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Wilson's new address, which Cuddy passed on to House at his demand, surprised the elder doctor a bit. Wilson's apartment was along the outskirts of the city, and when House saw the lopsided brick-faced building it annoyed him to no end. Apparently, Wilson had figured House was worse than an overpriced, decrepit, plumbing fiasco of a home. Moving out was one thing; to rather tolerate a dismal apartment than House's company was inexcusable.

The concrete stairs whisked under House's Nikes as he ascended to the second floor. Only one of the rooms upstairs was occupied, and it wasn't even locked.

House threw open the door with even less regard than he usually observed for others' privacy, which was never much to begin with. He slammed it shut for selfish emphasis, as if he could trap Wilson inside the room with overdone dramatics.

A ratty sofa—left over from previous owners, House assumed—and a dismal coffee table were the only furnishings. A mattress did lay discarded at the far end, but it looked utterly unused. All the sheets and pillows were flung over the couch.

The apartment's walls faded into a grimy off-white; the window slacked to the side as if it had gotten tired of keeping itself in a proper upright position. There was a toilet sticking out right in the corner of the room. It should have struck House as comical, but the sight of Wilson standing distantly across the room negated any light-hearted humor.

The oncologist was just finishing folding his suit into a suitcase. In jeans and a t-shirt, Wilson seemed oddly out of place—House was so used to catching him in his professional attire. Even when he'd crash at House's, he typically kept his dress shirt on, rumpled as it might have been. There was something conceding, surrendering, about the bland outfit he wore now.

"Wilson," House snapped. "What are you doing?"

The younger man had heard the door open and slam. Even more powerfully, he'd felt House enter. There weren't many people that could change the atmosphere of a room, but House was one of them. The entire apartment seemed to cave with the annoyance House imposed on it.

Wilson indifferently clicked the suitcase shut, eyes locked on his own fingers as he systemically flicked the brass locks. To House, the entire scene looked ridiculous, too simplistic—one suitcase? There had to be more possessions Wilson owned; he couldn't be leaving now; he'd have to go back to Julie's and pick them up, rent a U-Haul, take them to…to where? House stared, dumbfounded, at the sparse luggage.

"I thought you just resigned."

"I'm going to be late." His voice was deceptively calm, barely audible.

"Shit, Wilson." Betrayal rang in House's voice. "What the hell are you talking about? You—you don't just decide to quit and not even tell me!"

Wilson lugged the cumbersome suitcase with him as he tried to gather himself and walk with some dignity to the door. House stiffly stepped in front of him, grabbing for the bag, but Wilson pulled it back. A firm, pained expression chiseled the oncologist's expression into tight grooves.

"Move, House."

"Drop it now, James."

"Move!"

With a quick, evasive step, Wilson tried to circle passed House on his right side, figuring the cane might deter his movement. But House managed instead to stick out his cane horizontally, blocking Wilson's exit. He yanked the suitcase from his friend's unsuspecting hands and let it thump to the ground harshly, sliding as House kicked it out of the way with his good leg. Wilson was in the middle of a protest when House cornered him against the wall, smothering Wilson's objections with a rough kiss.

"You didn't think I'd notice you were gone?"

Wilson, stunned and caught off guard, murmured an incomprehensible reply against House's lips, eyes fluttering closed despite himself. He stretched his back out against the wall behind him, trying to suppress the writhing that was convincing his arms to encircle House's shoulders, his fingers to digress into his hair.

His restraint lasted all of two seconds as he heard House's cane clatter dismissively to the floor. House's warmth seeped porously into him.

The taste of spearmint overpowered Wilson again, reminding him of verdant green mint leaves in coffee. He'd collapsed into the sensation before; if he did again, he might not emerge this time.

Wilson's body twisted in sudden panic. House's hands trailed insistently to his hips, steadying him.

"How interesting do you want this to get, Jimmy?"

Despite the alarm that was splintering apart in his mind, Wilson couldn't think of any constructive thing to do with his mouth other than kiss him back. Talking, for instance. Talking seemed fairly obsolete when House had him pressed up against a wall. Lips flickered against and apart from each other, brushing, biting, fleeting, probing.

"Answer me."

Nonsense clouded Wilson's brain. Everything was short-circuiting. "I—I don't know."

"Figure it out. Soon. Or we're going to have to stop now."

"We don't have to…" Wilson sighed into his mouth, body contorting, his spine arching under House's hands, "…to do anything."

"But you want to."

House yanked him by the belt so that the entire lengths of their bodies were touching. Wilson swallowed his cry with another kiss, this one deeper, as he lost his fingers in the other man's short-cropped hair. Blunt, hasty touches were suddenly slipping beneath his shirt.

Wilson grasped House's hand between his own. Hesitation flooded his eyes.

"I'm moving to New York."

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Somewhere in the apartment, water was humming inconspicuously through the pipes. Wilson had forgotten to close a window. Sounds from the streets crept in faintly, as if they were smuggled and stolen, trespassing.

"New York?" House's hands stopped, losing feeling at Wilson's shirt. He had a sinking feeling a sudden bought of paralysis had overtaken him. He couldn't feel anything, the unreality sweeping like a glacier over him. "Come on… I know the Mets are having a great year, but it's a bit too early to jump on their bandwagon isn't it?" House offered a skewed smile, but the fullness of the joke didn't quite reach his eyes.

Wilson turned away, slipping slightly out from House's arms. He picked a spot just below House's Adam's apple and focused on it. It was less condemning than the eyes that peered through him, unraveling him.

"I know a few doctors there. They… They said they'd be able to get me a job; I can work my way up again—"

"James, stop. Are you listening to yourself?"

Upset, the younger man's voice raised another octave. "Are you listening to me?"

"Yes. And it's complete bullshit."

Wilson's eyes narrowed. "House, this isn't your decision!" he snapped, ripping himself away from his friend and the stifling embrace. "I'm leaving. I'm—" His eyes leveled, color rushing to his face. "I'm not going to give us the chance to hurt each other."

"You're not giving us a chance for anything."

"And why do you suddenly care about that? You never did before." His thoughts had stumbled, tripping up in the dust and dirt of every self-protective action they'd both taken over the years, constructing lies and walls in relationships. It had all finally compiled and forced them to fall in the last few weeks. Wilson stared at the window glass and tried to resurrect some empathy, anything, but there was nothing. "You certainly never cared about me."

"I never cared…" House repeated it quietly, sarcasm dripping on the end as his words lapsed into a rough laugh. "I never—" He turned back toward Wilson, eyes scathed to a brilliant azure. "You're the one who doesn't care. You never care. You think you can love whoever you want and it will only stay your problem?"

"I make mistakes!" Wilson's voiced cracked. "Nobody makes excuses for me like they do for you." He ran his hand through his hair, overwhelmed. "I can't blame Stacy or some botched diagnosis for my problems. I've—I've screwed up my own life. I'm human, and I'm sorry you can't relate to that!"

House faltered. Wilson was always so exposed emotionally it was nearly embarrassing. He reminded House of how mortal people were, how subjective they were to forces not of their control. Wilson was the one person who could send House's world sprawling violently off its axis.

He realized how heavily Wilson was breathing, as if he'd just dragged his guilt farther than it should have ever been carried. What the hell had just happened? Why were they screaming at each other? Why were they ripping themselves away?

House craned his neck, accosting the ceiling silently, as if it were its fault nothing ever seemed to work, no matter how badly he wanted it to. Furious, he tried to stalk off but in his anger he'd had forgotten that he no longer had his cane.

Lurching for a wall but coming up well short, House braced himself for the fall.

Concerned arms caught him just before he hit the ground.

Wilson evaded his gaze, reaching for the cane. House watched him wordlessly as the younger man offered his shoulders for stability. Even now, he'd come to his aid. Even now, amid fighting and screaming and irreversible accusations.

Even now.

Something tightened in House's throat. Slowly, Wilson handed him the cane.

"You might need this."

House shook his head, refusing to take it. Wilson blinked, unsure, as House carefully pushed the cane out of his friend's hands and twined their fingers together instead.

"I need you."

Eyes locked, one pair a boundless blue, the other a pleading copper. The couch gave way beneath them.

At three o'clock, a plane departed Princeton airport for New York City. A Dr. James Wilson was not on it.