(no subject)
Title: One
Author: magie_05
Rating/Warnings: NC-17 (I think, but I've lost all perspective at this point lol)
Summary: A very late post-ep for 6x11: 'The Down Low.' The boys discuss labels and then screw around on the hideous sofa ;)
“You know,” Wilson said, his words slurring slightly, “things would be a lot less complicated if you were a woman.”
As this revelation came right in the middle of the second six-pack, Wilson couldn't swear to its validity or appropriateness; however, the alcohol combined with the week he'd had combined with that enigmatic gleam in House's eyes had made it seem like an obvious conclusion.
“Oh?” House chortled a little into his beer bottle, still reclined on his side of the god-awful couch. “Why's that, Liberace? You think it'd be okay for you to know all the words to 'Cabaret' if I had a vagina?”
“I don't know all the words,” Wilson lied, too relaxed to put much effort into it. “I'm just saying - if one of us were a woman, this living arrangement would make a lot more sense to outsiders.”
“Yeah,” House snorted, “the hot blond neighbors would just throw themselves at you then.”
“That wasn't the point.” Wilson took another drink and tried to remember what his point actually was. “But you said it yourself - we do kind of make it easy for people to make assumptions. No one would question our motives for moving in together if you were a woman.”
“So?” House settled into his chair, eyes on the TV, toying absentmindedly with a loose thread in the second-hand sofa. “They'd assume we're sleeping together no matter what sex we are. If you're just worried about appearances, then you would have to be the woman. Explain your pressing need to iron your underwear while watching back-to-back episodes of The Golden Girls on the weekends.”
“I told you - there was nothing else on,” Wilson explained yet again. “And it's not like you're the shining standard of masculinity either. Nora bought your 'queen' act a little too easily.”
House shrugged easily. “I just conformed to the image she already had of us. You do it all the time, 's why everyone thinks you're a saint.”
Wilson found this attitude quite interesting. “You don't care if everyone thinks we're gay?”
He watched House take a deep breath and roll his eyes wearily. “What does it matter? It's just a word somebody made up. Has about as much to do with your identity as your social security number.”
Suddenly, inexplicably, Wilson felt a ball of something in his throat, which, if he didn't know better, he might have thought was fear. “Just another meaningless label, huh?”
“Damn right.” He sensed a beer-fueled House Rant ™ coming on. “Trying to squeeze the entire spectrum of human sexuality into two distinct checkboxes, three if you're open-minded. 'S useless. What do you have to do to win the rainbow-colored ribbon? Go to wine tastings? Like opera? 'Cause if this definition hinges purely on anyone who's ever harbored same-sex fantasies even once, we'd have a lot more gay bars and public-access TV shows to contend with.”
Wilson squirmed a little against the orange polyester. “I don't think anyone's implying that it's completely black-and-white. 'Gay,' 'straight,' 'bisexual' - they may be stereotypes, but at least they're a starting point.”
House shook his head somewhat bitterly. “Nah. Labels just confuse the process. It's the same with gender: boys like trucks, girls like dolls, and any variation is abnormal. Like, well - you.”
Wilson smiled wanly. “Thanks, pal.”
“Don't mention it.” He sipped his beer and watched his hockey game, becoming a stereotype even as he condemned them. “Labels assume that everyone fits into neat little social boxes. People spend so much time trying to figure out which category they fit under, they forget to just shut up and have sex.”
“So your solution is to never define anything about yourself in conventional terms.” He thought about House's misplaced misanthropy, his hatred of anything based on assumptions, the veil of individuality he used to isolate himself from virtually everyone on the planet. “Working out great for you so far.”
House's lips quirked back in a mischievous grin. “Although, if we're just talking hypothetically, I think the idea of you as a woman has definite potential. I know a miniature plastic surgeon who may be able to help you out with that-”
“As usual, you've completely ignored my point.”
“No, I get it. If we were more like Ozzie and Harriet than The Odd Couple, things would be much more convenient. You wouldn't feel the need to throw yourself at needy blond women, for one thing.”
Wilson grunted. “And you would stop forcing me to make an ass of myself in quiet French restaurants.”
“Plus, a regular supply of sex. Think of all the money I'd save.”
“Maybe you'd have better taste in furniture.”
“You could wear culottes.”
“We could probably get a nice tax break.”
“And you wouldn't be as lonely.”
House said it in the same flippant tone, still staring mindlessly at the TV, but Wilson could tell by the tightened grip on his beer bottle, the half-decibel increase of his breathing that it was something real.
“I'm not lonely,” Wilson murmured, and for the first time in longer than he cared to think about, it felt like the truth.
He looked up just in time to catch the ghost of a smile. “Well, then,” House said, his loud voice successfully shattering the moment, “you've got nothing to complain about.”
He grunted softly and pried himself off the so-called 'sofa,' leaning heavily on his cane. Wilson knew better than to speak before House standing upright. “Seriously, House,” he called over his shoulder as House disappeared behind a stack of boxes, “this couch looks like something Ikea threw up. There's a reason this was in the back corner of a discount store.”
“You know, for a woman, you have a really limited decorating style,” House called from the direction of the kitchen.
“Are you gonna make me bring out the big guns?”
House was suddenly behind him with a fresh beer in hand. “I think there's been enough discussion about what you like to do with your 'big gun.'”
Wilson smirked to himself. “So you're going to return this monstrosity?”
There was a loud belch from just behind him. “As soon as you stop referring to that thing in your bedroom as a 'duvet.'”
“Fine. We'll keep it. As long as you're willing to accept the consequences.” Wilson took a deep breath. “I...”
“Stop.”
“...feel...”
“Don't say I didn't warn you.”
“...pretty, I feel pretty, I feel pretty and witty and g-fuck!”
House poured his freshly-opened bottle of freezing cold beer down the back of Wilson's shirt.
He was on his feet and grasping for the front of House's shirt a second later, his head spinning with the beer and playfulness. “Asshole,” he gasped as the beer slid down his spine, pushing breathless little giggles from his chest. His eyes never left the unrestrained grin on House's face as he grappled at House's belt, trying to pour his own beer down House's pants. The struggle carried them into a stack of boxes before House knocked the bottle out of his hand, letting it thud loudly against their new maple wood flooring. Wilson would have reached down to grab it -
If House's hands weren't clenched solidly around his biceps.
“Jerk,” Wilson muttered weakly, mostly to distract himself from the calm but searching look on House's face, the pale eyes and open mouth. Below the little bubble of exuberance in his chest, he felt something else stirring, a pang in old scar tissue, something he'd never really allowed himself to name. But there was no denying his increasing heartbeat, the tightness in his throat, the sudden feeling of cotton in his mouth and lead in his stomach.
The scary part was that House looked at least half as freaked out.
His hands were suddenly and inexplicably on Wilson's shoulders, his eyes focused resolutely on a point below Wilson's nose. He wore the same expression as he did over x-rays or microscopes, calculating and analytical, on the verge of the next big discovery. “I'm not either,” he said, his breath quick and heavy across Wilson's cheek.
“Not what?” It briefly occurred to him that if he wanted to maintain objectivity, he should probably take his finger out of House's belt loop, but this thought didn't translate into action. “Lonely?”
House exhaled and lowered his head, ashamed, starting to pull back -
Quicker than thought, Wilson grabbed him by the back of his neck and kissed him.
Laughing about this possibility had been one thing, but nothing could have prepared Wilson for the reality. House kissed him with his eyes closed, mouth open, his hands pawing at the back of Wilson's shirt. He didn't have long hair or soft curves so Wilson was a little at a loss with what to do with his hands; eventually they wound up clenched in House's shirt collar as House's chin scraped roughly against his, House's tongue pushing into his mouth, fighting for dominance. He tasted like alcohol and pretzels and a little like fear, his fingers thick and strong and tangled in Wilson's hair, his body tall and close and overwhelming - nothing that Wilson was used to, nothing he thought he'd wanted -
Nothing he could resist.
He wasn't thinking about labels as he tugged at House's collar and started backing him toward the hideous sofa, not allowing himself to question how fast this was going - because it made a twisted sort of sense, after this last year; finally in the right place, at the right time - with the right person...
He stopped thinking entirely when House collided with the back of the sofa, sinking a few inches as he sat there awkwardly, the insides of his thighs pressed securely against Wilson's hips. He drew a shaky breath as House finally released his mouth, moving on to bite softly along Wilson's neck, like it was something he'd wanted to do for ten years. Which, in all likelihood -
“Wilson,” House rasped into his skin, in a tone that sent a ripple through his blood. “You are such...a hypocrite,” he breathed, but he apparently meant it as a compliment - his mouth planted in the hollow of Wilson's throat, his fingertips pressing into Wilson's sides. Heat flared in him and he knew it was too late to turn back, that he couldn't stop even if he tried, even if he wanted to. He was operating in a haze of testosterone, making him ignore any future consequences, making him surge forward to press every available inch of his body against House's, causing him to overbalance and execute a controlled fall over the back of the sofa. Wilson climbed - or rather, was pulled - onto House's chest, his hands skidding on slick orange polyester. House's hands grappled almost violently at his clothing, pulling him into an awkward half-kneeling position on the inconveniently-shaped sofa, with House's back propped up against the weird middle divider, providing a hideous-but-useful counterweight. He was at just the right angle for Wilson to straddle his lap, wrap his hands around House's shoulders, and kiss him harder than he'd ever dared to kiss anyone else in his life.
When House reached into his pants, Wilson was exceedingly glad neither of them was a woman.
There was no softness, no finesse, no hesitation. House stroked his cock in one perfect motion, touching just the right spots with just the right amount of force and making Wilson groan just a little like a farm animal. “Holyfuck,” he breathed, unable to think of a more dignified obscenity, “holyfuck.”
He started kissing House again before any smart-ass remark could disrupt the mood, shoving his hands up House's shirt, grinding shamelessly against his palm. House had obviously had considerable practice at this, his long and very talented fingers mercilessly jerking Wilson off, not waiting for permission, or reciprocation - simply giving Wilson exactly what he wanted.
And what he wanted, after this thought hit, was to get into House's pants as soon as possible.
This instinct was something he normally had to temper with a few boring dinners and polite conversation, but with House, those things would have pretty much the opposite of their intended effect. Nothing was stopping him from ripping open House's jeans and rubbing their dicks together, right now, kissing him frantically and moaning a little too loudly in the process. House let out this feral-sounding grunt that caused Wilson to have a minor cardiac arrhythmia, a problem which was made worse when House wrapped a hand around their cocks and started grinding up against him.
Which, in turn, made Wilson a little crazy.
He grabbed the back of the sofa with one hand and House's face with this other, cupping his jaw to kiss him harshly, groaning wildly into his mouth. His hips were working against House's with very little assistance from his brain, an instinct that came from empathy, from knowing exactly what the quick, primal motion was doing to House's body -
House groaned full and long and bit Wilson's neck, reaching up with his unoccupied hand to grasp at Wilson's shoulder, pushing up eagerly against him. They moved together, crumpled on one side of the ugliest sofa ever to come out of Canada, cramped and sweaty and sharing the same hot breath, too much friction, too little air. Wilson's back was bent at its most vulnerable point and House's watch clasp was probably going to draw blood if it kept slamming against his ear like that. It was confusing and clumsy and at times, a little painful.
Like everything else between them.
Wilson started to come quickly enough to feel embarrassed about it, but he was spared the awkwardness when House arched up against him a second later, grinding shamelessly against his abdomen. It took a full minute for Wilson to regain his senses, by which time he realized he was still shaking, still panting recklessly into House's neck, with his hand still wrapped loosely around them both, covered in come with House's fingers clamped around his wrist.
It felt too good to give up.
But House's hand was on his shoulder a second later, pushing him back a few degrees, just enough to speak, his words brushing softly against Wilson's lips. “Feel any different?”
Wilson sighed, not ready to think about it, too focused on the soft, sleepy quality of House's voice and the cautious, searching look in his eyes, the look of needing his answer.
Did he feel any different, having been brought to a rather outstanding orgasm by a man? Did it change things between them, sharing fluids after so many years of not-sharing everything else? Did it make a difference, really, that the one person he wanted to be with happened to have a penis?
“No,” he answered slowly, and memorized the new expression on House's face. “You?” he said, when he could breathe again.
House looked at him for what seemed to be a very long time, his eyes focused somewhere resolutely below Wilson's eyes. “Yeah,” he breathed eventually.
Wilson's stomach filled with helium and he felt himself lurching forward, sloppily making out with House in their apartment on a disaster of a sofa with the A Chorus Line poster in the corner, the gayest 'not-gay' situation possible -
“Ow, fuck,” House suddenly gasped into his mouth, making Wilson instinctively jerk away from his leg.
“Oh, Jesus, sorry,” he said automatically...but House was reaching around to grab at his back.
“We have to get rid of the sofa,” he spat, in a tone that suggested the sofa was entirely Wilson's idea.
Wilson's bed turned out to be much more comfortable, and it didn't take show tunes to get them there.
Author: magie_05
Rating/Warnings: NC-17 (I think, but I've lost all perspective at this point lol)
Summary: A very late post-ep for 6x11: 'The Down Low.' The boys discuss labels and then screw around on the hideous sofa ;)
“You know,” Wilson said, his words slurring slightly, “things would be a lot less complicated if you were a woman.”
As this revelation came right in the middle of the second six-pack, Wilson couldn't swear to its validity or appropriateness; however, the alcohol combined with the week he'd had combined with that enigmatic gleam in House's eyes had made it seem like an obvious conclusion.
“Oh?” House chortled a little into his beer bottle, still reclined on his side of the god-awful couch. “Why's that, Liberace? You think it'd be okay for you to know all the words to 'Cabaret' if I had a vagina?”
“I don't know all the words,” Wilson lied, too relaxed to put much effort into it. “I'm just saying - if one of us were a woman, this living arrangement would make a lot more sense to outsiders.”
“Yeah,” House snorted, “the hot blond neighbors would just throw themselves at you then.”
“That wasn't the point.” Wilson took another drink and tried to remember what his point actually was. “But you said it yourself - we do kind of make it easy for people to make assumptions. No one would question our motives for moving in together if you were a woman.”
“So?” House settled into his chair, eyes on the TV, toying absentmindedly with a loose thread in the second-hand sofa. “They'd assume we're sleeping together no matter what sex we are. If you're just worried about appearances, then you would have to be the woman. Explain your pressing need to iron your underwear while watching back-to-back episodes of The Golden Girls on the weekends.”
“I told you - there was nothing else on,” Wilson explained yet again. “And it's not like you're the shining standard of masculinity either. Nora bought your 'queen' act a little too easily.”
House shrugged easily. “I just conformed to the image she already had of us. You do it all the time, 's why everyone thinks you're a saint.”
Wilson found this attitude quite interesting. “You don't care if everyone thinks we're gay?”
He watched House take a deep breath and roll his eyes wearily. “What does it matter? It's just a word somebody made up. Has about as much to do with your identity as your social security number.”
Suddenly, inexplicably, Wilson felt a ball of something in his throat, which, if he didn't know better, he might have thought was fear. “Just another meaningless label, huh?”
“Damn right.” He sensed a beer-fueled House Rant ™ coming on. “Trying to squeeze the entire spectrum of human sexuality into two distinct checkboxes, three if you're open-minded. 'S useless. What do you have to do to win the rainbow-colored ribbon? Go to wine tastings? Like opera? 'Cause if this definition hinges purely on anyone who's ever harbored same-sex fantasies even once, we'd have a lot more gay bars and public-access TV shows to contend with.”
Wilson squirmed a little against the orange polyester. “I don't think anyone's implying that it's completely black-and-white. 'Gay,' 'straight,' 'bisexual' - they may be stereotypes, but at least they're a starting point.”
House shook his head somewhat bitterly. “Nah. Labels just confuse the process. It's the same with gender: boys like trucks, girls like dolls, and any variation is abnormal. Like, well - you.”
Wilson smiled wanly. “Thanks, pal.”
“Don't mention it.” He sipped his beer and watched his hockey game, becoming a stereotype even as he condemned them. “Labels assume that everyone fits into neat little social boxes. People spend so much time trying to figure out which category they fit under, they forget to just shut up and have sex.”
“So your solution is to never define anything about yourself in conventional terms.” He thought about House's misplaced misanthropy, his hatred of anything based on assumptions, the veil of individuality he used to isolate himself from virtually everyone on the planet. “Working out great for you so far.”
House's lips quirked back in a mischievous grin. “Although, if we're just talking hypothetically, I think the idea of you as a woman has definite potential. I know a miniature plastic surgeon who may be able to help you out with that-”
“As usual, you've completely ignored my point.”
“No, I get it. If we were more like Ozzie and Harriet than The Odd Couple, things would be much more convenient. You wouldn't feel the need to throw yourself at needy blond women, for one thing.”
Wilson grunted. “And you would stop forcing me to make an ass of myself in quiet French restaurants.”
“Plus, a regular supply of sex. Think of all the money I'd save.”
“Maybe you'd have better taste in furniture.”
“You could wear culottes.”
“We could probably get a nice tax break.”
“And you wouldn't be as lonely.”
House said it in the same flippant tone, still staring mindlessly at the TV, but Wilson could tell by the tightened grip on his beer bottle, the half-decibel increase of his breathing that it was something real.
“I'm not lonely,” Wilson murmured, and for the first time in longer than he cared to think about, it felt like the truth.
He looked up just in time to catch the ghost of a smile. “Well, then,” House said, his loud voice successfully shattering the moment, “you've got nothing to complain about.”
He grunted softly and pried himself off the so-called 'sofa,' leaning heavily on his cane. Wilson knew better than to speak before House standing upright. “Seriously, House,” he called over his shoulder as House disappeared behind a stack of boxes, “this couch looks like something Ikea threw up. There's a reason this was in the back corner of a discount store.”
“You know, for a woman, you have a really limited decorating style,” House called from the direction of the kitchen.
“Are you gonna make me bring out the big guns?”
House was suddenly behind him with a fresh beer in hand. “I think there's been enough discussion about what you like to do with your 'big gun.'”
Wilson smirked to himself. “So you're going to return this monstrosity?”
There was a loud belch from just behind him. “As soon as you stop referring to that thing in your bedroom as a 'duvet.'”
“Fine. We'll keep it. As long as you're willing to accept the consequences.” Wilson took a deep breath. “I...”
“Stop.”
“...feel...”
“Don't say I didn't warn you.”
“...pretty, I feel pretty, I feel pretty and witty and g-fuck!”
House poured his freshly-opened bottle of freezing cold beer down the back of Wilson's shirt.
He was on his feet and grasping for the front of House's shirt a second later, his head spinning with the beer and playfulness. “Asshole,” he gasped as the beer slid down his spine, pushing breathless little giggles from his chest. His eyes never left the unrestrained grin on House's face as he grappled at House's belt, trying to pour his own beer down House's pants. The struggle carried them into a stack of boxes before House knocked the bottle out of his hand, letting it thud loudly against their new maple wood flooring. Wilson would have reached down to grab it -
If House's hands weren't clenched solidly around his biceps.
“Jerk,” Wilson muttered weakly, mostly to distract himself from the calm but searching look on House's face, the pale eyes and open mouth. Below the little bubble of exuberance in his chest, he felt something else stirring, a pang in old scar tissue, something he'd never really allowed himself to name. But there was no denying his increasing heartbeat, the tightness in his throat, the sudden feeling of cotton in his mouth and lead in his stomach.
The scary part was that House looked at least half as freaked out.
His hands were suddenly and inexplicably on Wilson's shoulders, his eyes focused resolutely on a point below Wilson's nose. He wore the same expression as he did over x-rays or microscopes, calculating and analytical, on the verge of the next big discovery. “I'm not either,” he said, his breath quick and heavy across Wilson's cheek.
“Not what?” It briefly occurred to him that if he wanted to maintain objectivity, he should probably take his finger out of House's belt loop, but this thought didn't translate into action. “Lonely?”
House exhaled and lowered his head, ashamed, starting to pull back -
Quicker than thought, Wilson grabbed him by the back of his neck and kissed him.
Laughing about this possibility had been one thing, but nothing could have prepared Wilson for the reality. House kissed him with his eyes closed, mouth open, his hands pawing at the back of Wilson's shirt. He didn't have long hair or soft curves so Wilson was a little at a loss with what to do with his hands; eventually they wound up clenched in House's shirt collar as House's chin scraped roughly against his, House's tongue pushing into his mouth, fighting for dominance. He tasted like alcohol and pretzels and a little like fear, his fingers thick and strong and tangled in Wilson's hair, his body tall and close and overwhelming - nothing that Wilson was used to, nothing he thought he'd wanted -
Nothing he could resist.
He wasn't thinking about labels as he tugged at House's collar and started backing him toward the hideous sofa, not allowing himself to question how fast this was going - because it made a twisted sort of sense, after this last year; finally in the right place, at the right time - with the right person...
He stopped thinking entirely when House collided with the back of the sofa, sinking a few inches as he sat there awkwardly, the insides of his thighs pressed securely against Wilson's hips. He drew a shaky breath as House finally released his mouth, moving on to bite softly along Wilson's neck, like it was something he'd wanted to do for ten years. Which, in all likelihood -
“Wilson,” House rasped into his skin, in a tone that sent a ripple through his blood. “You are such...a hypocrite,” he breathed, but he apparently meant it as a compliment - his mouth planted in the hollow of Wilson's throat, his fingertips pressing into Wilson's sides. Heat flared in him and he knew it was too late to turn back, that he couldn't stop even if he tried, even if he wanted to. He was operating in a haze of testosterone, making him ignore any future consequences, making him surge forward to press every available inch of his body against House's, causing him to overbalance and execute a controlled fall over the back of the sofa. Wilson climbed - or rather, was pulled - onto House's chest, his hands skidding on slick orange polyester. House's hands grappled almost violently at his clothing, pulling him into an awkward half-kneeling position on the inconveniently-shaped sofa, with House's back propped up against the weird middle divider, providing a hideous-but-useful counterweight. He was at just the right angle for Wilson to straddle his lap, wrap his hands around House's shoulders, and kiss him harder than he'd ever dared to kiss anyone else in his life.
When House reached into his pants, Wilson was exceedingly glad neither of them was a woman.
There was no softness, no finesse, no hesitation. House stroked his cock in one perfect motion, touching just the right spots with just the right amount of force and making Wilson groan just a little like a farm animal. “Holyfuck,” he breathed, unable to think of a more dignified obscenity, “holyfuck.”
He started kissing House again before any smart-ass remark could disrupt the mood, shoving his hands up House's shirt, grinding shamelessly against his palm. House had obviously had considerable practice at this, his long and very talented fingers mercilessly jerking Wilson off, not waiting for permission, or reciprocation - simply giving Wilson exactly what he wanted.
And what he wanted, after this thought hit, was to get into House's pants as soon as possible.
This instinct was something he normally had to temper with a few boring dinners and polite conversation, but with House, those things would have pretty much the opposite of their intended effect. Nothing was stopping him from ripping open House's jeans and rubbing their dicks together, right now, kissing him frantically and moaning a little too loudly in the process. House let out this feral-sounding grunt that caused Wilson to have a minor cardiac arrhythmia, a problem which was made worse when House wrapped a hand around their cocks and started grinding up against him.
Which, in turn, made Wilson a little crazy.
He grabbed the back of the sofa with one hand and House's face with this other, cupping his jaw to kiss him harshly, groaning wildly into his mouth. His hips were working against House's with very little assistance from his brain, an instinct that came from empathy, from knowing exactly what the quick, primal motion was doing to House's body -
House groaned full and long and bit Wilson's neck, reaching up with his unoccupied hand to grasp at Wilson's shoulder, pushing up eagerly against him. They moved together, crumpled on one side of the ugliest sofa ever to come out of Canada, cramped and sweaty and sharing the same hot breath, too much friction, too little air. Wilson's back was bent at its most vulnerable point and House's watch clasp was probably going to draw blood if it kept slamming against his ear like that. It was confusing and clumsy and at times, a little painful.
Like everything else between them.
Wilson started to come quickly enough to feel embarrassed about it, but he was spared the awkwardness when House arched up against him a second later, grinding shamelessly against his abdomen. It took a full minute for Wilson to regain his senses, by which time he realized he was still shaking, still panting recklessly into House's neck, with his hand still wrapped loosely around them both, covered in come with House's fingers clamped around his wrist.
It felt too good to give up.
But House's hand was on his shoulder a second later, pushing him back a few degrees, just enough to speak, his words brushing softly against Wilson's lips. “Feel any different?”
Wilson sighed, not ready to think about it, too focused on the soft, sleepy quality of House's voice and the cautious, searching look in his eyes, the look of needing his answer.
Did he feel any different, having been brought to a rather outstanding orgasm by a man? Did it change things between them, sharing fluids after so many years of not-sharing everything else? Did it make a difference, really, that the one person he wanted to be with happened to have a penis?
“No,” he answered slowly, and memorized the new expression on House's face. “You?” he said, when he could breathe again.
House looked at him for what seemed to be a very long time, his eyes focused somewhere resolutely below Wilson's eyes. “Yeah,” he breathed eventually.
Wilson's stomach filled with helium and he felt himself lurching forward, sloppily making out with House in their apartment on a disaster of a sofa with the A Chorus Line poster in the corner, the gayest 'not-gay' situation possible -
“Ow, fuck,” House suddenly gasped into his mouth, making Wilson instinctively jerk away from his leg.
“Oh, Jesus, sorry,” he said automatically...but House was reaching around to grab at his back.
“We have to get rid of the sofa,” he spat, in a tone that suggested the sofa was entirely Wilson's idea.
Wilson's bed turned out to be much more comfortable, and it didn't take show tunes to get them there.