A good best friend, House reflected, wouldn't have let himself fall for the other one.
Of course, House couldn't even pretend to himself that he'd been anything nearly like a good best friend to Wilson, ever.
So he guessed it was all right that he'd found himself attracted to Wilson in the way he was normally only attracted to women. After all, it wasn't like he couldn't be much worse a friend. And it wasn't as if he hadn't been interested in men before, once in a while.
And it wasn't like he was going to do anything about it.
He knew Wilson too well to even bother trying. He knew himself too well. Wilson would cheat (maybe he wouldn't for a while, but House would drive him to it, eventually, even if Wilson tried his hardest not to, and that was assuming Wilson would even try not to cheat on him). He wouldn't be able to forgive that. And there would go his only remaining friend. Because they wouldn't be able to stay friend after something like that.
And, of course, Wilson was a serial heterosexual. The man was practically as addicted to women as House was addicted to pills. So there was no hope for it.
Speaking of the pills, House couldn't imagine how much worse Wilson would nag if they were more attached to each other than they already were.
No, there was just no way it would work.
But House sort of wondered, as he pushed away woman after woman, if maybe his inability to get over Wilson was the reason he could never make it work with anyone else.