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The first time it happens is (New Orleans, 1991 | Albany, 2009 | Augusta, 2012) and they are (drunk | sober | out of time).
Wilson is (freshly divorced | furious | dying), and it is simmering just under the surface of his skin. House can feel it lifting up through his blood, fire-hot against his fingertips. Here, in the curve of his mouth; here, in the rough grasp of his fingertips; here, when their teeth scrape together because they are (young | stupid | out of time out of time out of time). House is House: stubborn, pushy, and giving as good as he can get.
“How long have you,” Wilson says, licks his lips, pulls back. “How long have you wanted to do this?”
House shakes his head. “Don’t,” he says. “Don’t do that.”
“Come on,” Wilson says, “indulge me. You, you—you talked me into this, I kissed you. God. I kissed you. How long have you been trying to get me to do that?”
House doesn’t look at him, when he answers. “(Since I saw you. | At least since the beginning of this conference, that’s for sure. | Twenty years.)”
“Jesus, House,” Wilson breathes. “Jesus.”
“And people say I don’t have any patience,” he scoffs, and kisses Wilson again to shut him up.
How little any of the rest of it matters, like this. The chaos of (the bar fight | the conference | the end of the world) melting underneath their fingertips. Tomorrow they are going back to (their real lives | the hospital | the endless stretch of road); today, they’re here. Today, there’s this.
“This is,” Wilson stammers, finally pulling away. “I’ve never—” but not like he’s saying no, just like he’s saying wait.
“Okay,” House shrugs, pushing Wilson until he sits at the edge of the (lumpy | cushy | flimsy) hotel bed. “I have. So, as usual, watch and learn.”
“You’ve…?” Wilson says, and then laughs. “Of course you have. Of course you have, why am I even surprised?”
“Yeah,” House scoffs. “They offer tons of extracurriculars at (Johns Hopkins | Mayfield | New Jersey State Correctional).”
He kneels in front of him, then; his leg is (fine | killing him | the least of their problems, but yes, okay, it’s killing him) but it doesn’t really matter, all of his focus directed in laser point to the task in front of him. Unbuckle his belt, run hands along the pale skin on his inner thighs. Don’t let your hands shake while you do it.
“House,” Wilson says, like a warning. And then House swallows him down, and he doesn’t say anything at all.
His hands do, though—his hands are clutching everywhere they can find, on the sheets, the collar of House’s shirt, the hair against his scalp. Like someone drowning, House thinks—the way they grab at the people trying to save them, pull both of them underwater. He can feel the water rising around him too, anyway; he wants to reach out just as desperately, twist his fingers into the (soft | starchy | ragged) cotton of Wilson’s shirt, but he can’t. He’s the lifeguard, now. He’s keeping them both afloat.
(And besides, Wilson’s not drowning. | And besides, Wilson’s not drowning. | Not for much longer.)
“Come here,” Wilson finally rasps, and House sits back, braced up on his hands. “Come up here. I want—kiss me.”
It’s the first time he’s heard Wilson ask for anything, just for himself.
He climbs over him slowly, carefully. He kisses him until he gets restless; not bored, because Wilson is never, never boring, but restless, hands roving, and Wilson laughs and says, “Okay, okay, yes. Yes.”
House does the gentlemanly thing and undresses them both; Wilson’s hands are too shaky anyway with (whiskey | nerves | the thing that’s eating him from the inside out) to be of much use with buttons.
“You still owe me,” Wilson says, half out of breath, “a real explanation. For why the hell you (bailed me out | gave my speech | made me go to your damn funeral). This does not absolve you.”
House nods. “Okay,” he says, cheerful. “Well, hold that thought.”
The sounds Wilson makes—he could listen to them forever. The rest of his life, at least.
Wilson keeps biting into the back of his forearm, these little mmph noises, his eyes wide, his cheeks flushing hot. House wants to grab his wrist and wrench it away, tell the man to unclench for once, literally, metaphorically, let him scream for all he cares—
(—but he doesn’t, because the walls are thin, the night’s still young, and it’s the nineties in Louisiana and they are secrets, here, even from each other, and he’s scared if he hears the sounds Wilson makes now he’ll never stop hearing them in his head. | —but he doesn’t, because everyone Wilson’s ever met and respected is on this floor or one next to it, and he’s already made him do one walk of shame this week, and if he’s going to shatter the man’s illusion of a perfect little life with a perfect little wife he can at least spare him the indignity of that particular gossip. | —and he does, pries his arm away and pins it above his head, leans down into his ear and says, you’re dying, you idiot, who cares if the neighbors hear, and Wilson takes it to heart, gasps in lungfuls of air to let out in these pleasure-punched sounds that, he’s right, he’s right, he’ll never get them out of his mind.)
When they’re done, the only thing House can think is, more. It’s the nature of him; he’s an addict, after all. He knows that, even now.
“You,” Wilson finally says, “are going to have to help me shower.”
House says, (”Do it yourself,” and rolls over to sleep. | “Tomorrow,” and pulls him in at the waist. | nothing, just slips out of bed, limps the two of them to the hotel bathroom to help Wilson wash his hair, to listen to him hack up all the fluid collected in his lungs, to hold him steady while they both lean against the shower wall and swallow Vicodin to keep upright and they don’t talk about it. They don’t.)
Later that night, or early the next morning, or whenever House blinks awake to the weighty feeling of arms wrapped around his torso, Wilson makes a sound in the back of his throat that sounds like a sob twisted into a laugh.
“What?” House murmurs.
“It’s just,” Wilson says, (”We should’ve done that sooner.” | “We should’ve done that sooner.” | “We should’ve done that sooner.”)