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Wilson has been perfectly content with how his evening has been going so far. A peaceful night to himself, for a change. House has been staying with him for some time now; with the ongoing investigation against him, Wilson offered him temporary living accommodations until the issue is resolved. Or at least, until House gets arrested. Wilson has a strong suspicion it would end up being the latter.
Usually this time of night is reserved for House’s annoying schemes, as soon as he arrives back to their apartment. Some new, inventive way of embarrassing Wilson and boosting his own ego simultaneously. From the couch, Wilson turns off the television that he’d been mindlessly ignoring for nearly an hour, expecting House to turn up at any minute.
He checks his watch. It's almost midnight, and House isn’t home. He shouldn’t feel disappointed, not when he’s been waiting weeks for some time alone. But something inside him feels tight, an ache deep within his chest, a feeling of longing.
The absence of something , but nothing specific. He just feels out of place.
Part of him thinks he’s spent too much time with House, so he isn’t used to living alone anymore. Wilson always prefers company, regardless of who it is. He’s always been more extroverted, dependent on his relationships with others to feel like he belongs somewhere. To feel like he’s needed.
“The fuck am I doing?” Wilson berates himself. If he’s not insane for talking to himself, he’s definitely insane for missing House.
He pushes the thought away and realises he just needs a drink. Or a couple. He’s sad, alone, and divorced. Of course he misses his best friend. Loneliness seems so much colder in contrast when you constantly surround yourself with people. And that’s all he’s ever done.
Wilson pours himself a small glass of whiskey from the decanter on the coffee table in front of him. The cold loneliness melts away as the liquid burns down his throat, somewhat settling the ache in his chest.
Four drinks down, and House is still on his mind. So he turns the TV back on, the audio from whatever show is playing turns to white noise as his mind tunes everything out.
Now Wilson realises he’s drunk, and still alone. His wandering mind latches back onto his feelings of isolation and the alcohol exacerbates them.
He checks his watch again. It’s been an hour.
He’s starting to feel frustrated. Wilson tells himself it’s because House hasn’t called to let him know he won’t be home tonight. Where else would he go though? His office? Has he gone back to his own place? Wilson considers the thought that he went home in secret, probably for Vicodin. He doubts Tritter could have found every secret stash in House’s apartment.
Wilson’s frustration turns to concern. He’s meant to be keeping House safe, away from his addiction until the investigation is closed. Otherwise he’s risking his medical license, a drug charge and prison time.
He opens his phone and calls House, praying he’ll answer and isn’t actually in a drug-induced coma, or dying from an overdose. Wilson lets it ring, and ring, for what seems like hours, before the call rings out and silence overwhelms him again. He feels sick with worry, or maybe that’s the alcohol. Either way, he knows he needs to find his friend and make sure he’s okay. If anything happens to House, he’s responsible. He feels responsible.
He finishes the last of his sixth drink, stumbling slightly towards the front door. He’s drunk, he knows he is, but he’s also thinking relatively clearly. Enough to be able to take public transport, at least.
Wilson has no idea why he’s doing this. He can’t think of a reason, not as he leaves his apartment, not as he waits for a late-night bus, not until he sits in complete silence on the empty vehicle. He wonders why he does all this for a man who would never do anything like this in return for him. It’s a one-sided friendship, and yet he doesn’t complain and doesn’t expect it to change.
The bus pulls up towards House’s street and Wilson pushes the stop button. He steps out onto the street, the darkness a pleasant relief from the harsh lighting on the bus. He comes to the conclusion that he must care about House, no matter if House reciprocates those feelings or not. Is it tolerance, or something else? No one else puts up with him. No one apart from Wilson. No one cares for him the way Wilson does. On one level, Wilson enjoys being around House. On a much more subconscious level, he needs to be around House.
His realisation makes his face flush with embarrassment. Has House stayed away tonight on purpose? To shock Wilson into figuring out he has some kind of repressed feelings towards him? Or is it more simple than that? A pleasant feeling settles over him as he thinks about the amount of time House must spend thinking about Wilson. About pranking him, sure. But that means he thinks of him, more than anyone else. He tries to fight back a smile but his inebriated state makes it difficult to keep control.
Wilson locks his drunk thoughts in the back of his mind and focuses on reality. House could be dying. He could have taken too much Vicodin, or taken something different, or done something else incredibly stupid. The possibilities are endless. His worry sets back in and he pushes through into the apartment complex, taking the elevator up and stumbling across the corridor despite his attempt to be silent, so as to not wake up the other residents.
“House,” he says lightly, tapping against his front door. He tries again, louder this time, with an extra knock. Still, no response.
Wilson listens intently, hoping for any small sign of life from within the apartment. He doesn’t even know if House is here. He sighs and wonders if he should’ve called the hospital first, to check if he was still there or not. It would’ve saved him a trip.
He decides to try and call House again. Wilson holds his phone up to his ear and listens to the ringing, the constant ringing bringing him further and further into panic and agitation and he wishes, God he wishes House could just be an adult for once and pick up the phone.
Wilson, frustrated once again, is about to hang up and leave. Leave House to deal with his own bullshit for once, because he is an adult, and should make his own decisions. Guilt stops him from walking away from the door. So does a distant sound, a song that he recognises.
The phone keeps ringing and the song keeps playing. It’s clear to him that House is definitely home, the ringtone he chose specifically for Wilson playing faintly from inside.
Wilson ends the call, attempting to knock out of politeness just once more. Met with more silence, Wilson lifts up the doormat and takes House’s spare key from underneath, slipping it into the lock and pushing his way into House’s apartment.
The door clicks shut and Wilson notices it’s not silent anymore. He can hear the presence of another person, ragged breathing coming from across the apartment. His first feeling is panic, thoughts of House on the floor, overdosing, struggling to breathe, weak and vulnerable because of addiction.
Wilson heads towards House’s bedroom, nausea making him feel light-headed, but he manages to remain upright. Focused on his breathing. Trying not to pass out, from worry or from the amount he drank. He needs to keep calm, he remembers, in case he has to start using the medical side of his brain.
Wilson lightly pushes the door open. He can slowly start to see a bedroom wall, a bedside table with a thankfully not empty bottle of Vicodin, and House’s phone. Wilson steps forward into the bedroom and his gaze is drawn to the middle of the bed, where House is lying. His eyes are tightly shut, mouth open and breathing heavily, and too late Wilson realises House has actually just come home to masturbate in peace.
The longer he stands there frozen in place, the more awkward it gets, because now Wilson is standing in front of his best friend, watching him touch himself.
The more he knows he should say something, or just leave without a word, the longer he thinks. The longer he thinks, the longer he stands still and does absolutely nothing but stare.
“Wilson?”
Heat rises through his body in response to hearing his own name. House knows he’s been watching, he didn’t mean to, he was stuck and couldn’t process anything…but how would House ever believe him?
“House- sorry, I was just…” he moves back and adjusts the door, blocking House from view. “I was just checking on you, you never came back to my apartment and I was…worried you had..I don’t know,” he couldn’t find the words.
“So worried, you thought you’d break in and walk right into my bedroom before calling to see if I was home first?” House says, despite sounding completely unbothered by the situation.
“I tried calling you!! Like…four times or… I don't remember.” Wilson stammers, and House stays silent for a moment.
“Are you drunk?” He calls out from behind the door.
“Don’t deflect, House,” Wilson responds, attempting to will himself into sobriety. “I called you, more than once, you didn’t answer, I was worried. I thought you’d come home to get more vicodin, and you OD’d. So sorry I didn’t think to check if you were here or not.”
House stays silent for a moment, the frustration in Wilson’s voice clear.
“You’re drunk, and mad,” House confirms, as if it makes any difference. “Cute.”
Wilson feels heat flush through his body in a very different way.
“Why are you here, Wilson?” House asks.
“I just told you, I was checking-”
“No, why are you still here? Are you hoping to get a front-row ticket for my bedroom?” His insulting tone somehow doesn’t have the same effect, not now. He doesn’t seem to be in control of the situation, and Wilson’s confidence increases by the second as he realises he has the upper hand over House.
He risks pushing the door open, to talk to House face-to-face, instead of like prison inmates in separate cells.
House still hasn’t moved to cover up, Wilson notes immediately. He assumes House will feel embarrassed at some point, when he stays in the room long enough.
“Oh please, come on in.” House gestures sarcastically. They stand in silence for a moment, as Wilson contemplates what he should say. I miss you? I want you to come home and never leave me again? The confidence quickly drains from his body and he’s left with his raw emotions from before, his isolation and loneliness and that aching pull in his chest guiding his next words.
“I’m sorry,” Wilson says eventually. House seems…almost surprised by this.
“You’re sorry.” He repeats.
“I thought I wanted time alone, away from you, because of how much time we spend together. But I’m sorry, because it isn’t true, I don’t enjoy being on my own. You of all people must have known that.”
House smiles at Wilson’s drunken ramblings. Wilson knows he has an insecure attachment style, but didn’t know about it to this extent. He’s never thought these words before, let alone said them out loud, and definitely not directly to House.
Suddenly everything slots into place. Wilson’s expression changes to one of pure understanding when he realises, of course House knew.
“But you did know that,” he starts. “You’re the only one who knows about this…problem. But you still chose to leave me on my own, without contacting me. There were no signs of you showing up or even being alive. You knew that would make me worry. You knew I’d end up…”
He trails off, discarding that thought as fast as it entered his mind, because if House had predicted Wilson would end up here, it means he could’ve avoided being seen jerking off. So Wilson is left with one question: why didn’t he?
“If you want to keep staring, I’m going to have to start charging. By the minute.” House’s voice breaks into his thoughts and Wilson’s body temperature shoots up again, this time out of pure embarrassment. House is the one with no clothes on and a fully hard dick barely concealed by his hand, and Wilson is the one to feel embarrassed by staring. How House manages to achieve this, he has no clue.
Wilson looks at the wall and runs his hand through his hair. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see House’s fist moving ever so slightly up his dick, stopping to swirl his thumb around the tip to spread precum as he slides his fist back down. Only a small noise comes from the movement but it’s deafening as Wilson tries his best to ignore it, but the more he can see and hear causes him to feel more, and the embarrassment leaves his face and flushes straight back down to his already painfully hard erection that he never even saw until now.
He looks back at House, his best friend, lying back in his bed with a firm grip around his dick, jerking off to the sight of Wilson’s own erection.
“How long-”
“When you first opened the door,” House explains before Wilson can ask. He doesn’t comprehend how he could have been aroused for this long without realising.
Wilson forgets about his anger, his panic, everything apart from how hard he is, and how much better it feels with House being able to see exactly what he’s thinking. House hasn’t stopped stroking himself, and Wilson doesn’t stop himself from looking. The alcohol mixes with the warmth of his arousal deep in his stomach. His pent up feelings of desperation and longing, the emptiness he felt from being isolated, the ache and the pulling inside of his chest takes him closer and closer to House. He feels drawn in, captivated, and he craves intimacy. This is more than he’s had in a while.
Wilson’s chest rises and his breath catches in his throat as he watches House thrust into his fist. He doesn’t know if it’s true, but right now he wants that , and nothing more. His sober-self can deal with repercussions in the morning. He grips his erection through his jeans and refrains from shutting his eyes, not daring to look away from House even for a moment.
“You might as well leave if you aren’t going to help,” House states. Wilson swallows, acknowledging the invitation for this to either stop or go further, and he takes it. He slips his shoes off without undoing the laces and climbs onto the bed, pinning House to the mattress by straddling him.
A burning desperation flickers behind House’s eyes, and Wilson can’t hold back. He replaces House’s hand with his own, resuming the previous pace House had been keeping. Wilson doesn’t know what that desperation faded into because House shuts his eyes at the contact and holds back a groan. Wilson grins, knowing House is just as into this as he is.
Wilson’s careful strokes begin to accelerate, House’s dick leaking precum enough to slick up the entire thing. Wilson’s mind produces so many ideas, so many possibilities, each one making him more desperate. He grinds against House’s good leg but there isn’t nearly enough friction. He whimpers, and House thrusts harder into Wilson’s fist.
He likes pathetic, Wilson thinks. He wants me to beg for his attention. He needs me to know he’s in control.
So he shuffles backwards on the bed, running his free hand down House’s torso, towards his inner thigh. House barely has enough time to register Wilson’s movement as intentional before he lowers his head down and sucks the tip of his dick into his mouth. Wilson pins House’s hips down to the mattress so he can’t fuck into his throat - at least, not just yet.
Wilson swirls his tongue around, tasting every bit of House and savouring the noises of pleasure. He fears he may never see this side of his friend again. So he takes House deeper into his mouth, still stroking the parts he hasn’t reached yet. He can feel the man below him, fighting the urge to thrust upwards and envelope his dick fully in the warm heat of Wilson’s mouth. Part of Wilson wishes House would use him, exactly the way he needs to, without Wilson having to ask. But that’s part of the ‘game’, he assumes. He wants Wilson to beg for his attention. To admit he needs it.
Wilson quickly lowers his head down and takes all of House’s erection in his mouth. His own dick twitches at the sensation of another man’s dick hitting the back of his throat, alongside the sound of House’s unrestrained moans.
And then House’s hand lands on Wilson’s head, combing through his hair, guiding him down and really starting to use him. He feels alive, adrenaline shooting like electricity through his body and this, he thinks, is all he wants to be. House’s most prized possession, giving him ruthless attention without Wilson even asking. But he needs more, and he knows asking is the next pointless step in House’s game. This is what he tells himself, anyway, to justify his begging.
“I want you to fuck me,” Wilson breathes heavily as he pulls off House’s dick. His hair is definitely messed, he knows his eyes are watering and he must look like a pathetic piece of shit, asking to be fucked and used like House owns him. But he also knows that this is exactly what House wants.
“How badly?” House retorts, his hand leaving Wilson’s head and returning to his dick to continue jerking himself off. Wilson feels empty with the lack of contact.
“ So badly, House,” Wilson pulls his T-shirt over his head and chucks it to the floor, leaning down to House’s thighs. He places gentle kisses there, pulling lightly at the skin every so often and relishing in the way House inhales sharply each time.
“All I can think about is you,” he admits. The euphoria he feels from sex, as well as the drunkenness he already felt, makes him liable to telling the truth. He isn’t as afraid of this fact as he feels he should be. “I want you here all the time, I don’t want anyone else. I can’t cope when you leave me alone.”
House moans louder this time as Wilson takes over, jerking him off faster.
“I got drunk to deal with being alone but it just made everything worse. I wish you hadn’t left, please don’t leave me again. Please, I need you to…”
“What do you need, Wilson,” House breathes. “Tell me.”
Wilson leans up to House’s neck, kissing his throat and sucking at the skin. He’s so blinded with arousal that he forgets the question.
“Wilson,” House prompts.
“I need you to own me and control me and use me, I need to feel wanted and I need your attention. Please,” Wilson begs, unashamed. House appears overcome with arousal, the words from Wilson clearly having an effect on him. It seems to be what House wanted afterall, as now Wilson’s jeans are being tugged down and he adjusts his position to allow House to strip them from him entirely.
“You’re pathetic,” House mutters.
“I know,” Wilson leans down and presses his mouth to House’s, too much sexual tension between them for it to be romantic. Pure lust drives them towards each other, both fulfilling each other’s twisted desires - House’s need for control, Wilson’s need for attention. They kiss roughly, Wilson’s hands searching down House’s chest. Anything for physical interaction.
House pulls away from the kiss in the end, turning towards his bedside table drawer. Wilson uses this opportunity to take his underwear off, his hard and flushed dick finally exposed in the cool air of the apartment. He doesn’t touch himself, instead trusting that if House wants him to feel good, he’ll have to wait for it.
House takes a bottle of lube out the drawer. Wilson buzzes with excitement at how surreal the whole situation is - watching House, pouring lube out onto his hand, slicking his dick up and preparing for the time when he will eventually be using Wilson like he’s only ever belonged to House.
Belonging feels comforting. Not in an objectification way, but in a ‘I need you and want you desperately’ way. Wilson definitely doesn’t mind either way; he’s getting exactly what he needs.
House remains lying on the bed, signalling to Wilson that he’s ready whenever he is. Of course, Wilson hadn’t expected full-on intercourse with House on top, because his leg would never tolerate it. Riding him is just as good.
Wilson uses some lube to slick a couple of his fingers, before drunkenly pressing them against his ass. He struggles to find the tight entrance, his eyes fixated on House’s piercing gaze and once Wilson feels his finger slip inside him, he holds his breath. Startled slightly by the twinge of pain as he loosens his muscles enough to push further in. House watches him silently, absorbed in the moment, dick twitching against his stomach and Wilson desperately needs to hurry up.
He slips his fingers out and lifts his hips to hover above House, shuffling his legs forwards to straddle House’s waist. Wilson breathes heavily as House starts to line his dick up with his ass, guided by Wilson to his entrance.
Wilson starts to lower himself down, slowly, easing onto House. The alcohol makes it easier to disregard the ache as he’s stretched open, wider than he’s ever done to himself before. Wilson sinks further down and feels the tip of House’s dick fully enter him. The pleasure that fills his body forces him to crave more, there’s not enough pressure inside him and he wants to truly feel House, as if nothing else exists. If he shows House how desperate, pathetic and needy he is, maybe he’ll give him something Wilson wants. He sinks deeper, feeling House further inside his body, Wilson’s dick leaking furiously and begging for attention. He can feel the burning a lot stronger, but it’s not bothering him. It fuels his arousal and he keeps lowering himself until there’s nothing left to take.
“Have you ever done this before?” House asks casually, like he’s not balls deep inside his best friend.
“Only on my own,” he admits, delirious from arousal. “Nothing like this…nothing as good as this.”
“Impressive, stroking my dick and ego simultaneously," House doesn’t get a response. Wilson lifts his hips up and his breath catches in his throat at the sudden emptiness, but returns full force in the form of a moan once he pushes down. The friction brings out a reaction in House, one Wilson hasn’t seen before. He feels himself getting harder, moving his hips again to thrust back down onto House’s erection, attempting to hit the spot inside that he so desperately needs House to abuse.
“Fuck, House,” Wilson breathes heavily. “I need you, more.”
“Show me,” House tells him. “Show me how much more you need.”
Wilson immediately leans forward, bracing his hands against the headboard. He uses this to take the weight off of his lower body, making it easier for him to lift his hips up and thrust down onto House, the new angle hitting an even better area inside him and he moans. House shuts his eyes tightly, clearly taken aback by this sudden change from Wilson’s demeanor. Small, careful thrusts became desperate pounding, Wilson’s neediness seeping from his actions like a flood of light.
“Pathetic,” House repeats. Wilson grins knowing House is flustered underneath him. He’s vulnerable in this state, whilst also more controlling than Wilson had ever known him to be. He wonders if this is what House wanted all along. To toy with Wilson until he came begging for House to come back to him, because he’s been too embarrassed to admit how he feels towards House this entire time. Maybe it was planned.
Wilson feels House’s hands against his waist. Each small bit of contact has him grinding faster, urging House to do something. Just something more. His hands grip Wilson’s body tightly and pull his body down, harder, onto House’s dick. Wilson moans louder the harder House uses him, allowing himself to let up control and become whatever House needs him to be.
Wilson leans down, his head resting on his arms against the headboard, groaning each time House thrust his hips upwards to hit his prostate. One hand slides from Wilson’s waist around to his dick. House starts to jerk him off, fast and unrelenting.
“Look at me,” House says roughly, and Wilson forces his muscles to contract and move his head away from his hands, to open his eyes and stare longingly at House, who looks more composed than Wilson but not by much - his pupils dilated to three times the normal size, his hair sticks up at angles, some sweat runs down his face. Wilson wishes he could see this side of House more often. Something about this hidden personality he has, the one where he can accept vulnerability and intimacy, it’s special. Because Wilson knows it’s only ever been reserved for him. He doubts even Stacy saw this side of House.
House keeps one hand around Wilson’s dick, moving the other up to Wilson’s head, forcing him down and kissing him intensely. When they break apart, Wilson’s left breathing heavily, moans unrestrained, and House braces on Wilson’s hips to fuck him easier once again.
“Is this enough attention for you?” House punctuates his question with a harder, deeper thrust - Wilson has no words, only able to eagerly press down against House’s dick as he gets closer to climax.
He wants to warn House, to tell him anything. How much he likes this, how he never wants it to end, how he knows it’s about to end very soon, but his insides are burning and the heat from his stomach spills out through his erection and he’s coming over House’s chest and hand, being fucked through his orgasm until the last possible moment.
It takes Wilson a couple minutes to come back to himself, attempting to regain control of his breathing and body. His eyes open to a very obscene image of House, lying underneath him covered in Wilson’s cum, dick still hard and throbbing inside of him. Wilson runs a hand across House’s chest, leaning down to kiss his neck.
“Keep going,” he breathes into House’s ear before sucking at his neck, startling House back into his arousal. He starts to move again, quickly resuming the same pace as before, thrusting harder into Wilson’s overworked and sensitive body, taking what he needs. Wilson would be fully hard again if he hadn’t just had the best orgasm of his life.
“Come inside me, please, House,” Wilson moans. “I need more of you. I’m pathetic. I’m nothing without you.”
House falls deathly silent during his orgasm, but Wilson can feel every second of it, filling him up deep inside his body. He’s not hard, but Wilson knows he will be later, when his mind returns to these events and replays them over and over and over, searing them into his long-term memory.
Wilson hadn’t realised when his breathing had stopped, but it catches up to him now and he lays his head down on House's shoulder, inhaling heavily to make up for the lack of oxygen in his brain.
Wilson doesn’t know how long he lies there for, but it can’t have been long. He feels House adjust himself from underneath and he realises he needs to move. House’s dick slides out of Wilson as he pulls off, groaning and collapsing on the other side of the bed.
There’s a comforting feeling in his chest. Instead of a cold ache longing for something, he feels fulfilled. There isn’t anything missing now. His mind settles down, endorphins still circulating his body. He’s much more content with his evening now.
House seems totally unbothered, lying on his back with his arms folded behind his head. He still hasn’t cleaned himself, but Wilson won’t let himself get aroused again. House catches him staring for the second time that night.
“You can’t possibly need more?” House says. Wilson just laughs.
“I’m not that pathetic,” Wilson argues, but the look from House stops him from trying to argue that point any further.
“You’re not pathetic,” House says lightly. Wilson raises an eyebrow at his sudden switch up.
“That’s not what I was being told ten minutes ago,” he counters.
“You’re insecure,” House explains. “You have major attachment issues. You’re dependent on the people around you to make you feel like you deserve to exist.”
Wilson thinks momentarily.
“So...you used sex as an opportunity to psychoanalyse me?” Wilson wants to be upset. He tries to pretend to be, but House sees through him.
“No, I psychoanalysed you first, before using sex to prove my theory correct. I don’t need to fuck you to know you’re insecure.”
Wilson stays silent. Moments pass before he speaks again, carefully choosing his next words.
“So you spent all this time just...analysing me, trying to understand and prove my dependency on others. You knew all of this was true, but yet you didn’t bring it up, didn’t try to talk like adults about it, you just jumped straight into bed.”
“Does this actually lead anywhere, or can I go to sleep?”
Wilson ignores him. “You had…no real reason for any of this, other than pure desire. You treat everything like a puzzle, always expecting an explanation and a reason, but there’s nothing to benefit from. You solved the puzzle. Each step of the way, I proved your theory. Calling you, stepping into your apartment.
“You had the answer, and the proof. Yet, you still went through with this. It wasn’t necessary, which means you must’ve wanted this. Or needed this, just as much as me.”
“Have you ever thought I’m just really dedicated to embarrassing you?”
“Have you ever thought that maybe I’m not the one with the super-secret repressed insecurities about my relationships? At least I’m able to admit I’m pathetic. You walk on the edge, avoiding the consequences but still reaping the reward.”
House stares at him blankly. Wilson sighs.
“If you wanted to fuck me, House, you could’ve just…told me,” he explains. “You don’t need to pretend like there’s always a crazy, elaborate scheme involved every time you want to be near me. Stop searching for an excuse to try and force me to beg my way into your bed. You’re just as pathetically needy as I am, just too afraid to admit it.”
House holds eye contact for a moment before dropping his gaze and turning away from Wilson. He doesn’t say anything more. Wilson knows that what he said is true, and judging from House’s reaction, Wilson guesses that he knows too.
It feels like an hour Wilson lies there for, his mind working overtime in an attempt to process everything he’s experienced tonight. He steadily starts to drift off, forgetting he’s still in House’s bed.
“You talk too much for a guy that’s just been fucked for the first time,” House says into the darkness.
Wilson smiles to himself, but doesn’t encourage House further.
“Goodnight, House.”