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“This is your fault,” Wilson grumbles as he stands on top of the bed to get within closer reach of the hotel room’s AC unit. “If you just did your clinic duty…”
”It’s your fault for dragging me along to this conference,” House retaliates, smacking Wilson’s ankles with the complementary brochure they’d been handed. “It’d be fine if I hadn’t come.”
”Stop acting like I kidnapped you,” Wilson snaps back. “You are here of your own accord, which Cuddy knows-”
”-so she should be proud of me rather than punish me-”
”-so she’s taking it out on both of us by giving us a room with only one bed and a crappy AC unit.”
Wilson’s voice falters as he fiddles with the electrics once more and then collapses back down on the bed with a deflated sigh.
”Futile, I told you,” House comments smugly, as if his skin isn’t also covered in a layer of shining sweat.
Wilson elbows him in frustration and gets up to have a cold shower.
When he returns, House is watching the latest episode of a TV show Wilson pretends not to recognise, but secretly knows will be billed to Cuddy. No premium channels included, she’d almost be assuming they were grown adults who had better ways to spend their time.
Wilson flops down on the bed beside House, not bothering to fully dress. His clothes would just stick to his skin in this heat, so he settles for just his shorts and nothing more. He notices House watching him out the corner of his eye, but neither say anything.
All things considered, Wilson has to say he’s surprised that neither of them has made a big deal out of them sharing a bed. He expected a gay joke from House, at least, probably with some hints at harassment or STDs in there too. On the other hand, he praises himself for his self-control on not making self-conscious comments on how annoying or disgusting or whatever this might be. He doesn’t believe a word of it, but he always feels the need to get defensive when he and House get too close together physically. Like he doesn’t trust himself to just…let it happen. Whatever “it” is.
House makes sure to let him know things are relatively normal between them, however, as they get ready to turn in for the night. Wilson’s just arranging the covers on his side how he likes them when House starts kicking him and telling him to move over and “that is definitely more than half the bed you’re hogging over there” and they have a pillow fight until they’re both too weak from laughter to continue. Then House rolls onto his other side and Wilson can’t read his expression anymore, but he says “good night, Jimmy” in such a soft tone that Wilson knows right then and there that sharing a bed isn’t enough. He needs to be closer, he needs to press his chest against House’s back despite this heat, he needs to crawl inside House’s ribcage and never, ever leave.
When Wilson wakes, he’s splayed on his back staring at the grey ceiling, trying desperately to recount a dream of a man with soft hands and hard words.
Instead, he glances over to watch House’s sleeping form, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He looks precious from this angle, morning light softening his features and highlighting that corner of his mouth slightly curled up, the pull of his worn t-shirt across his chest, the way his hand is stretched slightly towards Wilson’s.
Wilson really never has understood how people could hate this man.
He’s feeling kind of irritated from the heat seeping into him already, and he’s dreading a day full of doctors trying to convince him they’re more qualified than he is just because they gave one boring speech, so he decides to do something a little reckless. High risk, high reward as they say.
He extends his arm and gently strokes away some of the hair that’s fallen onto House’s face in his sleep. He’s grown it out longer than usual recently, and just like when he first started growing out stubble for the first time, Wilson secretly hopes he’ll keep it. It adds to the whole scruffy persona and is just the right length if someone wanted to pull it and it looks sexy as hell when it’s all tousled when he pulls off his motorbike helmet-
House opens his eyes in a flash and Wilson’s met with that startling blue stare close up.
Well, the only way out is through.
”Morning, Greg,” Wilson smiles a little over-enthusiastically to compensate for his frozen hand that was definitely not just caressing his best friend’s hair.
”Hi,” House responds, unblinking, after a pause.
Wilson slowly withdraws his hand, as if doing it calmly will repair the damage already done, and stares at the ceiling without another word. Is House going to hate him? Do his actions look even weirder considering he’s shirtless right now? Oh, God, is he a freak?
The sheets rustle beside him and he daren’t look, House is leaving him, it’s fine, he knows how to do surgery to fix a heart-
In reality, House has moved closer, so he’s on his side pressed right against Wilson. Wilson’s skin burns where it’s now connected with House’s shirt, he can feel his breath on his arm, he’s itching all over with a plague only one diagnostician can cure.
As nonchalantly as possible, Wilson lifts up his arm and allows House to fully settle down against him. He’s acting on instinct as he rests his hand on House’s waist, while his mind is working overtime to not panic. Act cool, act cool, act cool. But then he realises House’s head is on his chest and he can definitely hear Wilson’s hammering heartbeat, especially how it speeds up after this particular revelation, and he’s sweating in a way that has nothing to do with the summer heatwave now.
Neither of them go back to sleep, but the room is silent all the same, except for the occasional sniff or sigh. Wilson daren’t move. Besides, the alarm clock in his peripheral vision tells him that he has two hours until his first panel he wants to attend. Not that House will come, of course, he’ll probably stay in this bed all day or get drunk at the hotel bar. Having said that, though, House did follow Wilson all the way out to this conference he wasn’t even invited to, so there must be something here that’s piqued his interest…
Some time during this train of thought, House has extended the hand previously resting on Wilson’s chest to draw patterns in the skin there with his finger instead. He finger-writes whatever diseases come to mind, and doodles what feels suspiciously like a Vicodin bottle, then traces the lines of Wilson’s ribs and plays finger piano on them. Eventually he reaches a scar, just in between his fourth and fifth rib, and he directs his gaze up questioningly.
“I fell out of a tree when I was a kid,” Wilson half-laughs, and House nods solemnly and moves on with his exploration.
It feels strange to Wilson that there are still things about him that House doesn’t know. After this many years spent in each other’s company, he usually just assumes that House has read every page of the Book of Wilson, memorised from back to front. But he supposes there are only a handful of times House has seen Wilson shirtless, and only now close enough to even see that particular scar. It occurs to him that there are stories House has yet to tell him and he feels a sick little thrill that he’s the only one with a chance of ever knowing them.
Wilson gently strokes his thumb over House’s hip in a practiced, automatic motion, and by the time he realises he used to do that exact thing with his wives, it’s too late to stop without seeming suspicious. Damn Cuddy and her spiteful hotel room booking.
In his travels, House eventually reaches one of Wilson’s nipples and experimentally rubs it between his thumb and forefinger. Wilson gasps slightly, and the shift in the air is almost tangible.
House looks up at him again then, intense blue eyes locking with his shocked brown ones. They’re not searching, or questioning, simply watching, and probably cataloging. He doesn’t have to ask, he just knows.
He maintains eye contact as he leans across and, bending his head down, takes said nipple into his mouth and runs his tongue over it.
Wilson really does try hard not to react, to play it cool, he can’t scare House off now, he can’t show his cards, but there’s a definite hitch in his breathing and he grips the fabric over House’s hip a little tighter.
After a few swirls of his tongue, House moves across to Wilson’s other nipple and holy shit. Wilson can’t hold back the moan this time, and he doesn’t even have time to overthink it because he’s so busy making a note to thank (and possibly kill) whoever the test subject was who allowed House to develop such a skill at this.
Wilson traces his fingers across House’s lower back in awe, fingers teasing the hem of his shirt, not allowed to touch but not not allowed, fingers drawn like magnets towards the warm skin underneath. And then House’s mouth has moved to kiss up Wilson’s chest, up his throat, over his Adam’s apple, his chin, his jaw, and finally, finally, his lips.
Their first kiss tastes of salt and sweat and last night’s takeout and Wilson wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s so authentically House, and with every desperate inhale through his nose he’s met with the intoxicating scent of his cologne. Wilson keeps running his hands all over House’s back, under his shirt, mapping out the broad muscles, the sounds House makes into his mouth when he lightly drags his nails down across his flesh. He tugs lightly, pulling House impossibly closer so they’re chest-to-chest, heatwave be damned, and he moans around House’s tongue, the feeling is so close to perfection.
They break apart panting, noses nudging each other’s, damp foreheads exchanging sweat as they fight to still breathe each other in.
“How hard are you right now?” House asks smugly, as blunt as ever, his words ghosting over Wilson’s lips where they’re barely restraining from attacking him again, needy, desperate.
”Oh, not very,” Wilson lies, unable to hide his grin as he runs a hand through those soft locks again in an imitation of the gesture that started it all.
House raises his eyebrows, unamused, and places a hand on top of Wilson’s shorts. “You liar,” he snorts, flattening his palm over the painfully hard tent there. Wilson moans a little at the contact.
“What are you gonna do about it?” Wilson whispers, snaking a hand under House’s chin to acquaint their mouths again.
House kisses him deeply, sinfully, simultaneously pleased and disappointed that the room appears to be soundproof. Or maybe he just needs to get Wilson to make even more noise.
That’s easily achievable, he thinks to himself, establishing a slow glide of his hand up and down. He knows the layers of fabric in between are torturing Wilson, but the man’s hardly complaining, with his head thrown back against the pillow and eyes screwed shut. This gives House the perfect opportunity to mark down his neck, sucking a particularly vicious purple bruise in the spot that made Wilson moan the loudest. He thrashes a little in response, too, and his thigh slots perfectly in between House’s legs, and lord help him, House is considering dry humping him right then and there like a bitch in heat.
Well. Often he does, technically, act like a bitch, and they are very much suffering from a very hot climate.
He’s a little unimpressed at Wilson’s idleness - the people pleaser is apparently too overcome with pleasure himself to do more than simply clutch at him and make needy sounds - so House decides to put that pretty mouth to use. He slides two fingers in and before he can even give the instruction, Wilson is swirling his tongue around them for all he’s worth.
”Slut,” he mutters instead and begins to push down Wilson’s shorts with his other hand.
Once his boxers are out of the way too and he thinks Wilson’s given him a run for his money in the “skilled with tongue” category, House brings his wet hand down to Wilson’s aching cock.
Wilson unashamedly whines his name with the first stroke. House wonders if he can get a confession of love by the fifth. Maybe a marriage proposal by the tenth? Wilson seems to be good at those.
Establishing a torturous pace, House goes back to kissing all up and down Wilson’s neck, high enough above where his shirt collar would sit that he won’t be able to attend this conference without a shitload of makeup. And if he were to sweat it off in this heat…
Sounds like more time to do dirty things in their hotel room together instead, House delights.
In the back of his mind, House takes note of Wilson’s every reaction - what movements make him gasp, which cause him to buck his hips, which have him whimpering Greg rather than House.
”Kiss me,” Wilson demands, a pleading hand wrapping around his grey curls.
House smirks and ignores him, sucking a delicious mark over his Adam’s apple that’s just going to draw more attention every time he swallows. Perfect.
”House,” Wilson whines, tugging a little now, “Kiss me.”
Technically, I already am, House chuckles to himself, and speeds up his hand.
”Kiss me,” Wilson reiterates, as if having read House’s thoughts, and he’s about to cave because third time’s the charm and he really does miss the taste of Wilson’s lips already, when Wilson adds in a whimper, “Please.”
What the fuck?
House launches upwards, attacking Wilson’s lips with a complete disregard for whether his teeth will draw blood, and he prays to a God he doesn’t believe in that Skinner was right about how positive reinforcement works, because if Wilson keeps begging, House will never have to worry again about whether he’ll have a difficult time coming because of the Vicodin.
Wilson’s thrusting into House’s fist now, and every movement of his hips jolts his thigh against House’s aching cock, and they release twin moans, clutching at each other like lifelines. They are, really.
They seem to realise at the same time that while Wilson’s fully naked, House is still fully dressed (well, as dressed as pyjamas can be considered, but he’s still covered in all the important areas and that just won’t do). House reaches for his t-shirt while Wilson pushes his sweatpants down and in a flurry of clothes-discarding motions, Wilson ends up on top of House and, more noticeably, his hand is on House’s cock.
”Fuckyesbaby,” House moans all in one breath, and he makes a semi-conscious note to praise the fuck out of Wilson if it continues to make his eyes light up like that and his hand move faster.
House resumes his previous pace on Wilson’s cock, until he’s being slapped away, and Wilson’s looking at him with urgency, chest heaving as he tries to choke the words out-
“Together?”
So now their dicks are sliding against each other in the tight grip of Wilson’s hand, and House sits up on his elbows so they can devour the fuck out of each other’s faces, and God, he wishes Wilson could have just taken his shirt off in that hotel room in New Orleans to save them fifteen years of longing. But he has to admit, the fact that he had to wait so long for this just makes it feel better that they’re finally, finally, finally giving in, and goddamn, Wilson has picked up some techniques over the years, the origins of which House is definitely going to interrogate him about later.
He’s muttering incoherent phrases against Wilson’s lips, some concoction of “so good”, “perfect for me, baby”, “gonna come”, and clearly it works because Wilson speeds up his hand and his hips. As House begins to spill all over them, Wilson groans “good boy, House” into his ear and the rest of his climax can be translated into JimmyJimmyJimmy, and they are definitely not going to discuss later how the praise kink probably goes both ways.
Wilson graciously lets go of House’s rapidly-becoming oversensitive dick, and leans back to pump his own even harder. House is having none of it and follows him to capture his lips once more, and they’re panting into each other’s mouths as House reaches down between them and intertwines his fingers with Wilson’s as they move together up and down Wilson’s cock. He doesn’t even need to say anything, he can sense just how close Wilson is, so he simply brings his other hand up to Wilson’s throat, not brave enough to find out today what other kinks he has, but to lightly press into the bruises he left there, and the reminder has Wilson’s come over their fingers in an instant.
“Fuck,” Wilson breathes and it’s a fairly accurate summary of House’s thoughts, even if no actual fucking was involved.
They settle back down on the bed, House curling into Wilson’s side like before.
”It’s way too hot for this,” Wilson chuckles into his sweat-matted hair as he presses a small kiss there, gently rubbing House’s lower back.
”You’re way too hot for this,” House retaliates without thinking, and he’s too blissed-out to take it back, and it earns him a full weekend of Wilson skipping panels to have sex with him, so in the history of all his comebacks, he’d say it ranks pretty high.