They sit stiffly on either side of his sofa, thighs pressed into the armrests with feigned casualty and nervous tension. He leans over the side of the couch as though preparing to be sick, studying the light brown carpet in painstaking detail. His eyes trace the outline of a faded stain, claret splotch against the taupe rug. A dinner party, years ago, may have left its mark here. Perhaps House and some other lover made their drunken way, dancing, falling gracefully into bed after the other guests had left. Perhaps the cheap chardonnay had run out and he had moved on to red wine in intoxicated lavishness, drinks spilled over the side of the settee – that would be like House, to save the best for the last minute.
A touch on his shoulder. He sits up and twists around suddenly, startled.
"Grape juice," says House. "Keeps blood clots in check, you know."

They sit on either side of his sofa, hand in hand – two stained hearts felt by this one touch only.