House plucked at the strings of his guitar slowly, pulling a slow, sultry melody from the strings. With a plain black pick he moves it slowly, ringing a chord through the room, his face obscured by the dim lighting. Slowly the tempo rose and fell, the notes swaying in between piercing highs and seductive lows, creating sounds that Wilson knew he would never hear again. This wasn't something House had memorized; improvisation. This was for him, he knew.

Through music, House spoke in tones and volumes that exceeded the ability of his speech. Wilson closed his eyes, letting the sound drift around him as he lay out on the couch. He never interrupted House until he was done, and he didn't like to watch for fear of inducing him to stop. There was no real time when there was music and every bar fell out before them as they were, no editing, no changing it to make it sound uniform and controlled. Like House, they sounded exactly how they were supposed to sound, presented boldly with no coverings of courtesy. These sounds tended to sound more appealing then House's general critique on society, persons and arbitrary establishments.

Wilson thinks about House's fingers creeping over the next of the guitar, pressing strings onto the frets, using his finger as a nut to move the sound in the air. It's elegant, roaming and he aches to know what it feels like on the skin. They're both enjoying the pulses in their ears as each sound moves neatly into the next without stumbling. Wilson wonders how far House could have gone in a musical career. The music scene has definitely lost someone talented, someone who for the moment, he had to himself.

It was difficult to tell how much time had passed but Wilson's eyes flicked open immediately as the sound stopped and he heard the distinct sound of the plug being pulled from the guitar. Rising out of his comfortable languor he sat up, stretching out his limbs. Wilson is smiling distantly as time catches up again. It morphs into a mournful look, but he keeps his expression discreet as he composes himself. Some sort of compliment seems needed by manners, but House would likely only snipe at it, trivialize it, as many stubborn artists would. Or be irritated that attention had been drawn to it.

"Nice," Wilson says quietly, and he's hesitant about even that. House nods curtly, still occupied with putting away various equipment. He didn't want words drawn to it.

Once everything was put back in it's place, Wilson collected his things to leave, the time having returned to it's regular pace (too fast) and House looking tired and haggard (more then usual). It isn't late but if time keeps hurdling forwards like this, when he gets back to the hotel, it'll be nearly morning.