Harsh Truths
"I hate you."
With eyes half-closed and words muttered into the pillows beneath his head, Wilson barely knew what he was saying. In the half-light provided by the moonlight filtering in from the bedroom window, he was just able to see he was speaking to House's bare back. After a few moments, he could see the shoulder blades shifting beneath the surface as Greg curled into himself the slightest more.
"You don't hate me." Was his reply, tones devoid of anything even remotely like a sleeper woken. He sounded like he always did – crude and sarcastic, completely incredulous to every comment within his hearing. Wilson winced a little at these rough timbres, pressing his head deeper into the pillows.
"I do." He whispered, almost as if afraid any higher volume would shatter the passing moments. Yet, as those moments ticked by with no further words from Greg, perhaps fragmenting the seconds would have been a fate preferable to the most awkward of silences.
At long last, however, when James felt fatigue luring him deeper into its realm, House spoke.
"You don't hate me." He repeated, still with his back to the other. "You hate yourself for liking me. You hate yourself for liking what I give you. You hate yourself, not me."
Wilson swallowed as he listened to the course statement, the harsh truth that fell upon nonplussed ears, before a slight tip of his head was given – a nod. He knew Greg wouldn't see it, would never see it, and finally let his dark eyes flicker closed.
Hearing no further comments, Greg allowed his gaze to drift back to the bottle of Vicodin on his bedside table, barely blinking.