Drink had flowed, and the black and white Westerns had been playing well into the evening, but even they had to finish some time.

Wilson was almost asleep. House gazed at him. Quietly, he murmured 'Three….two…one…' As if on cue, Wilson's arm relaxed and the (by now curling) pizza dropped to the floor, knocking the first domino… House stood in the middle and watched the dominoes fall around him. Wilson jerked awake as the last domino depressed the 'play' button on the relic of a cassette player and the first bars of some AC/DC-related shrieking broke over the room.

"What the hell, House?" he moaned, grimacing in the bright light.

"I was lonely"

"Well, one cure for that would be sleeping. You know, like normal people do?" House refused to take the hint, and continued the list of potential cures.

"Another would be death – I think we can rule that one out. Or…Holy Bodily Union? Or…actually," he conceded, "I can't think of any more."

"Great. But I'd be more concerned for my virtue if I knew you were that way inclined." Abandoning all hope of a reasonably quiet night, Wilson propped himself up on the arm of the sofa. If House was going to make a pass at him, as he did on occasion, it was better that they were in possession of all of their faculties. And, whether he was or not, there was little chance of getting any rest for the foreseeable future, so he may as well make himself comfortable.

"Ah." Oh, God. House was still talking. "But that is the big question. D'you really know anything about me? Would I or wouldn't I?" The sing-song voice faded, becoming deeper, and serious, as House's face swum in front of Wilson's eyes. Was he still joking now?

"Would you or wouldn't you….?"

It was afternoon in the cafeteria again. With nothing in particular to do, House had proposed a game, similar in many respects to a staring contest, and Wilson had consented for the hell of it. It had started off blandly enough, but the competitive streak had come to the fore, and the last time, they started off holding each other in vice-like gazes. In a bid to get one over on the other, they had drawn closer and closer, the proximity not difficult to engineer around the tiny tables. They had come to within inches of each other…

Wilson had been first to pull away.

House was now close enough to whisper in Wilson's ear, his soft breath ruffling Wilson's impeccably-trimmed hair. His stupid stubble infuriatingly brushing against his neck – not enough for him to actually get annoyed with…but enough…

"Don't forget, Jimmy, that I am the reigning champion of Gay Chicken…" He was tantalising him now.

Later, Wilson would curse with a worrying mixture of feelings whatever possessed him (no, it was the drunken valour raising its ugly head again) to sit up abruptly and reply.



"Like hell you are. We both know I would win under… controlled conditions"

"Yeah, yeah" House waved it off. "That's fighting talk for a man with a pathological fear of penises – especially his own." Wilson tried to pretend he wasn't weaving. God, that was two or three whiskeys too many…

"That… you'll regret that. You'll soon remember your own inadequacies."

"Oh, I'm scared. Is that a threat or a promise? Because I'm willing to bet you're considerably less well-endowed than me." House shrugged. He loved taking advantage of Wilson, who repeatedly refused to acknowledge that he couldn't hold his drink. But a bet was a bet. "Have it your way. And you can decide the conditions."

It was the fourth round. The first three times, Wilson had backed off well before House had come within licking distance (not a bad move, knowing House). He was just considering calling the thing off: it was ridiculous anyway, and not worth the competition it was generating. And yet… he considered it a service to others if he could beat House at his own game – the man would be downcast for days. With this in mind, he turned back to face House.

Second after mind-numbing second trickled by as their faces meandered closer - Wilson couldn't give in now, even if he tried… if it occurred to him to try. But they were practically nose to nose. If House didn't back off soon…. As they made fleeting eye contact, Wilson realised that House had no intention of pulling away. He had no time to think; no time to brace himself.

It was a second before Wilson realised that their lips had met, such was the subtlety of House's touch. He was too shocked to pull away, and so, he guessed, was House. Or maybe he was just revelling in his conquest… bravado spurred Wilson on, and he made a move. House was motionless, rigid against his mouth for a second, but he gradually, carefully began to respond.

It happened in a blur. Wilson didn't know where he was, all of a sudden. But much less did he care, as he fumbled with the buttons on his once immaculately-pressed shirt. No time to worry about that now, though – House was getting more insistent with that bitch of a belt buckle, and needed help – Wilson had no intention of letting him hit anything with frustration.

Remarkably, House was aware that he was wearing considerably fewer garments than he seemed to remember five minutes previously. But then, it was a warm evening. Or it certainly felt it. Wilson must be hot, too… God, this damn buckle!

"Wilson, I can't get…" Wilson didn't need to be asked twice to assist. The rush of cold air from the climate control stung his abruptly-exposed flesh, but House numbed it quickly.

All he could think as House's mouth met with his again, was that the man seriously could do with a shave.

Though not an altogether novel experience for House, the feel of the narrow hips and the rough cheek were an interesting departure from normality. Men were so less prone to mood swings, and didn't take offence at everything you said. He relaxed. The spirit was making its heady presence known now, dimming his thoughts and ensuring his concentration on the task – 

the tasks – in hand. Wilson's shudders were more than enough to egg him on, though he was quieter than the girls were. Another improvement, he noted.

He didn't think he'd found this sort of thing so interesting since the First Time. And even that hadn't been too big a deal. This, on the other hand…

Wilson was too overwhelmed by the exotic sensations assailing him that he forgot to think about the source's lack of an appropriate reproductive system. He could smell the whiskey on House's breath… or maybe it was his own… they were too close to tell, now. Not that it mattered, not that it mattered…

Oh, God… what was he doing? Without any indication of abating, House allowed an alien burst of conscience to wash over him, mingling with a potent spray of feeling until he was fit to burst. He struggled to take in the fact that his only friend was lying prone in front of him… and suddenly, he was all too aware of the fact. Sure, he was enjoying himself – for the first time in longer than he cared to remember – but….

It was House who pulled away first. Wilson, surprised, looked up, expecting to meet anger, but he seemed more nonplussed than annoyed. Wilson realised his hand was still on House's bare shoulder, and drew it away as though it scalded him. House watched it dumbly, and glanced at Wilson, not quite meeting his eye. He opened his mouth, but closed it soundlessly, deep in thought.

Finally, he spoke, and Wilson released the breath he realised he'd been holding all this time. But it was in a tone of – or so it seemed – forced joviality

"I didn't think you'd get that far."

"Yeah, well." He straightened, watching House pull his t-shirt back over his tousled hair, "And besides, I think you owe me something…" House snorted derisively.

"The hell I do. That was a draw. Didn't see me pulling out, did you?"

"Well…"

"Just now doesn't count. Because you'd have hated for this to get serious."

"What?" Wilson was amazed, "Serious? Since when can anything involving you even verge on serious?" He cast around in vain for his trousers. "What the hell did you do with my trousers?"

"Exactly." House leaned forward conspiratorially, dropping his voice to a whisper, and Wilson was reminded – not altogether uncomfortably – of the way they had been several minutes earlier. He dared not breathe; dared not move. "You see?" his voice rose to normal volume abruptly, and he leaned away, "I told you I was better-endowed."

Satisfied, he passed the trousers from where they'd been abandoned under the coffee table, and pulled up his own boxers, before making his way unsteadily to the kitchen for another slice of congealed pizza.

Wilson was still spread-eagled on the floor, twisting awkwardly to try to reach back under the sofa, when House returned, sans pizza, but with yet another tumbler. He watched the proceedings with amusement for some minutes before knocking the missing boxers off of the arm of the chair so that they came to rest an inch from Wilson's contorted frame. Grabbing them, Wilson staggered to his feet and attempted to dress himself as quickly as possible. House righted his own attire, leaving the belt undone… for posterity, was as good a reason as any. For a few clumsy moments, they stood, facing each other, before House's precariously-balanced tumbler fell to the floor with a dull thud and rolled, coming to rest next to a stray sock. House attempted to stifle a smirk, and, before they knew it, they were both laughing uproariously, hastily wiping tears of mirth from their eyes.

Wilson bent down to retrieve both the sock and the tumbler, taking a second to inhale deeply. It would be alright. With House, it always would. At least he was never one to take this sort of thing seriously. As long as he didn't see fit to embarrass Wilson (really, did the man know no shame?) they would be OK.

And Wilson was damned if he was letting this happen again. Honestly.

He wasn't sure, though, who this assertion was meant to impress.