Wilson is walking down the hall to House's apartment. The sun shines outside, but there's a chill and he stuffs his hands in his pockets. His stomach is in his feet; he feels uneasy, edgy. He doesn't know why, but there's an ominous feel in air that seems thicker, determined to slow him, keep him away from his destination. He reaches the apartment and moves to unlock it, but as he does he sees it's already open, though by mere millimeters.

Door must not have shut. He reasons, pausing for reasons unknown. He pushes the door open slowly and breathes out the air he's been holding unconsciously. The apartment is undisturbed. Everything is in its right place, except House isn't there. His usual position on the couch is empty, leaving a glaring hole in the 'normalcy' that Wilson now suspects is a façade. There's something wrong and he knows it; he can't pinpoint why his skin is crawling, why he wants to turn around and pretend he was never there—but he has to continue. He has to find House. He can't leave without seeing him.

He steps slowly, hesitating in the living room that for some reason is colder than the hallway. His breath hitches in his throat and he chides himself. He's not a child. There are no monsters. So what is he waiting for? He asks himself this as his reluctant steps lead him into the bedroom. The door is open and Wilson enters, relieved to find House's sleeping form tucked under navy blankets. He sits on the corner of the bed, careful not to wake the older man. Wilson gazes at him for a time, noticing how much different his friend looks when asleep. His eyes are relaxed, almost erasing the slight lines formed from his ever-present glare. Long lashes are splayed on weathered cheeks, curving up pleasantly (surely not an adjective that would be used to describe House's wakeful form).

The feeling that something is terribly wrong is rising in Wilson—but why? House is there, lying so still next to him, immersed in dreams

Lying so still……..

There's something obstructing Wilson's throat as he reaches a shaking hand to shake House's sleeping form. He's gentle at first. Something's wrong; he isn't absorbing House's sleep-induced warmth. House isn't waking up. Wilson shoves the blankets away from House and touches the man's bare forearm. The appendage is ice-cold and Wilson scrambles back from the bed, only stopping when he hits his head on the wall behind him, hard. He's hyperventilating now, and the blow makes stars appear before his eyes. He sinks to his knees. The last thing he sees is the body of his friend.

Wilson's arms, upon waking, immediately grasp at the space next to him. His hands come up empty, but there's warmth underneath them. Tense muscles relax and Wilson opens his eyes. He sits up slowly and hopes he's not dreaming—that the bliss of the night before wasn't a cruel joke of his subconscious.

It's the sound of music that moves him from the bedroom. On the way he sees his and House's clothes, strewn throughout the bedroom. He gathers his boxers and slips them on before following the sound of music to the living room, where House sits naked at the piano. Wilson feels a stirring when he sees this, but ignores this for a moment. If he knows House at all, (and he may be the only one besides Stacy who does) this is a test. The music stops when House sees Wilson; his hands move from the ivory keys to the frame of the piano and he pulls himself. House uses his left hand to support his weight and crosses in front of the instrument. The lights are on and they illuminate his body; he stands in front of Wilson, completely exposed in all ways possible. He challenges Wilson with his gaze, daring the younger man to look away, to look sympathetic.

"What do you see?"

"I see…you." The words leave Wilson's mouth before he has a chance to think; he sees House as he always had. House is strong and brilliant, flawed and beautiful. He always had been, content and complete or injured and depressed. The idea of what Wilson sees has nothing to do with physical imperfections, or even looks. It's the way House kissed him, how he pressed his flushed body into Wilson's as they explored one another. It's the way that House's omniscient blue eyes study him, welcome him and sneak looks at him when he thinks Wilson isn't looking. It's the way House opened up to him, if only for a moment.

House accepts this answer.

"What do you see?" Wilson asks, his eyes imitating House's hard gaze.

"A guy who really needs to brush his hair. Seriously, Carrot Top would be jealous of that fro."

Wilson rolls his eyes. Of course House would expect him to answer honestly, then return with sarcasm (though this doesn't stop Wilson's hands from trying to smooth down hair that's trying to stand up and orbit his head). He moves towards House and slides warm hands around an air-cooled waist. His head moves to House's throat and his tongue slides out to caress smooth skin.

House's eyes shut.

"Mouth breather."

"What?" Wilson continues, but listens to what will surely be an enlightening explanation for the off-topic comment that came out in a warm breath, heating his neck.

"You're mouth is freezing. I bet you breathe through your mouth, right?"

"God, House," Wilson says into his neck. "Just shut up."

For once, House listens.

The pair moves away from the piano and gets dressed, House in last night's clothes, which Wilson wrinkles his nose at but says nothing. House lends Wilson spare sweats and a shirt, and they sit on the couch in an amiable silence.

Wilson's mind wanders as House flips through the channels, finally stopping on an obscure British show called Blackadder. His thoughts have turned from the incredible events of the past few hours to the future. Unease settles in his stomach as he stares at House from the corner of his eye.

"Why did you do it?"

"Come on, Wilson. Just watch TV, ok?"

"No. I need to know why."

The TV shuts off and Wilson has House's full attention.

"I didn't try to kill myself. I—the pain. It was in everything. I couldn't think. I didn't think I'd die."

Wilson thinks about this for a moment, then realizes something. House is not sweating. He's not nauseous; he's clear and coherent. Focused.

"You took something."

"Secret stash," House smiles like a kid who's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Would have been much easier if I'd remembered it a few days ago, but better late then never."

"What about Tritter? What if he finds out about this? Or the Oxy? You're going to end up in jail!." Wilson spits the words at House and watches the Cheshire cat's smile fade. House's already thin lips almost disappear. His eyes close. They open to look at Wilson like a stranger.

"Why can't you just try to stay off the Vicodin? Just try! I can't—you can't go to jail, I—you're—"

House cuts him off with a voice so hard it could cut through diamond.

"Vicodin takes the pain away. Nothing else works."

"You haven't tried anything else! Half of your addiction is psychosomatic from pushing away someone who meant something to you! The pain's half in your head and you'll fry for it! It controls you."

Wilson stands up, in front of House. He sees that his words fall on deaf ears—he's lost the audience he fought so hard to get.

"It controls you." He repeats, and his tone is formal. Final. He doesn't talk to a lover anymore—he talks to someone hanging over the ledge of a building. He waits for House to fall—or let himself be saved.

House washes his hands of Wilson. "James," he says, making sure his tone stays steady, stays convincing. "You need to go."

Wilson tries to muster the will to fight, but he's empty. He's poured everything he has into House and come back empty; he thought he'd been filled with House's trust, House's love, but his hope was a chimera; an unrealistic dream that left him emptier than he thought possible. He nods at House, mutely, and goes to collect his clothes. He dresses quickly and leaves without gazing back at House, who sits on the couch. For a fleeting moment, House regrets what he's done. The cold feeling of guilt settles within him, and he can't seem to shrug it off this time. He won't allow himself to go after Wilson, though, so he turns the TV back on and eventually falls asleep there, bathed in blue light.