Okay, took a short break from my other fic to write this drabble. It just kinda popped into my head. It's the cliché Wilson/House romance. Told from an interesting perspective. I'd love to know what people think, seeing as this is my first House/Wilson romance. Not really slashy.

Thanks so much! And if you found this and haven't read my other fic, you should go read that because it's WAY better! Hee hee

Love and Music are forever

Disclaimer: (sigh) House & Wilson are not my property. I just play with the toys; I put them back right where I found them when I finish. I promise.

You Should Have Told Him

You stand and watch him. He's leaning heavily on his cane. He's still wearing that stupid leather jacket and his tennis shoes. You think he might have made the effort to wear something else today. Just be glad he showed up at all.

The sun's already setting and everyone else is gone. But he's still standing there, the wind ruffling his uncombed hair. You want to reach out and touch his cheek, the same way you wanted to every day while you had the chance. But now it's too late.

November is cold. He shouldn't be standing out here any longer. The cold usually aggravates the pain in his leg even more. You wish you could reach out, encourage him to go home. Where he'd curl up on his couch and get drunk as he watched soap operas, just so he could forget you for one night. The clouds have all turned gray overhead; it's cold enough, there will be snow tonight.

A tear spills down his cheek, one crystal blue tear out of one crystal blue eye. The urge to brush it away sweeps through you. You thought you had so much time, that one day you'd be able to tell him everything, but you regret that now. You should have told him the first time you realized it. But you were scared. Scared that if he rejected you he'd shut himself off. Lock himself away in that world of his. You were the only person who got in and you didn't want to jeopardize your admittance for such a silly thing.

No…it wasn't silly…

Love isn't silly…

He traces the letters slowly, forming your name on the cold stone. J-A-M-E-S W-I-L-S-O-N. The cane falls from his hand, and he to his knees. You've picked him up so many times when he's fallen, why can't you do it now? You see as he bites his lip in pain, regretting the choice to move to the ground. Couldn't you take all his pain away? One sweet brush of your lips and would he be able to forget all of it? But it's too late now. It's just too late.

Another tear falls to the dead grass. Another stab of pain cuts through a heart that stopped beating days ago.

You want to tell him it's all going to be alright. That you'll be there for him.

But neither of those things could ever be true. You're gone and he's left to linger. And things can never be alright.

His lips are moving, as if there are words that he still had to say to you. Words, that just like you, you never had the chance to say in life.

"James—" Your name sounds so tender on his lips, so soft. You'd been waiting for him to say it like that for your whole life. And he can only say it now after your death?

"James, I was so scared, I should've told you. It's too late now." His hand reaches up and caresses the cold stone again, as if he's aching to touch you instead.

"I loved you."

He stands, his leg trembles from the cold and the ache of kneeling. But you can't help him.

"I loved you."

You lean closer, and allow ghost lips to press against his, so warm and tender. But he only feels the breath of wind. It's too late.

You should have told him.