FIC: "Cupid's Dart" House/Wilson NC-17

[missviolet]

I'm proud of this one - it took a long time to write and edit, and at 17 pages, it's three times as long as my typical House/Wilson fics. It's my version of the House/Wilson backstory, based on my fanwank that the two have been romantically and sexually involved, off and on, since they first met. This is not an original theory, and the House/Wilson college fic is not a novel idea, either. It's just my take on their history, based heavily on my own college experience.

It's a little different than my previous H/W fics in that it has a plot. I approached it with a little more gravitas, and treated it as I would my conventional non-erotic short stories. I hope you'll like it - I though of the f-list many times while writing it. As always, it's my gift to you. Enjoy!

Title: Cupid's Dart
Author: missviolet
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Drug use (marijuana). Hardcore romance, graphic tenderness, fluff. Oh, yeah, and sex - lots of it.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to David Shore, Fox, et. al. No infringement or disrespect intended.
Summary: Wilson meets House during his freshman year in college. Sparks fly.
Notes: A slightly alternate universe in which House and Wilson attended the same unnamed university.

Cupid's Dart

The knocking on James Wilson's door is urgent, almost frantic. He hurriedly rises from his cramped little desk, grabbing his jacket in case the building is on fire.

It's only Greg House, the tall rangy boy with deep blue eyes who lives in the corner suite. Wilson doesn't know him very well; they nod to each other in the hallways, but he knows his name only because he drew the much-envied corner room, the L-shaped suite, in the dorm lottery. Wilson lives in a barely-shareable little box of a room, as do most other freshmen.

"Thank God you're home. Do you have three dollars?" House asks.

"For what?"

"It's an emergency. It's only three dollars. I'll give it back," he insists. "C'mon, please?"

Wilson fumbles in his jacket for his wallet, thinking himself a gullible fool. He hands over a crumpled fiver and House disappears.

He returns to his desk and looks again at his anatomy textbook. He's not studying for an exam; he just loves the topic. The book's a beautiful work of art, stoutly bound, thick with colorful illustrations. It had cost nearly $200. He studies an illustration of the bones of the wrist, repeating the names quietly, drilling himself.

Moments later, House returns. The knock is quieter this time; Wilson opens the door, thinking it might be one of his study partners.

"You want me to pay you back in kind?" asks House.

"What?" House reaches down the front of his pants; and Wilson's both horrified and relieved when he pulls out only a baggie full of weed.

"I don't have the $3 just yet, but I can give you some weed from this skimpy bag. That bastard Connor always cheats me."

"Connor sells weed?"

"Shit, yeah. Where have you been living?" House closes the door, locks it. "Wanna toke?" he asks.

"I can't, my roommate would freak," says Wilson, glad that he has an excuse.

"My room, then," says House, and Wilson accompanies him, not without some reservation. He's a little fascinated by House's lean good looks, his sporty ways. On the treadmill in the gym, he'd seen him playing pickup basketball through the glass windows. House is pretty good, too. There's a rumour that he was kicked off the team in his first semester for alleged substance abuse, or maybe it was unnecessary roughness. There are several versions of the story.

The L-shaped corner suite allows each boy to have his own space, and House had torn down the curtains from the windows and affixed them diagonally across the angle of the L to section off his space. They slip behind the curtains, awful yellow tapestry heavy enough to provide a modicum of privacy. Wilson sits at the desk chair, and House sits on the bed. He breaks up the weed on a Victoria's Secret catalog, then twists it into a neat little joint, waving it back and forth in the air to let it dry.

"Got a light?" he asks.

"I don't smoke," says Wilson, even though he is about to do just that.

"Well, there's a first time for everything." House scrabbles around in his desk drawer and digs out a book of matches. He lights the joint, takes a deep drag, and passes it to Wilson, who accepts it hesitantly. He's gotten stoned exactly once before, at a Fourth of July part right before he started college. He had thought it was a nice feeling, but passed out on the lawn before the fireworks were over, and his date had to escort him home, to his embarrassment.

Nonetheless, Wilson tokes up. It's Saturday afternoon, his first semester away from home. House is interesting, and he has nothing better to do. They pass the joint back and forth until Wilson's head spins. House is even more stoned, and starts talking about freakish medical cases, a topic which appears to be his hobby. Wilson feels the same floating, faraway feeling as he had during his first experience with marijuana. He's heard of people getting wildly creative inspirations while stoned, and tries to open his mind to these. House is lively enough, going on about hermaphrodites without even pausing for input from Wilson, who lies down on House's bed and stretches out, without asking first. It doesn't seem to matter.

House finally stops talking and moves to the bed to lie out next to him. "Hey," he says softly, looking intently at Wilson. The afternoon light streams through the tall vertical windows, glinting off their hair and eyes. Wilson's eyes are drawn to House's. How intensely blue, how beautiful House's eyes are. He wonders if that's a poncey thing to think about his new friend. Just as he is starting to question their lying together on the bed, and thinking he'd better sit up for propriety's sake, there's the sound of a key in the lock. House sits up and puts a finger to his lips.

His roommate enters and plunks down something heavy, maybe a stack of books, and sniffs deeply. "House!" he calls out, clearly annoyed. House looks at Wilson, shakes his head and again puts his finger to his lips.

"I know you're in there," says his roommate, yanking aside the yellow curtains. He's a large boy, not as tall as House, but much broader, with a mean, pinched face that is flushed pink with irritation.

"Hi, Weber," says House cheerfully.

"I told you not to smoke in here. What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Sorry, I forgot. I can be forgetful. Probably early-onset Alzheimer's."

"I want you and your fairy friend to clear out of here," says Weber angrily.

"If you're talking about Wilson, that's not a nice thing to say. Apologize," House demands.

"Fuck off."

"Apologize to Wilson, you stupid son-of-a-bitch." House springs to his feet and steps ominously close to Weber.

"Drop dead," says Weber, and pushes House's chest, so hard he stumbles backwards. It doesn't take him long to recover, and as soon as he regains his footing, he tackles Weber to the floor. Wilson jumps up in alarm. Weber tries to punch House but House merely grabs his fist, cranks his wrist and then bends his fingers backwards. Weber whimpers in pain and anger.

"Apologize, or I break your fingers. Can't dribble with a broken finger. You might even lose your athletic scholarship. So, apologize, or say hello to community college next semester." House's cool voice is frightening. He's no more excited than if they were discussing the weather. He cranks Weber's fingers more viciously, making him groan in pain.

Finally, Weber mumbles, "Sorry, Wilson. You're not a fairy." He actually does sound sorry. Wilson immediately tells him that his apology is accepted, and House lets him up. Weber storms out, slamming the door.

House just laughs to himself. He picks up the phone and dials a number from a tattered leather address book. Wilson feels a strange mixture of horror and fascination at the calm way House dispatched Weber. The entire exchange had lasted only a minute or two.

"Yes, Dr. Raskin, this is Greg, Greg House. You said I could call you if I had any problems. Yes? Good." House pauses, collecting his thoughts. "My roommate's been harassing me. We just got into a fight. He knocked me down. It's because I'm gay, I'm sure of it. He called me a fairy." Wilson is still shocked by the brutality of House's strength; no swinging punches or messy bloody noses; just the sure inevitability of fingers snapped with a careless twist of his wrist. He's shocked at the easy way that House lied, and at him being gay. His heart is pounding, but House's voice is calm.

"Thanks, Dr. Raskin," says House, hanging up the phone.

"Who was that?" Wilson asks.

"The school psychiatrist. I made an appointment when I first moved into the dorm. Told him I was gay and afraid of bullying, blah blah. Strictly precautionary measure, but it paid off. That asshole Weber will be punished."

"Are you gay?"

House shrugs noncommittally. "Who cares? It always works, they can't risk the bad PR and if I get in any fights, the other guy's the gay-basher."

"I don't care that he called me a fairy," says Wilson nervously.

"I do. He's an ill-mannered creep."

"It's not a big deal."

House sits on the bed and calmly re-lights the joint, takes a couple of drags, and offers it to Wilson, who shakes his head. "Are you a fairy?" asks House casually.

"What? No!"

"You don't like boys?" asks House flatly, as if he doesn't believe it at all. He sits close, draws deeply on the joint, blows the smoke provocatively in Wilson's face, challenging him. There's a long moment of silence before House stubs out the joint in a dusty saucer.

"I don't-no," says Wilson at last.

"Don't know? Wanna find out?" House touches his knee, just lightly enough that they might still laugh it off as nothing, but unmistakable just the same. Wilson blushes but does not move away from his touch. House slips his other hand around the back of Wilson's neck, he caresses him lightly, and asks, "Want to?" in such an affectionate voice that Wilson's heart pounds, his body thrills to the touch. He isn't sure exactly what's going to happen next; he's a little frightened.

"Say ‘yes'" whispers House. His hand tightens a little where it rests on Wilson's knee. Wilson's pulse skips a beat. He's never felt so awkward with any girl. This is uncharted territory. But all he has to do is look at House, the wistful expression on his face, as if he's fully expecting Wilson to say No. His gorgeous eyes, half-lidded as he looks at Wilson hopefully. His beautiful chestnut curls, lean, sexy body clad in jeans and a white tee shirt. Wilson knows what he wants. He nods, looking at House with lowered eyes. House leans in, tightening his hand around the back of Wilson's neck, and kisses him with sultry confidence. The feel of House's lips, the stubble of his jaw, and House's hand tracing his neck and collarbone - these new sensations are raw, and Wilson feels them intensely. He pants and grabs House's wrist where it rests across his neck. Soon enough House teases open his lips, and suddenly they're tongue-kissing.

Wilson hitches up House's tee shirt, slips his fingers inside, and caresses his belly, enjoying the smooth, lean planes, the way House quivers under his touch. House leans closer, lips parted expectantly, and takes his breath away. He's beautiful, his startling eyes, strong lean body, all toughness melted away as their lips meet for a sweet and sensual kiss.

Wilson feels no surprise, shock, or angst at suddenly kissing another boy, practically a stranger, for the first time in his life. He feels pleasure when House caresses his neck, kisses him hotly. It washes over him, coming in waves when House's feather tongue licks the pulse points of his neck. In these circumstances it seems entirely natural to open his mouth to House's probing tongue, to press forward until he can feel the heat rising from House's body, and even to grab a handful of his tee shirt and pull him close.

They lay down together on the narrow bed, and House holds him tightly. He leans over and turns off the light, and in the dark he kicks off his shoes and removes Wilson's tasseled loafers, pausing to rub each of his ankles fondly, his fingers wandering under the cuff of his khaki trousers, touching Wilson's bare skin above his somber dress socks.

Wilson feels his legs go weak as House caresses him. He leans backwards into House's embrace. House's lips rest at the side of his neck, over his carotid artery. His pulse flutters under the kiss. Wilson shivers and feels House's body shudder in response. House licks the sensitive points of his neck delicately, until Wilson is quivering. He can't quell a groan when he feels the nip of House's teeth, the rasping breath in his ear, House's erection presses against his hip. He turns his head, and House kisses him passionately.

"I think you do like boys," says House, eyes glittering. "Wouldn't you say that you do?"

Wilson does not reply, he just kisses him again, and again, making his answer clear. He can't get enough. He's fascinated by House: good-looking, athletic, clearly intelligent, but also a little bad, with his easy lying, his drug use, his fighting, and there is something irresistible about that contradiction.

Wilson pushes him down on the bed, straddles him, and House gasps softly in surprise. His heart beats madly as he settles himself on top of his new friend, the first delightful crush of their bodies, a sweet flash of House's erect cock pressing against his belly. He maneuvers himself so that their cocks line up, hard flesh pressed together, and a delicious thrust that makes House catch his breath.

Wilson slips his hand inside House's tee shirt, rubs slow circles on his stomach. House pulls his head down, kisses him fiercely. Wilson thrusts his hips, rubbing their cocks together. He lifts House's tee-shirt, traces his fingers down his ribcage, to his belly, up to his nipples, lingering there, making House moan around their kiss. He teases House's nipples with a sense of wonder at the way he writhes under his touch, the way his kisses grew messy with his twining tongue and soft love bites.

"All right?" Wilson asks, his voice strained with lust and anticipation.

"You're sweet," sighs House, hands gripping Wilson's ass, creeping upward to lift his shirt, stroke his back. He presses their bare chests together and curves one long leg around Wilson, using it to pull him closer. Wilson groans as their bodies find a rhythm, and his cock strains through his trousers, rubbing deliciously against House's. He slips his hand down, feeling House's erection through the rough fabric of his jeans.

House struggles out of his tee shirt, tosses it aside, and Wilson lifts his arms so House can undress him, too. His hands linger at the belt of Wilson's jeans. Wilson, half-propped up, nods, but his heart leaps. So they're going for it, and he wonders if House had ever done this with another boy.

House unbuckles his belt, unzips him, and ever so slowly, slides down his boxers until Wilson's stiff cock is fully exposed. House looks at him intensely. Wilson is stripped bare by his gaze, but he likes this new feeling of vulnerability. He reaches down and slides House's jeans down his thighs. House isn't wearing any underwear, and his cock springs out. Wilson slips his hand between them, clumsily squeezing their cocks together, and slides his hand up and down, stroking them. House's hands grip his ass, forcing their bodies together. The friction is luscious. A hot thrill washes over Wilson, and he grinds his hips against House's, relishing his soft sighs as their pleasure mounts.

"Feels so good," House pants in his ear. It's sloppy and clumsy, and Wilson strokes faster, thrusting his hips, gripping House's shoulder tightly, feeling the slickness of their cocks, the damp sheen of sweat across House's chest. House groans loudly, but Wilson covers his mouth with his own, silencing him, kissing hard, almost too hard, their lips sliding together, Wilson's tongue slipping into House's mouth. He's utterly entranced and distracted with kissing House's panting mouth. His hand slackens. House works his own hand between their straining bodies and grips Wilson's cock, sending a shiver through him, and House moans. That's maddening to Wilson - the pleasure House takes in touching him. He arches his back, thrusts his stiff and aching cock into House's slippery hand. It's intense, and Wilson stops kissing House to whisper in his ear, "Oh, yes. Make me come," and with one hand buried in House's hair, he kisses him deeply, moaning and biting, until he cannot stand it any more. House is flushed hot, slick and salty with sweat, and Wilson moans into his lips, bucking into House's caress.

"You're so close," House whispers passionately, as he feels Wilson's body stiffen. He let Wilson's cock drop from his hand, just to hear the sigh of disappointment. He strokes himself a few times, catching up, and then both of them at once. The feeling of their hard pricks mashed together, and House's slippery hand stroking and gently squeezing them, drives Wilson over the edge. He forces his agonizingly hard cock into House's tight grasp, he grips a handful of House's hair with a cry of lust, and his fingers dig into House's shoulder so hard, he'll surely leave marks. As the crisis overwhelms him, he seeks House's lips, kissing messily as his balls tighten, his cock throbs and spurts, and his body goes rigid, pleasure coursing through him.

Wilson moans as he feels House reach his peak, hot come splashing his belly, mixing with his own, and House's short panting gasps. It's beyond delight, tensing together, feeling House's trembling muscles, and his sweet, slackening lips as he rides out the waves of his climax.

"Ohhhh... oh-ho," House moans softly, and then one last paroxysm makes him arch into Wilson's embrace, and Wilson thrusts into him, feeling the last of his come spurt from his aching cock, until they both relax into each other, muscles softening, and their gasps and cries growing softer and less frequent, until it is altogether finished, and they lay in each others' arms, spent and satisfied.

Afterwards, Wilson doesn't really know what to do. Before it had seemed so easy; the flirtation, increasing physical contact, the obvious hard-ons, the shared satisfaction of their release. Now it's awkward, and he lies next to House, staring at the ceiling. He wants to hold his hand or do something to show him it wasn't just a mutual wankoff, but what to do? Within a few hours of first meeting House, he'd gotten stoned with him, watched him fight someone who insulted him, kissed passionately, and jerked each other off. With House, things moved quickly, and now Wilson has no idea how to backtrack to the nice-to-meet-you stage they'd so conveniently skipped.

Finally he stands up, wipes himself off with his boxer shorts, pulls his pants up, and looks around for his shirt. House says nothing; Wilson figures he's dozed off, and it bothers him somehow. So this is trivial to House, and that angers him, because anger is easier than hurt. Hurt means he's crushing on House, to whom he is just a convenient wankoff. Wilson is disappointed in himself for not knowing what sex means. The other freshmen can handle it; he's heard them talking in the smoking lounge, about this girl or that one, not just the easy ones, but their girlfriends, the ones they really like. They can all get the hang of sex with affection, or without affection; they can have it either way, and not be bothered. Wilson feels hopelessly immature. He finds his book bag, stuffs his wadded-up boxers into it, and walks towards the door.

"Hey, Wilson." House's voice is soft and raspy.

"House?" Wilson pauses, holding his breath, though he's not sure why.

"You coming back?" House's voice is flat and wistful, as if he does not expect an affirmative answer from Wilson.

"Sure. I'll come back."

"Tonight?" There is hurt in House's voice; the expectation of disappointment, which somehow hurts Wilson, too. There's an ache in his heart, a feeling he always thought was allegorical, but it's like a pain in his chest, this idea of House's bruised feelings.

"I'm just going to get snacks from the vending machines downstairs," Wilson lies.

"So why are you taking your bag?" says House, eyes closed. He sounds far more hurt than Wilson had been just a moment ago, when he thought House was indifferent to him. Wilson looks over at House, sprawled across the sheets, wet, naked, and limp. House looks at him with new eyes: unguarded, honest, no barriers there. This is House not as a persona but a man who craves affection. Wilson has to look away, because it almost hurts to look at House, in a way that he can't quite pinpoint. His book bag falls to the floor with a thud. He digs some change out of his pocket, and takes some more from a pile on House's dresser and from a pair of jeans slung over his chair.

"Be right back," he says, and House nods and closes his eyes, not believing him.

When Wilson returns, they feast on Sesame Party Mix, Zebra Cakes, and Orange Crush from the vending machines. For dessert they have ice-cream sandwiches. Wilson watches House lick the vanilla ice cream from the edges, pushing his tongue between the wafers, squeezing them together and licking all around again. House watches Wilson watching. They both know that it is the first of many such nights, and the knowledge is both comforting and exciting.

* * *

As it turns out, Weber is re-assigned to a different room, leaving House in the enviable position of having the entire L-shaped suite to himself. Wilson soon becomes quite a regular there. They fall into an easy pattern of spending nights together, watching television, playing House's Nintendo, or just talking. House loves to talk, and Wilson is a good listener. He talks with enthusiasm about freakish medical cases, his childhood in Egypt and Japan, his wild teen years manufacturing LSD and pipe-bombs, and always mentions how much he hates his father. Wilson doesn't have anything as interesting to say. He's never been a delinquent, his childhood had been happy, his parents love him equally, and they are terribly proud of him for getting into med school. But House seems to enjoy hearing about his home life, how he grew up in a comfortable Jersey suburb, playing with the same children since kindergarten, how he lost his virginity at a Fourth of July party right before starting college. The ordinariness of his life appeals to House, and sometimes, when Wilson can think of nothing more to say, House quietly remarks that he is lucky.

House is a pothead, usually smoking a dime bag a week, bemoaning the fact that he couldn't draw on his meager allowance till Friday, and at the end of the week, they'd pool their money and re-stock on Friday night. Wilson spends most Friday and Saturday nights stoned in House's room, watching movies, playing video games, and fooling around. They'd stripped Weber's bed (House insisted on washing the vinyl mattress with Chlorox) and pushed it close to House's to make one big bed, and there they make a thorough study of the act of love. Wilson gradually loses his inhibitions and ends up spending most nights in House's room. Their mutual craving is so intense, it's not uncommon for them to bring each other off two or three or even four times a day, whenever they can find the time between classes. Early in the morning, Wilson wakes to House jerking himself.

"Didn't want to wake you," says House breathlessly, and he looks at Wilson through half-closed eyes as he strokes himself. Naturally this gets Wilson going too. He props himself up and lets his hand wander down to his groin. He always wakes up with a hard-on anyway. They watch each other, voyeuristic thrill adding to their masturbatory pleasure, spurring each other on with rude words and breathless kisses full of teeth and tongue. House likes to bite; he sometimes leaves marks, but now he's too distracted with pleasure to kiss properly. His head falls back as he thrusts his hips forward, and his hand is fast along his erect length.

"Feels so good, Wilson," he pants, and arches his back.

Wilson huffs out Yes as he jerks himself steadily, eyes moving from House's hand, fast on his cock, to his gorgeous eyes half-lidded in an agony of delight. He's so close, like some frail, trembling creature. Wilson feels unfettered affection for him. With a small sob, House comes against him, striping his belly, and Wilson's got one hand around his bare waist, stroking his lower back soothingly while he rides out the peak of his pleasure, then Wilson is shooting, too, with a lustful groan. Finally his hand is still and he draws a long, ragged breath.

In the afternoon, between classes, there's not much time, but still they engage in heavy make-out sessions. Kissing House makes his heart pound in his chest; Wilson's afraid he'll come in his crisp chino trousers. They start out sitting side by side on House's bed, and end up half-clothed, rubbing against each other in a frenzy of lust. House's cock strains against the thin fabric of his sweatpants. Wilson lifts his tee-shirt, trails his fingers along his thin rib-cage and up to his nipples. They have only minutes before their next class, but it doesn't stop Wilson from lightly stroking House's erection through the fabric, from pinching his nipples and biting at the tender skin of his neck. House groans and arches his back; he loves to be teased. Wilson palms his cock through the thin cotton. When Wilson bends down to suck House's nipples, he feels his cock throb under his touch. He licks and sucks, making House writhe with pleasure.

"Oh....ohhhh, yes, suck," House says breathily. Wilson tongues his nipples into sensitive little points, he rubs his hand firmly over House's straining prick, until House bucks under his touch and the cotton grows damp under his palm. Wilson kisses him passionately, mouths gaping, tongues twining, until House is breathless. He grabs a handful of Wilson's hair, he swears, groans hard.

"Take it out," House says desperately, and Wilson feels his cock pulse under his palm. But he doesn't comply; instead he rubs more firmly, using his fingers to tease the underside of House's cock, as much as he can reach it through the constraining fabric. House bucks his hips, he writhes under Wilson's caress, and Wilson pins his shoulder to the bed. He sits across his legs, trapping him, driving him crazy. He finds his lips, and House pants and gasps into his mouth. Wilson feels that delicious tremble in House's limbs, and he bends down for a gaping, sloppy kiss, but House can't meet his lips, because he's out of control, he cries out fuck, and with hard thrust of his hips, and a shameless moan, House comes in his pants.

House breathes raggedly as his pleasure subsides, but Wilson's heart is pounding. He yanks down House's pants, looks with satisfaction at his cock, still half-hard and wet with come. He unzips his chinos, pulls out his own straining cock, and strokes it a few times. It feels good, making House come uncontrollably, and now jerking himself while his friend watches, wide-eyed. He rubs the come into House's belly and smears his own cock, sighing as he starts to stroke.

He teases House. "You couldn't wait until I got your pants off," he says hoarsely, jerking himself, enjoying the way House looks back at him, sated, but with burning eyes. It doesn't take long for him to work himself into a lather, and soon enough he strokes himself to a hard climax, his come jetting out and mingling with House's.

In the evening, they have more time to explore, to get to know each other. It doesn't matter if they've already come once or twice earlier in the day; they are young, highly sexed, and fascinated with each other. They don't even say a word as they lie together on House's bed, making out. They like to kiss and tease each other for a long time; it's like a game, to see who's going to move it along. Tonight, it's House, who pants let's go into Wilson's open mouth as they kiss, tongues sliding together.

House can't wait a moment longer. He unzips Wilson's jeans roughly, bends his head to take him in his mouth. Wilson hurriedly does the same; his lips finding House's erection. They suck each other, head-to-toe, not even bothering to remove their pants. House slides a moistened finger into Wilson's ass. He's never done that before, and Wilson jerks his hips; he's not quite sure he likes it, but there's House's tongue swirling over his cock-head, and his lips are occupied with House's own hot shaft. House fingers him slowly until he finds just the spot, the very spot that makes Wilson's hips tremble, and he moans long and low. House's clever finger draws him out, his soft lips and tongue coax his throbbing cock, until he comes hard into his hot sucking mouth. It seems to last forever, the pulsing of his cock, the twitching deep in his body, the waves of delight ricocheting between his prostate and his tightened balls, his swollen cockhead caressed by House's teasing tongue. Wilson groans with sweet release; House grabs his hair and tries very hard not to yank it as he comes a moment later. Wilson, distracted with his own pleasure, lets House's cock slip from his mouth, so that his come spurts across his lips. Wilson uses his hands and mouth to finish him off completely, and House moans again and again, relishing every last throb, every last lick of Wilson's delicate tongue.

Wilson wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and slides up next to House. Both are still breathing hard. Wilson wants to say something; he has to. Instead he buries his face in House's neck; he tastes the place where his curly hair meets the soft nape. House puts his arms around him; Wilson feels safe, protected, and vulnerable, he feels this in his heart, for the first time, and it's like a little pain. He had thought of Cupid's arrow as a fairytale, something for greeting cards, but now he's not so sure.

"You don't have to talk," says House, looking up at the ceiling. His arm drops from Wilson's neck, to his waist, and tightens around him. He holds Wilson close, but it's not tender, it's almost too hard, the way he's holding him. Wilson kisses him, a soft little reassuring kiss that says all the words he doesn't have, and House doesn't want to hear. They kiss for a long time. There's no lust, no nervousness, nor any emotion. It's a light, airy kiss that simply says I'm yours.

* * *

Wilson grades start to slip. He's gone from being the straight-A geek, meeting with his study group three times a week or more, to being a slacker, doing the bare minimum, cramming in his homework and studying during those hours when House is in class. Wednesday evenings are one of those times, and he meets up with his old study buddies in the library. They're mostly foreign students, quiet, diligent, not exactly friends, but perhaps a bit more than acquaintances. They lecture him regularly on his absence from their get-togethers, even though most of the time they're just sitting around together in silence, eyeballs glued to their respective textbooks.

"That gay friend of yours is taking up a lot of your time, is he not?" asks Sid, a brilliant Indian student with a disconcertingly blunt manner.

"Which friend?" asks Wilson, though he knows perfectly well.

"That Gregory House, whom everyone says is so smart, he doesn't even have to study."

"He's not gay," says Wilson defensively, although he knows it's a lie.

"How can that be so, when you two sleep together every night?"

"I'm not gay, either!" says Wilson, panicked. To his chagrin, Sid rolls his eyes, and April, normally so quiet and studious, starts to giggle. Barton, the smartest and most humourless of the bunch, just glares at Wilson, as if to blame him for this latest distraction, then closes his textbook with a show of irritation and heads out to the terrace for a smoke.

"It's no big deal, man, it's okay to like boys, but not to flunk out," says Sid, but that makes it even worse. Wilson, unable to keep his mind on his work, tells the two of them that he's through for the night and heads off in disgust. Barton, returning from his cigarette break, catches Wilson by the arm as they pass each other.

"You're slipping behind, Wilson, you'd better cram or else you'll be lucky to pull a B this semester," he says seriously. "If you keep toking up and screwing around with House all the time, you're going to be on academic probation by the end of the semester."

"Thanks for the advice!" Wilson says irritably, pushing past him. He strides to his dormitory with the intention of studying by himself. He keys in and drops his books on his desk, flings his jacket on his bed. His room-mate looks up from his own textbook, says nothing but his eyes narrow. Bill is a senior and has no life but studying. He's glad Wilson is his room-mate, since he's never home, and sleeps in House's room nearly every night.

"Fine, I'll go to House's," says Wilson, although Bill said nothing at all, but Wilson's knows his restless irritable state is a distraction to Bill's studying. He likes Bill, who has always been reasonable, if not exactly personable, but what more can you expect of a guy who is always buried in his textbooks? Wilson closes the door quietly as he leaves. He walks down to the corner suite, knocks loudly but opens the door before House can respond.

"Have some respect for privacy," says House, when Wilson enters.

"Sorry, I'm distracted. My study group is lecturing me again." Then he notices House's suitcase, half-open on his bed. A wheeled trunk on the floor is filled with books and House's few possessions.

"Where are you going?" asks Wilson, and his heart is pounding with anxiety.

"I've been kicked out. I cheated," says House matter-of-factly. "Turns out that's against the rules. Who would have guessed?"

"What? Can't you appeal it?" The pitch of Wilson's voice is higher than he intended. He needs House to sympathize with him, to tell him his study group is just a bunch of old biddies with no sense of fun. The last thing he needs is for House to tell him he's leaving.

"Why bother? I cheated, and got caught. Nothing to contest. And that sonofabitch Weber would fight me every step of the way."

"You cheated off Weber? You're way smarter than him."

House shrugs. "Parisitology's boring - just a lot of rote memorization. I didn't feeling like cramming. Weber sits in front of me."

"So you got yourself kicked out. Now what am I supposed to do?" Wilson shoves the suitcase aside and sits on House's bed.

"Listen, honey," says House, and Wilson flinches. He'd never called him that before, and now it seems too good to be over. "You're better off without me."

"How can you say such a thing?" says Wilson, shocked. House sits beside him on the bed.

"Your grades are slipping, you hardly leave the dorm, all you do is get baked and fuck around with me. You're blowing your exams. I won't let you do this to yourself."

"You're no different!" says Wilson accusingly.

"All except the grades, buddy," says House sadly. It's true; House has a decent GPA. He gets by merely by cramming for the topics that bore him and submerging himself in his particular fascinations. And maybe he's been bolstering his exam grades with occasional cheating. Wilson, without his slow, consistent daily studying, is starting to flunk.

He hates to admit House is a bad influence; the truth hurts. He sits on the bed, despondent, and House puts his arm around his shoulder and squeezes him reassuringly.

"You have one chance to become a doctor. You have your whole life to be with me." House's arm around his shoulder is firm, but Wilson's heart is breaking. He leans his head against House, closes his eyes, tries to imagine it isn't happening. House kisses the top of his head. Then he stands up, shuts the suitcase and trunk, balances the suitcase on top of his trunk, picks up his guitar, pushes the wheeled trunk onto its side, and heads towards the door. Wilson followed, and House locks the door for the last time.

"Don't come down with me. I'm afraid you'll make a scene," he says. Seeing Wilson's sorrowful face, he adds, "Or I will."

They hug tightly, and promise to write, and with a deep, soulful kiss, they part.

"Don't cry about it," are House's last words. "I can't stand to think of you crying. Promise not to." Wilson nods and watches him go.

As the weeks drag on, there are a few times, late at night, when Wilson breaks his promise and brushes away a tear or two. He waits for a letter from House. A cute boy who shares nearly all his classes asks him out. Horrified, Wilson says icily that he's straight. He asks out a plain-looking girl whom he knew wouldn't say no and fucks her to prove to himself he's straight, and not in love with his best friend. It has the opposite effect.

Finally, a few weeks before Thanksgiving, he receives a postcard.

Wilson,

I am at U. of Michigan and doing alright at school. I quit smoking if you know what I mean. They let me join the intramural b-ball team, guess they have lower standards here, ha hah.

Am fighting with my Dad as always and he doesn't want me home for Thanksgiving on account of me being a no-good cheater. Can I stay with you and your parents for the holiday break?

Can't wait to see you again Jimmy boy.

Yours,
Greg House
Wilson clutches the postcard to his chest tenderly. There is no return address, but for now that doesn't matter. All that matters are the words from House.

But eventually it hits him that he didn't know what building House lives in, or if he even lives on campus, and he has no idea how to reach him in Michigan. How would he tell House his parents' address, give him directions? The day before Thanksgiving, he feels a terrible unease; it was too good to be true. He's had no word from House and is leaving that night for his parents' house in New Jersey.

He goes to the station early, buys his ticket and sits on the hard wooden bench watching the clock. It's cold, but he doesn't move to the indoor waiting room. He feels so low that he wants to sit somewhere bleak and cold to match his mood. When the train finally pulls in, his hands are frozen, but he doesn't even notice until he feels the pain of his cold fingers defrosting in the heat of the car.

As long as he's on the train, there's still the possibility that House somehow, some way, will find him, perhaps tomorrow, just in time for dinner. He's told his mom to cook an extra-large turkey just in case.

She's waiting for him at the station, his cheerful, good-looking mother, with her fashionable short bob of chestnut hair and her tailored blouses. She kisses him and says how much she likes his new friend Gregory.

"House?" asks Wilson, gaping.

"Yes, Greg House, your friend, the one you said is coming to Thanksgiving dinner. He arrived yesterday. We put him in your room, hope you don't mind bunking together, dear. Your Aunt Winnie's in the guest room. They've been playing Ping-Pong all day."

Wilson grins wildly. How on earth House had found his parents' house, he had no clue. He doesn't even bother to ask. He practically runs up the steps to his house, his mother trailing behind. The sight of House sitting at their kitchen table, eating a bowl of cereal, fills him with joy. House stops, spoon midway to his mouth, and grins at Wilson. While his mother is busy in the pantry, he grabs House's hand, squeezes it hard. They exchange a long, meaningful glance.

"I'll pull out the sofa bed for him," says Wilson to his mother, but he looks at House, and mouths the word Not. No way is House sleeping anywhere but his bed tonight, and his body thrills at very thought of his gorgeous friend in his narrow childhood bed.

Dinner takes far too long but finally they finish the washing-up and Mr. and Mrs. Wilson sit down to watch the evening news. House and Wilson withdraw to his bedroom and immediately fall into each other's arms, holding tight.

"Missed you," sighs Wilson, and they kiss for a long time, all their passion flaring up, quickened pulses and hearts beating madly.

"And you," whispers House, hands low on his back, then resting on his ass.

Wilson locks the door carefully, puts on some loud jazz, and tells House to be absolutely quiet. They fall onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, tongues crashing together. It's far more sharp and immediate and hotly exciting than either had imagined.

"Did you jerk off last night, in my bed?" whispers Wilson, teasing.

"How could I resist?" says House. Wilson closes his eyes, his mind flooded with the erotic imagery of House coming between his sheets. They kiss each other hastily, making out with frantic urgency. It doesn't take long at all for House to unzip Wilson's jeans, to rub his cock firmly through the damp fabric of his shorts.

Wilson bites his lip, trying to be quiet as House touches him. It's difficult, especially when House slips his hand inside and pulls out his stiffened cock. Wilson's kiss grows sloppy as he feels the delicious pressure of House's hand on him. House knows just how he likes it, and how to bring him off quickly. Wilson can't stifle a small groan of lustful anticipation as he starts to work his hips.

"Shhh," says House around their kiss. "If you can be quiet, I'll suck you off."

Wilson knows House is talking dirty, teasing him. He's not even sure if House really did jerk off in his bed last night, or if he just knows how the very idea drives Wilson crazy. He rests his head in the crook of House's neck, his senses sharpened by the fragrance of House, by the familiarity of his quickened breathing, the slightly salty taste of his neck.

"I'll be quiet," he whispers, but House's clever fingers fondle and caress his most sensitive part so deliciously, he can't help another quiet moan, though he tries to muffle it by burying his mouth House's neck.

"Impossible, you're a screamer," says House, and he strokes Wilson's cock steadily, tickling his balls, fingering the swollen head and the sweet spot underneath. He kisses Wilson slowly and tenderly, tempering Wilson's eagerness. Wilson forgets entirely about the ache of missing House, the surprise at his early arrival at his parents, even the astonishing fact of the two of them in his boyish twin bed. He forgets everything except for the feel of House's hands, his lips and tongue, the lovely scratchiness of House's unshaven face, and the mounting pleasure in his groin.

"Ah, yes, House....yes," he whispers, struggling to keep his voice low and calm. House laughs quietly, but he doesn't vary his pace. He strokes him not too fast, not too slow, edging Wilson closer towards his release. But Wilson is too excited; his face is flushed, there's a damp sheen of sweat on his skin, and he's constantly biting his lips to silence himself. House grabs his neck, kisses him hard with lots of tongue. Wilson's moans are lost in their kiss. It's over too quickly; just as he really getting into it, thrusting his hips, breathing deep and fast, suddenly he's tipped over the edge. House quickens his hand, and Wilson starts to come. His back arches, his entire body goes rigid, and with a muffled sob, he spurts into House's hand. Wilson tries not to moan aloud as House strokes him slow and tight, squeezing out every last drop, until his cock is spent and softened.

House doesn't waste any time. He's breathing hard with excitement as he unzips his jeans, pulls out his hard cock. He sighs with contentment as he grasps himself.

"Take off your shirt," he orders Wilson.

Wilson pulls his polo shirt over his head and moves himself closer to House. His pants are still unzipped but he's pulled his jockeys up over his sodden prick.

"Slide down your shorts," says House. "I want to see your body."

Wilson complies, and House tells him he's gorgeous. Wilson blushes with pleasure at the compliment. He knows his body is nothing special. It's a scholar's body, pale, thin, and soft. But House likes it, and that makes him feel sexy.

House's lips are parted, eyes half-lidded as he speeds towards his climax. Now he too must try to be quiet. Wilson watches, fascinated, as he strokes himself.

"Kiss me," says House, and when Wilson moves close enough to do so, he also puts his hand on House's, wanting to take over. House drops his hand to his side complacently, and huffs with pleasure as Wilson begins to jerk him.

He doesn't last any longer than Wilson did. Wilson feels him starting to come; House pushes his tongue insistently into his mouth, exhales loudly, tries very hard not to moan as Wilson strokes him. Still, he can't stop a short, sharp cry as the first drops spurt from his aching prick, splashing Wilson's chest. Wilson strokes him expertly, teasing out his climax, making it last. He cups his balls affectionately, slides his hands up and down his wet cock, kissing him slowly. House huffs into his mouth, hot breath slowing as his cock throbs out the last of his spend.

"Oh, Wilson," House sighs, face buried in Wilson's neck. "What you do to me... " Wilson feels an ache in his heart. Only four more days with House, then back to his lonely dorm. He tries not to think about it. They are hot and sweaty and for now, satisfied to lie in each other's arms. House drifts off, then Wilson follows. In his dreams, he's floating in a pool, a warm pool with the sunshine bright on his eyelids. He remembers that House is in his arms, and feels that curious split between dreams and waking reality - how can House be in his arms, if he's floating on his back in a warm pool? He can smell the chlorine, and something about it excites his senses. He moans in his sleep, starts to turn over to float on his stomach, but he can't turn himself. He awakens in a slight panic, and feels a sudden rush of sexual pleasure. He gasps, and his hips buck forward, pushing his erection into House's wet mouth.

Ohhhh, Wilson moans, with that sweet erotic rush that is peculiar to being woken up in such a delightful way. House works his cock softly, tonguing him, letting him get used to the feeling. Wilson's body responds instantly, his heart pounding, cock swelling into House's mouth, and his groan is too loud. But it's the wee hours of the morning, and his parents are deep in their REM cycles. He can be a little more adventurous.

"Oh, that's good," he whispers, and his fingers ruffle through House's hair. His cock aches sweetly under House's caressing tongue, his soft lips. House savours his task, and the wet sucking sounds of Wilson's cock plunging into his mouth add to their enjoyment.

Wilson cries out, and his pleasure mounts; he feels it in the backs of his thighs and his calves. He tenses, his body quivering. House tickles the head of his cock with his tongue. He licks that sensitive place just under the head, but slowly, so that Wilson arches his back and writhes under his teasing. Wilson's hips buck forward uncontrollably, and he shoves his cock deep into House's mouth, he grabs handfuls of House's hair, and House, the cocktease, keeps him hovering on the edge just long enough to drive him mad.

Suck, Wilson begs, as House's lips and tongue go slack and still. He pauses long enough to make Wilson whisper please, then licks him slowly, just the head, before sinking deeply all the way down to the base. He cups Wilson's balls, squeezing lightly, just to feel how heavy and full they are.

"Fucking tease!" Wilson sobs out, but he loves it, loves being driven half-mad with lust. His cock throbs between House lips, and he pushes it deep into the tight suction, feeling the feather-edge of his climax just out of reach.

House groans, a wet, half-muffled sound that almost tips Wilson over, the obvious enjoyment he takes in his masterful blow job. He licks a little faster, starts to bob his head, and then, just as Wilson's body tenses on the cusp of pleasure, he stops. He lets his rock-hard prick drop from his lips and crawls up to whisper in Wilson's ear.

"Try not to scream, okay? I don't want your parents to think I'm murdering you in your sleep."

Wilson only moans in response. How can he control himself with House teasing him so? House returns to his enjoyable task, and this time, he doesn't tease. He sinks his tight sucking mouth deep onto Wilson's throbbing cock. Wilson's body twitches, and he cries out. The brief absence has made the return so much more intense. With a hard groan, his cock throbs, his balls tighten, and he comes explosively, creaming into House's mouth, arching his back and shuddering as he works his cock into the hot suction, each jet more pleasurable than the last. His body is flying out of control, and he feels his ass clenching, his thighs tensing, as House wrings every last drop out of him, sucking and licking softly as Wilson trembles and comes down from his exciting climax. House licks him until he starts to flinch from over-sensitivity, then he lets his softening cock slip from between his lips. He kisses the inside of Wilson's thighs, kisses his way up his damp belly, and finally lays a kiss on Wilson's slackened lips.

"Not bad, huh?" says House smugly.

Wilson can't answer, he just moans with satisfaction, grabs House's hand, and kisses him hard. He wants to return the favor, but his entire body feels as if it's made of quicksand: melting and sinking into deep sleep. He fumbles for House, feels his hardened cock between his fingers.

"Don't worry about it," says House, and his voice is faraway.

"Thanks. I'll get you tomorrow," says Wilson.

"I know you will," says House, grinning. Wilson closes his eyes, but he can't fall asleep. Something is nagging at him from the corners of his memory. Suddenly he realizes that it's all temporary, fleeting. House will be gone in a few days. He opens his eyes suddenly. House is staring right at him, a curious smile playing at the corners of his lips.

"You're already thinking about us being apart, aren't you?" asks House. He turns over onto his side, props himself up on one elbow to look into Wilson's eyes.

"I can't help it. Only four more days." Wilson closes his eyes, unable to look directly into House's intense gaze. It hurts him, and he wonders if they'll ever have the time together he so desperately craves. Will it always be a few days snatched here and there, struggling to be quiet with someone always just down the hall?

"Yes, but Christmas break is just around the corner. A whole two weeks, if your parents don't mind."

"You know I'm Jewish."

"So can I spend Hanukah with you?"

Wilson laughs, but House is deadly serious. "I'm spending Hanukah with you. Make sure it's okay with your parents." House grabs Wilson's shoulder and shakes him a little to emphasize his point.

"It'll be okay, but what about after that?"

House rolls his eyes, flops onto his back again. "There's no end to your projected misery. After Christmas, spring break, of course. Maybe we'll go down to Fort Lauderdale, pick up some girls gone wild."

Wilson grabs the pillow from under House's head and thwacks him with it. "I'm serious," he says. "How can we do this when we're miles apart?"

"Summer's right beyond spring break. Only a few months after."

"And then?"

"Then Thanksgiving break again. We're never more than a few months apart, see?"

Wilson thinks about it, and realizes House is right. He can last a few months without House, knowing that he'll see him again soon. He closes his eyes in relief. It's the first time they've talked about the permanence of their relationship. Wilson realizes that his real fear is that House will tire of him if there's too much distance between them, that House will forget about their shared ecstasy, and the way they can be true selves around each other.

House takes Wilson's hand tenderly, and Wilson is, as always, surprised by House's bare emotions in these intimate moments. He squeezes Wilson's hand reassuringly. "I need you, and you need me. That'll never change, no matter where we are. It's as simple as that."

Wilson grins. "Yeah, it's simple, it's always simple with you, House, that's what I love about you. I make things complicated, you keep them simple."

"We're good together," House says decidedly, and then he nestles his head in Wilson's shoulder and drifts off. Wilson is sleepy, but stays awake a little longer, savoring the comfort of House's steady breathing, until the sweet haziness overtakes him. He falls into a deep slumber, their love suffused in his very limbs.