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His eyes flutter closed for a moment when the smell of chlorine and the warm New Jersey evening flood his nostrils. He inhales them deep into his lungs, dizzy with alcohol and adrenaline in his system. His blood is tingling, the laughter of the youth is a distant, constant murmuring sound in his eardrums, a woman’s high pitched voice is occasionally rising above those of the others.
He feels light-headed while trying to slow down his rapid heartbeat. Through half-closed eyelids he glances down at the leaves and branches of the trees, watching them writhe and form fractals in front of his eyes, beyond his eyes; the crazy vortex of the depth is inviting him, promises understanding and maybe, just maybe, redemption.
His palms are slippery on the handrail as he steps on the blue stool, and he can almost see himself from without, the light of the pool water reflecting in his irises, hurting him, blinding him, slicing into the retina through his pupils. He’s drunk, yet his senses are sharper than ever, almost painfully so, like he were on acid.
He wants to scream.
His inner turmoil has definite smell and taste on the back of his tongue, his hair is starting to dampen and stick onto his forehead. He wants to do this, whatever this means, he wants to forget, he wants to forgive, wants to understand, wants anything that can ease this aching sting of delusion. Compared to the latter, even fear seems more endurable.
His neatly polished shoes are screeching as he’s stepping on the handrail, hoping he won’t slip. He wants to be in control of the moment, his movements and the momentum.
The depth is not promising anymore, it gapes at him hungrily, trying to swallow him whole; the water underneath him appears harder than an ocean of ice blocks. The urge to scream is starting to gnaw at his insides when he’s reaching for the edge of the ceiling with a trembling arm. Damn this, he thinks as he holds his breath and slowly leans ahead.
Hands grab his shirt on his waist, yanking him backwards, nails dig into his flesh through the fabric. He yelps as he falls on his back, awkwardly landing on another body, causing a grunt of pain to cut through the air.
"Have you gone crazy, too? Thought that was my resort." The grunt merges into a hoarse voice, slightly amazed, slightly annoyed, but mostly neutral, too apathetic at the moment to give a more serious thought for why the man was trying to jump, the sharp agony fogs the reasoning even more.
The images of the spiraling fractal-trees are still haunting Wilson’s mind as he rolls off House to sit up, not caring about the bad leg on which he had fallen, nor the hissing sounds of pain. In fact he is not giving a damn about it at all, because he knows now that the wounds had healed years ago, and any remnants of pain are just the creations of his friend’s mind. They could be controlled if…
Friend.
The other man's voice cuts through his thought of irony. "You’re a lightweight for these kinds of games. What were you thinking anyway?"
Wilson notices that there is nothing left of House's adrenalin-induced euphoria he had seen on him not so long ago, after the jump. If it was real at all. Wilson can't remember clearly after all those drinks he had in the bar. He’d wanted to go home first, confused, upset and scared shitless, but sudden tiredness took over him, and he could only sit down, order some liquor, and stare at those twenty-something-olds instead, some of them still splashing in the pool, half-drunk and cheering for the winner team. He envied them for their pure zest of life.
He answers House anyway, words ripping his throat. "I… You said I don’t think the way you do… I was trying to have a glimpse of that twisted brain of yours! I-I wanted to see what was so good about…" Wilson goes silent when he realizes he doesn’t exactly know what he intended; nevertheless he decides he doesn’t owe House any explanations at all. He himself never gets any from him, ever.
House's fingers are still knotted in his shirt, though he’s lying on his back now, staring at the ceiling, a smirk on his lips accompanied by an oddly empty, impassive look. "Wow, that's some stupid reason. You probably don’t even know how to land properly in water. Could have crushed all your bones."
Wilson is shaking, and can’t believe he actually almost jumped off the sixth floor. What the hell was he thinking? House is right: he could have died if he didn’t get as lucky as House usually gets.
And he knew it all along. And didn’t give a damn about it.
I’m losing it, thinks Wilson. Somehow he managed to lock a part of his brain separate from the rest of his personality, and it’s looking at him amazed and alienated when he rips himself away from House’s grasp, swallowing back a roar. He lets his fright transform into rage and wrath, lets them tear through him, and it almost feels good, letting it go, almost orgasmic while he yanks House up next to him, briefly noting the sudden surprise of the other man, and the feeling of his own eyes beginning to sting.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" he yells into House’s face with bared teeth, and grabs his collars, soaking wet and cold beneath his fingers. "What was I thinking? I come looking for you and get to see this? What was that good for, trying to kill yourself again?"
House simply gazes at Wilson’s furious face, surprise melting behind his mask of unconcern, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. He feels something akin to guilt for a moment, but moments pass away soon. "Whatever I wanted, it had nothing to do with you. But you, trying to copy me? Playing suicidal doesn’t suit you."
But then House can’t say anything else because Wilson punches him hard on the chin; his jaw gives a loud crack and his head is knocked sideways. He grips his face and slowly deems back at Wilson, his irises telling that he kind of expected, maybe even directly provoked it.
"Screw you," Wilson spits out, disgust contorting his features. He gets up and heads back into the room to look for his jacket, momentarily noting the cool air sticking his shirt to his sweat-soaked back, ignoring House who also stands up, stroking his bruised jaw. He turns to leave, but then a barely audible plea stops him.
"No. Don’t."
Wilson stands still, waiting for House to say something else. He doesn't. Seconds pass agonizingly slowly; Wilson is listening to the twitching of the fingers of his left hand. He’s surprised at himself for not moving, even more when his words start to form themselves on their own into the silence.
"Do you care about anyone besides yourself? Is there any other feeling left in you except this… obsession of playing with death?" He turns to face House, his hand is shaking as he threads it through his hair. "You saw me from up there, and you, you smiled at me! How dare you smile at me like that?" A single, bitter grin jerks itself through his mouth, not reaching his eyes like his happy smiles would do. "But you know what? It’s all my fault. It’s my goddamn fault I let you do this to me."
With that, he feels his strength leaving him in slow ropes; he leans against the wall, slowly sinking down to sit on the floor, darting his gaze into the darkness of the room, onto House’s face, barely visible in the half-light. His brain is clearing up a little, he can already understand House’s motivations again, all his hurt and obvious anguish, but he refuses to care. He’s known him far too long for now, far better than anyone, and yet he still can’t bear this. After all these years of all kinds of shit, he's still not used to it.
House has also sat down, and now they're staring at each other, leant against the opposite walls of the room. The party on the ground floor is still ongoing, but with much less volume; the young start to get tired and slowly seep away.
When House begins to speak, a half an apology is marking his voice. "I didn’t realize that you…"
Wilson cuts into his words. "Yeah, spare me that. You just didn’t give a single crap about me. ‘Cause sweet little Jimmy is so understanding about misery, you can do whatever you want, and you'll still be forgiven! Well, you know what? Little Jimmy won’t always be there. If you don’t want to tolerate pain, fine, go ahead and jump, I don’t give a damn about your miserable life, or losses, or pain. Every one of us has them! If you won't go back on the fucking Methadone, then go ahead and... do what you want!" He’s shouting again, his gaze glowing black, throat stinging and scratching. "But before that, for the sake of our goddamn friendship, if you have any… humanity left in you…" His face twists itself into a horrible grimace of torture while he chokes out the words, "…just make sure you leave me first. Or rather make sure that I leave. Because I couldn’t sta… couldn't stand to see your dead body. Drive me away, whatever, but don’t ever dare to make me face this again."
His voice falls cold, and then silent. He stares at House, noticing his tears threatening to spill, but he doesn’t mind nor he wants to mind anymore. He’s not made to tolerate everything.
House gapes at him, terrified and frozen, knowing that all the said things are true. He had no idea that all these stupid pranks… idiocies had such effect on his friend. Wilson always took all of House’s selfishness before, his bad behaviors, pain, loneliness, damage without a word, and always stood by him. And if it’s over… how could he go on?
And what could he say now?
"Wilson…"
Wilson closes his eyes tiredly, shakes his head and leans back against the wall in silence, hiding his face behind his hand.
He remains wordless, even when he hears House crawling over on his hands and knees to sit next to him. He can tell by the vibration of the air that House is cold, no whiskeys to heat him any longer. A cool palm is touching his forearm to gently rest there, and Wilson’s lids flicks open and he looks at the other man. He doesn’t back away, so House puts a cold arm around his shoulders, soaking his shirt, sending a chill down his spine.
Wilson turns away to watch the splatters of light from the pool, playing around on the wall and the glass doors of the balcony, the dancing of the shadows that the plants cast. Images keep flashing in his mind; of men with guns, of tubes of painkillers, of knives pushed into electric sockets, an insulin shock, the aftermath of a bus crash, electrical brain stimulations on an already injured skull…
He winces, doesn’t want to remember that last one. He could not forgive himself what he asked for, he probably never will. He said terrible things, both truths and half-truths, and he meant all of them. Then he left, for the sake of them both, and it hurt like hell. Yet he didn’t become happy as he hoped.
He still can’t tell whether he did them any good by coming back.
He stands up, shaking off the memory, shaking off House’s hand, and steps through the glass walls of the balcony, staring down once again into the intoxicating depth.
House limps behind him, but stays a few inches away, saying nothing, forgetting about everything for the moment, just wanting Wilson to spill out his pain, silently praying to him to speak again.
As if Wilson heard him, he once again lets his lips form the thoughts he had thought so many times before that they’re soaked in his flesh now; he doesn’t need his brain to recall them.
"In the past years… I’ve seen countless, hundreds of deaths. But yours… is the one I just cou…" His breath hitches, voice breaking as he looks up at the sky. "I know you’re hurt, I know you needed a catharsis, but… Every time you do something like this, you destroy a part of me. Seeing you… the fear of losing you… kills me piece by piece, and I don’t know how many parts I have left," he says and clutches at the handrail until his knuckles turn white. "And I hate you for that, House! I loathe you so much I can hardly stand it!"
And he’s weeping now, agony flooding over him, shaking his shoulders. House moves closer, almost touching him, and he dares to speak now, his voice is soft, he murmurs pleading words in Wilson’s ear, begs for his forgiveness, promises that he can do better, he can change and he will change, he wants to, for him. He already said those words not so long ago, the situation is painfully familiar, and so is the fright. He is reaching for Wilson’s shoulders and circles his arms around him desperately, as if the touch could hold him back, hold them together, and he repeats the words over and over again into the hair on the nape of his neck.
Minutes pass, until finally Wilson turns to face him. His eyes are red, wide and glistening, his expression is shadowed by grief and doubt, hope and faith, and House realizes he can’t lose another time, because there's no tomorrow and nothing is left for them if he fails again. "Please, forgive me… you’re right. You were always right. Forgive me, Wilson. Don’t leave."
Wilson’s mouth curves itself into a joyless smile. "I’m the only one who can accept you the way you are," he says, his words sting a little, but House doesn’t mind as long as he keeps talking. He knows it’s true; Wilson never left him just because House always failed to become a better person.
But they don’t know how long they can keep it like that, and the realization is striking. Once it will break. They will break.
They gaze at each other, faces only inches away, and Wilson can smell the whiskey and the beer on House’s breath, the pool water on his hair and skin, the slight musk of his body. He’s growing dizzy with it; the feel of vulnerability now that they laid out all of their cards, the emotions and chemical compounds in his system are starting to hit him. "Still… if only I could change you!"
House leans closer to him, and Wilson is looking at the wrinkles on his brow and the scar on his nose, the promises are only faint breezes against his face.
"I won’t hurt you, not anymore," House says. "I won’t let it… I won’t make it break."
They stay like this, watching each other, memories flaring in their minds, but none of them seems important enough to be mentioned or thought for more than a few moments.
Wilson is wondering about his past, his wishes, goals and hopes; about the loves of his life, his dreams of an own family that never became true; his profession in which he purged all his soul and vocation, the countless patients he cured and euthanized and lost. He can remember every one of them. He thinks of Amber, the coppery taste of her lips touching his for the last time, the cruelly short time they had together. Of Sam, their wasted past and vanished future.
However, the reminiscence of his first encounter with House keeps lingering, and so do his ridiculously detailed memories of that day. That smug and mischievous half-smile he first saw on him when he bailed him out, his first words he heard. The tone of his deep laughter, resonating through the dimness of inebriation as he ordered another round of whiskey for them at Wilson’s expense. The casual tappings of his palm at Wilson’s arms and shoulders, loitering a little longer than it would have been habitual. The way obscurity was dancing on his face in the dim light of the elevator as they regarded each other carefully, the gravity of the situation masked by their constant joking, before they headed towards House's hotel room. His own ruffled emotions of sorrow, disbelief and rejoicing that night, but most of all, how carried off, how… funny he felt. He’s thinking of all the crap they’d been put through since then; the infarction, his own worrying anger for both House and Stacy after, his impotent attempts to help. The person House used to be before the pain, and Wilson misses and wants that House back…
But he’s also not the same as he was back then. An evil little thought mocks him momentarily, saying he could have had more friends, he’s kind and friendly to be liked by many, yet in the end all he’s left is his job and this maniac bastard. But it was his own choice, and his mouth twitches at the thought.
Still, he has no regrets. He can accept House the way he is. It's a fact he’s neither able nor willing to change; he tried and failed, he’s not in charge of this. House makes him laugh, makes him happy, makes his life interesting, cares about him, and never, ever gave up on him, and if he’s honest with himself, it counts more than the torture he puts him through. Just keep stealing my food, he thinks exhausted and resigned, yet somehow still feeling warm inside.
They are under each other's skin, and they can't help it.
House is looking at Wilson, watching the emotions crossing his face, and unforeseen tenderness pools up in his belly for his faithful friend, his stronghold. Suddenly, he wishes they could grow old together, spend the rest of their lives near each other, pranking and supporting, behaving like teenagers as they always do. He wishes he had met Wilson sooner, and he catches his breath and puts his arms around him, for this thought makes him ache in his chest.
And even if it's selfish, he wishes they could die together when the time comes.
"Do you hate me now?" he asks, holding him, swaying him, enjoying their contact he’s not used to, his blue shirt is dampening Wilson’s on his chest with the touch.
Wilson stills for a second at their physical proximity, a part of him is tensing and protesting because it's strange, and this is not what it should be about.
But who would he try to fool... He doesn’t want to worry anymore, he doesn't want to be afraid anymore. He wants to trust House, he wants to believe him.
"So much I’m suffocating," he says, and slips his arms to House’s waist to hug him back finally.
House sighs with relief, a smile spreading on his lips. He's jauntily stroking Wilson’s cheek with his thumb, and it’s a long time before he murmurs again. "Good. I was wrong about the Great Wall of China anyway."
Wilson recalls that conversation they had ages ago and almost smirks at it, but he can't, for House is now breathing barely audibly against his ear, lightly touching his thumb to the birthmark near the corner of his mouth, fingertips skimming through the fine hair on the nape of his neck, and it’s making his mind wander and his blood fizz.
"Wilson… Don’t leave."
"Don’t drive me away," he answers, heart clenching a little, moved by his friend’s begging. He's rubbing his face to House’s palm, his eyes closing. "I might not will be able to come back."
House inclines to plant small kisses on each of his eyelids, lips brushing alongside of his cheekbones before he presses their foreheads together, rocking Wilson softly, never wanting to let go. He’s getting lost in the moment, murmuring tenderly, melodically against Wilson’s nose and mouth, and he keeps crooning as his palms slither along Wilson’s spine, and the touch of shivering muscles under the clothing invigorates his senses. His last coherent thought is the sweet comprehension that he’s not lost and not alone, not anymore, never was.
His hands wander to Wilson's hips, stroking in small circles, and Wilson sighs at their cheeks brushing, stubble scratching. Their noses bump softly, and then there’s fevered breath on his chin again, and Wilson realizes faintly that House is in trance and is not fully aware of what he’s doing, but neither he is; after all these times, after this evening it seems only natural to let himself go, it’s natural that his hot upper lip is now burning against House's cool lower lip, so tender and so harsh, his blood is reaching the boiling point, and he refuses to think of anything else but the vibrating in House’s throat and the way House’s mouth opens to finally melt to his own, and flames flare up and their heated moisture is mixing and slippery tongues are twining and the taste of thick saliva is maddening, and Wilson is growling deep in his chest and he's clawing at House’s hair and ripping House’s shirt and tugging on House's lower lip with his teeth in feral want; and House is drinking from his mouth like a man dying of thirst, all the while humming and moaning through their kiss, and he keeps rocking him swiftly, his cold fingertips are scorching the bare skin on Wilson’s back.
House rips his mouth away to nip at Wilson's throat and his Adam’s apple, light stubble prickling his tongue, and Wilson lets out a strangled sigh of delight through his parted lips as House sucks on his flesh frantically, making it sting and bleed beneath his skin, leaving a mark, and he rakes his nails through House’s neck in sweet despair. He's being shoved against the wall so he hits his head and rigid cold is chilling his spine and a warm tongue is sneaking into his mouth again to fill him and lap at his insides, and he twines his own tongue around it.
House fumbles blindly at the collar and the buttons of Wilson's shirt to open it, to reveal him for the first time. He listens to Wilson’s shallow breathing around their kiss while sliding the cloth off his shoulders, willing himself to slow down a little so he can savor the moment. He’s hardly ever been more frightened and intoxicated in his life; he breaks the kiss with a little nip, and his trembling palms roam across Wilson's face and body to make sure he’s really there, it’s really him; he couldn't bear if this turned out to be just another hallucination. He lets his gaze follow his hands on Wilson's arms in awe and admiration, through the planes of his chest, his nipples, hardened with the night breeze, the ridges of his ribcage; he grips the soft flesh of his waist and stomach, enjoying the feel of touching the smooth, pale skin like this, almost unbelieving that this is truly happening, and the sight of his friend clutching at him dazedly, panting open-mouthed and blushed nearly blinds him with lust. He yanks Wilson flush against himself by the tie that still hangs on him loosely, playing with the fabric, twining it around his fingers before dropping it on the floor, and he’s nibbling Wilson's shoulder and neck, tasting his smell of sweat and cologne and an unfamiliar, unique, masculine fragrance underneath that leaves him starving and wanting to beg for more.
For a moment Wilson sobers up from the red fog of his arousal, just enough to seize House’s arm. "Want this? You trust me?" he asks hoarsely as their eyes meet in the half-light, darkened to raven-black and storm-gray. He vaguely thinks that he should put an end to this now, before they both regret it; but can’t bring himself to do that, so just waits for House to say something, to tell him what he wants.
House takes his face in his hands in answer and strokes his temples, nodding briefly, his eyes speaking of nothing but reassurance and trust. He lets Wilson push him backwards through the balcony door, his leg bumps but Wilson holds him tight. They're clumsily kissing again, kicking their shoes off as they stumble towards the bed.
Wilson is frenzied, he presses his friend down and lies on top of him, biting wildly into the curve of his ear, chewing at his earlobe, licking at his jawline when House bares his throat for him, succumbing. He’s yanking House's shirt off his body and caresses and scratches the exposed skin, all the while whispering loving and filthy endearments for him to hear, not needing to hide them now: that he’s here for him, and how much he wants him, how long he has yearned for him, how fucking good it feels to finally have him like this. House clings at Wilson desperately and sighs in answer, trying to wrap a leg around him to draw him even closer, and he grips Wilson's ass to knead his muscles, slipping his fingers under his waistband, making him moan and arch into his hands.
Then Wilson takes House's wrists and pins his arms down on each side of his head almost angrily, forcing his thighs apart with his knee so that he can lie between them and grind his groin greedily into him, and he can’t stop a grunt escape his throat as his hardened cock rubs alongside of House’s through the remnants of clothing. "How does it feel?" he breathes in House’s ear, and hearing a pleading whimper, he ducks his head down to trail his tongue along those soft lips, to plunge it into that sweet mouth again, his to explore, his to savor. His thumbs are stroking House's wrists, immersing in the feel of their bare chests touching, heaving and sticking damply, hearts beating rapidly together, and he’s also whimpering with the electric sparks their lovemaking ignites in his body.
Wilson is so shocked by the warmth and hunger for his friend he didn’t realize he had, for a moment he thinks he might come undone right now, with House so eager and willing around him. Pressure is building up in his loins, almost too much but still not enough, and he’s trying to unbuckle both of their belts at the same time. House doesn't suppress a soft chuckle at how frantic and impatient Wilson is; he lifts his hips up to help him to pull down his damp jeans and shorts and socks, and Wilson then wrestles himself out of his own pants, freeing and stripping them both with a sigh of relief.
He moves to touch House again, but he's stopped by the mere sight of him completely surrendered, inviting and beautiful. The details of his face seem as though he looked at him for the first time: agony-carved creases on his brow; blue eyes, searching for his own, promising him the world, as they always had, he now realizes; his nose, lips, seen a million times before, their odd fairness never appreciated. "House," he sighs quietly in admiration, and lets his fingertips kiss feather-light along his friend’s naked body, along the sinews, imperfections, his arms, waist; the hair on his heaving chest, the resilient veins under the skin at the hipbones, the strong thighs; and he looks at his cock, long and slick against his abdomen, straining for him… The thought that he’s making love to a man, and that man being House, is thrilling and terrifying, and he wants to lose himself in this forever.
He's roused by House's grasp on his biceps and the clench of his legs around his hips, dragging him close, and he’s slowly losing his mind with the need for both of them to feel good, to make them whole again. He wants House to stay, wants him to never leave, he wants him to be happy, he wants to erase every woman's touch from House's memory, he wants…
He once again kisses House on the lips, who is opening his mouth for him, letting his tongue in. Wilson is caressing his ankle, then leans down to plant a series of kisses on it, too, moving up to the bend of his knee, brushing his lips through the spray of hair, hearing the other man's soft sigh. Then he's reaching his injured thigh, and House squirms with a quiet "no" and pulls away, but Wilson is following, breathing a kiss ever so tender on the deep canyon of his scar; and House looks away and wants to cry, because no one ever did this to him but her, and his heartache that’s been pushed aside flares up in him.
But Wilson understands. He lifts House's chin up, his face is gentle. "I'm not her," it's all Wilson says as if he could read his mind, and the meaning behind these simple words soothes the pain a little.
And House lets himself drown in the colour of Wilson’s eyes, and tries to remember whether they were the same shade of dark brown twenty years ago. He is regarding the marks that time has left on his friend: his jaw is a little wider, lips are a little thinner than they were when they first met, the years dragged them down slightly; his cheekbones are less defined, laughter and crying have drawn lines on his skin, and a few breadths of hair are graying on his temple; yet the youthfulness of his face is the same, holding such deep comprehension and accepting wisdom that only one with a beautiful soul can possess. House squeezes Wilson's hand instead of pushing it away, twines their fingers, and Wilson smiles and lifts his hand to his lips.
Then there's so much more to do; and Wilson props himself on his elbows to mouth at the salty skin of House's stomach, flashing his tongue into his navel, biting into his muscles a little. He is trembling as his fingertips reach down to House's crotch to gently play with his balls, then lightly graze along the tempting hardness in front of him; and House sighs and spreads his legs wider, urging him on to go further. Wilson touches him, squeezes him, feels his weight in his palm; he nuzzles the hair on his groin and his lower abdomen, deeply inhaling his heavy scent, so different from his previous experiences, but the difference makes it all the more exciting. He breathes on House’s cock, flicks his tongue out to tenderly lap and bite at the sides, teasing just a little before sliding it into his mouth, tasting and devouring the unfamiliarity of the firm, scalding flesh covered with velvet skin on his tongue. It’s filling him, so full and so big, he had no idea this could feel so fantastic, so arousing, and he purrs with delight as he licks and suckles, all the while bathing in the helpless moans of the man below him.
And he's rapidly losing control, it’s all too fresh and too much and he just has to ease this aching lust a little; he exhales damply around House’s hardness as he reaches down to his own, groaning loudly in relief, his other hand tenses on House's hip, the muscles stretch in his back. Fingers twist themselves in his scalp, making his dark, rumpled hair fall into his eyes, and he wants House to make more of those sounds of despair to blend with his own, so he gasps and sucks him deeper and tongues him harder while stroking himself, slow and hard, and House is thrashing and panting his name out over and over again like he was about to die.
Then Wilson releases his own erection and lets House out of his mouth, too, only to turn him halfway around, pushing his good leg up so he can dive low, to lave and bite the smooth, warm skin on his ass. He's getting drunk with his maddening scent and flavour, so drunk and yet so thirsty for more he couldn't imagine he was able to get for him. He spreads House's buttocks apart to lick around his hole hungrily, to plow his tongue sloppily up and down in his crack while puffing hot breaths on his skin. "It's good, oh, you taste so good," he moans with joy as the responding cries make his skin tingle and burn.
"Ah, my… fucking God, Wilson," House rasps through gritted teeth because Wilson’s tongue is now plunging into him, and he bucks his hips and whimpers at the moist pushing and stretching and circling inside that make all his nerve endings scream. He's never experienced this before, such dirty intimacy, and he nearly goes out of his mind with desire and trust and the feel of vulnerability as he lets his friend open and explore him this way. He could definitely lose himself now, his head is spinning and Wilson’s fingers are sliding up and down in his lap, and his tongue is so warm, pliant and wet, it makes him whine shamelessly and push back against Wilson's face, he's clawing at the sheets and getting high on the damp gasping on his skin.
But as delicious as it feels, it's still not enough; with all the willpower he has he pulls away from that blessed mouth, and Wilson yelps in surprise and looks stunned at House when he turns him onto his back. House is panting hard, and so eager to go on, to see Wilson come and toss with pleasure in his arms; but for now he can't help but admire his friend’s, his lover’s huge wondering eyes, red and swollen and glistening lips, heaving chest, quivering stomach, and God, he can see his rapid pulse on his cock that is jutting out, dark and thick; the very sight of embodied debauchery, and he wants him like this forever. Wilson looks so luscious and edible, that pain and impatience forgotten, House lies down next to him and tenderly kisses his wide mouth, humming happily at the soft pressing of cherry lips on his own, and the tip of his tongue flicks out to caress the other man’s. Wilson embraces his shoulders and pulls him close so their bodies touch all over, his palms are prowling on House’s skin, his limbs snake around him as tight as possible. House glances at him and whispers his name, smiling at him when he opens his eyes, and Wilson smiles back with such gentle hopefulness that a new kind of heartache blazes up in House suddenly, turning him upside down. He leans down to bathe Wilson's face all over in kisses, his forehead at his hairline and his heavy eyebrows, his nose and cheeks and chin, and Wilson is returning his caress with mouth and fingertips, and they're fondling each other, making love as if this were their one and only chance.
House then nips his way down on the tendons in Wilson’s neck, his collarbones, listening to his heartbeat through his ribcage, stopping to suckle on his nipples until they're hard and aching. Wilson is pushing gently on his shoulders, and House smirks as he obeys, leisurely lapping from his belly to his crotch, the way he‘d gorge an exotic dessert. "I want to make you come," he murmurs onto Wilson's skin, teasingly licking at his length before wrapping his lips around the swollen, silky head of his cock, eagerly tasting it, getting it wet, sucking softly, loving the small cries he gets in return.
And Wilson whimpers in pleasure, he has been waiting for so long now, his back arches up and his hips start to pump on their own accord into the willing warmth of House's lips, and through the roaring of the rushing blood in his ears he faintly catches House’s voice, spurring him on between two licks. "That's right, fuck my mouth, just like this," House gasps ravenously before swallowing him again, pulling Wilson's thighs over his shoulders, and at his words a wanton groan bursts from Wilson’s chest.
"House, ah yes, suck me," he pants and he keeps panting for more, fingers fumbling at House’s nape, and he just stares at the flashes of that wonderful pink tongue swirling around his cock as he keeps sliding in and out, and House looks up at him, eyes blazing with lust before grabbing his ass to pull him farther in…
But then House stops abruptly, letting Wilson slip from his mouth, ignoring his protesting whine, and he kisses him while scrabbling in the drawer with one hand to get some lube for them. Then he mounts Wilson to align their hips, to push and glide and squeeze their naked erections together in his fist, stroking, palming, making them slick, and they both gasp at the raw intimacy of the feel. Wilson is grinding his teeth, trembling wildly in an effort to hold back a little longer, but House is brushing his lips across his cheek, rocking slowly as he straddles him. "Wilson… take me, now," he breathes in his ear, and Wilson groans and flushes dark red from the jolt brought on by his plea, and his world spins around a little.
He sighs shakily, but his hand is steady as he reaches up to stroke House's face, tracing his lips with two fingers before slowly sliding them into his mouth, relishing the sight of House flicking his tongue and sucking on them with closed eyes. Then Wilson takes them between his own lips, tasting, soaking them even more, thinking it will be enough for a while. He inches his hand downwards to softly circle around House's opening, teasing, slowly caressing before he pushes in gently and unfolds him, carefully heeding his reactions, watching as his expression softens with relaxation; and House suddenly twitches and gasps when the fingers tenderly scrape over his prostate, and Wilson pants in sympathy and plays with him like this for a while, enjoying his responses. But then he can’t wait anymore, House is rubbing himself against his hand, whispering "do it", and the urge to be buried in him becomes overwhelming.
He seizes House’s hips and pushes into him; he throws his head back, neck stretching at the sudden tightness and heat, so severe he wants to yell, but he can only manage a crazed groan of rapture and pain as he’s being enclosed in slick, firm, rippling flesh. He pulls House down onto him to swallow the end of his sharp cry, mindlessly wanting to feel his quivering body on his own. "Greg..." he chokes out after they kiss, running his fingers through House’s damp hair, holding his face, staring in his eyes, gazes speaking of pleasure and longing; and it’s hot, harsh and humid, they are sweating and heaving hard as they begin to glide against each other in unison, hearts hammering, foreheads touching. "I-I’ll never… give up on you," whispers Wilson onto House's lips, unaware of the weight of the words, only knowing that they're true as his mind is starting to tighten in blessed swirling, and House moans into his mouth in answer.
Wilson finds himself in translucent euphoria where he can only watch as House arches his backbone, leaning back, holding onto Wilson's knees so he could ride him; he watches his blazing blue eyes with bottomless pupils, locked on his face, crystal clear with submission, caring and desire; his jaw is clenched and brows are furrowed, lips are twitching with labored breathing, sweat is trickling down his temple; and Wilson stares mesmerized at his rhythmically undulating hips, the taut, glistening, stretching muscles of his abdomen as they ripple with each movement; the pulsating veins on his arm, the tensing of his bicep when he can't take it anymore and reaches down to touch himself, exposing his throat with a deep sigh, fingers curling around his hot, throbbing cock. But then Wilson pulls his hand away and takes him in his own hand, to palm and stroke him with abandon, to caress the slick head with his thumb; he's studying House's features as they contort from the sensations, and he feels goosebumps breaking out on his skin at the sight, the sound of their joined bodies echoing in his ears, warmth pulsating softly in his groin.
Soon, House is growling loud as he slams down onto Wilson’s lap, leaning on his chest now, eyes screwed shut; it's rough and cruel, the sparkling, burning pleasure is just on the verge of becoming painful. Yes, this is what another man, what Wilson feels like within him, this sweet, tingling pressure on the bundle of nerves inside; this is how wonderful the touch of Wilson’s smooth hand is as it's driving him crazy; this is how Wilson’s throaty groans and their combined wheezing sound like, nudging him towards the edge; it feels so torrid, so full and foreign, he wants it to never end, and a restrained litany of words cuts through his throat, making Wilson grimace and tremble. "Oh God, James, more… give me more of you! Do it to me, fill me… fuck me… it's…" and he goes breathless, shuddering from exertion and the pain in his thigh, slowing down just slightly, but unable to stop.
Wilson turns themselves over right away onto House’s back, pulling his good leg around his waist, clasping his thigh so he can drive into him again, wanting to fill him, stretch him, make him moan and make him dig his nails in his skin, and it’s so hot, it's too good, he can’t hold on much longer. He’s looking down into House’s face, shadowed by obscurity, twisted and ugly and beautiful and obscene in his enjoyment, and he knows his own face must wear the same expression; and his stomach twitches and his heart skips a beat as he falls in love with him right here and now, like he fell in love with him twenty goddamn years ago, in another hotel room, in another life, and he should have kissed him then, he really should have; and he’s rutting like an animal and pounding and weeping and shutting his eyes tight against House’s trembling caress on his cheek, overwhelmed and completely lost.
When he looks up again, possessive darkness is twinkling in his irises, sweat is dripping from his forehead onto House’s collarbones as he pins his shoulders down and fucks him savagely, angling his thrusts to hit his prostate over and over again; and House gives a hard sob, thrashing in despair to rub his hardness against Wilson’s belly, fingers gliding over Wilson's perspiration-soaked skin, and he's growling "yes! Fuck yes!" so loud it hurts Wilson's ears, and everything is slick and tense and blinding in the blue half-light. You’re so hungry for my cock, aren’t you, love, thinks Wilson like a maniac, he's so gone now, not sure whether he said that out loud or not, the fiery ache in his loins is getting too much to withhold. He hears House pleading "James, James, harder, touch me..." and he’s pushing into him more urgently, watching his eyes losing their focus when he wraps his hand around his cock again, and he hears himself cursing with need, encouraging House to let go.
"Christ, fuck yes, come for me… oh fuck, I wanna feel it!" Wilson growls as heat ignites in the pit of his stomach, spreading to his thighs and his ass, he’s losing control and struggles to keep up the rhythm of his movements. "I’m close, so… fucking close… House… come with me… come all over me!" Then at last his pleasure multiplies and washes over him, his body curls on itself as he cries out, but somehow he manages to pry his eyes open and force his gaze into his lover's; and House is gulping for air with Wilson’s name on his lips while watching him come, riding out the last forceful snaps of his hips against his ass, and the throbbing, the wetness flooding his insides; and then he groans, pulling Wilson deeper in, pushing into his fist that has never stopped stroking him; and he shudders violently, crying out his ecstasy for his lover and for the world to hear as he spurts his release, white-hot and thick, onto his own stomach and Wilson’s chest and over his hand; and all the while Wilson keeps watching him with his last shreds of consciousness, last waves of joy, transfixed by the picture of him falling apart, burning it into his memory forever.
They lock in a soft kiss as they come down slowly, chests rapidly rising and falling, fingers finding each other's and twining unconsciously. Wilson rests on top of him, and House nuzzles his ear, murmuring incoherently once again, promises, loving affections. His lips leisurely caress Wilson's skin, enjoying their closeness, the peaceful aftermath, his solid weight on his body. "Feels so good to have you here," he breathes, his mouth brushing his neck once more before he feels Wilson lying down beside him and taking him in his arms. He’s exhausted, and as he's sinking into oblivion, he refuses to think about what will come tomorrow, what happened yesterday. Doesn’t matter now. Wilson, he thinks. Wilson.
The noise of the party has faded around them, the last rays of the artificial light have died out, and Wilson is blinking out the tears from his eyes, clutching at House’s warm body as though he’s drowning, inhaling his scent of chlorine and sweat and warm New Jersey evening like there’s no tomorrow; he’s watching over him, and as long as pain exists, he can never be sure that tomorrow is real.