"Wilson."

Wilson shrugged, burrowing his face deeper into the warm body beneath him.

"Wilson."

He curled his hand, discovering fabric at his fingertips. His cheek pressed against a scrawny chest, comfortable, but distinctly lacking breasts.

"Wilson? I have to pee."

He muttered something, bringing his hand to his face. The nail on his thumb pressed against his bottom lip.

The chest he pressed against heaved a sigh and quite suddenly he was dumped onto the mattress.

"Hmm!" he complained, rubbing his face against the warm sheet.

"Warned you."

Wilson slept.

It was dark when the thumping beat of repetitive bass finally woke him. He stretched, flinging one hand out over his head, the other rubbing the sweaty pale skin exposed when the first few buttons of his shirt were undone.

He rolled out of bed and padded barefoot into the living room. The room shone with the soft yellow glow of cocooning artificial light. Music played on the stereo too loudly. He stared at it a moment before finding the volume control and turning it down.

House came in from the kitchen. On seeing Wilson, he took a step backwards and ran his back against the wall, leaning. Almost too casually, he stuffed one hand into the pocket of his jeans.

"Hey," he said, "I just put on some coffee."

Wilson scratched at his hair. "What time is it?"

"10:30."

The coffeemaker hissed and cackled.

Wilson looked back into the bedroom. "Where's my belt?"

"Couldn't say."

"And my tie?"

House's lip curled up in a way that conveyed no happiness. He stared at a spot on the floor a few feet in front of him."

Wilson rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

"How's your stomach?" House asked.

It jumped, actually, but Wilson had no intention of telling him that. "It's fine."

The stood in silence for an awkward moment.

"Look…" Wilson began, then he stopped, suddenly aware he had no way to finish that sentence. We need to talk, he thought, but couldn't bring himself to say those cliché words.

House looked up from the bit of floor that had so enraptured his attention.

Eyes met.

Wilson came across the room, slowly, slicking back his hair with his fingers. He stood before House and sleepily extended his left hand.

It hovered in the air, brushing the edge of House's personal space.

House, slowly, removed his hand from his pocket.

The tips of their fingers brushed. Fingers slid past fingers and Wilson felt House's grip tighten on his knuckles. He took a step forward.

The Beatles asked if he'd like a revolution, we-ell, you know.

Wilson took another step forward. "What happens now?"

House shrugged.

They kissed.

It was slow and warm and, by the time House backed him to the couch, Wilson was beyond caring about repercussions. When House pushed him down on the sofa cushions and lay on top of him, when House grabbed his leg and wrapped it around House's body, when House pressed his hips there and his tongue there, everything Wilson had spent the last week worrying about slipped away.

He could only think, how natural this all felt. The weight of it and the texture of the skin and feel of stubble against his cheeks and how was it he had never done this before, because it felt like he'd done it a million times.

"How far do you want to go?" House asked, and Wilson struggled to produce words in any known language.

"I don't know," he said finally.

"How far have you…" House began. Wilson shook his head.

"Nothing. Never. Not with a…" Wilson laughed weakly. "I'm straight."

House laughed softly in his ear. "Sure."

"What do you want to do?"

"Well, I wouldn't mind throwing you over onto your stomach and fucking you raw."

Wilson flushed. Fear shot through him, but he couldn't ignore the wave of lust that followed.

"I don't…" he began. "Um, not that…not yet." He spoke the last two words without thinking and had to stop himself from chasing that thought down and shaking it until some meaning fell out.

"Alright. What?" House stroked the hair off Wilson's forehead, gazing down into his face. House's eyes were dazzled, his expression unreadable. Wilson cupped his high cheekbone and they kissed again.

"Something between?" Wilson asked as they parted for breath. "Something between what we've done and…"

"Yeah," he said. They kissed and the weight of their bodies shifted, bringing them closer. His hands went to where Wilson's belt should have been, and Wilson felt a little panic at the realization that the slim leather barrier was missing. House's hands went straight for his fly and yanked it open and this was too much, too fast.

"Stop." Wilson gasped, grabbing the hands and pushing them away. The grip switched and the hands grabbed his wrists, pushing down. "Wait," Wilson said. House pushed rougher against him, something hard pressed into Wilson's hip.

Wilson wrenched his hands away and pushed roughly at House's shoulders. "Stop!"

House cursed and banged a hand against the arm of the couch, too close to Wilson's head for his comfort. House pushed off him, sitting up and looking away. Wilson spent a moment drawn back into the cushions.

"House?"

"Yeah," House said, still refusing to look his way.

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine."

Wilson saw the muscles in House's arm tense as he tried to push himself off the couch. Instinctively Wilson sat up and laid his hands on House's upper arms. The muscles beneath his fingers relaxed as he discovered his forehead rested neatly in the place where House's back met his neck. It smelled nice.

Wilson sighed. "Just a little slower," he said.

"Yeah."

Wilson let his hands slide down House's arms, bringing his chest closer to House's back. His hands explored the contours of House's chest and stomach before allowing himself to brush his palms against denim.

House's head lolled back and he whispered something that might have been, "Yes."

Wilson smiled, pressing the heel of his hand a little harder. It was strangely similar to a certain solitary activity. Except it was House's breath that hitched and House's body that arched up.

He kissed the soft skin of House's neck and let his warm breath follow. House fidgeted, pushing back against Wilson's stomach. Wilson touched House's knees, letting his hands draw from knee to hip, plotting the difference in one mangled thigh.

Wilson slipped his hands under House's t-shirt and touched skin. It was soft and sweaty and Wilson liked the feel of it under his palms.

"Wilson…" House whispered.

"Yes."

"You're being a tease."

Wilson laughed, dropping his hands. "Sorry, I'm new at this."

House pivoted, turning to face him.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "Afraid I'm gonna hurt you?"

Wilson laughed again, nervously. "Maybe…a little."

House raised an eyebrow. "I won't."

They kissed again, slow and deep and Wilson swallowed his fear with the taste of House's tongue. His shirt came off as he was pushed back and there were warms hands on him, tracing the skin from his tense shoulders to his motionless hands.

"Wilson…" House said, and how he managed to speak without breaking the rhythm of their lips, Wilson didn't know. "Wilson, just touch me."

Wilson slowly brought his arms around House's shoulders. He slid his hands down House's back and caught the fabric of his t-shirt, bringing it over House's head.

Things went faster now, the feeling of skin against skin sped up the process. Wilson gasped in hot breath when House's teeth met his neck. Somehow they fell onto the floor. Both pushed and their bodies rolled back and forth in the tight space between couch and coffee table, each jarring their backs against furniture, until House got a foothold on something and jammed Wilson steady against the couch.

The carpet burned against Wilson's side as their hands slid between their bodies. Wilson's went to House's chest, shoulders, biceps, shoulder blades, eager to memorize their shapes. House's hands slid down, lingering near Wilson's hips a moment before pushing down Wilson's waistband. Wilson leaned into House's earnest hands, biting his lip and then biting House's.

Pressed at an uncomfortable angle, he pushed forward, forcing a rhythm not just with hands but with House's whole body sliding in time. The couch shifted back suddenly, screeching on the floor, and Wilson went flat on his back but House was there too, leaning into him.

Wilson let himself make a noise, breathy and desperate, and he felt House's smile. The world was spinning around him faster and faster. Compressing. Spiraling down into hands and lips and the in, out, in, out of breath and oh god, oh god, oh god.

"Yes," he hissed. His body went into convulsions at House's careful hand.

He swallowed.

His head dropped with a thud.

House laughed. It sounded warm and comforting in the echo of his heartbeat. Wilson's head swung, not leaving the floor, examining the dust bunnies under House's couch.

He swallowed again.

"Well," he began, tilting his head up slightly to survey House's stomach and then looking away. "Well," he repeated.

House grabbed his t-shirt off the couch, quickly wiped it across his stomach and offered it to Wilson before rolling onto his back. Wilson cleaned himself off quickly and buttoned his fly.

"Well," he said a final time, tossing aside the t-shirt and letting his hands hit the floor. A thought hit him. "Did you want to…?"

"Very much," House said, "but I can't really move right now." House grabbed Wilson's hand and pressed it against his hip. Wilson felt the jumping of an over worked muscle group.

"Oh damn, I'm sorry…"

"Stop."

They lay on the floor staring at the ceiling. Wilson curled his arm under his head, growing thoughtful.

"Well," he said, "so you can fuck like that."

House laughed. "Give me a minute and I'll show you."

And the radio played.