A/N: In an effort to complete this story, and make it a decent length, I'm going to post every Friday at 8:00am EST. If I fail to do this, even if its 8:01, and there is no story posted yet, I give you permission to spam my yahoo inbox personally. The user name is lost_sheep_03, and it is at yahoo. I don't think they will allow me to post an e-mail address, but you are all intelligent. I feel horrible for letting it slip for so many years. But that just means that I have a better grasp at grammar, ha ha. Also keep in mind that I'm too impatient to recruit a beta. Hope you enjoy.

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The smell of cheese, meat, and garlic wafted into the hallway to great House as he opened the door to his apartment. He recognized it as the ziti Chase usually made when the three of them enjoyed the rare pleasure of all having off the next day. If anyone would ask, House would deny the feeling of disappointment that overcame him when he observed Wilson frantically following Chase's chicken scratch of a recipe.

It was clearly visible that Wilson was ready to pull his hair out. It wasn't the same without Chase. They weren't whole without the young intensivist. Their dynamic was clearly out of whack, and it was visible on Wilson's face like a tattoo. House was disgusted by what had happened. Chase always insisted on using protection with them for this very reason. Well, okay, maybe it was House's insistence. He didn't care to have a mini him wandering around.

House made it to the couch, wanting to enjoy the time he finally had to analyze the situation. It all seemed to start while Wilson was secretly meeting with an ex-wife. House remembers the accusations of Wilson continuing a relationship with the wench. House had found himself at the bar most nights. Chase never wanted to witness House getting shit-faced. Probably due to bad memories. Then he paused, brow furrowed. Chase had found him with a woman who may or may not have been a prostitute. Nothing came of it, but Chase had disappeared from that point forward. Chase had returned to his own apartment.

"Its not as good as he makes it," Wilson murmured as he came out with plates for each of them. "He never really measured anything out, and I couldn't get it to taste the same."

Wilson watched as House got up, and went into the kitchen. The sound of bottles clinking drifted into the living room, and Wilson new House was going through the liquor cabinet. His suspicions proved true when House returned with a bottle of Seagram's whiskey and two scotch glasses. Setting the glasses down, he poured them each a healthy helping, and looked down at Wilson meaningfully. "We can't let this go anymore. How are we going to fix this?"

Eyes nearly popping out of his head. "You actually want to talk about something? You're compulsive, you make rash decisions and hope for the best." Wilson took a long sip of the whiskey, ignoring the slight burning down his throat. Sighing, he rubbed at the back of his neck, and slowly peered at the other man. "You truly want to bring it up, and not wait until I corner you?"

House's own drink was almost gone. He rolled the cup in his hand thoughtfully. "I'm pretty sure I royally fucked up. You were seeing an ex, and I had been drinking."

"I should have grown some balls, and just told you I was giving her a second opinion. Apparently she believed her oncologist was an idiot." Leaning back and taking another sip, Wilson emptied the glass. "You shouldn't have gone through my messages. I told you I was going to be away for a couple days."

"I shouldn't have pushed him away while you were gone."

* * *

Chase felt as if he wasted two years of his life pretending to be in a loving relationship with two complete opposites. Two men that he loved like he had never been able to before. They taught him to let go of his insecurities. Even House had treated him kindly for the most part. House would always be House, but at home, he was a little less bite. Home really wasn't the word for it anymore. Chase swore as tears filled his eyes. It was the hormones, he would swear.

The box in front of him was full of little, dumb things he had collected over those two years that he wanted to share with the other men. It had been sitting under his bed, and he had been drawn to it tonight. On the top was a stack of photos that Wilson, or himself, had quickly snapped at different occasions. His favorite was a picture of House and himself at a charity banquet leaning against the bar. House had a scotch on the rocks, and a cigar hanging from his sly smile. Chase was reclining back with his elbows on the counter, jacket off, tie loose, and laughing at what ever House had been saying. Some kind of Al Capone reference. Chase had gotten a quick snapshot of Wilson at a monster truck rally. He had a ridiculous trucker's hat on.

As Chase dug through the various, little momentous, many emotions filtered through his mind. As he neared the bottom, to a framed picture that once sat on his night stand, before being packed away. The three of them had been eating outside when the weather had become amiable. His face in the photo was of utter shock, as an unusually playful House leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. He'd never seen House's face so full of love, and he was grateful that Wilson had captured the rare moment. Tears leaked from his eyes, and he felt his throat constrict with emotion.

The ring of Chase's cellphone interrupted him, and he cleared his throat. As he read the caller ID and answered the call, his face contorted with frustration. "You need to stop calling me."