Shift
Wilson shifted uneasily beside him on the couch, for the sixth time in the last ten minutes. There had to be a threshold, House decided, and six was as good as any. He called the diagnosis complete and shifted himself, until the entire left side of his body was plastered against Wilson.
He turned slightly, dropping his hand from the back of the couch into the other man’s silky hair, and pulled Wilson’s head forward. He tried not to tremble as he moved forward, pressing his lips to Wilson’s. He was surprised by the shock of the contact, the electric thrill of it, and was equally caught off guard by the other man’s heated, enthusiastic response. Their eager tongues tangled in the heat of their joined mouths, finally able to say what they’d meant when words had failed them, and Wilson’s arms clasped at his back like he’d never let go. House leaned into the kiss as far as possible, not analyzing or diagnosing anymore, just feeling and memorizing. He knew as much as he’d ever known anything that this had the potential to end very well or very badly, and either way, he wanted the moment seared into his mind, tucked away safe where he could replay it over and over for himself without the aftermath.
And then it happened. As he lowered Wilson backward onto the couch, the other man shoved him away viciously. Badly it was, then, House thought. Wilson looked apologetic and more than a little sad. “House, I…I can’t…”
“You don’t want this?” he asked. Could he have been wrong?
“God, House, everything’s always so black-and-white with you. God yes, I want this. I need this, but…I need you even more.”
House’s expression betrayed his puzzlement. “This is me, though, Wilson.”
“Yeah, it is, for now. Until it breaks, and then it’s nothing.”
He was right, damn him. House sighed. He might have preferred complete rejection to this, but at least he’d always have the memory.