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Of course, it was only a matter of time.
House notices how close they're growing recently, the glances they share becoming more frequent, the late-night phone calls and TV binges, the pranks and… all of it. It should feel normal, it should be normal. Just friend stuff, stuff they do all the time. But then House will look at Wilson once while he's laughing, while he's smiling, while he's got that sparkle in his eyes, and he'll want to lean across the couch and press his lips against Wilson's right then and there. He's used to wanting to kiss the man silly sometimes, every now and again. But he's not used to having these thoughts all the time. He's not used to thinking about that cinnamon-and-rain smell that still clings to his bed from that time Wilson spent the night cuddling up to him; he's not used to sitting on the couch beside him, thinking about closing the distance between them and just wrapping his arms around Wilson without a word, an explanation; he's not used to wanting something like this so badly, so intensely, that it's the only thing he can think about anymore.
It takes a while for him to realize it. Despite himself, he figures maybe he didn't want to realize it, because then he knows he has to do something about it. He's almost okay with the longing glances and lingering touches and just wanting to make a move but never being able to. Until, of course, his mind gets to racing, thoughts buzzing a hundred miles a minute, and he realizes that this isn't good for him. Having only Wilson on his mind isn't good for him. Wanting… whatever he wants, this… deeper relationship that he's longing for, it's not good for him or for Wilson. He's not good enough to have these things - and he's not even good enough to long for them.
When he does realize it, he damn near shuts down. Lashes out in the only way he knows how to without quite letting go of Wilson; dodging phone calls, making excuses not to be near him, cancelling plans and calling hookers so that he has a valid excuse not to let Wilson come over. It's stupid and he feels stupid, and childish, but it's better for both of them if he doesn't get close. Not that close. So he buries himself in sex and booze and drugs, slipping a few extra Vicodin when he knows he's going to have to interact with Wilson and taking a few sips of whiskey when he's able to at work. He knows what he's pushing and he knows why he's pushing, but he can't bring himself to stop. Even when Wilson starts questioning him, knowing House is purposefully avoiding him but never able to figure out why. The man even tries to use Cuddy to figure it out; House shuts that down quickly, and retreats back to his apartment for the night.
He can't just explain this to Wilson, though he wonders if it'd be simpler if he could. But if he explains it then it's really… real. And House has to deal with that. He has to deal with the fact that he wants Wilson, really wants him, and he's not ready for that. He's not ready to want what he knows he can't ever have. He's not ready to torture himself like that, to entertain the idea of him and Wilson actually being a possibility, because he knows that it's not. That it can't be.
Still, he finds that it's impossible to turn back now. He finds himself longing for Wilson, missing his company. Hookers aren't cutting it, obviously; he even trades in females for males after a while, but it's not quite the same. It frustrates him, in more ways than one, but he knows better than to pick up the phone and call the guy. If he does, he's admitting defeat - he's giving into his feelings, and letting himself be miserable with the knowledge that Wilson's out of his reach.
Out of his reach and yet right there. House can't stand it.
After a long day at work, in which Wilson didn't even attempt to talk to him today (progress, right?), House drops back onto his couch with a bottle of bourbon in one hand and his TV remote in the other. He channel surfs for a while, trying not to let his thoughts drift in Wilson's direction. Instead he attempts to focus on his new case, bouncing ideas back and forth in his mind and preparing to grab the phone and call his team at any moment if he has an epiphany. But nothing comes, and House realizes he can't really prevent his thoughts from turning in Wilson's direction. It hadn't been that long since he started avoiding the guy - just about a week. Wilson hadn't glanced at him once, hadn't tried to speak to him in passing, hadn't stopped by the office in an attempt to force House to talk to him in front of his team. He'd… avoided him.
House knows he should be glad for that, but he can't help feeling guilty. And a little hurt, despite himself - but he brushes that sentiment away quickly, shaking his head and tilting it back a little to bring the bottle up to his lips and take a sip. He doesn't know what he's playing at here, really. He wants Wilson; craves his companionship, his friendship. But he also wants more than that. And he doesn't think he can handle being around the guy, doesn't think he can settle right now. Taking a break is his best option because it's his only option, short of pinning Wilson against the wall of the elevator one day out of the blue and kissing him until they're both seeing spots-
He scowls at the thought, but even more so he scowls that he's ripped out of it when his apartment door suddenly flies open. He has all of five seconds to react, putting the bourbon down and reaching for his cane in case he needs to use it as a weapon - but he realizes who it is the moment he looks up, eyes locking with a pair of brown ones - brown eyes clouded in anger and determination - and he still can't react, not really, as the door slams shut again and Wilson storms over to the couch with a bag of what smells like Thai food in hand. He takes his seat quickly, sitting down heavily and letting the couch fold around him briefly as he sits back. House is, once again, as he usually is lately, overwhelmed with the desire to kiss him.
"Wilson," he starts, ready to tell the guy that he's clearly busy watching an episode of Dirty Jobs, but he doesn't get the chance to say anything. Wilson sweeps a terrifyingly cold glare in his direction and tosses the bag of food onto the couch, then twists around to face him. His first act is to remove House's cane from his grip, ripping it out of his fingers; House lets him take it, narrowing his eyes slightly as Wilson merely props it up against the coffee table, still in reach.
He turns back to Wilson, not recognizing who he's seeing for a moment.
"If you're avoiding me, House," his best friend's voice is strangely quiet, hushed. Anger still flickers beneath his dark caramel gaze, and House has to stop and count the colors for a second. He can see flecks of amber, lighter and darker browns. Wilson's eyes are like a swirl of chocolates and caramels, and the look on his face alone makes House want to pull himself closer and grab him by the shirt and kiss him. He runs his tongue over his lips instinctively, and Wilson's eyes dart downwards briefly as he continues, "then I'd like you to give me a reason."
House shakes his head. Wilson's eyes flick back up to his again, and the cripple freezes once more, unable to look away from his smoldering, intense gaze as Wilson's eyes narrow. Then, all at once, he softens, and something inside House snaps in response. He can't take it anymore.
Wilson opens his mouth to speak, lips parting.
House kisses him.
It's not quick and short and sweet; he shifts on the couch and does what he'd wanted to do from the beginning, locking his fingers over the front of Wilson's shirt in a tight, vice-like grip. His best friend immediately stops speaking, a startled look crossing his face as he looks down at House's hand; by the time he looks up again, brown eyes devoid of anger and instead sparkling with confusion - and an odd sense of excitement, House notes - House had already dragged him halfway across the couch toward him, and was pushing himself up the rest of the way to mash their lips together. Wilson responds in kind without much hesitation; House feels his hands snag against his ribs, curling against his skin through the fabric of his shirt, and he moves his hand from Wilson's collar to clasp it over the back of Wilson's neck instead to drag him closer. It's deep, and messy, and desperate, and it's everything that House had wanted.
Wilson really does taste like cinnamon and rain.
And House thinks it's the best thing he's ever tasted in his life.