(no subject)
Title: Wicked Game
Author: magie_05
Rating/Warning: PG; angsty sadness
Summary: Wilson has lied for so long, he even has himself convinced. Written in about 30 minutes when I was so drunk I could barely see, so IDK what this is :\
The day he realized it was love was one of the worst in Wilson's life.
He couldn't imagine a more unsatisfactory arrangement, married and in love with a misanthropic jerk of the same sex who also happened to be his closest friend. It was a new level of pathetic.
At first, he tried to ignore it. Tried to tell himself it was only a word. Only a crush. Harmless curiosity that would correct itself after a few weeks. A few months. A few years.
It required conscious effort to keep his hands to himself. Restrict his eyes to platonic regions. Limit his speech to sarcasm and banter. Swallow any words that signified emotion.
To become just like House.
The deception and denial was in itself pathetic, but Wilson had no other choice. The one person on the planet he could talk to about this just happened to be the un-obscure object of his desire. He gradually became accustomed to the dull ache in his chest, the rush of sound in his ears whenever House was in the room, the sharp pang of House's absence. Everything changed while Wilson languished in a state of suspended animation - divorces and cops and near-death experiences, missed chances that only added up to a more and more definite truth: that House didn't return his feelings, that he couldn't, that life had made him incapable of it.
And so Wilson kept quiet. His one act of self-preservation.
It worked. It worked well enough to carry him through another marriage, another fight, another five years. Denial was second-nature: it wasn't obsession; it was concern for a friend. It wasn't lust - it was just stress. It wasn't love.
It was his lifeline.
His defense strategy was flawless. Imperceptible. Impervious to all those long, blue glances, to every off-hand/off-beat comment, every not-so-accidental touch. Wilson's lie became so ingrained in his personality that he was ready for any false signal House could throw at him.
Except for this.
House pushed him into the wall and kissed him with an intensity Wilson couldn't have predicted, in a way that ten years' worth of his imagination couldn't touch. House's mouth was open and his eyes were squeezed shut, his hands grasping Wilson's collar, sweeping up into his hair, sliding back down to hold his face. “Finally,” House breathed into his mouth, “finally.”
It was everything he could have wanted: House kissing him hungrily, House's arms sliding around to hold him, House's forehead pressed securely against his own. It was something from one of Wilson's dreams.
Or one of his nightmares.
His hands were shaking as he grabbed House's wrists, gently prying himself loose and turning his face away, his eyes down and his heart on the floor. “I can't,” he whispered, because it was the only truth he'd ever been able to hold onto with any certainty, “We can't do this. I'm sorry.”
It was easy to walk away, to leave House staring after him in the hallway, an all-too-familiar look on his face. Easy to tell himself it was his only choice. Easy to pretend that it wasn't breaking his heart.
After all, he'd had plenty of practice.
Author: magie_05
Rating/Warning: PG; angsty sadness
Summary: Wilson has lied for so long, he even has himself convinced. Written in about 30 minutes when I was so drunk I could barely see, so IDK what this is :\
The day he realized it was love was one of the worst in Wilson's life.
He couldn't imagine a more unsatisfactory arrangement, married and in love with a misanthropic jerk of the same sex who also happened to be his closest friend. It was a new level of pathetic.
At first, he tried to ignore it. Tried to tell himself it was only a word. Only a crush. Harmless curiosity that would correct itself after a few weeks. A few months. A few years.
It required conscious effort to keep his hands to himself. Restrict his eyes to platonic regions. Limit his speech to sarcasm and banter. Swallow any words that signified emotion.
To become just like House.
The deception and denial was in itself pathetic, but Wilson had no other choice. The one person on the planet he could talk to about this just happened to be the un-obscure object of his desire. He gradually became accustomed to the dull ache in his chest, the rush of sound in his ears whenever House was in the room, the sharp pang of House's absence. Everything changed while Wilson languished in a state of suspended animation - divorces and cops and near-death experiences, missed chances that only added up to a more and more definite truth: that House didn't return his feelings, that he couldn't, that life had made him incapable of it.
And so Wilson kept quiet. His one act of self-preservation.
It worked. It worked well enough to carry him through another marriage, another fight, another five years. Denial was second-nature: it wasn't obsession; it was concern for a friend. It wasn't lust - it was just stress. It wasn't love.
It was his lifeline.
His defense strategy was flawless. Imperceptible. Impervious to all those long, blue glances, to every off-hand/off-beat comment, every not-so-accidental touch. Wilson's lie became so ingrained in his personality that he was ready for any false signal House could throw at him.
Except for this.
House pushed him into the wall and kissed him with an intensity Wilson couldn't have predicted, in a way that ten years' worth of his imagination couldn't touch. House's mouth was open and his eyes were squeezed shut, his hands grasping Wilson's collar, sweeping up into his hair, sliding back down to hold his face. “Finally,” House breathed into his mouth, “finally.”
It was everything he could have wanted: House kissing him hungrily, House's arms sliding around to hold him, House's forehead pressed securely against his own. It was something from one of Wilson's dreams.
Or one of his nightmares.
His hands were shaking as he grabbed House's wrists, gently prying himself loose and turning his face away, his eyes down and his heart on the floor. “I can't,” he whispered, because it was the only truth he'd ever been able to hold onto with any certainty, “We can't do this. I'm sorry.”
It was easy to walk away, to leave House staring after him in the hallway, an all-too-familiar look on his face. Easy to tell himself it was his only choice. Easy to pretend that it wasn't breaking his heart.
After all, he'd had plenty of practice.