A/N: Random. Probably OOC. I wrote it for the sake of freeing up the scene in my head. No slash intended.
Knowing
He was dying on the third Tuesday of his descent – and Wilson knew it. The younger man slid into his room as he had everyday since House had been admitted, wearing House's jeans and House's t-shirt. He had known waking up that morning that this was the day; he had felt it like an anchor chained to his heart, confining him to House's couch. Even when alone, he remained faithful to his unspoken place.
He came with an unlabeled CD and a bottle of lavender oil. What light filtered through the blinds was gray, but he didn't touch the switches. House lay unmoving, except for the rise and fall of his chest, and he didn't open his eyes. Wilson popped the CD into the stereo he had bought specifically for this room, and the music began to flow, drowning out the machines. Wilson peered at House, trembling; he didn't know if he could handle this.
He picked up the bottle of oil again, made his way around the bed, and inhaled. The cane hadn't been used in days, and thinking of it now, he realized he had no idea what he was going to do with it after this was finally over. He eased himself onto the bed, unscrewed the cap, and held the bottle under House's nose. Lavender was soothing. Wilson remembered massaging it into House's leg soon after the infarction, always waiting until his friend fell into a drug-heavy sleep.
His eyes stung at the scent now, but House seemed to breathe easier. Wilson held it there and held it there, face streaming at last, muscles asking for collapse but receiving no permission. He couldn't do this. He couldn't endure. He shuddered, wanted to sob, unable to hear himself cry while the music worked its magic in House's brain.
Wilson set the bottle aside, looking at House's face relentlessly, as if they were about to bury him in the next instant. He lay his head down on that shoulder he had sometimes felt wasn't available to him, and he abandoned inhibition now, outstretching his arm like a wing across House's chest. His hand grasped the other shoulder, pulling their two bodies together as close as they had ever been or would ever be. He wept, knowing, knowing as only he could know that this was it.
"I can't do this," he whispered, not knowing where his voice had sprung from. "Not without you."
House offered no motion or word of comfort, and Wilson felt as if he were suddenly the only man alive with him. He felt as if he were being deserted by the only other person in the world.
"Tell me," he said. "I have to know. Did you ever care about me?"
The music receded for a moment, letting the heart monitor sing through, before washing back up and over it again.
"I have to know."
His tears were slowly drowning him, destroying those eyes and sinking into House. He didn't speak again for several minutes, sensing the changes in his best friend's vitals without having to look at the monitors. He knew they were getting closer, minute by minute.
"House," he choked. "Please – I have to know."
Rain began to hit the windows, the gray half-dark sweeping through the room completely. Wilson was dying; he had to be. He could feel himself losing it all, his soul crumpling in on itself, and he realized that for all the loss and failure in his life, he had never known heart break until now.
He sobbed into House, the tears coming harder and harder, his hand holding on to what was there, though what he needed was untouchable. His eyes gleamed with an agony so profound, it left his body shaking.
"I love you," he whispered.
And he knew. He had always known – those words were his permission to Gregory House. He lay there for God only knows how long, the machines silenced by his burned CD, and he never received an answer.