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Summary
James Wilson is drunk.
It’s half past twelve in the morning, and the oncologist can barely remember how he got here. He’s splayed out on the floor of Greg House’s apartment, his bare back uncomfortably scratching up against the scraggly red rug. His slacks feel too tight where the waistband hugs his hips and the material feels awkward when it brushes against his legs. He’s too hot and too cold at the same time, shivers tearing through him as his hair sticks to the clammy skin of his forehead because of the sweat that’s gathered there.
It’s nice being next to House like this, right here, anyway. Here, in the way their shoulders brush against one another; here, in the way their breaths and their laughs intermingle; here, in the way their fingers brush together when Wilson reaches over to confiscate the half-empty wine bottle from House’s grasp so he can sit up and set it on the coffee table. Wilson thinks he could spend forever here.