Summary: Sad love story. House/Wilson slash, explicit sex but there's like a story to it too. One-shot, but my reviewers forced me to write a sequel so there's another one-shot sequel.

A/N: Maybe some of it seems a little OOC but I don't think it's too bad because it's House thinking to himself, not to anyone else. He's allowed to have these thoughts to himself. And Wilson, well, Wilson's just drunk so obviously he would say and do things he wouldn't do sober.

Disclaimer: I do not own House or any of the characters. If I did, you wouldn't be reading this on fanfiction, you'd be watching it on TV. Some parts on Fox, other parts on pay-per-view. And then on Fox again.

A Night to Forget

"I'm drunk," Wilson announced for the third time in the last ten minutes. He turned to me and grinned.

"I can see that," I responded, hiding a grin of my own. Of course I could see it. I'd been looking at him all night. It was convenient that he was so drunk because then I could stare at him without him noticing and freaking out about it. I've been looking at him for almost twenty years, I've memorized every square inch of his face, but somehow I still need to look every time I get a chance. I need to see his eyes, warm and brown, and the way they look into mine. I need to see his smile, which is why I love when he's drunk because then he's not shy about smiling at me, really smiling at me.

And when he drinks he takes off his tie and unbuttons his shirt a little bit, and I can see a few more inches of his skin. I watch them, I watch the way his throat moves as he swallows more scotch, I imagine pressing my lips against it, and my teeth. I watch the way his lips grip the glass. I bet they're firm but soft, probably well suited for gripping other things, and then I try not to think about that because even if drunk Wilson doesn't notice me watching him he'd probably notice if I got hard.

"House," he said. His voice was wistful, and I had to press my lips together tightly to suppress a grin. I always love when he says my name, and while it's easy to hide that when I'm sober, when I'm drunk it takes more effort. I could still do it, though. I wasn't as drunk as him. Not even close. I should have been.


"What's the dumbest drunk thing you've ever done?"

"Bailed a complete stranger out of jail," I replied without missing a beat. "That one's haunted me for the rest of my life." I smirked at him so he'd know I didn't mean that. It had proved to be the best decision I'd ever made, drunk or sober.

He grinned a drunk grin and took another sip. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, and when he licked his lips after setting the glass down I licked mine too without even thinking about it. He looked at me. I licked my lips again but he didn't seem to notice. He was contemplating something. He scooted a bit closer to me on the couch and my first instinct was to back away, but his eyes looked almost hurt and I held my ground, wondering what I did.

"Aren't you gonna ask me about the dumbest drunk thing I ever did?"

Oh. I smiled a little bit at the simplicity of remedying the situation. "Tell me, Wilson, what's the dumbest drunk thing you've ever done?"

He grinned secretively and first looked around the room to make sure no one else was around. I half-expected him to say throwing a bottle at a mirror and starting a bar fight, but he didn't. "One time, in college," he started, but then began giggling like a fourteen-year-old girl and couldn't finish.

"I'm so drunk," he said once he'd sort of recovered. Then he looked at me and started laughing again.

I wanted to laugh with him. I was already smiling, it was so contagious, and he was drunk enough that it was okay for me to let my guard down a little. "Please, Wilson, continue your captivating tale about dumb drunk stuff you did in college." It was obviously something really stupid. Maybe it'd be funny enough to get me to laugh now, or maybe it'd just be useful information for me to file away for later mocking purposes. A win-win situation, as far as I was concerned.

"Okay," he said, grinning and looking me in the eye. I felt the sort of movement in my abdomen that I sometimes get when he looks at me. Not a feeling of arousal, exactly, just some sort of momentary awareness of some nerves or something in my body. It never lasts longer than a second, not long enough for me to really define how it feels, and it comes at unpredictable times. Sometimes he looks at me and it doesn't happen, and sometimes I feel it when I'm just thinking about him, or when someone mentions his name, or when he enters a room.

I repressed the urge to shiver and tried to concentrate on the sound of his voice. He leaned a bit closer to me and whispered, "One time I was in college and I was so drunk" -insert another fit of giggling- "I had sex with a guy!"

He started laughing uncontrollably again and I watched him. He really was drunk. I didn't think I'd ever seen him this drunk. Boy Wonder Oncologist James Wilson actually admitting he'd had sex with another man? No, he's too perfect for that. Not too perfect for it happening, but definitely to perfect to admit it. But he'd brought it up. He'd wanted to tell me. Why did he want to tell me? It couldn't be for the reason I wanted it to be. Maybe he wanted to know about me now, maybe now that he's said he's done a guy, he can ask me if I've done a guy. Maybe he does see the way I look at him sometimes, maybe he does wonder...but he wouldn't dare to bring it up sober, not wanting to freak me out or get an honest answer out of me and ruin what we have.

But he didn't ask about me, at least not right away. As he started to breathe normally again, I smirked at him. "So was it any good?"

In drunk Wilson world, this comment earned a twelve on the 1-10 hilariousness scale and I watched him while he struggled to regain as much composure as he could while drunk. He reached for his drink again and for a moment I wondered if he'd had enough-hey, I might need that liver someday-but I didn't move to stop him. I did, however, make sure my hands were free to keep him from choking if he started laughing again while drinking.

Then he looked at me and nodded, no longer laughing. "Yeah, it was good. It was really good. He gave me a blow job-did you know? Did you know? Gay guys give the best blow jobs!" He grinned reminiscently.

I imagined a college-aged drunk Wilson getting a superlative blow job from some faceless kid and felt a tingling. Yeah, definitely going to keep that image in the back of my mind for later use, I decided, and wondered if there were more images in there I could...use later.

"So, is that all you did?" I asked, keeping my voice casual even though he was so out of it he probably wouldn't have noticed even if I'd been hanging on his every word. Hell, he probably wouldn't have noticed even if I'd whipped it out and started pumping it right there.

"Mm-nnn," he answered, shaking his head. "He said if he did it to me, I had to do it to him. So I did." Then he smiled proudly. "He said I was good at it. I'd never done it before-I'd never given a guy a blow job before, but he said I was really good at it."

I was definitely starting to get hard. I mean, how much does a twenty-year-old know about what makes a good blow job, but still...the thought of him not just giving head, but giving good head...

He was still looking at me, but then he looked around the room again to reassure himself we wouldn't be overheard. Just to be safe, he leaned in and whispered, "I can show you. Do you wanna see?"

It was stupid. It was so, so stupid. He was drunker than I'd ever seen him. He hadn't made a confession of love; he'd just wanted to prove his claim that he was talented at fellatio.

I don't think I would have agreed if I'd been sober. I'd have known there was no way this could end well. But dammit I wanted it so badly, an opportunity, a chance to touch him the way I wanted to touch him. Maybe it wouldn't be just sex for him, maybe he would touch me...intimately.

He didn't move right away. He looked at me, giving me an opportunity to refuse. When I didn't, he got up off the couch, took a moment to find his balance, and kneeled down in front of me. I watched him fumble for my belt, I felt it when his wrist brushed against me and shivered involuntarily. I lifted my hips as he pulled my pants off, careful of my bad leg, and my hand had somehow made its way to his neck, holding him close to me.

Wilson reached for my crotch, and I grabbed his wrist. He looked up at me and I nodded toward the hallway. "The bedroom," I explained. He got up clumsily, pulling me with him, and for a second I thought we might fall, but he steadied himself. We supported each other on the way to his room, him leaning on me from his drunkenness and me leaning on him because of the bum leg. In the hallway we stumbled again, but he managed to catch himself against the wall. My leg crumpled beneath me and I winced, but he caught me and I landed against him. It was hard to focus on the pain in my leg with my head against his chest. My hands were on his waist; his were holding my sides.

"House, you okay?" he slurred.

I shifted my weight to my left leg and started to straighten up, keeping myself close to him. As a result, once I'd reached my full height, my face was inches from his. I had to kiss him. He was offering to blow me, I was this close to him, I couldn't not kiss him. As I leaned to him, he figured out what I was trying to do and leaned forward to meet me, but he was drunk and his depth perception wasn't the best, so his teeth ended up on my chin. I didn't really mind. I adjusted my face until my lips were flush with his and nipped frantically at his mouth while he nipped frantically at mine. His hands were on my ass; he squeezed a bit and I moaned into his mouth. I didn't want our lips to part; his mouth was wet and he was trying to shove his tongue down my throat. But it was too fast, too feral, and I needed to pull away. As if my heart rate wasn't already escalated, it increased when I pulled away and his lips followed mine, kissing again and not wanting it to end. Hope, wild hope.

But I needed to pull away. My hands were gripping his collar and I was panting. I pressed my forehead to his, not wanting to lose contact. "Bedroom," I panted, reminding. I felt, more than saw his nod and his hand clasped mine as we made it the rest of the way to his bedroom.

Once we were inside I started kissing him again. I just couldn't wait, didn't want to wait. I'd waited long enough to feel those lips beneath mine, I needed to get as much of it as I could. This time he was the one who pulled away.

"House," he explained, looking at me. "I need to give you a blow job."

Is there a man alive who would object to that?

I let him sit me down on the bed and I started taking off my shirt, even though it wasn't strictly necessary. I scooted back so I leaned against the headboard, and he crawled onto the bed in front of me. He smiled at me, seductively, and that alone made me even harder. I was poking through my boxers, but I had him take them off anyway. As he started to lean down I realized that he was still fully clothed, but I decided that didn't matter. Right now he wanted to please me. After that, there would be plenty of time for me to please him.

He started with his hands, cupping my balls and then gently squeezing me, getting a feel for it. He looked at me and smiled before lowering his head down. My breathing was quick, and I was aware of my heart pumping in my chest, full of anticipation. His mouth closed around the head and I moaned. I didn't care what kinds of noises came out of my mouth. His whole point was to try and make me feel good, and this felt good, a million times better because it was coming from him rather than a hooker, and I would let him know it.

His tongue swirled around my tip while his fingers stroked the rest of my shaft. I wanted to lean my head back but I refused to tear my eyes from him. He wasn't looking at me; he was concentrating on what he was doing, but that didn't matter. I ran my fingers through his hair and watched him, almost as captivated by the sight of him going down on me as by the act itself. He had removed his hands now, he was using them to grip my waist, and I knew a second before he did it that he was going to take me all in. I moaned, almost whimpered as his lips slid down me as far as he could go. He played with me with his tongue, he sucked hard and deep, making me gasp, and he slid his mouth back and forth against me until I was thrusting into him without even realizing it. I arched my back involuntarily and I leaned my head back even though I didn't want to. I kept my fingers in his hair, hearing things like "Oh, fuck, Wilson!" come out of my mouth. I could feel myself nearing the edge, my moans were becoming louder, and I felt every centimeter of his wet mouth against me. His tongue slid against the bottom of my penis and I muttered at him to go faster. I was still thrusting; I couldn't even control that anymore, and he helped me in and out of his mouth but never completely out. He started flicking my head with his tongue quickly and that did it. I lifted my hips from the bed to press myself into him, ignoring the whine from my leg and moaning his name. Just another minute...until it's all done, all finished.

I lowered myself back onto the bed, feeling every muscle relax. I could feel my heart beating again, and I could feel its rate slow down. I looked down at Wilson. He still had his head between my legs but he looked at me and smiled. "I was good, wasn't I?" I couldn't quite speak. I nodded, looking at him. He reached up and wiped some perspiration from my forehead. "Why'd you call me James? You never call me James."

"What are you talking about?" I asked, a bit disoriented. Of course I never called him James. He was Wilson.

He was still smiling at me. "When you were coming, you called me James."

Oh. I shrugged.

He looked content, pleased with himself even though I was the one who'd just had an orgasm. I glanced at his crotch; he wasn't even hard. For some reason this disappointed me. It was stupid, really, because there hadn't been stimulation for him the way there had been for me, but I wanted him to be aroused by pleasuring me, by feeling me in his mouth and hearing my moans. Why wasn't that arousing for him? Maybe it was because he was so plastered.

Whatever. It didn't matter. If seeing and feeling me wasn't enough for him, I'd go at him until I found out what was. I was going to make him feel as good as he made me feel. I needed to, and god, how I wanted to.

People probably think I'd be selfish in bed. Well, when I'm paying for it I am. Because that's just sex. I'm not paying to get someone else off. But with Stacy, I had been good to her. I'd loved her and wanted her to be happy. I'd loved it when she'd look at me with those eyes, hungry, wanting me. Hearing her gasps and moans, knowing I was the one that did that to her. It had made me feel possessive over her, like she'd belonged to me. I'd been the one giving her that satisfaction. And dammit I'd loved her. I'd wanted her to feel those feelings. I hadn't just had sex with her; I'd made love to her.

"What are you doing?" Wilson asked me when I started unbuttoning his shirt.

I'm never confused, but at that moment I kind of was. Seriously? Why would he do it to me, why wouldn't he want me to do it to him? The words weren't spoken harshly, but it was close enough to rejection and I latched on to the only defense mechanism I had.

"Well I wouldn't want you spreading around a rumor that I'm a selfish lover," I replied sarcastically. I continued with his buttons to emphasize my point, so I really could turn it into a joke if the need arose. I desperately hoped it wouldn't. He couldn't deny me this, not after what he'd just done to me.

"Oh. Well you don't need to do that-here." He started unbuckling his belt.

Relief flooded through my semi-drunken brain. Not rejection, just misunderstanding. He'd still let me touch him.

"Wilson, I know how to do this. Just let me do it."

He shrugged and didn't argue. I pulled off his shirt and his undershirt. Even though it was too soon for me to become aroused again I stared at him, thinking god I wanted him. I leaned toward him and eased him down on the bed. He looked at me, and his eyes looked...trusting. He'd let me lead, let me do whatever I wanted to him. Have my way with him. Damn straight I would.

Careful of my leg, I straddled him and rested my weight against his body. I aligned us together and chastely pressed my lips against his. Not like earlier, like in the hallway. Softly, gently, I kissed him. He opened his mouth but I didn't let his tongue in right away. After another moment of chaste kissing I slipped my tongue into his mouth and explored. I was acutely aware that my fingers were rubbing gently against the skin on his sides, but my main focus was his mouth. I ran my tongue across his teeth, across the roof of his mouth. He tasted like expensive scotch but better, and Wilson. I licked every inch of his mouth, marking it. House was here. I tried not to think of all the other tongues that had been here before me. They didn't matter. This was my night.

I suppose that's why it was so important to me to catalog every little movement, every little touch. This was my night, my first night with Wilson, and I hoped to a god I didn't believe in that it wouldn't be my last. I wanted to remember this night for the rest of my life. I didn't just want a vague memory of drunken sex. I wanted to remember each touch, each contact of skin and skin. I wanted to be able to lie in bed at night and think back on every single detail of my first night with my Wilson.

Maybe a part of me knew there was a pretty good chance this would be my only night with Wilson, and that was why it was so important to remember it all. If you only get to see a surgery once before you perform it yourself, you'd better remember every detail of it, because you won't get another chance.

I tried not to think about that either. I told myself that I described each moment in my head so I would remember our first night together. Not our only night together. I couldn't handle that thought. This would be the first night of many, not the first and only.

I removed my tongue from Wilson's mouth and closed-mouth kissed him for another moment. I pulled back and kissed the side of his mouth, and the other side. I looked into his eyes and then I kissed them gently. I moved my mouth to his throat, remembered how I'd fantasized about this earlier, and took a second to smile to myself before kissing his skin. It crossed my mind that my stubble might irritate him, but he wasn't complaining so I pushed the thought out of my mind. I open-mouth kissed his throat, pausing every minute or so to suck gently and then run my tongue across the place I sucked.

His hands rested on my shoulders as I did this, occasionally stroking my hair. My left hand was still gripping his side, but as I moved from his neck to his collarbone, my right hand migrated up his chest. I leaned to rest on my left side so I could touch him without my body being in the way. I kissed and sucked on the right side of his clavicle, it being more accessible from my current position, while my right hand played with his nipple.

Wilson moaned and I thought, Finally, a reaction, before ignoring that and continuing to fondle and mouth his upper body. I took his other nipple in my mouth and suckled.

"House, that feels kinda nice," he murmured, and if my lips hadn't been otherwise occupied I would have smiled. I gave his nipple one last tiny bite and moved my mouth down his chest, kissing along the way. My hand navigated down to his boxers and cupped him through the material. He was about half-erect, not nearly as hard as I was from just kissing him, but as I rubbed him I felt that start to change. I slid his boxers off and took him into my mouth. He moaned and slid his fingers through my hair. I smiled around his cock and then sucked. "Oooh," he moaned, arching his back and leaning against the bed. I took my mouth off of his penis and put my hand around it, pumping it. I flicked his tip with my tongue, earning a gasp.

I felt myself throb when he gasped, and I took my left hand from his waist to rub myself a bit. My need was growing, but hopefully I'd be satisfied soon enough. I pulled my mouth off of him long enough to catch his eye and ask if he had lube. I stroked a bit to keep him stimulated while he reached in his nightstand and found it. I moved my left hand from my cock back to his so I could open the lube with my right hand and still see what I was doing. After getting my fingers lubricated, I moved them back down him toward his opening. I massaged his skin before slipping a finger in and feeling inside, getting him ready. I nudged his prostate just to feel his shudder before sliding out and then putting two fingers in.

I was starting to get anxious, and if his erection throbbing in my palm was any indication, he was too. I ran my mouth across his length again, but negated it by curling my fingers around his base and squeezing. I wanted him to be ready for me. Maybe it would be more difficult for him, drunk as he was, but I wanted him to remember every detail of this night just as I did. And I wanted him to remember it as a night of pleasure, not pain. I wanted to make love to him. I was determined for it not to hurt. I moved my fingers in and out of him and then looked up and caught his eye.

"You ready, Wilson?"

He nodded at me and I took a deep breath. I became aware that I was feeling my heartbeat again. He opened his legs and I carefully slid myself in. He was very tight, god was he tight, and I felt my body shaking as I penetrated.

Using one hand to hold his cock and the other to help support myself, I watched his reaction, adjusting until I hit his prostate and he moaned. Slowly I pulled myself out a bit, and then went back in, repeating the motion. I let him get comfortable with it and I continued to stroke his dick to give him additional stimulation, but I could feel my movement inside of him and it was driving me crazy. I started to thrust faster for more friction, still watching him carefully for any signs of pain. His cock was pressed against my stomach and I rubbed it absently, starting to get lost in the sensations taking over me. He threw his head back into the pillow, thrusting back against me, and he whimpered but it seemed like a good whimper.

Just to be safe, I found enough breath to ask if he was okay. He nodded and then panted, "More!"

I pushed myself into him, faster, harder, god I was getting close now, but he needed to come first. I kept that thought in my mind as I plunged again and again, my breathing ragged, and I still pumped him with one of my hands.

"Oh," he moaned. "Oh,!"

His eyes were closed with the pleasure of it all and he didn't see me smile, but I did. He was still moaning, louder, he was getting closer which was damn good because I felt like exploding. He pushed his pelvis against me and that made me happy. I rubbed him and thrusted into him, and I tried to concentrate on my actions but I was so close to orgasm and everything coursing through me made it impossible to focus. He moaned, I could feel he was almost there. I watched his face as it happened. His mouth formed a circle as he moaned, "Oh, oh, OH!" and then he was sticky and wet in my hands and I was shaking and I threw my head back and I pushed myself all the way into him, gripping his body, needing to be so close to him at this moment, feeling myself and feeling him beneath me and feeling the blood coursing through me and the ejaculate escaping me and the sweat on my body mingling with the sweat on his, slippery underneath my fingers but I wouldn't let go because I needed to be pressed against him and nothing else mattered.

As I lied against him, after the last couple of thrusts to extend it and finish, I wondered vaguely if I'd called him James again when I came. I couldn't remember, and I decided he was in no position to tell me. His eyes were closed, he wasn't sleeping, but he was the epitome of relaxed. I brushed some hair off of his forehead, taking a moment to feel his face beneath my hand, and carefully got up.

"Mmm," he said, opening his eyes as I slid off him. Then he looked down and made a face. "House, we're a mess!"

"I know," I murmured.

If we were sober I wouldn't do it, I'd probably make him do it, and later he might make fun of me, but I was the one who went into the bathroom and wetted a cloth to clean us up.

It wasn't until a bit later, when we were wearing boxers and undershirts again and lying together in bed, that I realized I was happy. I'd felt it in the throes of the lovemaking, and when he pushed his body to mine, I'd felt happy, and it had seemed so natural it hadn't occurred to me what a huge thing that was.

That was what I had told Nolan, that I just wanted to be happy. That's what I'd been working towards. And being with Wilson, my body close to him, that made me happy. My arms were already around him and I tightened them at this epiphany. Being with Wilson could make me happy.

I'd known I was in love with him, though I'd spent years denying it. But after Mayfield, after detoxing from Vicodin, I'd admitted it to myself, if no one else. I'd known I was in love with him, but I hadn't realized that I could be happy with him. I'd been in love with Stacy too, and even though those were probably the best years of my life, I couldn't say I was really happy. I'd had moments of happiness, sure, and I wasn't miserable, but it didn't amount to happy.

I pushed my body closer to Wilson's, I pressed my head against his neck. This was a moment, yes, this wasn't overall, but this amounted to happy.

"Wilson, you awake?" I whispered.

He didn't answer. His breathing was deep and regular, and I decided he was asleep. Drinking and sex will do that.

"Wilson," I whispered softly, not wanting to wake him. I wanted to tell him he made me happy, but I couldn't do it. What if he wasn't really sleeping, what if he could still hear me? What if he was sleeping now but the whisper woke him up and he heard it? I settled for pressing my lips against the back of his neck and then falling asleep myself.

It took a minute to remember why Wilson was in my arms when I woke up, but then I did, I remembered everything that happened the night before, and I smiled into his shoulder. He was still sleeping, and he smelled nice, and my leg was only at a three. I didn't want to move. I was more comfortable than I'd ever been not on drugs. I was holding him. I didn't want to let go. Nothing could satisfy me more than staying right here, like this, until the end of time.

Unfortunately, I really, really had to take a piss.

I carefully slipped my arm out from under him and tried to scoot off the bed without making any noise. My cane was nowhere to be seen and I vaguely recalled just using Wilson to support myself when we moved from the living room to the bedroom last night. Good. I didn't want it to wake him.

Grabbing my thigh, I limped to his en-suite with every intention of crawling right back into bed with him as soon as I was done in the bathroom. But as I turned off the tap after washing my hands, I heard a stirring in the next room. By the time I opened his bathroom door he was standing up halfway between his bed and myself, looking hungover and exasperated.

"House, what are you doing in my bathroom?"

I smirked, deciding to give him a minute to let the memories of last night catch up with him. "What are you so upset about? I can't think of a more pleasant way for you to wake up than by the sound of my urine hitting your toilet water."

He groaned. "It's early, House. Go back to bed." He turned around to follow his own advice. I followed him, but when I pulled back the covers he turned and looked at me. "What do you think you're doing?"

I looked down at my hand, which was gripping the edge of his comforter, and then he groaned again and rolled his eyes.

"Very, funny, House. I meant your own bed."

Keeping my expression neutral, I looked back at him, into his hungover eyes, scanning them for a trace of recognition. There was nothing there. I didn't let it show when it hit me. He had no idea that anything out of the ordinary had happened last night. He had no memory of what he'd told me, the things he'd done to me, or the way I'd touched him. Nothing.

I turned away from him. "I'm the cripple," I snarked, "Just because it's your condo doesn't mean you should get the comfiest bed." My leg pain jumped to a five as I grabbed the limb and hobbled out of the room. I leaned against his bedroom door, panting with the exertion even though the walk from his bed to his bathroom had been nearly effortless. I ran my fingers through my hair and I realized I should have done that to him before I got up. And now I'd never get another chance. I should have known; why didn't I know? Why did I seriously think he would remember anything? He was more than just drunk last night. Why did I let that happen?

Again, I ran my fingers through my short hair. I hobbled to the living room, looking for my cane. I gripped it tightly, noticing how pale my knuckles were, and then sat down on the ground. I leaned my back against the wall, almost banged my head back, and stared at the space in front of me.

No recollection whatsoever. He'd blacked the whole thing out.

I felt nauseated, and I suddenly realized I had a pounding headache. I don't know why, but I couldn't believe it. I was shocked. But why? Why would it shock me? I'd known how drunk he was.

Just because it was the most memorable night of my life didn't mean it was for him.

Maybe he'll remember later, I suggested futilely to myself. But I imagined it, I imagined myself hinting at it, or something jogging his memory, and I saw his face in front of my eyes etched with recognition...and disgust.

You took advantage of me? I was drunk! You think I would have slept with you if I'd been sober? Are you out of your mind? Oh, please, that was one time! I was in college, I was experimenting, I was drunk! It doesn't mean I'm attracted to guys! The underlying meaning, it doesn't mean I'm attracted to you!

Of course he's not. How could he be? If he's not one hundred percent straight, he's ninety-nine percent straight. And that one percent is so deep in denial.

Even if he loved me, he'd be in denial about that.

He always finds a girl. A girl with lipstick and boobs and panties to peel.

He has drunk sex all the time.

And it's always meaningless.

It's for the best I was in the bathroom when he woke up. If he'd seen me next to him in the bed...

So he doesn't have to deal with it. We don't have to deal with it.

I'll just have the memories: every moan, every movement, every touch.

That's what I wanted, last night, to have them to remember for the rest of my life.

I got what I wanted.

They're going to haunt me for the rest of my life.

A/N: Reviews make me smile like the sun, fall out of bed, sing like a bird, and get dizzy in my head.

A/N 2: I was just gonna end the story here, but since my reviewers asked for a sequel, I wrote one. It's called "Making Memories." I think this ending is just fine, I think it's realistic, but if you insist on a happy ending you can read the sequel.