I got dumped, and I felt like writing. The contents of this fic do not reflect what happened in my relationship, btw. Just to get that out there. Just a bitchy little boyfriend. I'm quite relieved, now that I think about it…now I don't have to sit with all his squealing little girlfriends at lunch anymore! Fuckin' sweet!

Anyway. Friendship and slash. House/Wilson FTW. There's really no established relationship here. And I'm not really sure what's going on. Just House comparing his friendship with Alive to his friendship with Wilson, and what would happen if they broke it off/tried to break it off.

(Disclaimer: I don't own "House, M.D.")

Alvie turns away, and you feel a little pang in your heart, feel your stomach drop a few inches. It's an unpleasant feeling, though you've felt worse. But that doesn't mean you don't want it to go away.

You call his name, take a step after him. He doesn't turn around, and he takes a step of his own, away from you. If this were somebody else, you'd take the hint and let him go without a fight.

But this is Alvie. You like Alvie. Deep down, you know he won't turn around, because you can read him like a book and Alvie isn't hard to read. But he deserves to be called after.

Twice his name leaves your mouth, and you take a few more steps. But soon you stop; maybe your leg stops you. You give up, and Alvie disappears. You feel a sharp stab of loss as you stare into the dark, down the path that Alvie took away from you.

But there's a presence behind you, and you turn to face it. It's blindingly bright, golden and warm and familiar. Wilson smiles, always there, always and forever. You smile back, and the little hole that Alvie's path cut through you is sealed shut, never to bleed again.

Then comes the day that Wilson turns away, and nothing happens. Your stomach doesn't move, your heart stays still, your blood halts in your veins. It doesn't hurt; it doesn't feel like anything. You're waiting.

He takes a step away from you, and Alvie's step has nothing on Wilson's. Your stomach crashes through the floor, carving a crater in the earth so deep that people in China are tumbling through. An invisible hand plunges into your chest and pulls back out, and there's your heart, bloody and still beating, leaving a shredded, gaping hole behind.

When you say his name, it's like a question. Wilson can do that to you? Since when has Wilson been able to ravage your chest and hold your heart so certainly in his hand?

Wilson is walking away.

Wilson doesn't get to do that. Not Wilson. Not to you. You love Wilson.

The second time you say his name, you're calling. You take a staggering step forward into the darkness, and it's clumsy because damn, that open wound in your chest really hurts.

Wilson doesn't turn, and that invisible hand sinks a knife into the heart it's holding hostage. You cry out in agony as the knife twists, and you take another step, his name flying from your lips again.

Wilson doesn't get to walk away.

There's no presence behind you this time. You don't have to turn around to know that there's nothing but empty blackness to greet you if you do. No glow, no warmth—the sun you orbit is spinning, too, and suddenly it's spinning away from you.

You don't stop. You follow. You know Wilson isn't like Alvie; you try and try to read him but you can't guess how his story ends. Wilson has plot twists and cliffhangers and you'll never be able to put him down. You don't know if he'll ever turn around. He may not.

You're not going to take that chance. You're not calling anymore, you're shrieking, and you're not stepping anymore, you're sprinting. As far as you're concerned, your leg was never crippled. Wilson doesn't get to walk away, and if he tries, you're never going to let him get too far. If he's going to walk away, then he's always going to hear you scream his name. If he rips your heart out, then he has to keep it. Wilson is not allowed to forget. He can't have your heart and ignore it, too. Break it, yes, but ignore it? No.

But Wilson's steps are slow, and it doesn't escape your notice. You're catching up quickly, and you wonder why, but you don't take it for granted. You're getting closer, and soon you'll be able to reach out and grab his shoulder, turn him around and say, "You're not going anywhere," but Wilson has stopped walking.

You run faster, in case he plans to take off like a rocket, but Wilson is turning. Your sun's light is dimmed, his face crumpled with uncertainty and sorrow and guilt and so many expressions you don't want your sun to have. He shows no signs of fleeing, and so you slow down until you come to a stop in front of him. You're tensed, ready to restrain him.

Wilson raises his eyes to you, and you stare back. You don't question why he turned, why he walked away; you question if he's turning back. He knows and you know that, to you, it doesn't matter why, so long as he's with you in the end. And for whatever reason, your question is what reignites your sun, what has him extending your heart to you. And your heart sings, situated cleanly in your chest, because no matter where it is, it'll always be Wilson's.

Wilson never turns away for good. Wilson doesn't get to do that.