Archive of Our Own

Gregory House believed in truth.

He believed in what he could see and experience. He believed in the unrivaled beauty of empirical science, the mesmerizing magic of a keen mind at work.

But sometimes, he thought, even that could fail him. To be imperfect is to be human, he rationalized; no matter how many tests you run, how many times you analyze them, there is always a chance - no matter how infinitesimal - that you'll fail along the way.

That, House mused, was the case of Hanahaki Disease.

Many journals from all over the world and of varying degrees of credibility published studies on it. A nearly mythical condition; flowers taking root in your lungs, slowly suffocating you as you cough up their dainty little petals. It was, supposedly, a result of bottling up one's feelings or of them not being returned; some others claimed that there was a deeper meaning behind them, that the flowers were meant to convey the message to the poor bastard that contracted them. The actual cause of it remained unknown.

House thought it was nothing more than mass hysteria. Or some strange somatic ailment manifesting physically.

Until he didn't. 

He saw a man - still bright and smiling, soft with peach fuzz and the faded scent of baby powder clinging to his skin - throw a bottle through a window at some bougie doctor party.

He bailed the man out of jail. They went to get a midnight snack. They laughed and joked as though they've known each other their whole lives; as though the Universe shifted to bring them together.

House started coughing up petals the second he stepped through his front door, giddy and drunk and alive like he never felt before.

He chalked the saliva-stained petals up to the alcohol.

He woke up to a coughing fit, each tremor worse than the last as he struggled to catch a breath; the world around him spinned and blurred into shapeless smudges of dull colors as the sharp ache in his lungs kept biting deeper, the pain worsening with each shallow, shaky inhale.

Then he coughed, and petals spilled from his lips to his pillow in a spider web of spit and blood. There was a morbid beauty to it, he mused; blood on snow-white satin, like tainted innocence. A grotesque representation of a ruined, pretty thing.

It was a red chrysanthemum, he later learned. He kept those petals well preserved, even to this day.

House of course immediately knew who it was for. Looking back on it, that he managed to keep it all a secret from Stacy was a mystery he was still trying to solve. Perhaps as his adrenaline levels spiked he gained a clarity of mind he lacked so many years later, when hiding became second nature. The memory of that time was foggy, concealed by a thick storm cloud; not an uncommon occurrence. A lot of patients who experienced a traumatic event reported remembering small, seemingly insignificant details of it rather than the glaringly obvious.

Not that House would consider contracting the “pining teenager in love” disease traumatic. But that was his only explanation.

Next came what he was good at; research.

He read every paper and meta-analysis published regarding Hanahaki. He followed the topic closely, hoping that the world would find a cure - he was a diagnostician, not a chemist. The drugs were better left to professionals.

Still, as days turned to months and then to years, he noticed his condition deteriorating. Obviously something had to be done about it; House spent countless hours alone in his office, writing down every symptom and trying to find out what pattern the mysterious disease followed.

All the obvious suspects have been eliminated in various research; infection of any kind was out of the question. Some theories claimed that Hanahaki was caused by unknowingly inhaling flower spores - but that didn't account for why said flowers would grow in a hostile environment, or why people were coughing them up in the freezing throes of winter.

So he decided to take an unorthodox approach.

Autoimmune.

It was the only thing he could think of. If, somehow, the flowers adapted to trick the body into thinking they're part of it, his theory would stand.

He locked himself away in a lab one night, waiting for the coughing to start, and as soon as it did immediately prepared a few scattered petals for DNA sampling. 

House was nothing if not thorough. He meticulously cleaned each petal, ensuring no speck of blood or saliva remained.

And then, in the cold flickering headlights of the dingy lab he was in, he learned the flowers had his DNA. When another fit hit him, more petals tumbling from his mouth to the transparent glass table, he repeated the process; clean, disinfect, test. 

The result was the same. 

What was the chance of getting a false positive twice in a row? 

The rational part of him - the diagnostician, cold and calculating - wondered how that was even possible. How a flower, biologically so different to human tissue, could share the exact same DNA. Another part of him - the frantic, terrified and physically lovesick human - was concerned with the more immediate matters.

Like, for example, how to not die within the next couple of days.

So, autoimmune disease. That's what it looked like, so that's what he'd treat for.

House always was more of a “treat first, confirm diagnosis later” kind of doctor, after all. It was that attitude that got him fired from every job he'd held so far.

It was also that attitude he'd banked on to save his life.

So, with the goal of keeping himself alive for as long as possible without damage to his internal organs, he settled on prednisolone.

He left the hospital at dawnbreak. The sun kissed him in greeting as he pushed the doors open, the morning shift reluctantly shuffling into the building while the night shift stumbled out of the building like dead men walking. Cars were speeding by. Somewhere in the distance birds were starting their concerts.

Life went on. 

House’s world flipped on its axis.

Like he was running on empty, living on borrowed time.

But God, he wanted to live. 

To see him, at least a few more times before the roots and vines crush his lungs. 

He buried those thoughts in a casket of shining memories, buried them under the dirt of day-to-day life. His job, his marriage, his friends. Ultimately, the disease faded; a distant headstone in a field of flowers, born of a memory that refused to die. 

But he didn't forget.

Couldn't, not when Wilson became a constant part of his life like he'd always been there. The cough was always worse, in Wilson's presence.

He was young and stupid and beautiful and concerned. House brushed it off. I'm a doctor too, Wilson, he'd always say. I'm fine, I promise.

Wilson believed him much more easily back then.

Still, House decided to be more cautious. He made up some bullshit excuse about undiagnosed late onset asthma and got an inhaler. 

It helped. Somewhat.

The vines in his lungs felt like the world's prettiest guillotine hanging above his neck. Like a death sentence spelled out in a bouquet of bloodstained flowers.

Then, it happened.

The infarction. The agony, multiplied each time his screams turned into coughing fits. His desperate decision to induce a coma, and Stacy’s choice to go behind his back.

They lost the ability to hold civil conversations after that. Each attempt ended in screaming matches. He'd lash out, words meant to burn with his righteous fury, and Stacy would leave with tears glimmering in her eyes. 

But he couldn't keep up the pretense then, not when he was bedbound and in too much agony to think, let alone move. He couldn't get his medicine, couldn't stop the cough; Stacy woke one day to find him doubled over in bed, petals falling from his lips, raining blood. 

She left for good soon after.

It was Wilson who filled the space she left behind. 

And House, angry and hurting in so many ways he couldn't count them, was happy. 

Wilson cooked for him, bathed him, gave him the medicine he asked for and kept his questioning to a minimum.

House was so, so in love. Sometimes, the itch in the back of his throat felt less like an impending cough and more like those three treacherous words scratching their way out, desperate to be said. 

With Vicodin, the coughing almost stopped entirely. It helped that itch, too, not just the pain.

Life went on.

In 2002, a breakthrough was made.

A surgery to remove the flowers by force. No side effects and no adverse consequences, the papers claimed. Except that the patients who underwent the surgery reported losing their ability to love altogether.

House would waste his final, flower-filled breath denying it, but he'd rather die than take that risk.

Loving Wilson hurt. Physically, yes, but not only. Each new girlfriend felt like a crack in his heart. Each wedding made it shatter; but he'd carefully put the pieces back together, a morbid mosaic of red and black and blue. It was jaded and rough around the edges, sharp to anyone close enough to get cut.

Anyone who wasn't already in it.

Still, loving Wilson was the best feeling in the world. Like newborn stars and raging black holes; it was mesmerising and dangerously magnetic.

Every time he looked at Wilson, he saw the event horizon of his own death.

He could stare at it forever, if only to commit the image to memory.

And thus fifteen years passed. On opioids and cheap thrills interwoven with thin silver linings.

He set the new world record, he liked to think. Fifteen years with flowers in his lungs.

To date, House noted as he stared at his phone. March 20th.

First day of spring. The anniversary of that evening in New Orleans. 

The garden in his lungs felt tighter now, restless. Something low settled in the pit of House’s stomach; a bad feeling he couldn't shake no matter how many speed limits he broke on his motorcycle. 

Everything around him felt more alive. The people’s smiles were brighter, their eyes sparkling with the joy of spring’s rebirth. The trees were starting to sprout new leaves, birds were coming out of hiding to resume their songs.

House felt like a dead man walking. 

Still, he went in. The hospital still smelled of disinfectant and despair. 

Beneath it, House could smell flowers.

He frowned as he brought his cane up to call down the elevator. 

That's never happened before. Not to him, not to anyone he read about in all those journals he kept hidden away in his home. 

House smelled him before he heard him.

Clean laundry and mint, overlaid with a classy cologne.

Wilson.

“Hey,” his best friend said as he stepped next to House. He returned the greeting with a side glance; it seemed that the spring mood rubbed off on him too. Wilson’s hair was perfect and (probably) soft, and House had to push down the urge to reach out and touch. He was wearing a clean, pale blue dress shirt and the green tie. House wanted to crack a joke at that, but nothing came to him. Wilson looked younger like this, softer. Like he wasn't burdened by every death he thought he could somehow magically prevent, like he wasn't scarred by love and life. 

Like he was still the same young boy House fell in love with in Louisiana.

Suddenly, the three words he'd kept buried rolled in their grave. They clawed at his throat, dug into his lungs; he couldn't breathe, couldn't talk with the overwhelming force of them. He could feel the flowers twisting and thrashing, the garden raging against its tender constraints; the ground fell out from underneath him. He collapsed, clutching and clawing at his chest as though that would somehow get them out. 

As if that would save him.

“House?!” 

Wilson's hands were on him. They were warm.

His ears were ringing with the echoes of his overwhelming thoughts; one single thought, rather, one I love you tolling like church bells for a funeral. Wilson's face, pretty still despite the passage of time etched into it in tender wrinkles, blurred before him.

He remembered falling into Wilson's arms - why, God, why like this - and the world faded to black.

~

A small crowd was gathered around House’s bed.

His fellows, new and old alike, were staring at his slumbering form. They had yet to run any tests beyond the basics; blood work was normal, tox screen was clean, BP was stable. They had to intubate. He wasn't getting enough oxygen, despite the lack of apparent causes for impaired lung functions.

She'd never seen Wilson look as scared as he was when they got House into the room. He was pacing, demanding a differential and spitting out idea after insane idea.

Foreman had to get Cuddy to talk him into leaving the room, promising him House was in good hands - he's with his team, he trained them well, they'll figure it out - and reminding him of his duty to his patients.

“What the fuck,” Thirteen was the first to break the silence. “What's there to diagnose? We have nothing to go on.”

“And it's not like there's anyone who would give us an accurate history beyond what we already know,” Taub added. “Relapse?”

Foreman shook his head. Despite his vehement dislike for House, he respected the man. And he respected his job even more.

“We checked twice. He's still clean,” he said, exhausted. “Besides, it wouldn't cause respiratory issues. Not on their own, anyway.”

“There was some… murmuring in his lungs, too,” Thirteen added. She hesitated a bit before speaking again. “But it- I don't know. It sounded more like rustling.”

“That doesn't tell us anything, it's not even a medical term,” Taub was quick to refute. 

Cameron sighed, turning to her husband.

She expected Chase to look worried, annoyed, lost in thought. What she didn't expect was for him to look uncomfortable.

“What is it?” 

Chase blinked, his face bleeding into a look of shock.

“What?” he said, then shook his head. “It's nothing.”

“I can tell you know something we don't, Robert,” she pushed. All the eyes in the room were them, now. “Please. What is it?”

He chewed his lower lip, more uncomfortable than before, as he quietly weighed the options in his mind.

“It's-”

Sharp beeping of the heart monitor and raspy coughing cut him off; Thirteen, who was the closest to the bed, was quick to remove the intubation and supply him with an oxygen mask.

“It's okay, House, you're fine,” Cameron was at his other side in seconds. “You collapsed in front of the elevators. Respiratory issues, bordering on lung failure. We’ll take care of you.”

House inhaled as the monitor slowed down, showing his initial surge of panic subsiding. Whatever he wanted to say was lost to a cough.

“Did you hear what I said?” Cameron said, voice brimming with barely contained anger. God, that man was stubborn. “You shouldn't talk-”

“I'm fine,” he rasped, barely audible. 

She could practically hear Foreman’s exasperated eyeroll. 

“Yes, you almost died barely a few hours ago,” he said, voice dripping with saccharine sarcasm. “You're peachy.”

Thirteen glared at Foreman, quick and sharp like a blade, before turning back to House with a carefully neutral expression. There was no place for the typical softness they usually offered their patients; not with House. 

“We need to do a chest x-ray and a CT scan of your lungs,” she started, calculatedly stern. “We don't know-”

“But I do,” House cut her off before another coughing fit shook his entire body. He looked so unlike himself- frail and fragile, like a chipped china cup. “So just- piss off. Go do my clinic hours, if you're that bored.”

“House-” Taub started, but Cameron cut him off. 

“Then what is it?” she asked. “You said that you know. Tell us, and we'll leave you alone.”

Something flashed across House’s face; fear, twisting his features into a botched caricature of the man they all knew. It was gone as soon as it appeared, and his expression was back to that of exaggerated irony he'd sported more often than not.

“My medical history,” another rasp, another cough. “Is none of your business.”

Cameron nodded.

“Then you let us run our tests,” Cameron said, crossing her arms over her chest. “If I have to claim the lack of oxygen impaired your judgement and rendered you unable to consent, I will. I don't care. But we are testing you, whether you like it or not.”

House sighed. It came out more like a pained wheeze. He looked away from the group, and appeared to genuinely consider Cameron's words. 

He seemed conflicted. Like a sinner waiting for confession, unsure of whether he'll be absolved or not.

“You get two tests, not one more,” he finally managed. “I know what you'll find. What you'll think it is. No matter what, do not consult Wilson.”

The group looked between each other, all in varying degrees of shock and confusion.

“What?” Thirteen asked, voice slightly raised. “He's your best friend! He was beside himself with worry when you collapsed! He'll want to know what's going on!”

Silence, again. Outside nurses were milling about their station, unaware of the chaos around there. Somewhere, another patient wailed in agony.

“But he can't,” House insisted. There was a scalding kind of rage in his voice, even despite how quietly he was talking. “That's my one condition. You agree, or you don't test me at all.”

They all exchanged looks, a wordless conversation held with eyes and expressions alone.

“Fine,” Taub said, serious. “We won't tell him.”

House nodded. 

No clever jabs, no insults, no jokes.

He simply agreed, silent and solemn. Just like that.

Whatever it was, it was bad.

Robert didn't say a word.

They left the room quietly, promising to be quick so he could rest more.

Walking to the office was automatic, unconscious. Patients strolled by, supported by their IV stands, chronically exhausted nurses chatted over coffee. 

The hospital carried on, business as usual.

Yet it felt like the world had ground to a standstill, everything blurring and passing in slow motion.

In the office Taub went straight for the coffee machine. Cameron hoped he'd make enough for all of them. 

It felt like the room was made of memories, shimmering like smoke wherever her gaze lingered; it was almost as though House was a phantom presence in the room, as though the place was imbued with whatever it was that made up his essence.

“What the fuck,” Thirteen huffed, elbows on the table and face in her hands. “This doesn't make any sense.”

“If he knows what it is, why not just tell us?” Taub asked, annoyed. Foreman scoffed.

“Have you met House?” he said. “He'd make a game out of his own death if he could. He'll never let us get off easy.”

Cameron smiled despite herself.

That was just the man House was. Always pushing, harsh and cruel until they learned. Until they did better.

Of course, even this is something he'd use as a learning opportunity for his fellows.

Although another part of Cameron, the part House was always happy to berate, felt that this was different. That House knew it didn't matter, that there's nothing they'll be able to do.

“Are you gonna say something, Chase, or are you just here to look pretty?” Foreman asked. The coffee machine dinged softly, liquid was poured. The rich, earthly smell filled the room. 

“Back off, Foreman-” she started, but Robert put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed lightly.

“Whatever it is, he's had it for a long time,” he started. “Back during the whole Tritter mess, be asked me for a ‘scrip. When I denied, he simply said screw the Vicodin. Asked me for prednisolone and an inhaler, made sure I wrote it under a fake name and picked it up for him.”

That had Thirteen looking up. Taub, who just sat down in one of the chairs across her, froze with his mug mid-air.

“Couldn't he have asked Wilson?” Thirteen asked, incredulous.

“Considering what he told us today, it's something he desperately doesn't want him to know,” Foreman countered.

Silence settled in the room again, thick and heavy like freshly spilled blood.

“Taub and Chase, you handle the tests,” he started again after an infinite minute. He spoke in that department head voice of his, stern and confident. “Thirteen and I will check his apartment. And Cameron-”

“I'll talk to Wilson,” she said, a small sad smile tugging at her lips. 

The group dispersed, set about completing their tasks.

Outside, the agonized screaming finally stopped.

~

Wilson couldn't focus.

He tried so hard, for the sake of his patients. He did his best to stay calm and collected as he told them about their prognoses, as he discussed treatments and side effects.

But he could hear the tremble in his voice as he spoke, he could feel the shake in his hands as he nervously tapped his pen against his desk.

His mind, no matter how he tried to occupy it - paperwork, patients, hell even the clinic at one point - kept circling back to House.

The fear in those piercing, icy blues as he collapsed. The tenderness in his touch as he clung to James, the way he slumped against him when he lost consciousness.

His heart stuttered to the erratic staccato of flooding memories. Cold sweat stuck to his back like cling film, it trickled down his temple in sticky rivulets.

Wilson felt hollow.

He knew, deep down, that if there was something wrong with House his team would find it. Treat it. That everything will be back to how it used to be soon. House will barge into his office unannounced, he'll steal his food and demand Wilson pay for his lunch. They'll settle into their routine of drinks and takeout, watching cringy soap operas and nature documentaries, trade insults and teasing remarks like it was their sole purpose in life.

God, Wilson was worried.

He had a break between visits; a rare half-hour to himself, one he'd typically spend catching up on reports. But he couldn't focus long enough to read them.

The simple fact of life was that he was in love with Gregory House. He had been for as long as he'd known him, probably; he just couldn't face it, couldn't come to terms with it sooner. 

He wished he did.

So many years they spent joined at the hip. House was like the Sun, dangerous and bright and blazing, commanding explosive power. Wilson was his Mercury, cratered and deserted and unafraid of the heat. 

He welcomed it, even. He's never felt warmer than in House’s presence, having his undivided attention all to himself.

“God damnit,” he cursed under his breath, letting the pen fall to his desk with a clatter as he leaned back in his chair.

It was then that soft, urgent knocking resounded around his office.

For a moment, a fraction of a second, an ember of fond hope flickered to life in his soul; it didn't last long.

House never knocked.

“Come in,” he called, not bothering to at least appear productive.

“Hey,” it was Cameron that stood in his doorway, quietly stepping in and shutting the door behind her. “I have a few questions, if that's okay?”

Wilson nodded.

“Sure, anything you need to know,” he said. Cameron stepped closer, moving to stand in front of his desk. She was picking at her cuticles; she was worried. That didn't bode well. “Ask away.”

“You've known House the longest, spend the most amount of time with him,” she started. “Did you notice anything wrong with him, at any point in your friendship? Seriously, anything we could have missed. Even as small as him catching the flu.”

Wilson swallowed around the lump in his throat.

“He had a pretty bad cough for a while after I met him,” he recalled. The memory of the conference, House bailing him out and them driving around the city like madmen, hopping between bars and laughing like maniacs brought an involuntary smile to his lips. “He used an inhaler for it. I think he still uses one, matter of fact. Why?”

“We just want to be sure we didn't miss anything,” Cameron replied without hesitating, practiced and easy. Too easy, almost. “Is there something you noticed he didn't tell you about? Something he might've wanted to hide from you?”

There it was.

Wilson's heart sank.

“Do you think he relapsed?” he asked quietly, still unable to keep his voice steady.

“We're positive he didn't,” Cameron assured. “We ran a tox screen twice. I meant, did you notice anything that could be a symptom? Even if it was insignificant at the time?”

Cameron’s brows were drawn in a frown, and she was still playing with her hands to hide the shake in them. She wasn’t just worried, she was scared. 

They didn't know what was wrong with House.

…Did he know, then? Was he trying to hide it?

Wilson looked down at his desk.

“No,” he said in a breathless kind of sigh. “I'm sorry. I wish I could help.”

Cameron nodded. She looked at the door, almost moving to leave, but lingered. Something was very, very wrong.

“Everything alright?” 

“Look, I promised him I wouldn't do this. But I can't, in good conscience, leave you in the dark,” Cameron finally said. She slumped, like an invisible weight had been taken off her shoulders. “He agreed to let us run two tests under the condition that we wouldn't consult you. He said he knew what we'd find and what we'd think seeing the results. He knows what's wrong, he just… doesn't want you to know.”

God, but that knowledge stung.

Like a star dying in his heart, a black hole born in its wake. 

Still, before Mayfield, it was Wilson whom House confided in about his problems. He trusted, and all Wilson could do was offer his trust in return.

He forced himself to smile, a small comforting thing. At least he hoped it came off as such.

“I’m sure he has his reasons,” he said. “I won't snitch on you, don't worry. I'll say you came to tell me he woke up.”

Cameron nodded again, eyes glistening. If House were here, he'd call her a bleeding heart and a crybaby. But there'd be fondness hidden behind the veneer of irony and annoyance.

Wilson's smile felt a bit more real.

She left. He was alone again.

The emptiness was overwhelming, almost painful; Wilson could feel the walls pressing down on him, the weight of House’s absence a physical kind of ache.

He checked his watch. It showed he still had a quarter of an hour left.

He stood up without thinking, letting his legs carry him through the halls he knew like the back of his hand until he reached House’s room.

House was lying on his back, his breaths coming out in pained wheezing. He almost looked like he was asleep, if not for the genuinely terrifying cough that refused to let him get a moment’s rest.

Wilson slid the glass doors open, walking in. House cracked an eye open the second he heard the disturbance, a small smile blooming on his lips. Wilson noticed, despite the foggy condensation on the oxygen mask.

A sharp stab of pain echoed through his heart like a richocheting gunshot. He wanted to run up to House and comfort him, to ease his pain with soft words and tender touches. 

He simply dragged a chair closer to the bed and plopped down.

“How are you feeling?” Wilson asked. House turned to him then; his eyes were red, and his cheeks were glistening.

Had he been crying…?

“Like I was chewed up and spat out by a pack of rabid squirrels,” House replied, and Wilson couldn't help the huff of laughter at the mental image. “Yeah, I, uh… I've been better.”

Wilson nodded.

“I'm glad to see you're awake, at least,” he sighed. “I was really worried.”

“Whoa there, Wilson,” House rasped. It was obvious he was trying for sarcastic, but it came out strangely sad. “You keep talking to me like that, I'll start thinking you care.”

“I do.” Wilson didn't miss a beat.

House looked away, turning back to the ceiling at that. It never got less shocking, seeing him so lost for words.

“Any idea what’s wrong with you?” Wilson prompted after a while.

“A few,” he said, relaxing a little. 

“Care to share with the rest of the class?”

“Oh, please, you'd run to my kids and spoil the fun for them,” House mocked. He wasn't convincing. “This is supposed to be a learning experience for them.”

So, Cameron had been right. Whatever this is, he doesn't want Wilson to find out about it.

“I'll let you rest, House,” he simply said, defeated, as he stood up to leave. A weak grip on his wrist stopped him; House’s hand slid down to hold his own. The world faded- there was just the two of them, hands joined together. Neither man pulled away.

“Wilson, I-” he could practically see House physically biting his tongue. “Thank you. For everything.”

Their palms fit so nicely together. Like each was tailored to the other. 

He squeezed House’s hand in tender reassurance. The smile on his face grew almost imperceptibly wider. Gently, careful not to give off the wrong impression, he pulled away.

Only when he made it back to his office, with five minutes left until his next patient, did he let the tears fall freely.

~

The room felt strangely cold despite the fact Remy was still wearing her leather jacket. She still kept glancing at the notebook clutched in her hands, even though the group’s attention was focused on the scans hanging on the lit-up backdrop.

“I'd say tumors, but…” Taub trailed off. I know what you'll think echoed in Remy’s mind. 

“It's not,” she said. “We found something. In his old apartment, strangely enough.”

She motioned for the group to follow, and they gathered around the table in the conference room. Everyone took their seats except her and Foreman; she leaned on the glass surface after dropping the notebook, and he leaned against the glass wall behind them. 

“It's a collection of pressed flowers. Each labeled with its name in Latin and English, followed by their meanings” she started, flipping through the pages. “Red chrysanthemum, meaning I love you. Gardenia, meaning secretly in love. Heliotrope, which symbolises eternal love and devotion. They're all symbols of love, or connected to it- honeysuckle, carnations in various colors, daffodils, red roses. And then, there's the fact that I heard rustling in his lungs.”

She could see in the faces of the group when they connected the dots. 

Cameron looked like she was about to cry. Chase stared ahead, frozen in shock. Taub was glancing between her and the notebook in a confused kind of understanding. She couldn't see Foreman, but she knew what he thought.

“Hanahaki,” Cameron said. 

“Any idea who it is?” Taub asked. They all looked at him, then, and somehow it was answer enough. “Yeah, makes sense.”

Silence fell around them, like a suffocating tidal wave of frigid waters. Remy wanted to get out of there. To look for something to save him.

“But that would mean he's had it for over a decade,” Chase started. “There's never been a single case of someone surviving longer than three years after getting Hanahaki.”

“If anyone was going to figure out how to treat an untreatable disease, it would be House,” Foreman simply said, low and somewhat wistful. 

“We can still operate,” Taub said. “I'm kind of surprised he didn't go for the surgery the second it became an option.”

“You may not like House, and it's fine, but give him some credit,” Cameron argued. “He stood by Wilson through every failed marriage, every breakup. He was ready to die to save Amber if it meant Wilson would be happy; all that while his love for the man was actively killing him.  Can't you at least acknowledge he's not as horrible a person as you thought him to be?”

That effectively shut him up.

“Even if he wanted to get the surgery now, at this point he's inoperable,” Chase chimed in. “I went to a conference in Japan a while ago. That procedure is extremely risky and difficult even when the disease is caught early. The root systems are a nightmare to remove in patients nearing the three year mark. House probably has an entire ecosystem in his lungs, there's no way the surgery will save him.”

They fell silent again. It felt heavier than before.

“I'll talk to him,” she volunteered. “Guess you were right about House turning his own death into a game, Foreman. We might as well let him know we figured it out.”

“I'll go with you,” Cameron said. The guys didn't raise any objections- it was better that way, probably. They weren't good at these kinds of conversations, anyway. 

As they left, Remy could hear Chase mumbling a quiet “what the actual fuck”.

The walk to House's room was quick and quiet. He still wasn't asleep when they reached his bedside.

The cough probably didn't let him.

“What's the diagnosis, ladies?”

“Hanahaki,” Remy said right off the bat. She could feel Cameron's gaze on her, but she didn't care. “House, you have to tell him.”

Their boss chuckled, but it immediately dissolved into another fit. 

“My, my, you're good,” he whispered. It sounded like his throat was filled with glass shards. “The last drawer of my desk in my office. The key is on the same ring as my bike keys. It has a secret compartment. You'll find a detailed journal there, a complete documentation of the progression of my illness. And notes on the treatments, too.”

Remy was stunned into silence.

“Why are you telling us this?” Cameron asked.

House looked at them then, eyes glistening with tears. He looked sad and proud, of all things. But mostly, he just looked defeated.

“I'm sure your careers will take off if you were to publish an article about how you found a way to manage Hanahaki.”

The girls looked at each other, their words drowning in the somber mood of the room.

Cameron was the first to turn to face him.

“House, you've only got a few hours left,” she argued, as if it had any chance of working. 

Thirteen spoke again.

“You have to tell him.” She repeated like a broken record. 

“I don't-” another cough shook him. Blood trickled out the corner of his mouth, it sprayed over the thin bedsheet as House motioned for something. Cameron grabbed a basin and offered it to him; a cascade of bloodied flowers spilled into it. Not petals, entire flowers in full bloom. Some with stems.

They watched in horror he wiped his lips with the back of his hands like this was normal, like Death wasn't breathing down his neck. 

“Love is the most twisted disease of all,” he mumbled off-handedly, like he was making a remark about the weather. “That’s just my personal theory, though.”

Remy and Cameron exchanged a look but said nothing. House took the silence as an invitation to continue. 

“The reason Hanahaki works like an autoimmune disease is because those Godforsaken flowers have the host’s DNA,” he wheezed out between laboured breaths. “I haven't figured out why, though. That, I leave to my precious students.”

“Please don't do this, House,” Cameron whispered brokenly. Out of the corner of her eye, Remy could see the tears streaming down her face. “Please. Just try.”

He sighed. He didn't take long to reply, almost like he'd known the answer for a long time. Like he'd been preparing for this.

“I can't risk telling him only to die knowing I truly am alone.”

Cameron shook his head and stormed away, her sobs echoing quietly around the hallway. 

“Thirteen?”

She sniffled. She wouldn't cry; she liked House too much to do it in front of him.

“What do you need?”

“Can you…” he started, then seemed to reconsider for a moment. “Can you ask him to come see me?”

Remy nodded and left.

She entered Wilson's office shaken and teary eyed. She didn't say a word; he was up and out of it the second he laid eyes on her.

She walked back to the team on legs that felt like jelly. In the conference room, no one spoke.

~

Truth be told, House was scared.

Not of death, no. He made his peace with it long ago, when he realized he'll never again wake up without his thirst thought being “is this the day I die?”.

He was scared of seeing Wilson. Spending his last few hours with the man.

It had been so, so difficult to swallow the confession before it slipped past his lips earlier that day. The words tasted like razor blades as they reluctantly went down, sharp and metallic. 

But there was no one he'd rather have at his side, for however long he still had. At least this way, he'd die knowing there was at least one person who saw beyond the mask and liked what they found beneath it.

There was no need to ruin that, now was there?

“What's going on?” Wilson burst into the room, back in his chair at House’s side in moments. “Thirteen was crying when she came to me. Your team looks like they're mourning in your office. Are you-”

“I've got a few hours left, at best,” House rasped. God, talking was agony. He spent nearly a decade complaining about his leg; he knew now that pain couldn't hold a candle to this. “I'm sorry.”

Time seemed to stop at that moment, grains of sand falling in the cosmic hourglass suspended mid-air air. Wilson's face contorted to the morbid tune of grief; realization, then anger, then raw, painful despair. House moved his hand - he felt so fucking weak, God, he hated it so much - and brushed their fingers together. The gesture was innocuous enough. Was it so strange that a dying man might need comfort?

The garden in his lungs seemed to expand and contract at the same time when Wilson grabbed his hand. He ran his thumb along House’s knuckles in soft, soothing motions.

House had seen him do that for his terminal patients sometimes. But this felt different.

More genuine.

Another cough tore out of his throat, ripping through his lungs. He swallowed around it like he'd taught himself to do, forcing the blossoms down to die in a sizzling pool of his stomach acid.

It was painful, yes. 

But rejection would hurt so much worse. Especially now.

“You can't be serious,” Wilson finally whispered. “Just- this can't be it. There has to be-”

“But there isn't,” House whispered back. “I tried. I'm so sorry, Wilson. I wish I could stick around to annoy you longer.”

A tear slid down Wilson’s cheek. House didn't have the strength to wipe it away. He wanted to.

“Maybe there's something you haven't thought of,” he argued, determined and terrified like he was bargaining with the Grim Reaper. “What even is it?”

“I-” love you, House didn't say. He pushed it down, again, but it refused to stay. It came back up, like it so often did, in another fit of coughing and retching. He tasted blood and blooming flowers as he sat up, doubling over as pain ravaged his insides, and he felt Wilson's gentle hands slipping the mask off his face-

Don't do this, he wanted to say, I love you I love you IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou-

He expected a rose, clichè as it would be. A pink carnation, maybe. His lungs were home to a variety of blossoms symbolizing love, a living monument to a dead man's devotion.

What tumbled from his lips was a single spider lily, cobwebbed in blood. 

Death and rebirth.

He stared at it. Brought his free hand to run along the petals, crimson staining his fingertips.

He didn't have the strength to fight any longer. 

He caved to the will of the flowers.

“I love you,” he whispered, looking up to look at Wilson. He blinked the tears away, studying his best friend's face for any hint of what he was feeling. But he couldn't focus on anything past the rapid, frantic drumbeat of his heart, the pathetic tremble in his voice. He breathed in. “I have since we met in New Orleans. I knew I could never have you, not the way I wanted. But I needed to stay by your side for as long as I could, for as long as you let me. I-”

Wait.

He breathed in.

Didn't wheeze, didn't gasp, didn't fight for air to find its way around the roots and vines. 

He sucked in another breath, long and experimental. Gone was the pain that accompanied him for the past fifteen years, the uncomfortable rustling in his lungs, the urge to cough them up.

The flowers were gone.

They were gone, and Wilson wasn't. He was staring at House, squeezing his hand, and-

“Jesus Christ," he managed between sobs. “How can someone as clever as you be so stupid?”

House stared, ground swaying beneath him. The constant hum of hospital ambience was gone, it was just them and their breaths and quiet sniffles.

He blinked, unable to think. 

“The flowers are gone,” he whispered dumbly. He didn't know what else to say. “That means-”

“That I love you too, you fucking idiot,” Wilson laughed through breathless sobs. “God, I’m so dumb. I should've noticed it sooner. I'm so sorry-”

Suddenly, it was as though someone pressed play on the romantic not-quite-tragedy of their lives. The world resumed, time picked up its pace, and House regained his wits.

He groaned, performative and drastically exaggerated.

“Can you let yourself have one nice moment before you start the self-flagellation?”

Wilson laughed again, bright and open. House joined him not long after, truly happy and carefree for the first time in years.

He'll be sure to remember this. Whatever came next, this was the best day of his life. 

Their laughter faded into quiet echoes bouncing around the room as they locked eyes, the air suddenly charged with static like lightning about to strike. House felt high in a way opioids never made him. 

“I’ve never been happier to be called an idiot,” he chuckled. He looked at Wilson; he was closer than House remembered him being. His smile was contagious. “I want to kiss you so bad right now.”

It slipped out before he could stop it. He froze for a fraction of a second, heat creeping up his neck before he noticed a matching flush of crimson dusting Wilson's cheeks.

“That's usually what happens after people confess their love to each other,” he mumbled, bashful and adorably shy. 

“Well then,” House smiled, leaning closer. “Take my breath away, Doctor Wilson-”

Pun intended, he wanted to say, but was cut off by lips on his own.

House’s brain short-circuited, losing all higher function to the feeling of Wilson's lips, his hands on his cheeks. He tasted like tears and coffee and Heaven on earth. He was slow, careful, as though one wrong move would cause House to fall apart. 

Now, that wouldn't do. 

House pulled apart first, breathing heavily as he rested his forehead against Wilson’s. 

He smirked.

“I won't break, Wilson,” he whispered into the air between them. “I like it a little rough.”

Wilson’s eyes darkened with a heated hunger. It was a good look on him; then again, House may be biased. 

Wilson dove in again like a man starving; their lips met, all teeth and tongue and fulfilled longing. It was messy and hot, and House would want nothing more than to see where that would lead if not for the itch at the back of his throat. 

A frighteningly familiar one.

He pulled away, panic surging in his chest as he coughed. 

“House?” Wilson sounded scared. “What's going on?”

House just shook his head, trying and failing to grasp his thoughts through the thick haze of fear and confusion.

He could feel the blossom stretching his trachea, he could taste the distinctly earthly taste on his tongue.

What spilled from his lips was another spider lily.

White, this time.

“This better be the last one,” Wilson said, cautious. He was standing now. House didn't notice when he'd moved.

He scoffed.

“I’m pretty sure it is,” House said. “It symbolizes new beginnings.”

Wilson chuckled, relieved. 

“Since when are you an expert on the language of flowers?” he asked, breathless. 

“You start coughing them up on the daily and at some point you’ll try to see if there’s a pattern,” House shrugged. “I have a collection in my old apartment, actually. If the kids didn’t take it.”

“You think they’d-”

“It’s what I taught them,” House smiled, pretending to wipe an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye. “They grow up so fast.”

“You’re impossible,” Wilson plopped down on the edge of House’s bed. “Still, new beginnings. A bit on the nose, isn't it?”

“Just wait ‘til you see the ones I’ve been coughing up all these years. They’re the definition of “on the nose”, mark my words,” he joked, finally lying back down. Whatever adrenaline flooded his system upon realizing that not only he won't die anytime soon but also that he's loved, truly and unconditionally and by the love of his life, must've evaporated quicker than he'd wanted it to because he yawned, struggling to keep his eyes open.

He didn’t want to sleep yet. He wanted this moment to last forever.

Wilson smiled, taking House’s hand in both of his. 

“I'l go tell your team in a bit,” he said, soft and quiet. “I'm sure they'll want to quadruple check you're okay.”

House rolled his eyes.

“Sure,” he drawled around another yawn. “You know, I think spider lilies would look nice in our condo, actually.”

“I thought you'd have had enough flowers by now,” Wilson quipped back. They settled into their back and forth as easily as always, as though nothing was really different from before. And in a sense, House supposed, not that much was. “God knows how badly they've traumatized you.”

“Exposure therapy,” House shrugged. “I'm sure my shrink will approve.”

Wilson shook his head.

“You once killed a cactus, House,” he deadpanned.

“I've learned from my mistakes.”

“You literally don't know anything about plants.”

“I'll learn.”

“House-”

“I just got out of a near death experience, and you won't even agree to get a flower?” House said, voice raised in fake offense. “I want a divorce.”

He yawned again. Wilson's face, as beautiful as the day they met, was getting blurrier by the second. His laugh was still the most beautiful sound House had ever heard. 

“Fine, we'll get your stupid exposure therapy flowers when we're out of here,” he said, mocking exasperation. “Now sleep.”

Something tightened in his chest, something cold and unfamiliar. He should ask, but he's been pathetic enough for one day-

As he closed his eyes, a kiss was pressed to his forehead. House melted into it. 

“I'll be here when you wake up.”