Wilson is pressed against the door, breathless. House is pouring heat into him, refusing him air—taking it from him. His mouth dominates Wilson's, but its soft caress (so far away from the sharp mouth that threw insults so carelessly) is worth the asphyxiation.
House twists his tongue inside Wilson's mouth and sends chills down the younger man's back. Hands move from the brown hair, down a flushed neck. The slowly trail down a chest that bucks into, breathing heavy against them as they make their way down to black slacks. They pause at the thin belt encircling Wilson's waist; one hand continues to move downward while the other fiddles with the leather padlock. House's fingers press against Wilson's crotch; they stroke slowly, waiting for a response which comes quicker than the older man expected. The pants strain against a pitched tent at Wilson's waist as House lowers himself down.
He reaches the floor and slides his hands towards the smooth cotton of Wilson's boxers. His fingers stretch the waistband, lightly stroking the pale skin underneath, when his chin is pulled up so he is looking into Wilson's eyes—now so dark from lust they were almost black.
"Not here." Wilson says, peering over House's left shoulder. House turns and sees nothing out of the ordinary; the couch behind them is undisturbed, neater even, from Wilson having cleaned the area.
Cleaned.
He realizes why Wilson wants to move, and obliges. House breaks away from Wilson and moves towards the bedroom. He passes the couch and the unmistakable smell of cleaning fluid reaches his nostrils; anger had kept him from noticing it before. He looks away from the spot where his life had almost come to an end, instead looking back toward Wilson. The younger man looks at him shyly, through long eyelashes. The gaze creates a tent of House's own, though his is slightly obscured by his sweatpants' surplus of fabric.
They reach the bed; awkwardness is in the air. Neither has been in a position (ahem) such as this before, and neither knows quite what to do.
But this is Wilson's arena. He takes control here, turning House until the older man's back faces the bed. His hands wrap around House's waist. He slides a hand up House's back and leans into his neck, using his tongue to trace figure-eights. The muscles under his tongue and hand stiffen, as does something near his thigh. Wilson smiles into an increasingly hot neck and slides a leg between House's. Vocal cords vibrate near his cheek and Wilson gasps; House's moan goes straight through him.
He wants more.
He pushes House onto the bed as gently as he can and climbs on top of him. The sneering faces of the clash are crumpled as Wilson's hands move under the fabric and lift it slowly, revealing inches of skin at a time. House's stomach is flat; this surprises Wilson, as House lives to steal his food. His mind flicks back to the image of the older man shoveling down his pancakes, enjoying Wilson's annoyed reaction as much as the sweet, sticky almond-laced pancakes that remind him of a home he never had.
But back to matters at hand.
House's breathing is slightly erratic; he tries to keep it steady but his heart races under Wilson's fingertips. The shirt keeps moving upward, until his chest is revealed. His arms rise of their own accord, and then he is half naked under Wilson. He stares up into Wilson's espresso gaze and, for a moment, is unable to veil the flicker of doubt (fear) in his eyes. He hasn't been with anyone he actually cared about since Stacy. He doesn't know if he be open without breaking (if he isn't already broken).
Wilson sees a moment of doubt in the blue eyes and brings his face as close as he can to House. Wilson's breath is on his mouth and the remnant of spearmint from his toothpaste is blown coolly under his nose. Wilson doesn't say anything, but makes a soft 'shhhhh' noise and places a kiss on House's mouth. It's light, like eyelashes brushing a cheek; it's sweet and comforting and he knows it's Wilson's way of reassuring him.
"Not enough," House whispers, so softly it takes Wilson a beat to comprehend what was said.
"What?" He whispers back, then wonders why.
"Just a touch." With this, House pulls him back into a fierce embrace, pressing his body against Wilson's, as if trying to join their bodies (one complete man).
Wilson cuts of the kiss and tries to unbutton his shirt. Houses hands slide into his pants, untucking the shirt and reaching for the buttons on the bottom. Their hands meet in the middle and the shirt is shrugged off; it falls to the floor in a cerulean heap. Wilson pulls the waistband of House's pajamas, dragging his boxers along for the ride. He's not looking where his fingers are going and he's surprised when his left hand dips unceremoniously into the concave scar tissue of House's leg. The older man's breath hitches. His heart seems to pause, waiting for a reaction.
Wilson's eyes stay on the bed while his fingers explore the twisted knot of mutilated flesh. He massages the reduced muscle until there's no more damage to touch; he reaches whole tissue and keeps moving (and House sees no disgust, no disappointment in his eyes. He is a whole person to Wilson).
House's garments are at his feet now, and Wilson wastes no time in removing them. He moves back onto the bed, straddling House's naked waist. The feeling of cloth sliding against his inflamed skin sends his eyes back into his head. But he stops. He has to feel Wilson against him, skin on skin. He wraps his arms around Wilson's waist and pulls him in close, then uses momentum to roll to the left, where his good leg springs into action, flipping the pair so House is now hovering over Wilson.
"Your turn."
House's hands are steady and focused; they calculate their movements and execute them precisely, until finally both men are naked and pressed against one another, trying to remove all the space between. They're locked together, as if any separation would cause physical pain (maybe it would).
Wilson makes the first move, sliding his hand between Wilson's legs to rub the straining shaft that presses against his thigh. He looks on, slightly awed as Wilson's eyes snap shut and his breath quickens. He arches into House, who slides his hand up and down in strokes that he uses on himself (but in reverse). His absorption in Wilson's pleasure keeps him from noticing the hand of his lover is no longer clutching the bed, rumpling his sheets. House gasps as Wilson takes hold of him and moves slowly, achingly. The pleasure that runs through him takes him out of his body; it's color and sound and ripples of ecstasy. It's all he can do to keep his hand moving on Wilson, but he continues until hot, sticky fluid splashes onto his hand and stomach. He follows shortly, collapsing onto Wilson as an explosion rolls through him, electrifying every cell. His breathing comes hard and fast, synched with Wilson's. They lay like that, breathing in each other's scent, until House rolls away from Wilson.
The younger man moans slightly, like a baby whose bottle has been taken away. House turns back to him, smirking, and throws the tissue box he's retrieved at the younger man.
"As much as I like you, Wilson, I don't want you to dry all over me."
Wilson blushes and takes a tissue, wiping himself off. House does the same and moves closer to Wilson.
"Did you see anything, when—" Wilson wants to say 'when you overdosed,' but he can't bring himself to say it. He wants to know, but he doesn't want to think about the possibility that House could have actually died.
"I dreamt, right before you came in, I think." House says, keeping his eyes on the ceiling. "You were there."
"I was?"
"I was sitting in your office; you couldn't see me. You got a call, and it was me. I was dead. I asked for help, but you told me I'd died. That you held me as I died, just before an ambulance came. Then you hung up." House's words are gruff, short. It's taking all he has to tell Wilson this story. Wilson was House's final thought, final regret, and this is conveyed by House's unease.
There are tears in Wilson's eyes, but he blinks quickly and rubs them away. His hand moves under the blanket and find's House's. Fingers entwine and Wilson squeezes tightly.
"I'm not going."