It Ends Tonight

It all came down to this moment: the skin on skin; the rough hands and alcohol tinged breath; he awkwardness thrown out the window with no more dancing around what was there all along.

There's no fight over who's on top or clumsy shuffling to avoid the leg. Everything is unspoken. It always has been. Words are useless and only come out wrong.

Tonight: the end of what was and the beginning of something new and terrifying and suddenly it's as if they're standing on the edge of oblivion with only soft touches and warm breath to keep them from…

Ain't No Other Man

"You were such an asshole."

"Isn't it comforting to know that some things in life are a constant?"

"I just couldn't believe the way you talked to the other doctors. You were so goddamn arrogant. You spoke to them like they were complete idiots."

"Most of them were. I don't see what the big deal is."

"Well, it was my first day, and you just kinda…"

"Kinda what?"

"… You scared the hell out of me, Greg."

"…"

"Stop smiling, you jerk. That's not something to be proud of."

"Did I yell at you that first day?"

"… No."

"Exactly."

The Reason

House listened again to the message on the answering machine.

Wilson's voice seeped out of it, alcohol tainting his voice and gumming up his words.

He was begging. He would keep begging no matter how many times House played the message.

He would say the same things over and over again:

Greg… I'm sorry… I didn't mean to… It didn't mean anything… I love you… Please forgive me… It'll never happen again…

Again, House played the message, the words repeating, drowning him in useless sounds.

Over and over he listened to them, wondering if maybe this time he'd believe them.

Every Time We Touch

The beat throbbed around the two men in a setting that had them sticking out like sore thumbs.

Sweaty, nubile bodies gyrated around them, pulsating with the resonating beat that was slowly giving the older men a headache while making them painfully aware of the screaming age gap between them and the club's occupants.

But they weren't there for the music, the glitter, or the little glow sticks hanging off the necks of everyone in attendance.

They were there for the sleek blonde on a platinum pedestal in the center of the room, swaying his hips and eyeing his boss.

Holding On

The attack had come without warning and without reason.

Both men had been accosted as they exited the small, discreet bar full of male occupants and effeminate hand gestures.

They weren't prepared.

The night was cool and beautiful and for some untold reason, the stars could be seen despite the Jersey lights.

Then the pack of men came at them, hurling words and fist, both painful and unrelenting.

As quickly as they appeared, they were gone, leaving both men broken, one reaching for the other, needing to know they were alright.

But as a siren screamed, the body went limp.

Who Knew

"I swear to God, Greg…" Wilson trails, as he rubs the older man's back.

"I swear to God… If you ever do this again… If you ever scare me like this… If you…" Fear chokes the doctor's words as his lover continues to heave the foreign substance out of his body.

"I'll die," the Oncologist whispers, tears clouding his vision, warping the image of the near empty pill bottle next to the emptier bottle of scotch.

"Don't you ever leave me, Greg House… not like that. You can't be that cruel."

Suddenly a hand grasps his; warm, alive and stupid.

Not the Doctor

It was only a matter of time until the argument happened.

It was like spontaneous combustion, except to those who knew them. The words had been a long time coming, with pushing from both sides leading to the out and out shouting match.

The walls of the office were useless when it came to muffling the angry words and the thinly veiled desperation.

Three ears pressed against the cold wall as heated voices broke, signaling something new.

And then silence… though a muffled shuffling could be heard if one strained hard enough.

The fellows glanced at each other.

Oh God.

Fix You

"I'm sorry."

A growl escaped from the long form tucked into a fetal position.

"I'm sorry… sorry that what you finally got back was taken away from you again. If I hadn't pushed you… If I hadn't said all those things after Stacey… about you not wanting to get better…"

"Wilson…"

The Oncologist paused.

"Just… don't, alright? My leg was fine, then it was fucked, then it was fine, now it's fucked again… "

"Greg…"

"Shit happens."

"You can't really believe…"

"Jesus, Jimmy… Just leave it alone!" the figure snarled, trying to hide the tremor of pain in his voice.

We Are All On Drugs

"Didn't we do this once before?"

Wilson narrowed his eyes from across his desk.

House eyed the cluttered surface and its assorted tacky nic-nacs with deep disdain. His eyes roamed over the paper maché monstrosities and pretentious Precious Moments.

His eyes eventually sought out the man behind the desk

… The man who was now proposing another game of "How long can Greg go without his drugs before he admits he's an addict".

"What's in it for me?" The Diagnostician ventured carefully.

The Oncologist didn't look at him a moment… then slowly, slowly, the men's eyes met, and they smiled.

I Will Follow You into the Dark

The space is somber.

Deep shadows leak out from the corners, seeping across the room, licking at silent figures hovering over the prone form in the cold, metal bed.

People try to fill the space; try to heat it with their presence.

But it isn't enough.

The man is still dying, his lover and best friend clasping his cooling hand in a desperate attempt to keep him.

But they can't stop the bleeding.

He hasn't got long.

The younger man is weeping, hard and unashamed even as the dying man smiles a sad smile, saying nothing… knowing words are useless.