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House and Wilson on the one year anniversary of Wilson's divorce. Slash. Oneshot
By the time Wilson is kissing House, he’s convinced it was his idea. His lips move slowly on House’s, waiting for him to reciprocate. Waiting for him to react. But he needn’t; though Wilson believes it was his intention from the beginning to touch House, to feel him and press close, the older man is the mastermind here. He’s been working all night to see if he could get Wilson to kiss him, to touch him like he touches women. And he has; the hands that have made their way up his back, under his shirt are Wilson’s. It’s Wilson’s tongue that’s pushing so insistently into his mouth; Wilson’s growing excitement that presses into his thigh.
House has been careful; it was the one year anniversary of Wilson’s divorce. He’d invited the younger man over for pizza and the game (neither of which he paid for or attention to). He’d brought up Julie, jokingly asking how freedom felt. When Wilson’s face fell a little he had to swallow his excitement. Wilson collected himself quickly, pasting the smile back on his face, flashing his teeth in a grin. But he was vulnerable. Perfect. So he brought her up again and again, subtly. Asked how they met, their first date. What their sex was like. Wilson guffawed at the last, but indulged House.
“The first time was amazing; she took me back to her place. It was…..slow, but in a good way. Like, everything was heightened. She was…amazing.” But Wilson is frowning now, looking down at the floor to avoid House’s gaze because there are tears in his eyes. He thought he was happy, that everything was ok. And it was for while, until it wasn’t.
House sees this, drinks it in and asks gruffly if Wilson is ok. He knows the younger man will think his tone is thick because he disapproves of his crying, but it’s merely the effect of lust. House wants Wilson.
“Love is an excuse to get hurt. And to hurt. That’s all it is.” House’s words sound cynical, but they are the truth to him. And they’re the truth to Wilson. Neither has had a relationship last the long haul; they’ve both been abandoned, discarded (and both have done their share of abandoning). Wilson looks at House, sees him for the first time in years and absorbs the words.
“I…you’re right.” His eyes are locked on House; his eyebrows are knit, he’s thinking hard about something. He finds an answer. He moves, shifting towards House, hand outstretched to touch him (and to defend himself if House is unwilling to take part in his seduction). He meets warm skin and whispers something that he hopes makes sense.
“Do you like to hurt?” The sentence comes out correctly and he waits, frozen in motion, hand pressed to House’s cheek.
“It doesn’t matter if I do or don’t. It’s just the way things end.” House moves into his hand, pressing close to fingers. His eyes don’t leave Wilson’s; there’s truth in those eyes.
“Then hurt me.” He leans in, tastes whiskey on House and swallows reflexively. His arms pull House into him and they press together, tangled in a web of actions that will most likely destroy one of them. But for now they stay that way, locked together, almost hopeful. They’ve each found something in the other that makes them want to live through the day, a connection that keeps them going. And however long it lasts, they’ll be ok.
Because love (real love) is like a needle in the hay. Once it’s found, once fingers grasp that sliver of metal, they hold on until blood is drawn.