Quiet Desperation

Wilson looks around the living room with a disheartened sigh when he notices that, despite all of the unpacking and hours of pushing and pulling and haranguing House into half-way attempting to sort of help, that he's probably only half-finished in getting everything done. Although both bedrooms are set up, as are the couches, the television, and the entire kitchen, there are still some things not done; the piano is by the windows, but House is unhappy with its location--which Wilson knows because he's only mentioned it four times in the past hour.

Every time he mentions it, Wilson tells him that if he wants it somewhere else, he can move it himself, but he knows that tomorrow Wilson will be pushing the damn thing to wherever House desires. Wilson would blame House's refusal to help on his infarction (and considering that House seems to be rubbing his leg and putting on his most pathetic expression he can muster more often than usual, it seems House is expecting this, too) but then again, House never really helped Stacy move into his place, or Wilson move into Bonnie's, or anything like that, even before the infarction, and so Wilson feels no shame in calling House a lazy bastard and bitching at him.

House never denies it, but it does get him to pitch in with putting away the dishes.

When Wilson catches House staring out of their windows and at the deep, almost-burgundy sunset, Wilson sets aside the box holding all of his medical journals and joins him. It's a small, quiet moment between them when they both know they're staring at the sunset like overemotional artists teeming with a love for all things beautiful, but if neither of them comment on it, then they can both pretend it isn't happening.

That's what makes Wilson realize how bone-tired he is. It's late-November, and so it gets dark early, but when the crimson sky slowly fades to silky ebony like some sort of poet's wet dream, and he realizes he's been standing still for more minutes than he can remember, only half-heartedly rummaging through a box here and there so he can pretend (just like House is when he plunks a random key on his piano) that he's not actually gazing at the sunset and thinking about how beautiful and peaceful it is, he feels like it's hours later than it is.

"We can finish unpacking tomorrow," Wilson says as he toes a box aside, placing his hands on his hips as he looks around the living room. Although it's not nearly as finished as he had hoped it would be, it's not so bad. Luckily for him, he and House have tomorrow off as well as today, and so he's sure he can get the rest finished then.

House ambles away from the piano and towards the sitting room (which is really just a section near the fireplace.) They have two couches there, arranged in an L shape, so that the smaller couch (or rather, love seat, but Wilson doesn't like calling it that around House because it always gets strange looks when he does) is facing the fireplace, and the large couch perpendicular to the other is facing the wall where they are keeping the television.

House turns on the fireplace, and Wilson frowns at how that sounds in his head when he strolls into their new kitchen. It's electrical (or is it gas?) so that even though it does have a real fire, there is no wood to chop. As comfy as it is, Wilson finds it strange and almost a bold-faced lie to have a fireplace without a chimney. This is one of those times he wonders if he's been with House for far too long, but shrugs it off because even if he has, he doesn't care.

Setting up the kitchen similar to the way he always has makes it simple to find everything, although there had to be some changes in placement since cupboards weren't always where they should be in new homes. Without even bothering to ask, because he knows House wants some simply because Wilson wants some, he makes two mugs of hot cocoa--adding whipped cream to House's but leaving his plain because it seems healthier that way, even though it really isn't because he's drinking straight sugar and chocolate.

He's almost surprised to find that House isn't sitting on the couch, but is actually on the floor, cane laid beside him. His bad leg is straight out, but his good leg is bent, like his legs are half-crossed, and it's almost too easy to remember a younger, happier, more energetic House sitting Indian style on his living room floor, like they used to sit and watch television before the infarction; before two divorces that House was more than partially blamed for although it really was unfair because it wasn't as if Wilson ever denied anything House asked.

He sits beside House and hands over his mug of hot chocolate, staring at the fire that dances before them but doesn't crackle. The heat that washes over him like waves is calming, and he forgets that they haven't fully unpacked; it already feels like home.

"We used to have a fireplace," House says after a sip and a small moment of silence. "When we lived in Wyoming."

"You lived in Wyoming?" Wilson asks, mainly because House has always talked about the larger cities and the military bases he'd been to, and so it's a little strange to think of House in someplace like the country. Someplace dull and boring; he just screams adventure and excitement. Rock-climbing in Japan and deep-sea diving in Australia--that makes sense. Cow-tipping and manure chucking in Wyoming? It almost doesn't compute in Wilson's brain.

"Don't get too excited, Ennis. It was only for a few months," he replies. Wilson rolls his eyes and drinks his hot cocoa. "Dad always made me chop wood. I hated it at first, but . . . Well, you can really take your frustrations out when you're wielding a big axe. We never ran out of wood once I figured that out."

"My first wife had cousins in Montana. I chopped wood once."

"Once?"

"I couldn't get the axe all the way through. Always got stuck halfway."

"Guess those arm-cannons are deceiving."

Wilson sighs and sets his mug aside. "I was a bit scrawnier then."

"I've seen pictures."

Wilson remembers a time before he'd known House, and it's a bit like remembering a time when he was too young to understand what death really meant. It's so far away and seems like such a different life that he wonders if most of it is just made up, because it certainly doesn't feel real without House in the memory beside him.

He thinks of the time he caught House looking through his scrapbook, and how when Wilson mocked him for being sentimental, House turned it around on him and teased him for looking perpetually twelve until he turned thirty.

There really isn't much for them to say after that, so they sip their cocoa in silence, and Wilson realizes that neither of them have bothered to turn any of the lights on, and so their home is dark, the golden and red flames reflecting off of their floor and their faces.

Detachedly, Wilson knows this is romantic, and he knows he shouldn't dwell on that because he's sitting beside his male best friend, but it's not like House seems to care so why should he? They live together, so those thoughts are bound to pop up. And it's different now--this is different than Wilson camping out on his couch, or House staying with him because he's out of Mayfield and needs some support.

This is different than cooking for House and thinking it's almost domestic, and that this is what it would be like if they were 'together' because in a way, now they are together. This isn't about ruminations and half-formed what-if thoughts. This is different than all of the times Wilson allowed his thoughts to stray off into the unsafe non-platonic zone, where he wonders how it would be if he just threw away all of his doubts and fears and just gave society the finger and lived with his best friend; his boyfriend; his lover. This is different, because they moved in together--he knows it really shouldn't feel different because nothing has changed and nothing will change, but the thoughts that he always refused to believe he had are surfacing again.

"Cuddy's going to figure it out eventually," House says after a long silence. Actually, Wilson doesn't know if it's been long at all--it couldn't been only for a few seconds, but time doesn't exist when he's with House. Not really.

"I know."

"To think, her and Lucas could've been the ones living in a loft with a foyer and a fireplace. Sucks to be them." House hums, as if the thought has just occurred to him, and maybe it has.

Wilson chuckles and takes a large drink of his hot chocolate, smiling at the flames that dance and tease him with thoughts he half-heartedly pretends he doesn't have, because that's what he always does. He's lying when he says this is the first time he's actually realized this; he lies to himself when he tells himself, well, gee, he's never thought about it like that. He hasn't once thought that Lucas and Cuddy could've been unpacking, taking turns playing with Rachel and discussing which curtains to put up and where the silverware should go. He certainly hasn't thought that it could've been Lucas lying face-down in Cuddy's bed, doing vulgar hip-thrusts against the mattress to "test this thing out to make sure all the hussies you bring home have some cushioning." And he definitely hasn't thought that it could've been Cuddy and Lucas sitting in front of the fireplace with mugs of chocolate, drinking it and just sitting in silence, because he doesn't have those thoughts.

Except that he does, and they've been popping up all day, and although he allows a few seconds to think about it, he always shoves them away, because that's what he does, and obsessing over them will get him nothing except heartbreak.

"Yeah, I really shafted her, didn't I?"

"Damn right you did. You learn from the best, though. They could've been having sappy, romantic sex by firelight, and instead, they get to mope about how poor, defenceless Cuddy lost the perfect loft to a vindictive oncologist with half a liver." House sneaks a sly glance at him, and Wilson isn't positive what he's trying to get at, but he's sure it's about his self-important jerk of a former friend, since House threw in that comment about his liver, and House rarely throws in comments meaninglessly.

The sting that rears up in his chest precedes the insightful advice about the people you love not being the ones you're with when dying. It's such an idiotic thing for Wilson to be upset over, and he knows it. But he can't help but want to shake some sense into him, and tell him that he's wrong--that the people you want when you're dying are the ones you want when you're living. That Ashley is just a mid-life crisis; that she's just some child with an older man complex, and that he would've been better off buying a Corvette.

Because, really, Wilson thinks that this is what he's wanted all along; sitting beside House by firelight, neither of them expecting anything. It was what he wanted during surgery, and it's what he wants now.

"She's going to hate me when she finds out we moved in together," Wilson says, just to get it onto the topic of Cuddy. Bitching about Cuddy seems like fun; honestly, he has more than a few things on his chest relating to Cuddy he'd like to blather on about, and none of them are very kind.

"Moved in together. Huh. Sounds funny when you say it like that," House points out, then with a large gulp, downs the rest of his hot cocoa.

Wilson wonders if he should at least have the decency to pretend to blush, but decides it would be stupid since that would be admitting there's something to blush about. He swirls the rest of his chocolate and takes a longer drink than what he's been taking. "Well, it's not untrue."

"Guess not."

He takes another drink, then sets it aside again, before sticking his legs out to stretch his muscles. "It's not like we haven't stayed together before."

"Ah, but there's a difference between just staying with you and living with you. Moving in with you."

Once again, Wilson pretends like he hasn't realized this before. "Well, I guess when you put it like that, it does sound strange." He leans back on his elbows and stares ahead of himself, and knows that he hasn't looked at House at all since they sat in front of the fire. He knows that he really hasn't looked at him since they started moving in, except for to gauge where he was, or when House wasn't looking back.

"Now you can't going running home to your hotel or your little girly-friend. Now you gotta come running home to me."

Wilson scoffs, and he knows House is thinking the same thing he is. "Even when I was married or dating someone, I was still running home to you." He can't pretend like he accidentally spoke; it's not as if they were drunk. He was perfectly aware of what he was saying, but now, he almost regrets speaking, because it sounds sentimental, and it's something that's leading his thoughts to places he likes to forget he has; thoughts he tells himself he doesn't have about House, and when he does have them, he quietly tells himself that it's only in an objective manner.

House mimes wiping a tear from his cheek and faux-sniffs--Wilson half-sees this through his peripherals, because it's too intimate if they lock gazes at the moment.

They both chuckle, and Wilson sits up a bit more so that he can balance properly while drinking the rest of his cocoa.

When the empty mug clinks back against the floor, House inhales quietly, and Wilson glances briefly at his face, but not at his eyes.

"When you think about it . . ." House begins, and he almost sounds unsure. ". . . it does make . . . sense."

House could be talking about moving in together, or he could be talking about something else entirely. He's letting Wilson decide.

Wilson doesn't know what to say, because he doesn't know if he wants to admit there is something else to discuss other than just living together, and he isn't sure House really wants to, or that if he does now, if he will in a few moments.

"We bought a house, Wilson. We're moving in together. It's not like you can kick me out or go off to some hotel room," he continues when Wilson stays quiet.

Theoretically, Wilson can still kick him out--even though he and Bonnie moved in together, and he and Julie moved in together, they still kicked him out. But he understands what House is saying, because really, up until this point, it really only had been a perpetual sleepover. At any moment, House could up and leave, or be forced to go, because he'd just been staying with Wilson, not living with him.

It seems kind of permanent now--in a way that signing a marriage certificate should, but it never really did--not like this. It seems like forever, although in all honestly, it always has felt that way. Almost as if Wilson's hoped, or known, it would come to this--moving in with House, and living with him. Permanently. Because really, it has.

The idea of it should be daunting and frightening, but he realizes that waking up every morning to see House with him, and cooking for him, and yes, even arguing, doesn't seem wrong. In fact, it seems marginally better than okay. Coming home to House, always, isn't something he wants to admit he's always sort of fantasized about, but he has, and now that it's true, it doesn't seem like it was ever really impossible--like it was always supposed to happen.

The permanence of it isn't something he's felt since . . . ever, and if he has felt it before, he can't remember it, so it doesn't really matter.

"Do you have a problem with this?" Wilson inquires after a few seconds, settling back onto his elbows again, and continuing to watch the fireplace, feeling the heat of it on his face. It's almost uncomfortable how hot it is, but he isn't sure if it's really the fire or something else that's making him feel flushed.

"Nope." He pops the P as he speaks, and Wilson knows what he's talking about. It's not about moving in together, and it never was--he knew before, but now he's allowing himself to accept it.

Continuing the conversation means there's something to talk about, and he knows what that means. He does it anyway, but he's going to keep it at a level where House can interpret what he wants, because even if House is a dick, he's been allowing Wilson to do the same. He also knows House is closed-off around emotional topics, and so if it's simpler for him to pretend they're talking about a house and not their relationship, then so be it.

"It's just going to be the two of us here, you know," Wilson says, and through his peripherals he watches House shift, and he hopes he hasn't gone too far--but House started it. Right? Or was it Wilson who began this whole thing? And when did it begin, anyway?

"It's always just been the two of us," House replies. Wilson nods in agreement, and he knows that House is staring at him, but he can't bring himself to meet his eyes, so he keeps looking at the fire, dancing away, and it's almost too quiet without the crackling, and he misses the sound of wood burning. "Do you have a problem with that?" House asks in a voice just above a whisper.

"No," he answers.

"Why not?"

It doesn't come to him in the form of some great epiphany. Lights don't flash, his mind doesn't reel, and the world doesn't spin off of its axis. He doesn't panic, and he isn't nauseous. It just sort of makes sense to him suddenly. Everything is still and quiet; it's too late for lunch traffic and too early for dinner traffic; the fire is on, but there's no wood to crackle. All he can hear is the both of them breathing.

This is the sound of Wilson realizing he's in love with House.

Really, he's known it for years, but it's just something he kept at bay, just like someone knowing that he will one day die, but he doesn't really understand that until he's staring down the barrel of a gun. But this isn't frightening at all--it just is what it is.

He finally turns his head to look at House, and he isn't really surprised to see House is openly gazing at him. His blue eyes are searchlights, and they're drifting over his face; studying him, trying to find something, and Wilson has a pretty good idea of what.

He wants to tell House he loves him, but he doesn't know if he should. He's sure it's written all over his face, and House isn't an idiot, but saying it out loud . . .

"Say it," House orders, and Wilson doesn't wonder how he knows.

"I love you," he tells him, and he feels a bit like an idiot, and wonders if House did as well, two years ago, flat on his back in a hospital bed and saying those words.

House nods, just like Wilson did, and puts his hand on the side of Wilson's face, as if holding him there so he won't pull away. Wilson doesn't have hair that falls across his forehead anymore, but House brushes his fingers across his temple anyway, and then he's leaning forward.

When his lips brush Wilson's, they're softer than he's imagined. It might just be in contrast to the harshness of his beard, though. He wonders if this whole thing has been a set-up; staring at the sunset, turning on the fire, and sitting beside it. But if this was a set-up, then it wasn't the only one, and Wilson can't help but think of all of the other times it seemed House planned something out like this, and he was just too oblivious or scared to notice.

The small, chaste kiss is in the past now, and their mouths are inches apart, Wilson leaning back on his elbows, legs spread out in front of him, and House is leaning on his side, holding his face and eyes half-mast. Wilson leans in this time, and although he presses his mouth to House's, it doesn't feel like a kiss--it feels almost like a gentle nudge before House responds gently.

It's unsure and chaste, but Wilson likes it anyway. They continue ghosting their lips over the other's mouth until House breaks the ice by barely flicking his tongue against Wilson's bottom lip, and he responds by doing the same. Their tongues touch a second later, and one of them whimpers but he doesn't know who, and then their heads are tilting and the tongues are slipping past each other.

He tastes whipped cream, and remembers that he didn't put any on his hot chocolate, and swipes more of the flavour for himself. He closes his eyes against the feel of House's stubble scraping at his jaw, and although it's different, it doesn't feel wrong.

His back is pressed against the floor now, and the weight of House half-draped on him isn't pressuring or claustrophobia-inducing like it can sometimes feel, and Wilson doesn't have to wonder if that means anything. The kiss isn't rough, but it's sure; determined. Someone keeps whimpering, and it might be him, but then again, it could be House.

His heart is pumping harder, but not necessarily quicker, and before he really knows it, his hands are slipping under House's tee and across his back, and this time, it's definitely House who makes a noise. He pulls away for the briefest of seconds before kissing him again, and Wilson can feel the goosebumps rising against his fingertips.

House is kissing him into the floor; harder than before, but still not rough. He can feel House's muscles moving underneath his palms, and he dances his fingers up and down his spine and across his ribs--he even dips down and slides a hand across his backside briefly, before moving his hand back along his skin until it's settled beside his shoulder blade.

House pulls away if only to start pressing hot, barely open-mouthed kisses to his jaw, and Wilson stares at the ceiling to notice it's stained orange with the light from the fire, flickering abstract images across the paint, and then House bites down on the side of his neck. Normally he'd be embarrassed about the delirious moan that escapes his lips, but with the way House is licking and sucking his bite mark, he couldn't really care at the moment.

Mouth against his flesh, he starts peppering his collarbone; the hollow of his throat; his Adam's apple. He's suckling and nipping and mouthing, and each stroke of his tongue is like adrenaline shooting to his heart and he's just scratched his nails down House's back, and the delicious sound House makes because of it makes Wilson echo the same noise.

He's dimly aware of the fact they are rocking ever so slightly against each other, chests scraping. House is dragging noises out of him that he hasn't uttered for ages, and he scratches his back again. Arching his back brushes his groin against Wilson's hip, and Wilson can feel that House likes that particular sensation. He grinds against his hip again, and scrapes his teeth across Wilson's collarbone.

House's hand is sliding across Wilson's torso now, and he can barely feel the pressure from it through his sweater. House keeps mouthing his neck and nipping his skin, and Wilson is gasping and tilting his head to allow access to whatever point House decides he wants to pay attention to. Then House cups Wilson through his jeans and grinds his palm, and Wilson almost sees stars.

The whooshing in his ears is loud and rushes past with each heartbeat, and House is either humming or grunting against the top of his chest, rocking himself against Wilson's hip at the same speed he rubs life into his cock. Wilson is thrusting upward into his palm, forcing the friction--forcing his hip into the apex of House's jeans.

House is swallowing Wilson's moans a second later, tongue delving into his mouth, gripping him tight through the denim, and it's starting to get uncomfortable, the way the zipper is digging into his hardening flesh, but the feel of House groping him is addicting. He can't stop grunting and practically humping House's hand.

He reaches down and grips House's backside, squeezing, and House pulls away, still moving against him, and still rubbing him. His pupils are blown and his lips are swollen. His breath smells of chocolate vaguely, and is hot on Wilson's face. Then he's gone; standing, leaving Wilson on the floor, breathless and tingling and hard, and judging by the tenting of House's jeans, he's not the only one.

"Up," he orders in a gruff whisper.

Wilson obeys, and as soon as he's on his feet (although his legs feel a bit like Jell-O) House is kissing him thoroughly and languorously, hands on his hips and crushing their pelvises together. The slow thrusting makes a hiss and clink when their zippers slide, and House whispers something but Wilson can't hear it through the sound of his heart pounding in his chest and head and thrumming throughout his body.

They're making their way through the darkened living room, and apparently neither of them can really see because they knock over one of the boxes. House chuckles against Wilson's throat for a second, then bites down on a patch of skin and Wilson tries to remember the layout of their new home so they can stumble somewhere productive.

House is leading, which isn't surprising, but what is surprising (to Wilson anyway) is the fact they aren't moving hastily, or thrusting each other against walls and moaning like wanton cats in heat. Whenever he allowed his mind to go here before, it was always hasty and quick and rough with years of building tension exploding. Instead, they are slowly, but surely, making their way half-blindly (the light from the fire carries a bit more than Wilson expected) through the living room, hitting boxes and tripping every now and again, but never losing their balance too much.

House's limp is more noticeable with his body against his, but the grunts he's making don't sound painful so Wilson doesn't bring it up or remind him that his cane is on the floor still, because it feels too good to interrupt the moment with something that'll probably annoy him. Their pelvises rocking and bumping and grinding together is intoxicating, as is the feel of his hands sliding up House's shirt and across his abdomen and chest, and how House keeps his hands pinned on Wilson's waist, leading him through the loft backwards. It's clear that House already has where he wants to go in mind, and Wilson knows that he's going to one of the bedrooms--but which one? His, or Wilson's? It doesn't matter, and it never has. Wilson's office might as well have been House's and vice versa--so why wouldn't it be the same for their rooms?

One of them stumbles (Wilson thinks it might have been him--he's not used to making out with people taller than he is, and limping at that, so it may have thrown him off) and they both lose their balance, but it doesn't really deter them. In fact, Wilson's back hits a wall, and it shocks him because he didn't realize he was near one, and then House is pressed against him, noses brushing together but their lips aren't touching, the slow slip and crush of their pelvises driving Wilson crazy, and he tilts his head back so that it thwacks gently against the wall, mouth open as he gasps repeatedly at the ceiling.

House removes his hand from Wilson's hips finally and slides them underneath his sweater, and his hands are colder than Wilson expected them to be. He hisses between his teeth and then chuckles deeply so that it sounds like more of a groan and informs; "Your hands are cold."

"They'll warm up," House promises, and presses a soft kiss to his temple, then presses softer kisses down the side of his face until he's sucking on Wilson's earlobe, scratching his teeth against he sensitive flesh and canting his waist forward with each lick. He's playing with Wilson's chest in the same way he'd been playing with House's back and wonders if this is payback for teasing him.

The noises they're both making aren't as loud as Wilson imagined they would be; in fact, they're barely there. It's the quiet keening noises that assault his ears next and he knows he's the one making them because House just moved his ministrations from his ear to his throat, and the wet heat of his tongue there is almost maddening.

House pulls away and Wilson glares at him for doing so, but forgives him when House slips his sweater over his head. They're far enough away where the fire can't reach them, but he's sure that House is staring at him. It feels like he is, at any rate. House's hands are on his bare shoulders, and he's just looking at him, and Wilson wishes the lights were on because he wants to read his expression, but then he realizes that if the lights had been on, then House probably wouldn't have been gazing so openly at him, so he takes what he can get.

When House kisses him next, it's soft again, and with no tongue. Wilson's heart aches suddenly at the feel of it; although it was brief, it feels desperate, and he gets the feeling that House has wanted this for a long while; perhaps longer than Wilson has, but definitely longer than Wilson has allowed himself to realize he's wanted it.

Wilson pushes himself away from the wall and wraps his arms around House, pulling him into an embrace that's not so much erotic as it is a hug. Their erections are still pressed to each other, straining against denim, and the feel of House's shirt against his bare chest isn't unpleasant. Theirs cheeks brush and Wilson nuzzles against him briefly, and House breathily snickers before kissing his shoulder.

Wilson kisses his cheek and then pulls away from the embrace so that he can kiss his mouth. House's arms are still wrapped around him, but Wilson allows his hands to rest on his clothed chest. Slipping his tongue past House's teeth elicits a moan, and he responds slowly. Wilson doesn't know how long they stand there, stroking their tongues together and grinding their pelvises at a leisurely pace, but eventually they start moving again, House's nimble fingers playing at his spine and lower back, sneaking over his rear every now and then.

They're in the foyer when they stop moving, and House pulls away, gliding his hands down Wilson's bare chest for a second before kissing him deeply. Wilson slips his hand under House's tee again, and then pulls away so he can take the shirt off. He throws it behind him and he can sort of hear it hit a wall and slide to the floor; that's how quiet it is. When they kiss again, he can feel House's grin.

When House cups his bulge again, he hisses at the feel of it. House unbuttons his pants and Wilson grunts. The sound of his zipper is almost deafening, and then House slips his hands into his boxers and grips him. This time, the moan is not quiet; it's loud and it echoes--or maybe it doesn't, but the place is so silent that it sounds like it did.

His head falls forward and rests against the top of House's chest as he gasps and moans and whimpers into his flesh, randomly ghosting his lips to his collarbone and licking his salty skin and bucking forward, the sound of his own needy sighs and groans not nearly as erotic as the sound of House's hand slipping over his cock quickly, or the fact that House's breath is laboured, like giving Wilson a hand-job is turning him on, too.

House is moving them again, Wilson stumbling backwards, and he's glad House is apparently stronger than he looks because he's practically using him to stay upright. He can't really think, with the way it feels to be finally making out with his best friend as he shoves him against a door and jerks him, fist tight and quick and experienced.

His head falls back and he's whispering House's name over and over again, but House shuts him up with a hard kiss and a twist around the head of his cock, and he moans into his open mouth. Wilson's hands are at House's pants now, frantically unbuckling, and the heady groan House forces into Wilson throat is enough to make Wilson buck forward. The belt is gone and is thrown somewhere in the foyer with a thunk, and House uses his free hand to twist the knob and push the door open.

Without the door behind him Wilson almost falls but House doesn't let him. His free arm wraps around his waist and while the other works his erection.

The fact they are in one of their rooms is daunting enough to make Wilson pull away. Although it would've been too easy to finish this up in front of the fireplace, it was important to House for it to happen on a bed. Was it because being on the ground hurt his leg? Or was it because this way, it meant more--it wasn't just a cheap, meaningless fuck?

There's a streetlamp on outside, or maybe it's the moon--it doesn't matter--but it's enough for Wilson to see the look in House's eyes. It's passionate and desperate, yes, but there's something else there--something soft, and Wilson thinks it the same something that made his heart ache earlier.

The grip House has on his penis softens and the strokes are slower, and Wilson licks his bottom lip and closes his eyes briefly against the sensation. His hand is gone and Wilson whimpers at the loss, but then House is pushing down his pants and boxers. Wilson helps him. They're both shoeless (no point in wearing shoes if they aren't going to leave the house; it was all about unpacking today) and he kicks them both aside. Naked, he almost feels awkward--he's not as young or thin or attractive as he used to be, but when he sees the expression on House's face when he looks over him, he feels like he is.

He steps forward, hard on against House's jeans and it feels good but uncomfortable at the same time. Pressing his lips against his gently, barely flicking his tongue against his lip as permission to enter, he places his hands against House's chest. House's tongue grazes Wilson's and then they're massaging each other, the wet sucking noise of it loud; as loud as the sound of House's palm finding Wilson's cock and stroking him again.

Wilson unbuttons House's pants and undoes the zipper. He puts his hands on House's waist, ready to push the pants down, and then House is grabbing his wrists, stopping him. Wilson pulls away to ask what's going on, but then he sees the fear in House's eyes, and he can't believe it didn't occur to him until then. House's leg was twisted and gnarled and deformed, and he doesn't want Wilson to see it.

It's stupid, really, if he were to think logically about the situation. Wilson has seen him naked before; he's seen the scar. He saw it when he took care of him after Stacy left, even though that had only be clinical. Still, even then, House refused to look at him when he checked it. Afterwards, there were times Wilson accidentally saw it if House stepped out of the shower while he was peeing, or walked in on him naked. Wilson won't lie and say that seeing it had never bothered him, because at first it had--not because it made House ugly, but because it meant he'd never be able to use his leg to the extent he was used to again. After awhile, though, he stopped feeling pity when he saw it, and it sort of just became a part of House--he's a jerk, his eyes are blue, and he's got a scar.

Logically, House should know Wilson doesn't care, but some there are some things even House can't be cold and calculating and objective about. House has told him about the few times a hooker has gasped and jumped away at the sight of his scar. He's told him about the time House managed to pick up a girl from a bar and when they were about to have sex, she saw it, looked at him with disgust, and told him she couldn't finish. He even told Wilson that when Stacy had come back and they'd had their little affair, that he wouldn't take off his pants until after they were under the sheets, because the first time they were together, Stacy couldn't even look at the scar.

Slowly and carefully, Wilson caresses House's mouth with his own. It takes a few seconds for House to respond, but soon they're kissing languorously; slowly but deeply, and then House's hands are sliding up Wilson's arms and then around to the back of his neck, so that he can guide his head the way his wants.

Wilson pushes his pants down, and isn't really that surprised to find House isn't wearing underwear. House toes his pants aside, and is backing Wilson up until he feels the mattress against he back of his knees. To say House pushes Wilson onto the bed sounds wrong; it's more like he guides him there. It isn't until Wilson is on his back that he realizes it isn't his mattress they were on, but House's.

They are in House's bedroom, and it makes sense. It feels right that they would be there. He looks at the boxes that are pressed up against the wall, at the light that's filtering in through the window, and at the bottle of hand lotion that's on the bedside table just as House is reaching for it. Wilson remembers helping House set up his mattress and when he'd put the lotion beside the bed, how he'd mocked him. He remembers House saying; "What, like you don't have some in your room?" and how he shut up, because he keeps his in the drawer.

He wonders if House planned even this out, because there's a smirk on his face that seems smug when he squirts lotion into his palm and then strokes him from base to tip, slicking him and making his cry out when he starts jerking him faster, forcing a moan with each upward stroke.

When his hand disappears, Wilson opens his eyes (not realizing he had closed them) to see House swinging his bad leg over his body, so that he's straddling him. Wilson understands what this means and what's going to happen next, and he doesn't know if he's panicking of if he's just excited. Maybe it's a mixture of both.

House meets his eyes, and the only reason he can see the blue, despite the very low light from outside, is because he already knows the colour. He raises his eyebrows, as if asking Wilson if it's okay to continue, although it really should be the other way around since Wilson is going to be inside him. He nods. Or he doesn't. Either way, something he does lets House know he's ready, that he wants to, and then . . .

And then it's this.

It's hot and tight and ohmygodpleasegodyesohfuck.

When House chuckles he realizes he said that last strain of words aloud. Colours and lights are exploding in front of his eyes when House sinks all the way down. He stares at House to see his jaw clench and his face twist, and it's not in pleasure. "House . . . are you o--"

"I'm fine," he interrupts, and Wilson should have realized not to ask. "It's just been awhile."

That sentence means he's done this before, and for a second, Wilson is irrationally jealous. It's stupid and hypocritical. Wilson has had sex with men before, too.

House is moving atop him, breathing heavily, and the slick, wet sounds of him are echoing around the room. His teeth are still clenched, and Wilson wants to feel bad for putting him in pain, but he can't; not when he's slipping inside him. He can't feel guilt when House tightens himself and grunts; when he rocks in such a way pleasure shoots up his spine and makes him arch his back and thrust deeper inside of him.

When House tilts his head back, mouth open, letting out a long but quiet moan, Wilson bites down on his lip and whimpers. House starts moving faster, and the wet, tight heat surrounding him is almost too much, but not enough at the same time.

Wilson runs his hands across his chest, and the smooth, flat planes of his body aren't as unfamiliar as they should be--he's been with men before, but knowing that this time the body belongs to House is a whole new sensation. The last time he was with a man was over the summer, when House was in Mayfield, and Wilson told himself that there wasn't a correlation when obviously there was. He allows himself to admit it now.

Sweat slicked skin glides underneath his palm when he runs it across his abdomen, clenching his jaw at the feel of House sinking down slower than he had been a few seconds ago, until he's embedded fully, and Wilson holds his waist, guiding him so he can thrust forward and buck and move and House grunts when Wilson angles his hips upward a little.

House moves up and down and forward and back and grunts and breaths and Wilson knows he's whispering half-formed curses but he can't help it; not when House is moving like that. Trying to keep weight off of his bad leg means he's angled awkwardly, but Wilson has just noticed it now. When he lifts his head off the pillow to look at House, he notices that House has moved one of his hands to his thigh. He presses down on it briefly, then clenches his jaw, and Wilson understands that he's trying to hide the pain. He knows that his leg is bothering him, and it's really not a surprise since he's been doing all the work, riding him the way that he is.

Wilson grabs House around the waist and turns them so that he's on top now, and House's sigh sounds almost grateful. Wilson can thrust as he wishes now, and he does so. House's eyes roll back and he says a word that almost sounds like Wilson's name, but not quite.

He kisses House, swallowing his tongue, the intensity almost bruising, and he speeds up his thrusts because he can't hold back much longer, but he's not going as fast as he could, and it's still got a sense of ease behind the movement--it isn't rough. He pulls away, breathless, and House wraps his arms around him, pulling them together; as if anchoring him there.

Wilson is kissing his chest now, licking away the salty sweat, tonguing the hollow of his throat, and swearing into his skin. He can feel House tightening around him, and it seems that House doesn't know whether to hold on, or map his back, or grab his ass and force him deeper, because he's alternating so quickly it's making Wilson dizzy.

House's cock is trapped between their stomachs and Wilson's aware of this because he's pressing down on it purposely. He's licking House's shoulder, biting it, kissing the side of his neck, and he's begging--he doesn't know why, but he's not the only one. They're not as noisy as he thinks they are, but then again, everything's amplified in silence.

They're kissing again, but without real precision--it's sloppy and wet and open-mouthed and then House is holding onto him again, waist bucking forward and arching his back and Wilson is sucking on his Adam's apple. He bites down on his shoulder, and then House is breathing hard and fast and then there's a strangled moan, and Wilson feels him coming against his stomach, wet and warm, and House is sliding his cock against the lubrication and tightening around him, babbling incoherently.

For one whole second, Wilson feels absolutely nothing. It's like not existing; a split second of total, perfect nothingness.

Then the world is crashing all around him, and that nothing becomes everything, and he doesn't know if he's crying out or screaming or gasping, but its feels fantastic and beautiful and why, oh God why, didn't they do this before?

He doesn't know when, exactly, he comes down from his high, but when he realizes it, he's boneless on House's chest, who is still holding onto him gently, almost like their hug from earlier. Wilson presses a kiss to his shoulder, then rolls off, because he can't fall asleep on his crippled best friend, now can he? That would just be rude.

He stares at the ceiling, sucking in breath after breath, and House is suddenly grasping his hand, like he's scared of the dark and is clinging onto the first thing he can. It's beyond silent and still in the bedroom, and all he can hear is the both of them breathing, and he squeezes back.

After what could've been hours or seconds (but was most likely just a few minutes) House opens the drawer on his bedside table and pulls out a few tissues. Wilson doesn't wonder why it's there; he's got a box of Kleenex in his room, too. House carefully cleans the both of them off. He doesn't speak, but it's almost endearing the way he does it.

Then he tosses the crumpled up tissue aside, and Wilson snorts. Seems pointless to clean them up and just dirty the floor. House just smirks at him.

Wilson is exhausted, even though it really isn't all that late. He's been unpacking all day, and he's just had sex. Sex with House should feel like some great big development, but it doesn't. Maybe it hasn't sunk in yet--or maybe it never will. Maybe there's nothing left to realize.

Wilson yawns and rubs his hand over his face tiredly.

House plops onto his side, and although Wilson is on his back, he tilts his head so he can look at him. He's naked and almost shiny with sweat, the lamplight (or was it moonlight?) from outside making him half-visible. "You sleepy?" House asks.

Asking him if he's sleepy sounds ridiculous for some reason, but he nods. "Yeah."

House's eyes drop away form Wilson's face and onto his chest. "You can sleep in here if you want."

It sounds stupid. He just had sex with him so of course he wants to sleep with him. But he realizes that House is just self-conscious and worried, and if they had been in Wilson's room instead, he probably would've asked, too.

"Okay," he says, and their eyes meet again.

This time, he doesn't have to already know House's eye colour to see the blue.

He doesn't know how long he's been awake, but he just realizes that he is, and has been for awhile. It's early enough for the sky outside to be a steely grey, but he can't see any real sunlight. It's warm under the blankets and he's on his side facing away from House. House's arm is draped leisurely over his side, and he can feel tiny spurts of air against the back of his neck.

Wilson moves to get out of bed, but the arm around him suddenly tightens so that he can't move. Wilson smiles, then manoeuvres himself so that he's on his other side, and facing House. House's arm is no longer tight, but it is still around him. He puts his arm around House too.

House opens one eyelid to peek at him, sees that Wilson is awake, and closes it again.

"Faker," Wilson accuses.

"Pervert," House retaliates.

Wilson is still half-tired, and they don't have work so it's not like they have to get up, so he closes his eyes and scoots closer to House. House does the same, and their bodies are flush against one another. They're still naked, so their penises are touching. It isn't until House rearranges himself and through default brushes them together that some life sparks into it. It's not enough to make him hard, but it's enough to make him smile.

House rearranges his hips so that it happens again, firmer this time, and Wilson has the feeling he's doing it on purpose. Wilson presses against him a little more, eyes still closed, and then they're rocking against each other, hot breath dancing across his face.

Their noses brush but they don't kiss. The rocking is slow and gentle and it's relaxing more than arousing. The rhythm is lulling him, and he lets out a sleepy sigh, allowing his hand to slide down House's side and onto his leg. His fingers stop at the edge of House's scar and then slide back up, and House mirrors Wilson's sigh.

House stops rocking a few seconds later and it's clear by the way his chest is moving that he's asleep. Wilson could feel annoyed, but he really doesn't--he is tired, too, and a few seconds later, he allows himself to drift back into sleep.

The sun is high enough to bathe House's entire room in light when Wilson next wakes. House is on his back, mouth open slightly, a tiny bit of drool hanging on the side of his lip. Wilson is on his stomach, forehead pressing against House's shoulder, one arm flung above his head and the other across House's abdomen.

Sleep-induced haze prevents him from recognizing his surroundings at first, and then he remembers he's in his new loft, sleeping there for the very first time. It doesn't hit him that, oh right, he's in House's bed and not his own until he realizes that his naked body is against the sheets, which reminds him of the sex.

The memory of House slowly riding his cock and moaning is enough to get Little Wilson awake, but then comes the fact that House might not be so ecstatic with the results. Wilson isn't panicking, and he knows that logically, House shouldn't either. He is the one who planned the whole thing--making sure Wilson saw the bottle of lotion, sitting in front of the fireplace . . . They weren't drunk last night when they were having their subtle conversation. House is the one who kissed him first, and made him say he loved him.

But experiences are louder than logic. Wilson's had sex with men before, and they weren't always drama-free.

More than enough men woke the next morning and claimed to be straight, and that Wilson had somehow taken advantage. He had a few one-night stands under his belt, too, and there was a time in high school where Wilson had been the one freaking out and running away, despite being more than eager and sober the night before.

Although House is the one who made the first move, he's also the one pining after their very hot, very female, boss. He's the one who's in the vulnerable situation, the one whose heart was recently broken, and he may not like waking beside Wilson. He might panic.

That is the only reason Wilson gets out of bed--not because he wants to, but just in case House can't handle what happened, he doesn't want to be inches from his face when it dawns on him they had sex.

Nothing he thought the night before is untrue--he's still in love with House, but when he thinks about it, he has been for years. They still live in the same place; they still moved in together. Just because House might freak out doesn't mean that Wilson is going to renounce everything.

He picks up the wadded tissue from the night before and glances over his shoulder to see that the comforter is halfway down House's body. He pulls the blanket up to his chin and runs his hand through his nearly-shaved hair. He almost kisses his forehead, but he doesn't.

He goes into his room and throws the tissue in the bin he keeps beside the door, and rummages through his box of clothes. He grabs pyjama bottoms, boxers, and a shirt, then pads over to the bathroom. He needs a shower, and he wants an excuse to use his new showerhead, anyway.

It's more out of habit than need that he masturbates, but he thinks of last night as he does it. He thinks of their almost-frottage earlier that day, and he's remembering House jerking him off in the foyer when he comes. He's silent and methodical; it's nothing compared to last night, so there's really no need to get excited over it.

He dresses slowly and brushes his teeth, smiling when he remembers their hug, and he chuckles when he remembers House cleaning them up afterwards, almost in a caring manner. It seems like that was something Wilson would've done instead. He dries his hair because he always does as he stares at the love bites in his reflection, then wonders if waking House with his obnoxious hair dryer is the best thing to do on a morning he might panic.

When he leaves the bathroom, House is still in his room, and the door is still closed. That doesn't mean he's asleep, but it doesn't mean he's not, either. Wilson considers going in to check, and even has his hand on the knob, but then reconsiders, and moves to the kitchen. A box is tipped over, and House's magazines are spilled all over the floor; he remembers knocking into it now.

He stares at the table, and it reminds him of breakfast. He doesn't know what he should make. He rummages through the cupboards a bit, trying to find something that shouts 'we had sex last night and I'm cool with it if you are' but finds nothing. He doesn't want to make cereal because that seems too cold and unfeeling, and he doesn't want to reheat leftover pizza from last night's dinner because that just seems weird. He wants House to know he's okay with what happened but in case House isn't, he doesn't want it to become overly romantic. Just because they had sex last night doesn't mean they are boyfriends. Wilson wants to be, but still, he can't just assume things like that.

His first instinct is to make macadamia nut pancakes, but they don't have pancake mix. He could go out and buy some, but if House were to wake up while he was out, that might give him the wrong impression in case he wasn't panicking.

Instead, he decides to make French toast. It's simple and they already have everything they need in the brand new, larger fridge. He hums while he cooks, and thinks about the best way to broach the subject without pushing what he wants, but at the same time, without sounding like he hates the idea.

Before last night, it had been awhile since Wilson last had sex. It was with someone he picked up in a bar over the summer, and when Wilson woke up the next morning, he was gone. It wasn't anything he hadn't expected; it was just strange being the one left instead of the one leaving. Sex with House was different than with any other person (man or woman) before, and he wonders if it's because they've known each other for so long. He doubts this will ruin their friendship, but he hopes that they can move into something different rather than just stay friends. He worries anyway.

The bacon is sizzling when he hears the House's bedroom door open. He looks over his shoulder to see him walk into the living room. He eyes the boxes and nods at Wilson in greeting, then ambles over to the fireplace. He turns it off (had it been on all night?) and bends down to, presumably, pick up his cane.

Wilson turns back to the pan and flips the eggs. He hears House's cane ticking against the kitchen floor and he turns to see House put two mugs in the sink.

"Did the cooking wake you up?" he asks, and he wonders why he's quieter than normal.

"No, the hair dryer did."

Wilson wonders why he'd stayed in bed so long. Maybe he was panicking to himself, or maybe he was jerking off, or maybe he was worried to find Wilson wasn't beside him. He hadn't walked out until the bacon was sizzling, and Wilson doesn't cook for one night stands. House knows this because Wilson has told him that before.

House sits at the table expectantly, and Wilson serves him up a plate of French toast, eggs, and bacon, just the way he likes them. He sits on the opposite end of the table so they are facing each other, and eats his breakfast quietly, looking at House every so often and wanting him to break the silence. If Wilson talks first he'll just screw up; House has a knack for saying what needs to be said and bluntly. It occurs to him that House could be just as worried and scared of his reaction as Wilson is, but he still can't bring himself to tell him that he wants this--that he wants a relationship.

"House," he begins, and House stops eating immediately.

"Wilson," he mimics.

He opens his mouth to tell him that he loves him and wants to be his boyfriend, but then he realizes how stupid that sounds; like he's some idiot teenager. "We're out of macadamia nuts. I would've left to get more, but, uh . . ." But then House might've thought he was freaking out. "Well, we had everything for French toast, so . . ."

House's eyebrows raise halfway up his forehead and he smirks. "Right," he says, and clearly doesn't believe Wilson's reasoning. He returns to his French toast with gusto, and that's the last thing Wilson says for the duration of the meal.

House finishes first because he seems more enthused to eat than Wilson feels, and doesn't say anything as Wilson finishes his last egg. The entire time, House just stares out of the window.

When he's done, Wilson picks up his plate and walks over to the other end of the table to grab House's. He places it on top of his own and turns, but then House grabs his wrist. It's not rough, but tight enough to prevent him from walking away.

House's eyes meet his and he opens his mouth to speak, but then he closes it. His thumb brushes over Wilson's knuckles though, and Wilson takes that as a 'I'm not freaking out' and smiles at him. He doesn't try to hide his teeth. He just grins.

Silence is consent, perhaps. But that doesn't mean he wants to do it again.

Wilson approaches the sink and uses the sprayer to wash off the syrup, and thinks about the best way to bring up the subject of becoming exclusive. Of being in a relationship. He knows how long it's been since House has seriously dated anyone, and he knows it might frighten him--the prospect of dating. Of being someone's boyfriend again. He also knows that House is probably still interested in Cuddy and he has feelings for her, but that doesn't mean he doesn't like Wilson, too.

This didn't seem so confusing last night. Sighing, he puts the sprayer away and placing his hands against the sink, looking downward. He wants House, but House probably doesn't think of him that way. It was probably just sex, even though he was the one who made sure they were in his bed and not the floor. Then again, that might've been because of his leg.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out another sigh. That's it. He's just going to tell House how he feels, and see where that takes him.

That's when he feels hands on his shoulders. He stops pinching the bridge of his nose and cautiously puts his hand on House's, as if making sure it's actually there. House lets out a breath from behind him and steps closer, so that his chest is pressed against his back. "I'm not panicking," House tells him, and Wilson doesn't have to wonder how House knew what he was thinking. "And neither are you," he adds, sliding his hands down Wilson's arms.

"How do you know? For all you know, I could've bought tickets to Calcutta. My stuff's already packed--I'd be gone by noon."

"Bacon tells all," he responds just as he wraps his arms around Wilson's abdomen and pulls them together. He rests his chin on Wilson's shoulder. "You weren't in bed when I woke up," he whines petulantly, and it almost sounds real.

"I thought--"

"I know what you thought." He wraps his arms around him tighter, and when he talks, his beard scratches the side of his neck. "I'm going to out us loudly and in public," he warns.

"Okay."

"And I'm still going to be an ass and comment on Cuddy's hooters."

"Of course."

"If you cheat on me, I'll kill the hussy and make you bury the body."

"Naturally. You have a bum leg; I couldn't expect you to use the shovel."

House nods, then kisses the side of his neck chastely, but he doesn't pull away. He still stands there, holding him, and Wilson leans his head back to rest against him. He places his hands over House's and sighs. Everything is still and quiet; there are no birds chirping outside; it's too early for lunch traffic and too late for morning traffic; the fire isn't on, and even if it had been, it doesn't have any wood to crackle. All he can hear is the both of them breathing quietly, and even when House presses another kiss to his neck, it's silent.

This is the sound of Wilson realizing that House loves him, too.

A/N--The title is taken from a line in the song Sound of the Revolution and the fic itself was inspired by the song as well. This fic is made in penance for not updating A New Divide as much as I want to.