II

"You might be dying," House says, the usual consonant stressed unnecessarily, "but that doesn't mean that I have to like it." When House brings up the fact that their time is limited (it was always limited, but the limit was distant, moving so slowly that its movement was disguised cleverly as stillness), he always has this rough coarseness in his voice, overly calloused to compensate for that fact that it's incredibly real. Present.

House is clean, but unshaven - morning light stubbornly filters through the blinds on their motel room, cutting sharp lines across House's stubbled face from where he's standing. His cane is discarded carelessly on the other twin sized bed, where an assortment of porn magazines are splayed, almost as if to show off.

I am not in love with you, they declare indignantly.

"I didn't want to wake up to this," Wilson groans, dragging a hand across his eyes to block out the warm light. He can smell the scent of chlorine wafting under the doorframe - that definitely isn't going to help his lungs. Wilson coughs dismissively and turns over, burying his head into his pillow, even though he's practically smothering himself.

"I wanted to wake up to naked hookers sitting in a hot tub with a bottle of oil-based lube in one hand and a bag full of cocaine in the other, but instead I woke up to you," House shoots back, but then, surprisingly, he doesn't say anything else. As if that was as far as he'd planned it before the scenario popped up in his head, as if the sounds of Wilson's voice had stirred an impenetrable silence out of him. House is almost breaching the quiet, his tongue set stubbornly on his teeth, formed to make an impenitent remark. He says nothing and closes his mouth in defeat. Wilson turns back over and feels bad about being secretly relieved, staring at House, his lips thin with puzzlement.

He lays there for a moment, his mind still hanging disconcertedly on House's last words. He then says "okay" as if it's a question, his brows upturned, and rolls on his side, away from House's gaze.

His breathing evens manually and although he knows that House knows that he's faking being asleep, that he's faking everything, House collapses into the bed besides Wilson's and sighs exaggeratedly. "What should we do today," House says to an unmoving Wilson. "Heard that there's a fair nearby. Go-karts are fucking awesome."

Wilson doesn't speak because he's afraid of betraying himself. It's morning, and he can't be hanging onto every word of House's like they're a lifeline. Something stirs inside of Wilson when he hears House speak to him; he's gruff and biting, and it's exactly what Wilson wants and doesn't need. When House speaks, Wilson can feel himself wind, unwind and rewind, in an endless cycle of depravity and uncertainness. He knows that House doesn't have the modesty to repeat himself, to prompt Wilson to speak - so he waits a few moments while thinking up what to say. If he fills the silence with something more exciting, then perhaps the seconds before they spilled out of Wilson's mouth will be forgotten. House will not get the chance to analyze; he will have forgotten it, as if it were an unmemorable poem.

All that escapes Wilson's mouth is a bleak, "I'm tired, House. Not today."

The softness in which House replies makes Wilson want to hit him, like you want to hit a child that has been crying incessantly all day. "You're always tired," he says, his eyes shifting to the small of Wilson's back, where his shirt has ridden up, where he can see two dimples depressing into the flesh of his spine. Wilson adjusts to accommodate, pulling his sweater closer to him, over the bare strip of skin.

"Yeah, well," he mutters bitterly, "that's usually what happens when you have three months to live." He can still sense House's gaze on him when he rolls groggily out of bed and into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. He pays no attention to the curve of House's hips and how his sweatpants hang off of them, and the smooth, tanned skin that blankets his bare forearms. Wilson makes believe that House is not hungry for that stripe of skin that occasionally appears around the small of his back - the teasing notion hanging on a string.

***

They exhaust their days sleeping and planning for the next days, faking busyness, House sneaking furtive glances at Wilson's shoulders and the breadth of his chest. Greg's eyelashes seem to have grown darker since Wilson was diagnosed, and his gait more heavy. It makes it easier for him to scrutinize Wilson, the lashes obscuring a clear view of what House is looking at; of what he's thinking. Wilson wants to split the moments they have together into smaller fractions so he can compose a picture of House where he doesn't have lashes to hide behind, where Wilson can be inside of his head and curl up there and be safe behind walls of despondency.

Wilson sometimes looks up at House, and can see moments held inside of his eyes, weighted and hard, like cold stones sinking densely into the bottom of a stream. House looks as if he is waiting patiently when his forehead works itself into the dip of a rosewood cane, a leg splayed out carelessly in front of him. Wilson pretends that he can't sense House's stare when he's dozing off in the night, drinking in moments; more moments to be held within the chasm of his pupils, blown out in the dark. Wilson wonders what he's waiting for, and if he's waiting at all.

Wilson desperately wishes that he was oblivious to House, but his emotions are a soft hum that is unnoticeable until it is brought into focus by an outside force. He can't unhear it. It pokes persistently at the tumorous tissue of his ribs, pushing at him in the dark.

House has tried not to over compensate, pacing himself and not pushing when it's time for Wilson to sleep. He ignores inquiries about Wilson's cancer, and refuses to talk about it - nothing's changed, really. They still speak with expressions, often tilting their heads to show agreement, uttering glib remarks at one another, not afraid to walk on eggshells. House acts like he's alright so that Wilson won't lose his nerve.

But then Wilson catches moments in his periphery. He's not even sure if he sees them; they're so faint and fleeting, but if he does then they're there.

House is always surveying him. Gauging him. A look of fear is on his face, as if he's afraid that his best friend will drop dead any moment and leave him behind.

Alone.

He feels bad for House, more than he feels bad for himself. Wilson understands (and although it's narcissistic, he understands) that he is all that House has. Once the five months are up, there'll be nothing left.

They both know it. They say it to each other in looks and tentative touches, when House is rubbing Wilson's back when he feels as if he's about to hack up his lungs. In those moments, he doesn't have enough headspace to think, "House loves me," but sometimes he doesn't have to think it. Sometimes it's just his touch on Wilson's back and a few gentle words swathed in sarcasm. He knows. They both know.

***

He wraps his waking moments in cellophane and hopes that when he throws those moments into the water, they won't sink like stones. But sometimes, he feels like his consciousness is being riddled with holes, and without warning all he can see is spots of darkness in his vision and the choking feeling of drowning in his own lungs. Maybe he deserves this. Maybe it's his fault.

He catches himself staring at House while he's sleeping, reciprocating the teasing notions. There is a list of them, and they're nothing more and nothing less than wishful thinking that Wilson indulges in when his mind is dark.

One of those teasing notions is that in this moment, right now, Wilson can card his fingers through the tufts of gray hair that are sticking up in all possible directions, shadowing the deep lines of House's face. He can crawl into bed, grumble, "Move over," and have House enclose him, encircle him, unaware that this is his best friend, and that he isn't worth encircling at all. One of those teasing notions goes like this:

Wilson leans down and runs his thumb repeatedly over the pink flesh of House's lips. He doesn't pay attention to the expression of disturbance that House has when he wakes up; he freezes the moment, so that if House is touched this way, he won't look as if he minds. He pauses a moment, eyes darting between House's eyes and his mouth, wondering if he should actually do this. His thumb is still on the pink, sharp edge of his upper lip.

Wiry hair grazes his thumb as he sweeps his hand to the curve of House's jaw, lifting his head upward so he can gently press his lips to House's.

His mouth is soft and giving, compliant under the duress of Wilson's lips. The kiss feels more precise and surgical than anything, doctored and controlled, tentative. Wilson has a hypothesis: House will kiss him back, softly, although Wilson's afraid to press harder. His friend isn't responding, but it is just a notion, after all.

Wilson unfreezes time, and to his surprise, House's hands are in his hair, and his mouth is open, his tongue pressing desperately into Wilson's. He worries his lip in between his teeth, an outlying hand cupping the curve of Wilson's ass and pulling him down on top. Short, hot breaths push into Wilson's mouth, and he's breathless, messy, yearning."I love you," he says, it's the first thing he says, he doesn't care, he doesn't - he stops touching House just so that he can see his face. You're loved; you're loved, he wants to say; he wants to kiss it into House's chest, spell it into the flesh of his legs, his atrophied thigh. House appears elated and beautiful, his lashes fluttering, his lips parted to receive an open-mouthed kiss.

Slowly, Wilson leans into House, but doesn't connect for fear of never seeing him like this again. It takes a slight effort for House to kiss him, lifting his head from the pillow, pulling his shirt untucked. He touches the naked small of his back, slipping one hand aggressively into Wilson's boxers and pushing him down into his groin, where his hips are rutting evenly and slowly into Wilson's leg. Wilson can feel House's cock slotting against him, low, airy whines being gasped into Wilson's gaping mouth. Their lips collide coincidentally as House fucks himself on Wilson's thigh, grinding and becoming undone, and it's all that Wilson can do to step out of the fantasy and think: Is this worth it?

***

The word "utopia" originates in 1516, where an English Renaissance humanist named Thomas More coined the term as the title to his most famous, and, unsurprisingly, controversial book. The novel describes an imaginary island in the Atlantic which contains a perfect society.

Utopia is a double entendre etymologizing from the Greeks. It means, "no such place." Its counterpart, "eutopia," coincidentally means "good place." They are pronounced the same, and although "eutopia" is obsolete, it has added a stigma to the word.

Utopia is fantastic. Utopia is also absurd. Perfection is unattainable, in every aspect, and we have to settle for less; we just have to. There is not one human on earth that is not touched by negativity, whether they are conscious of it or not.

There is no such place as utopia.

But if there were...

No, Wilson thinks. There's no such place.