IV

Wilson dreams his eyes are blue stars in an expanse of soundless space, and his fingers are comets, tails trailing across the stretch of the skies. House drags a meteor across the expanse of Wilson's chest, and Wilson pushes through galaxies and interdimensional black holes just to kiss him.

***

There is a stark difference between undoing the past and being given more time. Wilson often wonders which would be more valuable.

If they undid the past, there would be a possibility that they wouldn't lead out the same lives as they did the time before, and their existences would diverge into different timelines, creating different universes. Of course, that's just a concept.

Then again, House could have looked at Wilson at the convention and he could have decided that he'd marry him. House doesn't believe in love at first sight, but this is a notion and notions are fragments of truth spun into a lie to make them more palatable. (Could Wilson marry House in any universe? Are those just believable rationalizations?) House could have decided, at any point before this moment, to tell Wilson in certain terms that "yes, this isn't just a notion," or "no, put your boy toy back in your pants, 'cause I don't want to play with it."

If they undid the past, that doesn't necessarily mean it'd undo their future. Wilson could still be dying. In fact, in terms of balance of probability, if it's happening now, it probably happened in a different lifetime, too. Cancer usually has variables, but Wilson just got it, like you catch a cold or how you fall in love. Suddenly, by surprise. He could still be dying, except without House. He could be dying in a hospital with harsh blue lights shining down eerily upon the sickly pale of his hands, with his family sitting next to him, arms folded unreassuringly across their laps.

House could have been a bad breakup, or an annoying guy he met once at this thing, or he could have been Cuddy's husband, holding Rachel in his arms and making Wilson babysit with no compensation. He could have been Wilson's barber, nicking his neck on purpose, or Wilson's "here and now."

They could have never crossed paths, and Wilson could have been someone else's consolation prize.

But they also could have been perfect.

Wilson comes up behind House and wraps his arms around his shoulders, commenting on a large painting on the wall adjacent to them. "I like it," Wilson states matter-of-factly, his lips forming a grimace.

House is sitting on a stool, looking rather discontented about the whole ordeal. He's staring at the landscape painting with an air of extreme pretension, half-demanding, "Why the fuck did you buy this thing? We're not an old couple, for God's sake." House hooks his palms across the arms that are draped over him and leans back into Wilson, whose expression is subtly sour.

Wilson says, "We bought it because we agreed that we'd buy it, House. You see that?" Wilson points with three fingers to the horizon of the artwork, running his hand smoothly in the air to illustrate the line where the sky meets the earth.

"What," House replies, scoffing, "the painting?"

"No," Wilson clarifies. "The focal point. Do you see the perspective? It's an illusion."

But perfection is for utopias and for Gods and places that don't exist in this facet of reality. Wilson sometimes looks up at House and he can see perfect moments inside of his eyes, blown up wide, yet out of focus. Wilson doesn't know what to say to House when things like that happen, so he just brings him out of his stupor with a temperate tone of voice, reminding him of their schedule and how they should hurry up so they don't miss the next train to Tallahassee.

"I don't want to get worked up over a few colors, okay? Forgive me. I don't jack off to Norman Rockwell in my spare time." He's still fixated over the painting on their wall, trying to figure out why it seems like he could step into it, if he only tried. "Why'd you buy this garbage," he reiterates, quieter.

"I like it," Wilson enthuses back.

"Bullshit," House chuckles. "You hate this painting. You only bought it because Bonnie made you feel bad about taking it for free, even though she didn't like it either; I mean, Wilson. It's as ugly as my tranny aunt Jackie." Wilson's face registers as he rolls his eyes, and House pauses, then adds, "Thank god you broke up with her before you could end up married. Imagine sharing everything with her."

"She hogged the blankets," Wilson agrees, nodding sensibly. "You're right, House, absolutely right. I, James Wilson, am incapable of enjoying something without having an ulterior motive." He says it as he waves his right hand to gesture to the accompanying space, faking sincerity. "The only reason I bought this was to appease my jealous ex-girlfriend. Personal satisfaction is a sham, people don't change, and God isn't real. How did I ever doubt you?"

"Appeasing your ex-girlfriend isn't completely unheard of, y'know."

Wilson leans down to kiss behind House's ear. Tufts of curly brown hair brush his nose as he does so, and he tangles his hands with House's. "You hate it," House murmurs affectionately, squeezing his palms. "I know you do. You don't have to lie to me. No one's here."

There's nothing more painful than imagining a younger House lacing their fingers, or pressing kisses to his cheeks on Sunday afternoons. Wilson could have diagnosed an infarction before it ended with his leg being half amputated, or he could have protected House as a proxy. There are versions of reality where they aren't gods, but they're happy. (House runs across the lawn to stop the neighbor from cutting the branches hanging over their property. House uses his legs to lift Wilson up and press his back gently into the wall. House goes jogging at 3 AM because he can't fucking think, not with their dog from hell barking incessantly. House solves a case and runs to the OR to stop a procedure. House doesn't use drugs. House isn't in pain. House isn't bitter. House doesn't hate the world. House loves-) There's nothing more painful than thinking that, believing that; beyond this life there might've been a utopia where everything was different. If Wilson could undo time with the press of a button, would he?

Would he risk losing everything if there was a chance that they'd be able to be happy together? Even if only for a decade? Less?

"I like it," Wilson says into House's nape, thin hairs brushing against his lips. "You like it, too. You're just a real bastard."

"'M not. I mean, I'm a complete bastard, but-"

"Don't you have work today, House?"

House's face falls flat for a second as he thinks, and suddenly he shoots up from his seat, sprinting to his closet and grabbing a suit jacket to throw on over his tee. "I'm an hour late," he explains quickly, his voice growing louder as he jogs into their bedroom, "and usually I wouldn't care, but Cuddy'll make me do double clinic duty if I forget what day it is again and don't come into work-"

"Yeah, yeah," Wilson says. He gestures to the kitchen: "Lunch is in the fridge."

"You made me lunch but didn't tell me I had work today?" House yells from across the hall, running into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He pokes his head out from the door with a toothbrush in hand, looking mischievous, his voice farcical. "You are such a naughty boy, Wilson."

"Brush your teeth!" Wilson yells to him, laughter in his voice. "And if you're going to shave, clean the hairs from the sink. It's disgusting."

House jogs out of the bathroom, grabbing his backpack and slinging it over his shoulder. "Or what?" he says, kissing Wilson quickly on the cheek. Wilson ducks his head and grins as House gives him a quick slap on the ass, squeezing for good measure. "It's cute when you try to be dominant," House says with a smirk, walking to the door and opening it.

"Stay out of trouble," Wilson yells after him, "and don't assault anyone!"

"But that's the fun part!" House whines. He closes the door, and he leaves the notion, and Wilson is left standing there with his palms pressing into the couch, knowing that this isn't real. None of this is real. The scenery changes. He is alone.

If they were granted more time - if Wilson's cancer was suddenly eradicated and they decided to fly to Spain under an alias and spend the rest of their days drinking martinis and scuba diving in the Mediterranean - would anything have been different?

House once said, "Almost dying changes nothing. Dying changes everything." Wilson is inclined to believe that House is wrong about some things; he's mortal, they both are, and mortal people have ideologies that are wrong and disprovable.

If House is right, they'll buy dutch prostitutes and drink intolerably, the pain in House's leg dulled by the constant assault of dopamine on his senses. He'd do what he always does - he'd behave like an arrogant, immature son of a bitch and then expect people to wait on him hand and foot. Wilson would watch as their lives slowly disassembled and assuaged the pains and realities of life. They would still die, someday. They weren't young. For thirty years, they'd both live meaninglessly and pretend to enjoy parodic versions of their old lives. They'd hate themselves as they pretended to be free, and at night they'd turn off all the lights and smoke their guilt away. (Cigar butts glow red as embers fall away and onto the floor. They taste burnt paper and nicotine as they leisurely puff away, glasses of champagne sitting meagerly on the coffee table; toasting to each other without so much as moving. Their chests are in sync, like moon phases.)

If Wilson is right, and probability says he is (after all, if House is right about almost everything, there has to be a margin for error), and if his cancer somehow disappeared one day, he'd kiss House. They'd move to Italy.

Wilson loves Italy. When he was a kid, his parents visited his great-aunt there during the summer, and they stayed in a guest house on her premises. He used to climb this tree in their backyard, and sit up there until it was dark and the soft lamps outside her doorstep were surrounded by moths and flies and mosquitoes. He watched stars flicker like ancient flames in the blue black sky, breathing in cool air and forgetting about every trouble in the world.

His great-aunt taught him how to cook; in turn, he taught her how to foxtrot. She died shortly after that.

"Pass the prosciutto," Wilson says, holding out a hand without looking away from the gourmet pizza before him. It smells wonderful, although it hasn't been baked; olives, spinach, diced tomatoes, onions, mushrooms... he ran out unwillingly earlier that day to buy groceries so they could make one pizza, but it evidently was for naught.

"No one likes prosciutto. Use, I dunno, bacon."

"And here I was," Wilson muses, "thinking you could actually cook."

"I can cook," House responds, "which is why I'm telling you to use bacon." He pushes himself off the counter and into Wilson's arm, bumping his hand and causing it to release the ingredients. Wilson yelps as he accidentally puts too much black pepper into one spot, jumping back and knocking House aside.

Defiantly, he puts his hands on his hips after wiping them on his apron, and says, "Well, next time, warn me before I spend three hours making us homemade pizza. I'll make sure to fit your immaturity into my schedule."

"It's just pork!"

"My pork."

House smirks slightly, using his cane to turn back towards Wilson. "Your pork indeed." He lands a chaste kiss on the back of his neck before resting his chin on Wilson's shoulder. "Bacon," he insists.

"We didn't move to Italy because of the scenery."

"Did we move because of the delicious meatballs?"

"The culture, House," Wilson explains patiently. "It's wonderful. I wanted to be here before I died, and now I'm not dying, so we're here. And 'bacon' is not an authentic italian dish."

"Says who?" House mutters, planting his lips on the side of Wilson's neck again. His hands come around his waist as Wilson continues to add spices and toppings, barraged by tiny kisses, ignoring them with all of his will. He fails to fight a smile and instead makes a twisted grimace as House continues to drag his lips gently across the back of Wilson's neck.

"Says I, House," Wilson replies firmly, his head involuntarily leaning back into House's mouth. "Kissing me," he mutters stubbornly, reaching over to the pork, "will not stop this prosciutto."

"You're no fun," House says as he continues.

Wilson takes up the pizza in his arms and turns around to offer it to House, interrupting their session. "Oven?"

House lifts up his cane and fakes a grimace. "I'm a cripple," he sighs. "My only cure is bacon and great sex."

"Not only are you a cripple, but you're five years old, too," Wilson objects, making his way over to the oven. "And," he adds, "you can't cook."

"I can't see through the bitter haze of my tears," House replies, frowning, "please, have mercy."

Mercy, Wilson muses. What a trite banality for dying men.

Whatever you're doing to yourself, he thinks, isn't merciful.