Thanks Sheila and Christy.

Triangulation of bright, white dots, coming at him from all angles. They started on the very edge of his vision and the orbs floated in and remained in a triangle before they merged into a bigger orb that hovered until it faded out.

He watched this happen over, and over and over again and wondered if he had stood up too fast. Only problem with that theory was that he wasn't standing up, he was slumped in his leather chair, gazing at the flames in his fireplace.

He found it rather troubling that he didn't even remember lighting the fire in the first place.

"Did you fall asleep?" he heard a voice call from somewhere beside him. He couldn't place the voice so House turned his head and glanced in the direction of the couch. "Lightweight."

Wilson was laying out on his sofa, feet up on the armrest, shoes off.

"You know," House began, slurring his words, finally understanding exactly why he couldn't see straight. "Men only tell the truth when they're drunk and... something else," he began and actually stopped to think. "And since I can't think of the something else and I'm about to actually divulge to you that I'm drunk... I'm pretty sure I'm drunk."

Wilson chuckled. "Well then, that makes two of us." The fire popped and hissed and House found the sounds to be so pleasant to his ears that he almost let his eyes slip closed once more.

"Congratulations to us," House said, straightening himself up in the chair. "Maybe we can start a club."

"I'm president," Wilson called to him, the leather creaking as he settled himself down a bit more.

The gruff doctor sat up, full awake, in the chair. "Why?" he asked, incredulously.

"Because you passed out," with a wobbly arm, Wilson picked up the bottle of gin and tossed it to him. "You fucking pansy."

As he caught the bottle and watched it slosh around the bottle. The alcohol glinted in the firelight and upon noticing that, House finally asked, "Who the hell lit the fire?"

"I did," his companion answered quickly, slinging an arm over his eyes.

"You did? Why? To set the mood?" House snarked, "Whaddya wanna make out with me?"

A sigh part of his response (the gay jokes were wearing a bit thin), Wilson merely shrugged and maneuvered the pillow more comfortably beneath his head.

"Is it sad that the two of us are drinking here, alone."

"We're never alone if we're together." House responded mock-giddily and unscrewed the cap of the Tanqueray, shakily filling his glass to the brim. Glancing back at the sound of liquid hitting glass, Wilson began fidgeting on the couch.

"That was bad, and you know what I mean," came Wilson's stern reply. He sat up on the couch, smoothing out his pants. It was no matter, it wasn't as if they were going to be seeing anyone any time soon. "Share."

Doing so, they both sat back in their respective seats and drank their respective drinks far too quickly. "Maybe we should stop," Wilson mentioned, staring at his glass, now empty.

"Now who's the pansy?"

"Touche! Touche," the oncologist slurred and fell back against the leather, seemingly unable to keep his head up. "You know what our problem really is?"

"I have nothing witty to even come back at that with so, what would that, our problem, as you call it, be?"

Wilson rolled his head so that he could actually look at his friend. "Our problem… is… that we need to get laid."

"You're married, it's easy for you."

A bitter laugh followed House's statement. "I'm married, it's easier for you."

"Why d'ya keep doing it then?" The question had been burning through his mind since he'd received the invitation to Wilson's third wedding. But it wasn't something that guys talked about. The fact that he even remembered it when he was completely hammered meant that it must have really been something he wanted to know, so he asked.

"I keep doing it… because I, unlike you, fall in love too easily," the younger doctor began. "And again, unlike you, I'm fully aware that the love of your life may not be the first person you fall in love with. It's all very complicated and… and… yeah."

"So Julie's your… true love, of the moment?" he pursed his lips and began to whistle. "That was me, whistling the sappy music from the made for t.v. movie that is your life."

"Julie is… cheating on me. Can't blame her really," Wilson sat up and filled his glass again. "I really should stop drinking… but no, haven't had time to talk about the divorce so… this is damn good gin."

Though he was getting more drunk, his thoughts seemed to be coming clearer. Sure, his vision was blurring to shit and his tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth, but his speech was coming easier, the things he'd wanted to say were on the tip of his tongue.

One of the bonuses of alcohol, a powerful social and verbal lubricant. "She's cheating on you and you're… not going to do anything about it."

"Not at the moment, no."

"Why?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Does it matter why I want to know? You won't remember any of this in the morning." Thinking for a moment, he added, "I probably won't either, come to think of it."

"Why do I do it," Wilson pretended to think, watching the fire, "Because… if I didn't do it… no, wait. I do it because if it does ending up being the real thing I want to have it and keep it for as long as I can."

House laughed bitterly at him, "That makes utterly no sense. Then again, you're half in the bag."

"It makes perfect sense!" his friend assured him vehemently.

Again, House laughed. "Okay, all the way in the bag."

"Getting your, oh," Wilson sat up and swallowed quickly. "Yeah, getting your heart, heart broke is an unfortunate side effect of falling in love in the first place, my friend." Wilson clamped his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. "All has to do with symptoms of… things… I was going for something there," he assured quickly, attempting to remember what he'd even been speaking about.

"You were going for a whole medical metaphor, I was there with ya," and with that House emptied the rest of the gin into his glass. "My alliterations aside, you are cut off."

Wilson was one step ahead of him, grinning in his direction, pointing at the bottle. "There's nothing left."

"No," House responded distantly, dejectedly. "There isn't."

That sobered Wilson up a bit. The cadence and timber of his voice, the hue of his eyes, the slump of his shoulders. He was drunk, but he was something else too. Longing perhaps?

Talk of such things amongst males wasn't really heard of, but if either of them did remember the conversation that they were having (and that wasn't very likely given the size of the bottle they had just drained) they could both blame it on the liquor high jacking their brains. "You uh, you okay?"

"Better than okay," his friend responded, allowing the empty bottle to fall to the floor with a dull thunk. "I can't feel feelings anymore."

"You could feel em before?" The comment lifted the tension a bit, allowed Wilson to slip under House's radar. "Really though, are you good?"

"I…" he dragged out, "Am… just… wanting."

"Wanting?"

"I can't think right now, I don't, let's leave it at that." He attempted to force some impatience into his voice, but only managed to sound slightly nauseous.

Tapping his fingers on the coffee table, Wilson began, "You know, Cameron-"

"I'm not that drunk. Don't even think about it."

"All I'm saying is-"

This time, the impatience managed it's way into his speech. "I said, don't."

"Yeah," Wilson sighed and sank back onto the couch. "Yeah… well… we need more booze."

"That we do…" House agreed, but neither man got up to get any.

They were both asleep minutes later, the fire dying out in the fireplace, the alcohol slowly numbing the night from their weary heads.