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House was in pain.
He squeezed his eyes shut as he lay in bed, his hand gripping his thigh as agony coursed through him. Everything hurt. Everything always hurt. But today, he couldn’t even bring himself to leave his bed.
He blindly reached out and grabbed his bottle of Vicodin. He tossed back 2 more pills. It wasn’t even 9am and he’d already gone over his daily allowance. No matter what people thought of him, House didn’t actually want to be an addict. He took the pills because of the pain – being an addict was simply a side effect. One that he was willing to accept for the chance of taking away an ounce of this fucking pain.
He slowly tried to sit up, but immediately felt a jolt shoot up his leg and he collapsed back against the cushions. He wasn’t going anywhere. And he seriously needed to piss.
House didn’t have it in him to feel shame anymore. He reached out for the empty mug on his nightstand. With a sigh, he aimed his dick into the mug. Once he was finished, he gingerly placed the cup of piss back on the nightstand and closed his eyes.
Time passed in a haze of restless sleep and pain.
His phone rang and he ignored it. It rang again. And again. He ignored it.
Sometime later, he heard a knock on his door. Then it opened and there was the sound of footsteps.
“House?”
House would recognize Wilson’s voice anywhere.
“Hurts,” House whispered back.
He didn’t open his eyes.
He heard Wilson stop beside his bed. Then he heard a heavy sigh.
“Vicodin?”
House shook his head, still not opening his eyes.
“No more,” he croaked.
There was silence, then he heard Wilson turn away. Another pause. Then the sound of the mug of piss being lifted off the nightstand and the footsteps faded further away. After a moment, he heard the toilet flush and then more footsteps heading towards the kitchen. He listened as Wilson bustled about the apartment, the sound of cupboards opening and closing, of the tap running, of the microwave beeping. Then Wilson was coming back into the room. The bed dipped as Wilson sat beside him and the duvet was pulled away.
“No,” House whined.
“Shh,” Wilson hushed him, gently batting House’s hands away.
Then there was warmth on House’s leg. He blearily opened his eyes and looked down at the heating pad Wilson had laid out over his aching thigh. Then he forced his eyes up to meet Wilson’s.
His best friend was staring back at him with soft eyes. Neither said anything. Wilson slowly stood up and pulled the duvet back up to House’s shoulders. Then he padded around to the other side of the bed and slowly lay down beside House.
“Okay?” Wilson asked.
House breathed out a sigh of relief as the heat soothed the ache. “Yeah.”
They lay in silence for a while, not touching.
Then Wilson said, “I was worried. When you didn’t come in to work.”
“Awww, mom, I’m sorry,” House drawled.
Wilson chuckled. “Feeling a bit better, huh?”
And House was. His leg still hurt, but the intense pain was dimming. He tilted his head to look at Wilson.
“Time’s it?”
Wilson glanced at his watch. “A little after 1.”
“Shouldn’t you be at work?”
Wilson let his head fall to the right to meet House’s gaze. “I took the rest of the day off.”
House would never admit it, but he was grateful.
“But without you there, who’s looking after the kids?” House whined. “Someone has to keep an eye on them. How will they cope without mom and dad there.”
Wilson rolled his eyes. “They have to grow up sometime. They know they can always call us if they need us. We raised them that way.”
House snickered. He reached out and poked Wilson. Wilson jolted his arm away. House poked him again.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
Wilson turned those warm eyes back on him and smiled that gentle, affectionate smile that House liked to think was reserved just for him. He’d never seen Wilson smile at any of his wives or girlfriends or flings that way. He liked to pretend that maybe, just maybe, he was as special to Wilson as Wilson was to him.
“You know, in all the years we’ve been friends, I can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve said thank you.”
House groaned. “And I won’t be saying it again.”
“No, seriously,” Wilson continued. “I need to make a note of this. Dear diary, today Greg House said thank you and he meant it. I might never recover.”
House yanked the pillow out from under Wilson’s head and hit him with it. Wilson laughed as he tried to wrestled the pillow out of House’s hands.
“Stop,” Wilson choked out through laughter as House hit him again. “House!”
Wilson rolled over, yanking the pillow and throwing it away, before he fell back on the bed, breathless with laughter. House couldn’t stop staring at him. Wilson was beautiful.
House always thought he was beautiful. Ever since the first day they met all those years ago. So often Wilson was put together, the neat and pristine oncologist. But in moments like this, when Wilson was dishevelled and rumpled and glowing with laughter. In moments when his cheeks were flushed and his eyes shining. That’s when House’s heart ached with how overwhelmingly beautiful his best friend was.
Wilson let out a small, breathless laugh. “You’re staring.”
It was on the tip of House’s tongue. A deflection. A sarcastic comment. His usual avoidance of admitting what he was truly thinking, feeling, wanting.
“You’re so beautiful,” is what he said instead.
Wilson froze. House froze. He hadn’t meant to say that. It was true. Fuck, was it true. But he hadn’t meant to say it. They stared at each other as they lay on the bed and House was acutely aware of the fact that he hadn’t showered. He hadn’t brushed his teeth. He hadn’t been able to leave this bed. He probably stunk and his breath smelt and he was a mess. And Wilson… Wilson was beautiful. And Wilson was… smiling?
A small smile, a dazed, disbelieving smile, spread across Wilson’s face. House watched as it grew, as Wilson’s face lit up in a way that House had never seen before.
Wilson let out a short, disbelieving half-laugh. “Yeah?” He asked, a hopeful lilt in his voice.
House could still laugh it off. He could make up a joke, a sarcastic comment, anything. He could change course and nothing would change and they’d be safe in their friendship. And it would be enough. It would always be enough.
But he wanted so much more.
House lifted a hand and slowly, hesitantly reached out to graze his fingers over Wilson’s cheek. Wilson’s eyes fluttered and he sighed, almost reverently.
“You’re so beautiful,” House repeated, softly.
Wilson shakily reached up and gripped at the hand House had on his face. He met House’s gaze.
“We do this, then this is it. You and me. We can’t go back. And I can’t lose you. It’ll be you and me, forever.”
“You’re the one who cheats,” House blurted out before he could stop himself.
Wilson didn’t even flinch. “House.”
House swallowed hard. Then slowly, carefully, he inched himself across the bed until he could rest his forehead against Wilson’s. The angle was uncomfortable and his leg hurt but he ignored it, focusing on the feel of his face against Wilson’s. Of Wilson’s breath grazing his lips, of their hands, still linked together, pressed against Wilson’s cheek.
“Forever,” House whispered. “I like the sound of that.”
Wilson audibly swallowed as he shifted slightly, bumping their noses together. Then, hesitantly, he closed the last of the distances between them and pressed their lips together.
Neither moved. House wasn’t sure if this could even be classed as a kiss. They lay there, their lips pressed together, but neither moved. Then House let out a gasp, like he’d been punched, and reached up to grip his fingers in Wilson’s hair and suddenly they were kissing. Frantically, years of pent up desire and fear and want and longing pouring into the kiss. Wilson shifted to lean over House, hovering over him on his elbows and House gripped his hair harshly and tugged him even closer. Wilson groaned and opened his mouth and House opened his own lips to meet Wilson in a messy kiss. Wilson’s lips tore from House’s and he leaned down to bury his face in House’s shoulder and neck and press kisses up House’s neck to his jaw to his lips. Again, again, again.
House felt like he was drowning. It was too much and not enough and everything he’d ever wanted since that fateful night in New Orleans.
“Wilson,” he gasped out as Wilson sucked on his neck, hard enough to bruise. His hands slipped from Wilson’s hair and he pushed, pushed him away.
Wilson went, opening his mouth to speak, but House didn’t let him. He reached up for the buttons on Wilson’s shirt and tugged, his hands shaking.
“Off. Take it off, damn it.”
Wilson quickly unbuttoned his shirt and threw it off the bed, never taking his eyes off House. House stared up at his best friend in awe.
“Fuck,” House whispered.
Wilson leaned back down over him and kissed him again, more gently. House let his hands explore Wilson’s chest, roaming his hands over the vast expanse of skin and shuddering at the feel.
“I love you,” he whispered, when Wilson gave him a moment to breathe.
Wilson’s face lit up like the sun and he leaned down to press a quick kiss against House’s lips, “I love you, too, you idiot.”
Wilson grinned. And House grinned back at him before yanking him down into another fevered kiss.
I love you, I love you, I love you.
Forever.
********
House was in pain.
He blinked his eyes open blearily and was met with the sight of his best friend, fast asleep on House’s arm.
House yanked his arm out from under Wilson’s head and shook out his aching limb with a grunt. Wilson groaned and opened his eyes slowly. House watched hesitantly as Wilson took in his surroundings and then, slowly, began to smile.
“Hey,” Wilson murmured and pressed a kiss against House’s lips.
House kissed him back, happy and content and warm in a way he had never felt before.
It was the first day of a new life. A life where Wilson was his. A life where he no longer had to hold himself back from telling Wilson the things he wanted too. A life where he no longer had to deny himself the touch he craved or the kisses he longed for. A life where maybe, for once, House could let himself be happy.
It was the first day of a new life. And for once, House felt completely and irrevocably at peace.