They're in a janitor's closet, of all places. And no, Wilson doesn't really give a care. He has no idea exactly how this happened; one minute, they were close to screaming at each other in the hallway over some patient, or some treatment, or – or something. Wilson forgot. Anyway, the next thing he knew, they found a janitor's closet to escape their growing audience, continued yelling at each other, and then –
And then Wilson got the bright idea to shove House, and House shoved him back, and then they knocked some cleaning supplies off a shelf and grappled a bit, trying to tear each other's heads off. Somehow, that translated into tearing at clothes, and then Wilson ended up pinning House against a shelf, and it all sort of fell apart from there. They were kissing before he knew what was happening – sloppy, angry, open mouthed kisses full of grunts and saliva and tongue.
House's blazer is on the floor along with Wilson's lab coat. They had grabbed fists full of each other's hair, and Wilson's other hand is shoved down the back of House's jeans, latched onto a butt cheek with no designs on letting go any time soon. House's second hand is cupped over Wilson's groin, and Wilson thrusts into it, not caring that he's clothed. Actually, the clothed part ranks higher on the list of worries even than the fact that he's currently trying to suffocate his best friend with his tongue.
Wilson leans forward and shoves his left thigh between House's, legging his groin. House grunts into Wilson's mouth and moves his hand from Wilson's crotch to the small of his back. They each crush the other closer and fight to establish some sort of rhythm, but they're too angry and they both insist on dominating the other. That definitely isn't going to work. Wilson grunts with exertion as House bites his lip and tries to reverse their positions. Their balance teeters to the right and Wilson uses it to wrench House onto his bad leg.
The kiss breaks as House stumbles, his knee buckling. Wilson catches him around the waist and shoves him face-first onto a discarded work bench, ignoring the pained whimper that sneaks past House's lips as he goes down. Wilson covers House's back with his own body and crushes him in place, reveling in the struggling and the soft, broken moans, and the way House squirms to try to throw Wilson off. The fighting is merely symbolic now. Wilson can tell that House wants this. House is stronger than Wilson, and better at bar fights; if he had really wanted to end this, he could have done so without much difficulty.
Wilson reaches down to grab the bulge between House's legs, and House's hips immediately cant forward. They're both panting, though Wilson is surprised to find that House has more trouble remaining silent that he does. When Wilson begins stroking House through his jeans and rutting against his backside, House shoves his face into his elbow to muffle himself. The wanton desperation that comes through in those sharp, stifled cries leaves Wilson frenetic. In spite of their clothes, Wilson rams himself up against House, jostling the work bench and knocking over a plastic jug of solvent. House tries to set his legs farther apart but he has too little leverage with his right leg.
Wilson pauses long enough to grab House's shirt collar and flip him over, and then they're half-laying on the work bench, rutting against each other and searching for purchase against the other's body with roaming fingers. Wilson covers House's mouth with his hand, afraid that someone will hear him and come to investigate, and House digs his fingers in against Wilson's spine, arching up. Their breath is ragged and House is panting open-mouthed against Wilson's palm, his nostrils flaring and his eyes squeezed shut as he thrusts his clothed erection against Wilson's. Their actions are primal, full of need and pent-up lust that neither of them had known existed. Wilson's motions cause House's body to jerk back and forth, both of them synchronized, flush and tense.
Wilson comes first. He's actually surprised to feel his balls drawing up; it's been less than five minutes since they brought their fight in here. He falls over on top of House and curves forward, hunched as the fire spreads through his lower body. His rhythm falls off and he fights to keep moving until pleasure shatters his spine and explodes through his cock with an intensity he hasn't felt in nearly twenty years. House continues to move beneath him, edging him along with soft impacts of their groins, and then Wilson seizes him as he starts to shake.
Wilson's hand isn't nearly enough to block the growl that House fails to hold back. Wilson smothers him instead, crushing the breath from his lungs so that he can't make another sound while he rides out his own orgasm, writhing against the bench and trying to wreck himself on Wilson's body.
Afterwards, neither of them have much breath left. Wilson carefully extracts himself and straightens, then gives House a hand standing up as well. They eye each other uncertainly, wondering what the hell is supposed to happen now.
House breaks the silence. "I need to change my clothes."
"Yeah…" Wilson glances away and rubs the back of his neck, uncomfortably aware of the sensation of warmth and stickiness caressing his worn out genitals.
"If it helps, I could claim to be drunk."
Wilson looks over and then relaxes at the hesitant smile on House's face. "I don't know…if you're drunk, then we can't do this again."
House's tiny smile transforms into a full-fledged grin. Unaccountably, he looks away. It's a shy gesture. "I wouldn't mind doing it again."
Wilson laughs. "Me neither." He sounds surprised by that, and he sort of is. But it doesn't bother him in the slightest.