033. Too Much
Fear of Falling
House arched off the bed, a strangled moan dragged out of his throat by Wilson's mouth closing around his nipple, his hands scrabbling on Wilson's shoulders.
"No…no," he gasped, his hands finally finding purchase and shoving hard.
He barely heard Wilson's startled "What?" as he scrambled backwards, clambering off the bed and backing away, awkwardly, painfully, until his back smacked into the wall. He knew his eyes were wide and wild and he was panting, short, jerking breaths that didn't seem to be bringing much oxygen into his lungs.
"Greg?"
Wilson's voice was soft and almost preternaturally calm, the tone of voice someone might use to gentle a skittish animal.
"Can't," House gasped, his gaze flickering to every part of the room except where Wilson was. "Too much."
Wilson's warm, gentle hands coming to rest on his chest drew a startled, almost fearful, cry out of him and only the subtle pressure of those hands stopped him from running…or trying to run. He hadn't seen Wilson move…too busy looking elsewhere.
"Too much what?" Wilson asked, his voice still soft and calm, his hands gently caressing, trying to soothe.
House didn't answer. He turned his head and tried to ignore the sensation of Wilson's hands on his bare skin. But Wilson wouldn't allow him to escape. He felt one hand leave his chest, slide upwards until it was cupping his face then there was slow inexorable pressure turning his head.
"Look at me," Wilson ordered gently and House found himself incapable of disobeying.
He didn't know what Wilson saw in his eyes but whatever was there made the younger man smile softly, sweetly.
"Let go, Greg," he whispered. "I'll catch you when you fall. I always have, I always will."
House stared wildly at his friend, his lover. His thoughts chased themselves around his mind. To do this was to trust, to care, to love and he'd been hurt too much before to easily allow another inside. But this was Wilson. If there was one constant in his life, it was James Wilson.
He shuddered briefly and closed his eyes. He could still feel Wilson's hands, one on his chest, fingers moving in a barely-there caress, the other still cupping his face. He feel the heat radiating from Wilson's body and he knew part of him craved that heat and what it would bring. He shuddered again, deeper, then slowly opened his eyes.
Wilson was watching him, outwardly calm but his eyes betrayed his worry, his desire, his fear. House swallowed hard then, accompanied by the sensation of falling, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Wilson's. He could trust, he could care, he could love. He would.