanting something from him. His life would be so much easier if he never wanted anything. Maybe Buddha had been onto something. Desire really was the root of all suffering. Well, to hell with desire. If only he could stop wanting this closeness with his best friend then maybe he could finally find peace. God, he was right there. Wilson was right there next to him while simultaneously being so out of reach. It was unbearable. He felt like he was going to burst out of his own skin.
It wasn’t fair. Wilson had it easy. After a few drinks all his inhibitions were lost and he became loose and carefree, able to forget about his miserable life for the night. But no matter how messed up House got, he could never escape his own rational mind. Even when he was being an idiot he was fully aware of the depth of his own stupidity. Of how pathetic he was. If only that awareness did anything to change his behavior.
House grabbed a blanket that was hanging from the back of the couch and draped it over them both. Wilson gave him a weird look.
“I was cold. Thought you might be too. Sorry for being considerate. It’ll never happen again.” That seemed to satisfy Wilson, who looked back at TV.
House rested his left hand on his leg. His heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. After a moment, Wilson stretched out his right arm and repositioned it to rest on his own leg. Their hands were now so close that the sides of their pinkie fingers touched. House couldn’t believe it. He froze, became a statue. Not a single muscle moved. He was stuck in place, unable to take a step forward or back. They had walked up as close to the line as possible but neither of them could cross it. House wondered what layer of hell he was in and what he had done to deserve this eternal punishment. They were so close, shoulders touching, Wilson’s hand barely brushing his own. He wanted more, desperately craved it. But he could not have it. This would be enough. It had to be enough.
Eventually, House relaxed to the warmth of the limited but appreciated contact. His thoughts were still hazy from drinking and smoking, plus the Vicodin he’d snuck when Wilson wasn’t looking. He tried not to think about it. He tried not to think about how there was an it. The room felt too hot but he didn’t want to move the blanket in fear that Wilson might move his hand away. God he was pathetic. Like Tantalus surrounded by water and fruit just out of reach. Starving, thirsty and desperate. Water, water everywhere but not a drop to drink.
House fell asleep to the sound of Wilson snoring. He dreamt he was stranded on a raft in the middle of a yellow-green sea. Drifting toward an endless horizon where the sky met the water in a golden haze. A destination that both was and wasn’t. The illusion of an end. He was surrounded by sameness so stark that it choked him with fear. House squinted, looking harder into the distance, trying to make out any shape at all. He reached out to block the sun from his eyes, trying to get a better view, but the sun shone brighter and brighter till the light began to burn, he cried out-
House woke with a start, his leg throbbing. Booze and weed be damned, pain was guaranteed to wake him up at least once a night. He tried to slow his breathing as the vivid panic from the dream began to wear off. Slowly, he returned to reality and realized that Wilson’s head was resting on his shoulder. The sight of it felt roughly like being stabbed in the heart.
Oh, hell. He needed Vicodin, ASAP. House gradually stood up. As carefully as he could, he rearranged Wilson so he was lying across the couch. Then he draped the blanket over Wilson and tried not to look at him before walking away. House grabbed his Vicodin and headed to his room, where he would sleep alone in his own bed. Never mind that his it suddenly seemed too big and empty. This was how it was supposed to be. He was better off that way.
House tossed and turned, trying not to think about how Wilson was in the next room or how badly he was dying to break through this wall that they’d put up. He groaned in frustration, digging his fingernails into his forehead. Why couldn’t he make himself shut up. Save it, he told himself. Save it all for later. But there was no such thing as later. Only an endless today, a horizon that stretched on forever with no change, and an emptiness that was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
Eventually, somehow, he fell asleep.