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“No way,” Wilson declared, unwrapping his second Twinkie of the night. He was sitting on the edge of the double bed of a motel room somewhere between Baton Rouge and Lafayette, Louisiana, just a couple feet away from the man he’d share the mentioned bed with, the one he’d been sharing it with these several thrilling months. The man’s blue eyes flickered up at Wilson, as he leaned back in the leather armchair–an out of place luxury for an off-the-beaten-path joint like this–and propped his bare feet up on the bed, just beside Wilson’s lap. “I haven’t even been there since…that night.”
House took a swig of his beer and almost looked offended. He would’ve looked offended to anybody else, but to Wilson, almost all of his expressions were laced with love, therefore none of them ever looked fully bitter or threatening. “What, you expecting to run into the same guy again?” House taunts, half mockingly, half wondering if that had genuinely crossed Wilson’s mind.
“I don’t know. Of course not. Maybe New Orleans just…changes you…” He says with as much melodrama as he can muster up while looking off into the distance. “Builds you into somebody unrecognizable.”
“Or maybe it makes you more of who you really are,” House adds. “But didn’t we already have this conversation, Kyle Calloway?”
Wilson raises an eyebrow at that, recalling their conversation from a few months ago. Kyle Calloway certainly represented all of Wilson’s impulses and desire for apathy, but he certainly had no place in his life right now. He was perfectly content with the way he was living it. Kyle Calloway would be recoiling from House when he sat down in the bed’s empty spot next to Wilson.
“It might be fun. Good music, good food, dancing,” Wilson admittedly described.
“I don’t know about dancing,” House chuckled, massaging his thigh in a certain way that worked only when he did it. Wilson was learning, though.
“I suppose it’s not too far from here,” Wilson shrugged. House could tell he was convinced and that it didn’t really take much to convince him in the first place. Half of the times he disagreed with House these days was to play devil’s advocate, see how far he’d take it, see how badly House wanted his way. It was never all that serious though, because even in real disagreements, it usually took a five second stare at House’s pleading face to fold.
“Oh please, you don’t even have to rationalize this. I know you want to go,” House smirks, wiping off a bit of Twinkie cream on the side of Wilson’s mouth.
“It’d be a change of pace from the other major cities we visited,” Wilson nodded.
The first month of Wilson’s last five, they spent in more ragtag terrain. They camped outside often, lived rough, and occupied their days with nature, fishing, and making it all the way to California to check out the World’s Largest Pistachio. The highlight of that month had to be the week they spent in the canyons of Utah and Arizona, taking in the otherworldly oranges and yellows of the land in combination with the pinks and the blues of the endless sky. It was beautiful, private, and exactly the kind of adventure that Wilson needed.
Them being who they were, they could only take so much nature until it started to feel isolating. Never lonely, being with each other, but they were people who thrived off of bar fights and video games and monster truck rallies and live theater and clubs. Roughing it out in the wilderness was exciting, but neither of them necessarily rejected living amongst society. They decided to explore the country’s major urban cities next, starting from Los Angeles, planning to slowly make their way back East. They’d just recently visited Vegas, Phoenix, Houston, and were in Louisiana to cut upwards to Chicago. It wasn’t exactly the most conventional route, but thankfully the whole point of these five months was to reject conventionality. Though now that Wilson thought about it, House seemed pretty insistent in taking the scenic route through Louisiana, so perhaps this had been his plan all along.
“Let’s do it. We go tomorrow,” Wilson announced as House began softly sucking at a spot on Wilson’s neck. How he would have loved to have covered his neck and collarbone with a trail of hickies, watching him attempt to cover them, and be shy and embarrassed at work. The idea certainly crossed his mind dozens of times, and if only they hadn’t wasted so much damn time, it could have been a reality.
“I miss music. I didn’t realize it would have been so inaccessible on the road,” Wilson continued, tracing his finger back and forth on House’s thigh.
“I really tried, but I just couldn’t fit my piano in my backpack,” House joked, moving to Wilson’s collarbone. His hands traced his chest, occasionally gripping the cloth of his T-shirt. “Or my guitar.”
“I like to hear you play,” Wilson muttered, considerably lower, but still loud enough to have been heard. They weren’t terrific at expressing either of their feelings, but they were working on it. It just meant that vulnerability was filled with reluctance and honesty was awkward. At least they were making the effort of opening up, unlike so many years before.
“Well I’mma pack my own guitar and move on down the road!” House sang while playing air guitar, referencing the 2005 G. Love and Jack Johnson song, Rainbow. Wilson chuckled at that.
“I don’t know about singing, though,” Wilson retorts. They both know that he’s lying. House smirks and faces him with a lazy smile.
“We go tomorrow,” House relays, tasting the words on his tongue, savoring his win, and relishing his persuasive skills. He leans back and flops onto the bed, wrinkling the previously untucked bedsheets. He nudges Wilson’s side with his foot. “Maybe let’s do it without the going-to-jail part. I don’t exactly have a bank account to bail you out this time.”
Wilson rolls his eyes. “Between the two of us, you’d think I’d be the one bailing you out,” He scoffed, joining House on the bed, curling up to his side. He tucked his face into the crook of House’s neck, nuzzling softly. House hoped that Wilson wasn’t close enough to feel his heartbeat quickening.
“Oh, Jimmy, I’m offended!” House sarcastically remarks, causing the two of them to grin widely. There was a bit of silence and House’s face went back to neutral. His smile always seemed to fade before Wilson’s. He could always feel himself getting too happy and was always slapped in the face with reality, constantly reminded that whatever happiness he felt, whatever smile his face contorted into, was temporary. Every moment of joy was haunted by nudges of the inevitable. He knew that Wilson thought it too, but he wasn’t letting it show.
“I suppose the reason I was reluctant was because…I don’t know,” Wilson spoke slowly, breaking the somewhat uncomfortable silence. “It seems so…final–visiting the place where it all started. Well, I guess that’s because it’s a sort of full circle process. The reason we’re going is because I’m at the end of the line. It’s bittersweet.”
House didn’t say anything. He simply stared at the ceiling, stained with some unknown substance neither of them wanted to dwell on.
“I’m not sure if my life really started until I met you,” Wilson murmured. House looked at Wilson. He didn’t want to, but neither of them had the time to try and dance around vulnerability. “And it looks like it’ll end with you. Call me sentimental.”
“Sentimental. Sappy. Sickeningly romantic,” House clarified, voice smooth like it had been dipped in honey. He pressed a kiss to Wilson’s cheek, trying to keep this conversation from becoming depressing. They’ve had enough of those nights lately. He rolled from his back to his side to face Wilson. “New Orleans isn’t the end. It’s just another stop on our journey. Nostalgia doesn’t have to be sad. Just think of it as our honeymoon.”
Wilson didn’t have much to say to that. He just flashed House a smile, wrapped his arms around House’s waist, and rested his head on his chest, closing his eyes for the night. House lightly played with his hair, lulling him to sleep. “I wish we had done this much sooner,” Wilson mumbled, signifying he was close to sleep. House had to admit it was cute, but he wasn’t sure what ‘this’ was referring to. “Wasted so much time. Maybe we could have gotten a real honeymoon.”
—--------------------------------
Wilson got up before House, but got ready quietly to let House get however much sleep he wanted. Usually he’d stay in bed to cuddle with him or something, but they had a big day ahead of them, and he decided to get a head start while he had the extra time. House usually had a more spontaneous approach to their travelling, but Wilson wanted this trip to be done right. He couldn’t take a repeat of the two days they spent circling the Hoover Dam because House lost their only map.
Wilson got a few maps and travel pamphlets from the front desk of the motel lobby. Although he’d been to New Orleans for the medical convention, he never got the chance to do any sightseeing, so he might as well have been visiting the area for the first time. He familiarized himself with the most visited attractions of the city: The French Quarter, Jackson Square, Frenchmen street, and made efforts to avoid the one hotel where embarrassing memories stemmed from. It’d take a few hours to get there, but if they left early enough, they’d arrive around noon, and it’d be a plentiful day of sightseeing. Wilson could imagine it right now–cozying up with House and a good whiskey in a jazz bar, stomach full with gumbo and ears full with good music.
House woke up about half an hour after Wilson, startled by the slam of a cabinet. Damn him for being both a morning and a night person. Whenever they were roommates in the past, if House came home to a sleeping Wilson, he made an effort to maintain peace and quiet. It was one of the few unspoken rituals that proved that he was, in fact, capable of being considerate. This obviously came with the exception of when he wanted to purposely annoy Wilson out of his sleep, but House deeply valued his own sleep, knowing that it wasn’t easy to come by with his insomnia and work schedule. Anybody deserved a few hours of unconsciousness to escape from the pain that came with daily life.
This was a philosophy House tended to strongly live by–if Wilson wasn’t the worst breed of ‘morning person’ there was.
When Wilson stayed at House’s apartment, he wasted no time making himself at home. Half of the mornings of that period, House would be startled awake by what he thought was a marching band in his living room, but was really just Wilson. From blow drying his hair in the morning to finding ways to make his frying pan oil sizzle extra loudly, it was almost like Wilson was being loud on purpose. In fact, Wilson’s morning routine was almost always the first thing on House’s mind whenever he heard somebody refer to Wilson as “nice.” Try living with Wilson, he always wanted to say. Anyone who makes as much noise as him in the morning cannot possibly be anything less than a hellspawn.
It was easy to be annoyed by this when they were friends. Now, it seemed impossible not to find everything that this man did endearing, especially when every morning he was greeted with those eyes and that smile.
House sat up in the hotel bed, noticing the empty spot beside him barely had a trace of warmth. His hair was sticking up in the back and he tiredly wiped some sleep away from his eyes. “Oh, good, you’re awake,” A voice entirely too chipper for the hour that it was announced. House looked up to see his lover sitting at the little coffee table a few feet from the bed with a couple New Orleans pamphlets sprawled out across the surface.
“Is that supposed to be a joke?” House grumbles, grumpy from sleep.
“We’ve got a big day ahead of us,” Wilson urges, tossing one of the pamphlets at House’s face. “Get up, lazybones.” House picked up the pamphlet to read the cover that shouted: ‘NOLA’S TOP 10 HOTTEST SPOTS!!!’
“We get it, sunshine. Five more minutes?” House groaned, pulling the blanket over his eyes, causing the pamphlet to fall on the floor. It’s not that he didn’t want to go to New Orleans anymore, he just preferred to drive across the country on a dangerously fatal vehicle while conscious. Wilson simply sauntered over to the window and dramatically opened the curtains.
“Ugggggghhhhhhh,” House moaned. He took the blanket off from over his face and slid out of bed with the effort and speed of a slug. He took about ten minutes to freshen up and change, splashing water on his face to wake himself up, splashing water on his head in hopes of fixing his unfortunate bed hair. He didn’t have many things to pack, so he was ready at the door a mere five minutes later.
They snatched a couple pastries from the provided continental breakfast for the road, shortly beginning their journey to New Orleans. They made their way to Baton Rouge, which wasn’t anything special, and from there, they took the Louisiana Great River Road, which was a scenic route following the Mississippi River, which ended close to Sorrento, Louisiana. It was leisurely, providing spectacular views of the river and hills and land–couldn’t see that in Princeton, New Jersey. They weren’t in any particular rush, although they had only planned to be in New Orleans for a day, neither of them would have a problem with extending it if time proved underestimated. From there, they went straight on Highway 10 to New Orleans, only stopping to admire the view of Lake Pontchartrain.
Roughly four hours after they left their previous scruffy motel, they arrived in dazzling New Orleans, the birthplace of their relationship, for the second and last time.
“I swear, it was way busier the last time we came here,” Wilson remarked. “You couldn’t tell where the people ended and the buildings began.” Despite the number of people on the streets being significantly less, that didn’t mean the atmosphere was any less lively. Music blasted from different shops, jazz quartets were playing street jazz on every other road, and buildings were covered in foliage and flashy decorations. People were walking, talking, laughing on the streets, eating street food, kissing a loved one, drinking, tossing a coin into an empty guitar case. Wilson and House had been to New York City a handful of times, but they would consider New Orleans to be the liveliest place of all.
“We were here in February. Week after Mardi Gras,” House replied. Wilson glanced at him, noting his odd attention to detail.
“It’s nice to enjoy the city like this. Not being here for work,” Wilson commented.
“If I recall correctly, you weren’t here just for work,” House teased. Wilson revved his motorcycle to express mock frustration. They continued riding down the streets of New Orleans, passing the St. Louis Cathedral on the way, searching for a particular motel Wilson had picked out before they left, which wasn’t particularly difficult to find.
They found their hotel after some time and checked in, leaving their backpacks there. They decided on getting some lunch before beginning any proper sightseeing. Street food was plentiful, so they stumbled upon a small po’ boy booth run by a woman who apparently went by “Mama Ruth.” The two of them split a dressed roast beef po’ boy with remoulade and no pickles. Mama Ruth clearly didn’t play about her portion sizes and getting your money’s worth.
Afterwards, they decided to properly explore St. Louis Cathedral. The building was tall and beautiful with an interior that was twice as gorgeous. The ceilings were tall and detailed, paired with windows that were bright and colorful. Some people came to feel the energy of God within these walls, others came to observe the visual differences between the cathedral and Cinderella’s castle in Disneyland. As fun as that was, James Wilson the Saint couldn’t help but feel a little religious guilt within him for not treating this seriously, which House noted when he saw him look up and whisper a prayer when he thought House wasn’t looking.
He knew that Wilson wasn’t religious and hadn’t even really been brought up that way, neither in Judaism or Catholicism, but when one is forced to confront death on a timer each day, he didn’t blame Wilson for testing faith. For all he knew, Wilson could have asked for anything from not letting it rain tomorrow to being given just one more month of life. House knew there wasn’t anything after death and there certainly wasn’t any divine interference in life either, but that didn’t stop him from looking up at the highest point of the cathedral and closing his eyes. He didn’t say anything; he didn’t even go as far as to conceptualize a coherent plea in his mind. He figured that if there was a God paying attention to him at this very moment, He’d know what House wanted.
They spent roughly an hour at the St. Louis Cathedral and walked from Jackson Square to Canal Street, exploring the heart of the city. House tipped a dollar to a trumpet player on the street, Wilson knew the music of this place was right up House’s alley. They explored a small shop that sold wooden figures and trinkets, whittled by hand by the owner himself. House got a small alligator. They tried beignets and Wilson made a mental note to find a recipe to try and make them at home, when he remembered he didn’t really have much of a home to return to. House helped to compensate by sitting down with him and trying all the different flavors available–chocolate, raspberry, sweet potato. The classic with powdered sugar was still Wilson’s favorite, and he’d keep the taste with him until he died.
After a good amount of time spent at the French Quarter, they came across a sign advertising a ferry ride on the Mississippi River. It was an hour and a half round trip that went through some of Louisiana’s bayous and swamps, hopefully with the chance of spotting some wildlife.
They boarded the ferry and the boat began its journey shortly after. It was hot and they were both mildly sweating, but that didn’t stop them from huddling up close to each other, closer than two men who were just friends would. Wilson caught a judgemental glare from one of the older women on the other side of the boat, but life was too short for him to feel bothered by it. Just to spite her, he rested his head on House’s shoulder.
The breeze from the boat was relaxing, the trip served as a good break for House’s leg, and neither of them could say they’d ever seen anything particularly like Louisiana’s swamps. Seeing the green murky water felt undeniably raw, unlike anything back home. Mosquitos and cicadas buzzed in the air and they had been previously lounging in their seats until somebody on the other side spotted a snapping turtle. The rest of the patrons, House and Wilson included, huddled to observe the turtle. They all collectively “aww’d” when a smaller turtle emerged from behind the larger one, the woman driving the boat identified it as a baby snapping turtle. Towards the end of the journey, they spotted an egret and caught a glimpse of an alligator.
After the boat ride, they continued wandering around the French Quarter both to look for a spot to have dinner and to enjoy the cooling evening air combined with the shades of pink and orange that the sky was transforming into. The streets were fuller now, more people were out and about, ready to drink and party. Wilson wasn’t exactly sure what day of the week it was, but if his memory didn’t fail him, it wasn’t even a weekend. Although New York has been given the title of “The City That Never Sleeps,” Wilson was sure that New Orleans was the runner up. He couldn’t even imagine what this area looked like during Mardi Gras.
They settled on a spot locals pointed out for making good gumbo, but any place would probably be as good as any other to them. Wilson had a Creole seafood gumbo, while House got the Cajun chicken and sausage. Both of them considered their meals to be exemplary, the flavors combined with each other in every perfect way with a flawless ratio of salt to spice to sweetness. Wilson noted the array of different foods he’s gotten to try since they began their below-the-radar journey–it almost made up for the fact that he’d likely never cook again.
The night got even better when they were handed the dessert menu and they spotted a house special: A cookies and cream banana foster.
Wilson and House almost felt too full to walk, but figured they could at least make it as far as the jazz bar across the street. You could hear the muffled music from outside, but it was no match to the pure tone of the instruments as soon as they walked inside. They were both enraptured by jazz and the blues–have been for a long time. It was even one of the things they bonded over upon their first meeting.
They walked into the bar and the band known as, “Bobbie and the Bayou Bunch,” were well into their set for the evening. They found a small empty table near the front and Wilson took a seat while House laid his cane against the opposite chair and offered to get drinks for the two of them. He came back with two bourbon Old Fashioned, hobbling back to his seat and joining Wilson once again.
The music made Wilson’s heart swell with emotions. The upbeat songs made him feel the same thrill he felt racing House down a highway on their motorcycles or the excitement of he and House getting into some sneaky business somewhere they shouldn’t be or the rush of standing on the tallest skyscraper he’d ever been on and looking out at the nighttime city skyline across from him. The slower, moody songs made him feel melancholic, bittersweet, nostalgic. They made him long for more time and a chance to redo the past decade of his life to include House in a different way. He longed for the opportunity to do everything and to have saved every one of his patients and to rewrite every holiday he’d spent alone and every drink he’d drowned himself alone and for a chance to hear this music forever. Music always had this effect on him.
The lead singer of the band, Bobbie, Wilson presumed, announced that they only had a couple songs left and Wilson was snapped out of his previously mystified trance. It clicked to him that this was all a performance and he was getting lost in the melting pot of his own head and the notes and rhythm that entered his ears. His focus diverted to the man who was right next to him.
He now felt suddenly distracted by the way the warm light painted House’s face, the way it softly touched each arch, crease, wrinkle, and fold of skin, the way it glimmered in his bright blue eyes, and the way it made a person who had been cold for so much of Wilson’s life look like the sun. He felt distracted by the way his concerned eyes darted to Wilson every time so much as cleared his throat. Impressed by the way he told him the clarinet was flat. Intrigued by his musician ears that could hear things that Wilson could never hear a difference in. Enchanted by the way his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed his drink. Bewitched by the intense expression from House as he stared at the band with infinite passion that could only signify the end of the line.
Wilson’s ears were wide open, but his eyes couldn’t seem to focus on anything but House. It was the best of each sense.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” House remarked, loud enough to hear over the music, presuming he had observed Wilson’s stare from his peripheral vision, as he hadn’t faced Wilson a single time. Wilson just blinked at him, wishing he didn’t take every word House said so existentially.
“I’m listening to the best music I’ve ever heard with the best man I’ve met in my life. I don’t need a picture because this is what the rest of my life will look like,” Wilson stated, too nonchalant for the amount of weight carried by his words. That was what it took for House to finally look at him, visually affirm that he really had been looking at him all this time.
He didn’t say anything, but downed the rest of his drink in response. “Bathroom,” he informed Wilson as he stood up and walked away. He stumbled slightly, signifying to Wilson that he was starting to get properly buzzed. Wilson slumped in his chair, nodding to one of the bar patrons in the table next to him.
The song was on the longer side and when it ended, Wilson noted that it had been a while since House had initially left, give or take five minutes. He started to grow worried but knew to give him his space and privacy. The song fizzled out and Bobbie came to the microphone, speaking to the audience.
“We wanna thank you all for coming tonight and joining me for a beautiful evening. You’ve been a great audience and an even greater reminder of why we still do this. Why we need to keep jazz and the blues alive–and what better place to do that than in New Orleans?”
The audience roars loudly.
“Speaking of being a great audience, we’re gonna switch it up a little for our last song. See, we’ve got one extremely enthusiastic guest here with us tonight. Apparently, New Orleans means a whole lot to him and he’s got a real special song he’d like to perform with us tonight. Uhh, is there a Wilson in the audience?”
Wilson’s heart sank. Damn. What the hell was House up to? His eyes widened and his eyebrows tensed as he observed the audience members looking around for this so-called “Wilson.” Reluctantly, he made eye contact with Bobbie and waved as if this was the last place on Earth he’d want to be.
“Hey! There you are! Folks, this song is dedicated to the one you love most. Wilson, this song is dedicated to you.”
The drummer began a steady rhythm, starting the song.
“You’ll feel right at home with him, please welcome House to the stage!” Bobbie announced. The audience cheered as House walked on stage and sat right at the grand piano like he was a member of the band. Hell, he might as well have been based on the way Bobbie helped to position the microphone for House as well. Either way, Wilson was none the wiser. He watched him wave at the audience, feeling comfortable as a spectator, until he made eye contact with House and he felt heat rush across his face. It certainly didn’t help when he winked at him.
Wilson felt an endlessly growing sensation of doom within him, which only doubled when House began the playing unmistakably recognizable intro to the worst, most traumatizing, most triggering song on Earth. Leave a Tender Moment Alone, by Billy Joel.
“Oh, you didn’t,” Wilson shouted, his face fully pink by now, hopefully difficult to tell from the moody bar lighting. All House could do was cackle in response. Wilson was sincerely sure that this man was the epitome of evil.
“Even though I'm in love, sometimes, I get so afraid,” House began. The song was slightly different as this performance had a jazzy arrangement. All the elements worked, from the bluesy piano hook to the grounding swing of the stand up bass to the groove of the brushes on the drums. House’s pitch and inflections weren’t as precise as they could be, Wilson had gotten somewhat familiar with his singing through the years, but he could still carry the melody very well and perform it with as much mischief and pride as any other day. God, his voice wasn’t flawless, but to Wilson it was perfect. “I'll say something so wrong, just to have something to say.”
The song used to remind him of Sam, but he couldn’t help but attach it more strongly to House in recent years, due to it signifying the beginning of their friendship. What was associated with tragic and painful memories is now subject to the addition of magical and hilarious ones. Wilson felt embarrassed by the attention and House’s coy eye contact combined with the dozens of stranger’s eyes on him, but none of it compared to the immense love he felt for House. Love for his antics and his talent and his pranks and his own quirky ways of showing love.
“I know the moment isn't right, to tell the guy a comical line,” House continued. Wilson raised his eyebrows at the gendered lyric change, but it didn’t bother him. Nobody was listening to the words anyway, it was clear that everyone was just here for a good time, not to throw judgement. He didn’t have enough time in his life to feel bothered. Bobbie and the Bayou Bunch seemed to be into the song, having a grand time playing along with him as if they had known each other for decades. The audience seemed to be into it too, House’s talent making up for anybody who may have been skeptical of his authority. Wilson noticed how House’s eyes would travel around the audience but would always come back to Wilson, always staying several seconds longer on him than anybody else. “To keep the conversation light, I guess I’m just frightened out of my mind.”
Wilson felt like he was having an out-of-body experience. Not that he’d ever experienced one of those before, but he was sure that this is what it must feel like. To have all sensations around you become fuzzy yet simultaneously amplified, to feel like you’re watching yourself in third person, to feel so absent and detached yet so alive. Somehow, the sheer joy and adrenaline of watching House perform and being the reason House was performing—somehow, it made dying feel okay.
“But if that’s how I feel, then it’s the best feeling I’ve ever known,” House sang. Even though the drunk could barely walk, he could still play piano like he had sold his soul to the devil. “It’s undeniably real, leave a tender moment alone.”
There was a fill for the harmonica solo, and though Wilson knew House could’ve done it, one of the Bayou Bunch was on the harmonica. And he could play that harmonica like there was no tomorrow. “Give up for Leroy on the harmonica, folks,” House honored into the microphone. He seemed to be well acquainted with these guys, maybe this had been his plan from the start.
The song roared on yet it seemed to end all too quickly, though the fact of it ending at all felt like a betrayal. Each member and House hit the final chord of the song and the crowd went wild, screaming House’s name, pleading for more. Wilson was thankful for a night where the source of yelling was excitement and not an altercation. House stood up to take a small, humble bow, and gestured to the rest of the band that had been so electric all evening. He locked eyes at Wilson for the last time that night at a different elevation. “Love ya,” House said deeply into the mic, before moseying off the stage and joining him on lower ground.
Bobbie and the Bayou Bunch began striking the stage, packing up their equipment and instruments, chattering with interested bar patrons and lonely drunks. House sat down in the same seat he’d previously warmed up and all he could do was give Wilson a sly grin, the same one he’d give when he’d successfully prank Wilson or win a bet.
“I can’t believe you did that,” Wilson groaned, putting his face in his hands.
“I know, I can’t believe I went on stage without warming up first,” House diverted.
“No, not—You sounded—”
“I know,” House chuckled. “It’s our song. Didn’t want you to sulk about old memories and Sam and you getting arrested. Wanted you to have some fun. Make new memories.”
All Wilson could do was sigh. How could he subject himself to such trickery and manipulation that was somehow good intentioned? Why did he enjoy it?
“I had fun. You were amazing. You’re so…You’re so cool. You’re so good at piano and singing,” Wilson stumbled, his train of thought becoming increasingly discombobulated the more alcohol entered his body. “How did you even—”
“Old friends,” House explained. “I paid them a little extra to let me do this.”
“Aha, so this was your masterplan all along?” Wilson worked out.
“Somewhat. Didn’t know a little declaration of love is now considered some criminal organization. Thought you had enough of Louisiana law.” Wilson rolled his eyes at that. He didn’t take much time after that to lean into House and give him a firm kiss on the lips. He tasted like the same bourbon Wilson had been drinking all night mixed with the familiar essence that made him House. Wilson cupped his cheek and kissed him deeper, slipping his tongue in, and wanted more and more this passionate dance. House’s lips were softer than one would think and Wilson didn’t think he could ever get used to them, even if he lived to be a hundred. Each time they connected, it felt endlessly powerful and intoxicating, and even if he had all the time in the world to explore his mouth and memorize each detail of his lips, he’d never get bored of the way they felt against him.
Wilson was the one to break the kiss and House always let Wilson part first, whether in a kiss or a hug or a dinner, to take as much time as he wanted or needed. House felt that if he never separated from him first, he’d never cut Wilson short of what he wanted. It would be the one length of time that would purely be in Wilson’s control. It was unspoken and it was minor, but it was House’s occasional sacrifice.
Wilson backed away from House, staring into his eyes with a lazy smile. “Why don’t we go back to the hotel?” Wilson suggested.
House looked at him seductively, raising an eyebrow. Maybe it was just the alcohol, but he had a feeling their night wasn’t quite over yet. While late nights and early mornings were far from sustainable, House loved the spontaneity of their days and not having to adhere to any strict schedules, unless Wilson plans something out for the day. “Are we about to have a tender moment alone?”
Wilson winces at House’s joke. “Eugh,” he cringes.
The two men exit the bar, bumping into each other as they struggle to follow a straight path in an unfamiliar city, greeting unfamiliar people. Wilson couldn’t believe he hadn’t known he’d been in love with House all this time, all these wasted years. His mind trailed back to Amber’s death and John House’s funeral; how Wilson was at, what was then, the lowest point of his life, and House was there to make it better. As destructive and chaotic as House was, he always seemed to make things better, less lonely, less existential.
Wilson genuinely didn’t have anybody he’d rather experience the end of the world with. Though it was impossible not to dwell on the fact that he only had, give or take, three more months of nights like this night, most people spent a lifetime of mediocre days just to die in their sleep in so-called peace. If this wasn’t peace, Wilson didn’t know what was.