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“I love you.”
Wilson’s arm was slung over House’s shoulder, the former drunkenly slumping over the latter. House was holding onto his cane for dear life, white knuckles clutching the handle. In his stupor, it must have slipped Wilson’s mind that he was bearing most of his weight on a handicapped man. House attempted to shrug him off. “Go lie down,” he instructed, exhausted.
Wilson only held on tighter. His other arm reached to grasp the hand dangling over House’s chest. With his hands clasped together, he squeezed his friend (/coworker/roommate. The descriptors of their relationship to one another only seemed to grow as the years went on.)
This charade became such a normalcy that House was now, regrettably, accustomed to it. Wilson would be mildly sad for one reason or another, beg House to go to a bar with him after work, get slammed, have House drive him home and drag him into his apartment, and Wilson would confess his love.
They weren’t the type of friends to say “I love you” to each other, too wrapped up in their masculinity to ever entertain the thought. So Wilson saying “I love you” was always a declaration of a more intense feeling. A romantic feeling.
The first two times, House believed him. The second time it happened, House was also wasted, and he may have even said it back (though he could’ve remembered wrong). But, in the morning, everything always returned to normal. Their confessions never actually meant anything, or if they did, they never changed anything. House wondered if Wilson ever remembered anything of the night before when he woke up.
So, fool him once; shame on Wilson—fool him twice; shame on House. He stopped believing.
(No matter how much he wanted to.)
This was the eighth time. House was tired of it. His free arm tugged at the tight clasp of Wilson’s soft hands, breaking them apart. He stepped away, leaving Wilson swaying after he almost fell from the sudden lack of support. “Just go sleep,” House ordered for the second time.
“I love you,” Wilson repeated as House marched towards his bedroom, desperately wanting this night to be over. He stopped after hearing Wilson, but didn’t turn around, instead taking out his prescription bottle to dry-swallow some Vicodin. Wilson’s weight left its impact on House’s leg—another reason why they both should go to bed.
A beat passed between House taking the Vicodin and him turning around to face Wilson. He broke, saying what he should’ve the last seven times. “You don’t. Or if you do, I’m not believing it until you say it while sober. You’re playing with a poor gay man’s heart.”
“I do.”
“Tell me when you’re sober, or don’t tell me at all.”
There was a pregnant pause before Wilson spoke again. House contemplated leaving.
“…You know I can’t do that.”
Heartbreak swelled in Wilson’s voice, enough to affect House. The latter was too soft for that man. Even so, he managed to keep a stone-cold exterior for his next words.
“Then don’t. Sober or otherwise.” House turned around to walk to his room, and Wilson didn’t stop him. He didn’t know whether to be glad or disappointed.
-
The next morning, House wasn’t expecting Wilson to remember anything from the night before. His hypothesis was proven correct when he limped into his kitchen for breakfast, greeting a sober Wilson who mentioned nothing and seemed to be completely normal, unscathed from any heartbreak that occurred the prior evening.
They chatted about patients, hospital drama, divorce, et cetera, while House made and ate eggs. Everything was up to the standards of their ordinary routine—that was until Wilson started tying his shoes to head out, with House following his lead.
Wilson inhaled sharply, then one-quarter-whispered, “Drunk words are sober thoughts.”
“What?”
“You know the saying: drunk words are sober thoughts.”
House rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’ve heard the saying, but what is it in relation to…,” his words trailed off as the realization set it.
So he did remember last night.
Wilson stared at him expectantly, though House was unsure of what he was expecting. A returned declaration of love? A kiss? A blow job?
“So,” House started, directing his attention away from Wilson and towards lacing up his shoes, “you remember last night. Good for you. Do you want a kiss on the cheek?”
“I wouldn’t be against it.”
House, once again, let his eyes roll. “I’m not doing that.” He heard Wilson let out a quiet mix of a sigh and a huff, something that he most likely thought of as discreet.
House didn’t want this conversation to end. If it ended here, they would never make any progress in whatever the hell was going on between them. So he spoke up, still refusing to look Wilson in the eyes.
“Just because drunk words are sober thoughts, that doesn’t mean I know which words you’re speaking of.”
Wilson sighed more audibly this time, and his response came after a pause. “Don’t make me do this, House.” He was obviously nervous, if the fiddling with his cuffed sleeve was any sign (it was. House knew how to read him, and his ego would say that he was the only one who knew how). And there was something else in his voice—something that almost sounded like fear.
“…I need you to say it.”
It was barely audible—just a step above a whisper. Exactly the volume House intended. Any louder, and it would have been too excruciatingly embarrassing to utter.
House finally turned to Wilson, unintentionally staring him down. Wilson matched his gaze. They stayed that way for a while—for too long. It felt like an eternity.
He needed this. He needed to hear Wilson say it—completely sober and in his right mind. “Please.” He was basically begging at this point. House hated how easily Wilson could break him, how effortlessly he could reduce him to such a pathetic man.
“I…love you.”
“I know you can be more genuine than that,” House scoffed. On the inside, however, he was fighting the emotions welling up, pressing them down so they could never see the light of day.
Wilson smiled faintly as a puff of air was exhaled through his nose; a form of laughter. He took a slow inhale before confessing for a second time. "I am in love with you, House.”
His soft eyes suddenly narrowed with concern. House had no clue as to why, until Wilson walked up to him, a hand nearing the former’s face. He brushed away a tear from House’s eye, embarrassing him greatly. Who cries after a declaration of love? He tried to turn away, but Wilson had already trapped him with his hands.
They stayed that way for a beat—the two men were inches apart, eyes locked on one another. Until Wilson moved his face forward, and their lips touched.
House was paralyzed. He’d dreamt of this moment for years and years, yet he could only let it happen to him. It was a shame, and when Wilson pulled away, House was left longing for more.
“Are you alright?” Wilson asked, (unfortunately) pulling his hands away. House grimaced from the sudden cool air that hit his cheeks when there was nothing to protect them.
House cleared his throat, “Of course I am. Why would you think otherwise?”
“Right,” Wilson chuckled, seeming relieved. “I feel like you have to say it back, now. It’s only fair.”
“Right, yes. Ditto.”
Wilson cocked an eyebrow, and it took approximately 30 seconds for House to cave. Ugh, this man.
“Fine. I…love you, or whatever.”
Wilson smiled. “I’ll take it.”