Author's Note: Inspired by a wank!fic by pyewacket_1975. My third entry for mmom 2011. The title is that of a wonderful novel by Carson McCullers.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the House, MD characters, which is good since I tend to kill them.

Wilson wondered whether he should take sleeping pills, too. He had remained with Cuddy until almost eleven, listening to her alternatively cursing House and crying about his wedding and his unprofessional behavior and his Vicodin consumption and the fact he had left her no choice but to leave him even though they loved each other.

His natural sense of manners had prevented him from telling her his own opinion on the last issue, and it was with some relief that he had finally persuaded her to take a couple of sleeping pills and go to bed (she had looked suspiciously like she wouldn't have minded his company there, but he sure as hell wasn't interested).

In all this time, as well as in the time he had later devoted to feeding, medicating and cleaning after Sarah, he had been able to avoid considering what he personally felt. But now he was lying in bed, alone (Sarah had fallen asleep on a t-shirt he had discarded on the couch) and unable to avoid seeing the day just past as a culmination, an apex of House-related suffering after (too) many weeks of crescendo.

He briefly reviewed in his mind the way House's relationship with Cuddy had become more and more of an undisguised attempt at producing an impossible House 2.0, happy husband and father (not to mention the appalling mother-in-law, who easily was worse that all three of his put together); the crazy days of Cuddy's death scare, with the temporary respite followed by the Vicodin crash; the hotel, the booze, the hookers and the overall craziness that had culminated in the cannonball.

He had thought he could never suffer more than that evening's double rejection, but boy was he wrong. The lightheartedness which House had displayed in his friendly exchanges with Dominika and his team and the cold, total lack of interest towards himself had felt like a series of increasingly painful stabs; it had been topped off by his having to sit in the last row, as a distant cousin or a past girlfriend, while House's fellows played the role of friends in the absurdly extravagant wedding ceremony.

When had the unhappiness started? He could have answered with Sam leaving, or with House starting the relationship with Cuddy; but as he was alone he couldn't lie, and had to admit it was with him stupidly asking House to move out of the condo.

If he hadn't, now House would be in his bedroom next door, not in his old flat with a collection of whiskey bottles, Vicodin vials and a very attractive young bride. He had studied her carefully and decided that she viewed sex with House as one of the perks, not the burdens of her contract. Most likely at this point they were already naked and making out in the marital bed. At this thought, Wilson's hand slid, seemingly after no conscious decision on his part, below the band of his boxers and around his shaft.

That's what she would be doing; the opiates and alcohol combination would have made for a limp dick, and she would have to stroke long and well to achieve a reasonable erection. Like the one he was holding in his hand now. Possibly hands wouldn't be enough, and she would start licking House's balls, then slowly climb along the shaft, then…here he realized he had imagined all along how it would feel if ihe/i were in her place, and the smooth skein of his imagination had encountered the first knot: how would a foreskin feel like?

Of course he knew about foreskins in a theoretical, medical textbook kind of way. Also via an extensive porn collection. So he imagined his lips pushing it down and pulling it up again, then pushing it down while his tongue played with the slit, then sensing it tickle different parts of his mouth and throat as House's cock pushed deeper inside him. In the meantime, both of his hands were busy on his own cock, aided by a steady stream of pre-cum.

Now House would be hard, and she would spread her legs for him. Except maybe he was in the mood for ass - he could imagine him liking anal, and she would certainly oblige. He would be considerate, inserting first a finger, than two - and he did precisely that, using his own pre-cum instead of the lube House kept in the bedside table. Then it would be time for the cock. A third finger joined the first two, and his fingertips started rubbing on his prostate as he imagined House's face, lost in passion, the blue eyes wide open but unseeing.

He came without expecting to, and kept his fingers up his ass for many long, satisfactory contractions. He thought of House having also found release inside the body of his bride, and how, once the high faded, she would probably clean him up while he gulped one more Vicodin before the evening's final visit to the toilet. He sighed, got up and went to clean himself.

He swallowed two sleeping pills, and lay down in the dark waiting for them to work, trying very hard not to think at all.