"What's your fantasy?"

House opens his eyes. The room is dim, the last rays of sunlight struggling through the parts of the curtains. Soon it would fade to darkness and he'd have to turn on the light to be able to see his way through to the bathroom. Or maybe into the kitchen to get himself a drink. Whiskey, he thinks with a lick of his lips. Something to dampen his dry throat and soothe away the day to a pleasant numbness. Or bourbon. If he's got any bourbon left. Which, come to think of it, he's not sure he has.

"Hmm?"

He lolls his head on the pillow to look across at Wilson, who's stretched out on his side and watching House fixedly. The quickly fading light makes it hard to see; he strains his eyes to properly make out all of Wilson's features. The slope of his nose, the curve of his lower lip, his eyelashes, the way his jaw juts out when he props his head on his hand. Wilson looks strange in the shadows. Strangely beautiful, too. Like it's not really him.

House clears his throat. He arches his back, feels it pop in two places and then slowly draws himself onto his side so his body is aligned with Wilson's. He studies Wilson's face for a few seconds longer. Composed. Quiet. Calm. A few minutes earlier, Wilson's face had been anything but. Just contorted with raw emotion and nothing else while House fucked him hard and slow towards orgasm.

"If I tell you," House finally answers, "then it wouldn't be a fantasy."

Wilson lifts a hand and lightly traces the slope of House's collarbone with his fingertips. "Your secret would be safe with me."

House smiles; a faint, ironic upturn of his lips. "Nothing's safe when it comes to you."

House has a lot of secrets.

Many more than he's willing to admit he has, and some better kept than others. Like the fact that he likes men. Loves women. Maybe he would even say that he loves men, too. Except women are the ones that are supposed to loved. Men, on the other hand, are just meant to be liked and used. Needed in times of need, the kind of need that fucking a woman doesn't satisfy. That's what House thinks, anyway.

And he's okay with that. Sexuality has never been the key issue for House. The key issue has always been the one thing he's never willing to discuss: what Wilson really means to him.

He likes Wilson. But most of the time, he wants to hate him. Wants to because it's easier to be angry towards the one man he's let into his life and right under his skin, than to love him. House finds it's easier to keep Wilson at a safe distance if he focuses on hate, on anger, on all the other things Wilson stirs in him that he can explain. The things he can't explain are the things House likes to stay away from, likes to keep hidden and out of arm's reach. Perhaps even out of harm's way.

Because emotions make things messy. Emotions make things painful. Emotions make things real. And for as long as House has been fucking Wilson, he's never been willing to admit just how real this thing between them is. He just likes to think of it as friends with benefits. A fuck when he needs a fuck. Something convenient. A cheap way to trade pain for pleasure. Cheaper than hookers, that's for sure. Cleaner, too. Or so he hopes.

House is positive that if this little arrangement between them should ever become sticky and unpleasant, as relationships are wont to do, he'll simply sever ties. Cut him off and make everything go back to the way it was before sex ever became part of their weird, screwed up world.

After all, this isn't a relationship.

Or so House thinks.

House fucks Wilson. Hard.

He'd had a bad day. The kind of bad where everything was going wrong, where Cuddy was constantly hot on his tail, where his leg was killing him to the point where he was considering sawing it off.

The kind of bad where, when Wilson followed him into his apartment, House grabbed a hold of Wilson's scruff and kissed him angrily, taking out all of his pain and frustrations on Wilson's mouth. That's what Wilson is good for, after all – a punching bag, a thing House can use to de-stress and unload onto. A thing he can rely on to be there for him whenever he feels out of control of his own world. Something safe.

An irony, really, seeing he feels anything but safe with Wilson when it comes to anything deeper.

Wilson grips onto the pillow, burying his face into it and muffling his moans, while House pushes in hard, harder, in and out, until he's nothing but all sweat and a bundle of oversenstive nerve endings. He comes, a quiet, hitched sound that he swallows away before he can do something stupid like call out Wilson's name, then presses his forehead against the back of Wilson's shoulder.

He breathes. Fast. Hard. Feels Wilson writhing beneath him with an impatient kind of ache. This is the kind of sex he can't have with a woman, the kind of sex where he doesn't have to care about feelings or motives or consequences. This is the kind of sex where he doesn't have to care about anything except release.

Though his penis is starting to soften, he thrusts a few more times into Wilson until he slips out accidentally. Rolling off Wilson, he rolls Wilson with him, pulling him about until they're lying side by side, and he takes Wilson's erection firmly in his palm. One stroke, two, three, Wilson starts to come, and House watches the way his face twists into that look of pained ecstasy he wishes he could capture for more than the few mere seconds that it's there.

Wilson gasps and shoves House back, and House wipes his hand on the sheets. For the next five minutes their breathing and the bed springs creaking while House moves onto his back and Wilson onto his side drowns out the sound of the rain pouring down outside. House feels relaxed now. Sated. Calmer.

"Why we do keep doing this?" Wilson asks a few moments later, still a little breathless.

House freezes. He stares at the ceiling. "Because," he replies. And that's the only answer he's willing to give.

"What's your fantasy, House?" Wilson asks.

It's the dead of night. The rain is still pouring outside, hammering against House's bedroom window in a steady rhythm. House doesn't know how Wilson knows he's still awake. Maybe that's because, in some ways, Wilson knows him too well. Right down to his sleeping patterns. Right down to his thoughts, the ones he doesn't want Wilson knowing. His secrets. The best-kept ones.

Silence. "I told you."

"No, you didn't."

A pause. "I know. You don't need to know."

House hears the pillow beside him rustling; Wilson turning his head to look at him through the darkness. "Why? I tell you mine."

"That's because you're an idiot," House replies, indignant.

Silence. Again. "I wasn't talking about me. I was talking about you."

House doesn't want to talk about fantasies or reasons or anything else he and Wilson don't need to discuss. Talking about these things isn't safe. This isn't a relationship, after all. Just a thing. A screwed up, convenient thing that's not supposed to go any further than just a few convenient fucks a month.

"House," Wilson says firmly.

"Why does it matter? It doesn't," House snaps, and he shifts onto his side so his back is facing Wilson. He decides if he stares long enough at the wall, Wilson will shut up. Go to sleep. Hopefully be gone by the time House wakes up the next morning.

"If it doesn't matter, then why are we doing this?"

"Because," House says again after another pause, and that's the only answer he wants to give. But then he adds, "If you don't like it, nothing's stopping you from leaving."

He hears Wilson sigh. The bed springs creak as Wilson shifts about, and at first House thinks Wilson is getting out of bed. But no, he's just turning on his side, back facing House's back.

House finds himself incredibly glad that Wilson didn't do as he said.

Sometimes, House likes it best when Wilson fucks him. In fact, he likes it most when Wilson fucks him, always.

He feels strangely safest when he surrenders to Wilson. Cocooned, surrounded, consumed. He likes it when Wilson is all around him, above him, in him, everywhere. It's the kind of slow burning numbness that whiskey brings, or Vicodin. A kind of stillness. A place of complete calm. Belonging. Until they started doing this, House had forgotten what it felt like to belong to someone. It feels nice. Safe. Reassuring.

But of course, he can't say that to Wilson. That would be revealing one of his secrets. One of the big ones he doesn't want Wilson to know.

"Harder," House grunts, the side of his face scrunched deep into the pillow. "Harder."

Wilson is deep inside him. Deep and thick and hard and, oh yes, very, very real. House moves with him, urging Wilson's penis to slide that much deeper in and almost all the way out. And back in again, and out. Over and over. Wilson's hands close over his and he laces his fingers with Wilson's without even thinking about it, and he holds on to him for dear life. He turns his face into the pillow and gasps, then feels every muscle in his body tense with white-hot intensity. Pleasure sears through him, so fierce and sharp it's almost painful. But god, god, it feels good.

Drawing in a desperately needed lungful of air, he turns his head the other way on the pillow just as Wilson lowers his whole body onto him. Presses his face in against House's. So close House can feel Wilson's breath on his lips, his nose, warm and moist and real. So close House feels like Wilson's sharing a secret with him. He closes his eyes and grits his teeth while Wilson slams into him harder and harder until Wilson's shaking above him, trembling, jerking as he comes.

House tightens his grip on Wilson's hands. And for the longest time, even when Wilson is soft and no longer inside him, House keeps holding on. Keeps Wilson close. Because this is the only time he can have Wilson this close. He even allows Wilson to kiss his sweaty temple, then his cheek, and the corner of his mouth. He just squeezes Wilson's fingers within his a little bit tighter.

Soon, Wilson rolls off. And House remains on his front, immediately cold from the loss of contact and the loss of Wilson. His back is sticky and damp with sweat and his muscles are aching, burning. He listens to the sound of Wilson shifting about on the bed, tugging the sheets up with a crisp rustle. And then, then, Wilson's hand is suddenly on his lower back. Firm, warm, gentle. He feels his palm glide up his back, over his shoulder blade and then back down, down over the swell of his ass. Caressing. So gentle.

House keeps his face turned away from Wilson. He doesn't want Wilson to know his fantasy. His secret. That he craves this kind of thing, secretly. This is why he loves Wilson to be this close. It's as close as he can get him without revealing himself. And it's such an unsafe feeling. So unsafe. Because this isn't a relationship and House doesn't want to need Wilson like this.

Except he does.

He does because... Well. He doesn't want to admit it, even to himself. Some secrets, after all, are best left untouched.

Wilson's hand comes to a rest on his lower back, and House merely breathes a quiet sigh as Wilson moves in close and fits his body up alongside House's. Safe. Firm. Secure.

As House drifts into a mild sleep, he thinks to himself: I hope Wilson never leaves.

"I can't do this anymore," Wilson says.

House opens his eyes. Stares up through the darkness at the ceiling. It's still raining outside. The rain tap-taps against the window and a gust of wind picks up, blowing the rain against the glass in a sudden hard blast. His skin has cooled right down to the point where he feels almost cold.

He glances at the clock – 4.32AM – and then turns his head to peer at Wilson. Surely he misheard?

"This is..." Wilson continues. A pause. He seems to have trouble finding his words. "I... This is... House... No, I can't do this anymore."

House stares, even though he can't really see Wilson properly. "Why?" he finds himself asking.

"Because..." Wilson sighs heavily. "I just can't. This isn't healthy. This is screwed up. This is... I don't even know why we're doing this."

House opens his mouth to say the first thing that comes to his mind: don't leave. But he catches himself just in time. He closes his mouth again and turns his head away so he's looking towards the ceiling again.

"Fine by me," he says, his voice carefully impassive. Even though this is far from fine.

He hears Wilson make an exasperated, if not troubled sound. Followed by Wilson sitting up sharply. "God, House. Why won't you talk to me? This isn't fine! None of this is 'fine'."

"If you want to leave, go right ahead," House shoots back, anger starting to rise in him. Anger because he's starting to panic. He wants to hate Wilson so much right now. So much. Except all he can feel is damned panic. He tries his very hardest not to show it, though.

"House, talk to me for once, instead of pushing everything away," Wilson demands, close to shouting.

"There's nothing to talk about," House fires back.

He can just make out the look of anguish and outrage on Wilson's face. He sees Wilson gesturing wildly with his hands, as though he's lost for words, before he holds his hands up in surrender. "You know what? Fine. If that's the way you want to deal with it, have it your way."

House doesn't want to deal with it, period. He stays silent, feeling the bed dip as Wilson scrambles off. The lamp on Wilson's side of the bed suddenly flicks to life and House squints against the painful glare with one eye screwed shut. But as his eyesight adjusts to the light, he watches Wilson grabbing his clothes up from the floor and shoving them on angrily.

They've been through similar fights before, where Wilson demanded that House communicate and House refusing to do so. Wilson never ended up leaving in the end, no matter how much he threatened to do so. House likes to think Wilson isn't going to leave this time, either. So, he just continues to say nothing.

He flinches slightly at the sound of the front door slamming behind Wilson a few minutes later.

House decides that maybe Wilson is right. Maybe this thing should stop.

He doesn't return any of Wilson's calls for three weeks. He doesn't let Wilson into his apartment. He decides if he wants his secret to stay safe with him, he has to keep it that way. Keep Wilson away. Right away. Until the thought of losing Wilson stops hurting.

It will, eventually. House knows it will.

It has to.

It doesn't stop hurting.

House has never wanted to hate Wilson so much in all his life.

The night Wilson comes to House's apartment, it's pouring with rain again. Thundering, too, with lightning streaking across the dark, gloomy sky.

House refuses to let Wilson in at first. Refuses. But Wilson pushes his way in eventually and House is prepared to hit Wilson. To hurt him. To shout and yell until Wilson gets the fuck out of his apartment. He doesn't want to need Wilson this much, he really doesn't. It scares him to need him so much. He can't even explain why he does. He just feels addicted to Wilson in a way that he can't shake. God damn him. God damn him.

When Wilson grabs him, House grabs him back. Braces himself to shove Wilson away. And finds his mouth colliding with Wilson's instead. A fierce, vicious kiss, deep and hard and needy. Their tongue duel together, their teeth clash, their breathing comes in hard, raspy pants. Before House knows it, he's not longer fighting Wilson to make him leave and is instead fighting him to make him stay.

House stumbles with him down the hall to his bedroom, clothes torn off along the way, and at last when they're both naked House lets Wilson push him back to the bed. They fight, they scramble for dominance, force each other to the mattress and shower biting kisses onto each other's mouths and throats until Wilson finally pins House underneath him. Yes, yes, god, yes.

Arching his neck to Wilson's kisses, he grits his teeth and growls, struggling without really trying to break free of Wilson's grip as he feels Wilson's mouth all over him. On his chest, his stomach, his ribs, the sides of his neck. "Yes, god," House breathes. He grunts as Wilson suddenly starts shoving him over onto his back. "Wilson..."

"Shut up, House," Wilson replies quietly but viciously.

He feels Wilson place hard kisses down his back, over his shoulders and up against the nape of his neck. He's hard, oh god, so hard. Aching. Needy. So needy. He couldn't even keep this a secret anymore even if he wanted to. He can't. He simply can't. He doesn't want to love Wilson any more than he wants to need him. But he does. God, he does. And he wants to hate Wilson for it.

But instead of fighting back as Wilson slides his fingers deep inside him, House surrenders. He goes limp, gratefully still, gripping the sheets as he feels Wilson's fingers moving in and out of him. He rocks his hips with the motion, burying his face into the pillow as he pushes his hips up impatiently. Please, he thinks to himself. Please, Wilson, please..

He doesn't dare say it, though. But the deep, helpless sound of pleasure he makes as Wilson starts pushing into him says it all. He pushes back, urging Wilson deeper, and House has barely any time to breathe before Wilson is fucking him, hard. Fast. Relentlessly. He can feel Wilson's anger and frustration and passion with each stroke. In the tension of his body and his tight, controlled grunts.

The bed springs squeak and the headboard taps against the wall sharply a couple of times as the speed grows and grows, drawing House closer and closer to the edge. He wants so badly to touch himself, to bring himself to release right fucking now. But he can't. He can't, and he loves it. And hates it. And fucking loves it.

"God... Wilson," House manages, his voice tight. And then he hits climax. A hard, overwhelming orgasm that slams into him, wracking his whole body with pleasure so intense it hurts. Everything in him turns to white heat, and he's left gasping and desperate by the time he plunges back to Earth. Shaky and trembling and feeling strangely safe, even though he feels petrified at the same time. He swings an arm up and grabs around blindly for Wilson, his hand latching onto the back of Wilson's neck. And he yanks Wilson down, Wilson burying his face into the back of House's neck.

When Wilson hits orgasm, he calls out. He goes still and tense and House grips onto him tighter. He keeps holding on even after Wilson collapses on top of him. Keeps holding on. Tighter. Until Wilson reaches back and pries House's hand from his neck. Laces their fingers together. Lies still with him. Completely still. Completely against him, over him, completely surrounding him.

House is positive he can feel Wilson's heartbeat through his back. As real as the firm, solid press of Wilson's body on top of his. God, he wants to hate Wilson for needing him so much. For loving him. He wants to, but he can't. How can he hate someone he loves? He simply can't. He realises nothing is safe with Wilson. Nothing. And he's not okay with that. He's not okay with it.

Except... he is. In a way. Because he would rather feel unsafe with Wilson than feel unsafe without him.

House swallows. He closes his eyes and lets out a breath as Wilson presses a kiss to his cheek. Then to his temple. Then to the spot just behind his ear. "Wilson," House begins.

"House." Wilson says his name quietly but with a conviction that makes House fall silent. Wilson drops another kiss to the back of his neck, then another to his cheek. "I'll leave. If that's what you want."

House swallows again. He draws in a deep breath, trying to get his breath back under control. "No," he says. And he hopes Wilson understands what he means. He doesn't want to have to explain himself.

Luckily, he doesn't have to. Wilson rolls off him and fits up alongside his body, an arm draped over House's back. House turns his head the other way to meet Wilson's lips. He kisses him, soft and slow. Kisses him in a way that speaks the words he doesn't want to say.

"Don't worry," Wilson replies to the kiss in a whisper. "Your secret's safe with me."

end.