V

There's no use in daydreams. You can't make up symptoms, even if it's hard and you don't have much time left. ("There's something we haven't found yet," House says. "Everybody lies. The only variable is about what.")

What had they lied about? What was stopping them from making this easy?

***

"Let's go to Italy," Wilson whispers one night in the dark.

Wilson hears the soft straining of fabric as House props himself up onto his elbows. He can almost feel the twist of House's brows across the chasm between them, and suddenly he's more aware of the air that is keeping them apart. (He wishes that they were molecules that would find each other eventually.) House says, "Why?" as if the word is a glass in his mouth that may break.

There's a hollow ache where his heart is supposed to be as Wilson closes his eyes and forces the words out: "I want to... die..." he speaks the word like it's some profoundly painful truth, "in Italy."

House makes some unbelieving scoff, a cynical smile teasing his lips. "Italy? Why? Is it the delicious meatballs?"

"No," Wilson says sullenly, "...no."

"You sure? You've only got... you know," he replies. "If we go, those are days we can't get back."

Wilson nods an answer, rolling over to look at House. If House is unnerved by this, he doesn't say anything. All he does is stare back, his fingers white and blotched on the blankets, as though he's fighting the urge to up and go.

Finally, after thirty or so seconds, Wilson says, "It's beautiful around this time of year-" but something catches in his throat and he begins coughing, sitting up clumsily and hacking unpleasantly into the bed. He tries to say that he's sorry in between bouts of coughing, looking positively ashamed that this is happening in the middle of a sentence. House knows that Wilson doesn't like getting help when he's awake, but Wilson starts coughing so hard that House is sure that he's going to go into respiratory arrest. He makes his way from his bed to Wilson's and begins to rub hard circles into his back.

"You should be giving me massages," he says over the coarse sound of Wilson's coughing. "I feel this bad every day."

Wilson's coughing begins to die down, and he whispers, "Don't... make... me laugh," through each expulsion of air. He keeps on watching House, because if he looks away then House will look sad when Wilson turns his back. "It's beautiful," Wilson rasps. "It's beautiful around now."

"Alright," House replies softly, making half a nod. "Alright. We'll go to Italy."

***

He's got two months.

Death sits at his doorstep, now. Waiting.

***

When House is in the next room making them a dish that Wilson definitely won't eat, Wilson buys plane tickets to the Amalfi Coast. He buys a round trip in House's name, and a one way in his.

Just in case.

***

The day of, Wilson gets really sick.

They don't know if it's just anxiety or if his cancer is getting worse or if he just had a bad night, but when they wake up at around noontime and House is rushing Wilson about to make sure that they catch the flight to Italy, Wilson starts not being able to breathe.

Wilson once had the wind knocked out of him when he was eight. He was climbing the monkey bars when he slipped and fell flat on his back. He hit his head, and when he was finally able to differentiate the pain from the astounding sensation of not having any air in his lungs, he began crying soundless tears, trying to wail but not being able to. His mother called the police; worried that he was dying from anaphylaxis. It was not until she stabbed an epi-pen into his thigh muscle that she realized that her son had simply had a diaphragmatic spasm. The police weren't so sure - they questioned him for thirty minutes after he'd recovered his breath, and his mother scolded him half-heartedly afterwards. Said something like: "Jim, never again, never again, you scared me, you did."

Now, it is nothing like that. He is filling his lungs with air, but he's asphyxiating - House has to pull out the oxygen from the corner of the room and give the cannula to Wilson to insert.

"We've gotta make it," House says gruffly to a panting Wilson, "you gotta suck it up and get on the plane. Not gonna let you die here," he mumbles under his breath, as if it's a personal assault on his character. "I'm an asshole, but let it never be known that I was a sissy," House would say later.

"House..." Wilson gasps, "help... over there, there's... a toothbrush. Toothpaste." He breathes a bit more, sitting up straighter, but still not able to catch his breath. House limps his way quickly over to the suitcase that they're packing, stuffing the only clothes they have in and zipping it up with inexcusable zeal.

"We're going to be late, Wilson." He stops for a moment, and turns to look at him. "You good?"

"No..."

"Too bad. Get up, we're out of here."

Wilson discards the cannula and stuffs it into his suitcase, deeply breathing to staunch the additional shakiness and nausea passing over him. He wipes dampness from his brow and gathers himself, checking House over once before ushering him out the door.

Customs takes forever. By then, Wilson's stopped feeling short of breath, but he still has an upset stomach. He holds it together by clenching his abdominal muscles, praying aimlessly, and he reaches out to House when they're getting things checked at the desk. He realizes that he's trying to hold House's hand when House looks down at his palm and gives him a questioning look, scoffing at the lady running their passports. "This one's so needy in the bedroom. Can't satiate," he jokes mockingly, and the woman gives him a perfunctory, meaningless smile before sending them on their way to the flight gates.

They walk in silence until Wilson interrupts them both, turning to block House from walking, hands resting on his hips. "I was just nervous that you wouldn't check out, House," Wilson says. "You're dead, remember?"

House makes a point of looking down at his own body, "making sure." He smirks a bit before sniping, "You obviously didn't remember. Practically groped at my hand to make sure. Third base? That's gotta be third."

"Yes," Wilson grumbles as House pushes his way past them both. "Mock, deflect. You should make it into an acronym," he continues, beginning to walk after House again.

"MD. Like, Gregory House, M.D."

"Brilliant and comedic. God, it's literally Christmas in July."

"Don't be so loathing," House says, limping onto the plane.

It's small, with a haphazard blue carpet stained with god knows what, and when House walks down the aisle in front of him, his hair brushes the ceiling. It's making Wilson claustrophobic, almost - the carpeting, the coffee stained seats, the cashews littering the floors... and suddenly, Wilson starts to feel light-headed. He follows after House, pressing his fingers to his temple and sucking in air. He hates how he's slowing down to compensate, trying not to let other people see how fucking exhausted he is. It feels like his chest is going to implode into a crunched, meaty mass, and he's going to die right here.

House looks at him once he's reached their seats, and he cocks his head, as if almost confused by this display of vulnerability. "You okay?" he shouts across the aisle, making his way back to Wilson, who is leaning on a blonde lady's chair.

"Aye," she says, obviously peeved, "if you're gonna get sick, bruh, don't get on a plane."

House gives her a glare befit for murderers. "He has cancer, you insensitive horse shit," House barks at her, putting a hand to Wilson's back and helping him along to his seat. For a second, Wilson can only feel House's palm on the small of his back, gently easing him forward into the next seats. It's warm, and firm, and unshaking, supporting Wilson as he shudders from nausea, cold sweats soaking through his T-shirt. House situates him, putting two fingers to his wrist and counting beats.

"Your BPM is out of control," he whispers in Wilson's ear. House's lips graze his hair, and if he wasn't shuddering enough now... House upturns and looks for a stewardess, locking his eyes on one after a few seconds. "Hey!" he shouts obnoxiously to a flight attendant. "Lady! We need you to pull out an oxygen mask for my friend, here-"

"We're not even off the ground, sir, you're going to have to wait," she replies firmly as she walks over to them.

"I'm a doctor," he says, still holding Wilson upright. Wilson takes the liberty to slip out of House's warm grip and collapse into a chair, panting for breath. "He's an oncologist. He has a thymoma. Give him oxygen. Now."

Wilson hears conversation dimly through his exhaustion, seeing stars and panting for oxygen. He needs more of it. One more minute like this and he'll pass out from a lack thereof and then they'll have to stop the flight... it won't be on time... Italy... he'll die here, on this plane, in America. You're not gonna die here, Wilson tells himself, you're being melodramatic.

He zones out from the bickering until House snaps him back in with a loud shout: "I don't care if this flight has to grow a hull and sails and has to swim all the way to Italy-"

Wilson faintly feels people staring at them, murmuring disquietedly about the state of affairs. "Why won't he shut up?" Wilson hears someone say off to the side. The stewardess argues that the oxygen masks don't work until the plane is in the air, which makes House triply more angry.

"Just do it, for God's sake!"

"Sir-"

"He's going to go into respiratory arrest!"

"You're not helping him, sir!" she yells back, finally losing her patience.

"Yeah, moron, unless I can conjure a spare stash of O2 out of thin air, I can't. And guess who can? Y-"

Wilson saves a passing breath of air to cough out, "House," rather weakly, grabbing onto his forearm and pulling him down. "Leave it," Wilson wheezes, looking up at the windswept stewardess. She looks much too tired to be doing this, now, with sinking eye bags unable to be hidden by her concealer, and ratty hair. She nods at him thankfully, walking over to the microphone to announce that they are now lifting off.

A minute or two later, she unlocks a compartment above Wilson's head and gives him an oxygen mask, smiling curtly at them both. House helps him slip it on as he glares at her leaving form, tight lines carved into his features. "That was stupid," he mumbles at Wilson after she's gone. Beneath the mask, Wilson blinks blearily at him, putting a hand to his arm and finally closing his eyes.

"D'you feel okay?"

Wilson lifts up the oxygen mask and wheezes, "I feel awful. And my stomach... it's killing me." The oxygen mask returns to his face and he curdles in pain, his chest aching and his stomach churning with acid.

"Yeah, well. You're gonna have to wait."

"No," Wilson gasps, arching his back in sudden excruciating pain. He rips off his oxygen mask and wheezes, "I'm going to vomit," which House responds to accordingly.

"Hey! Stewardess, someone's gonna hurl back here!" he shouts, passengers turning to stare at him.

A much prettier stewardess springs from the cabin, holding a bucket, which she gives to Wilson the second before the back of his esophagus is burning with stomach fluids and his undigested breakfast has come out of his mouth. He starts coughing while he's vomiting, if that's at all possible, and it comes out in short spurts of yellow goop.

"Wilson," House whispers softly, and Wilson has hardly a moment to look up before he vomits more, beginning to retch but not getting anything out. It's one of those moments, uncovered, where he looks up at House and he's scared for Wilson. His periphery is full of spots and harsh darkness and the look House is giving, as if he wants confirmation that Wilson's okay.

Wilson dry heaves for ten more minutes. He's not okay.

***

"The operation is in two hours, and I'd like you to be there with me."

"No."

"What...? Why?"

"Because if you die, I'm alone."

Two hours later, when Wilson is closing his eyes, House is there.

***

Broken and butchered and falling apart at the seams, that's what Wilson is. All plane ride, he wants to lace his fingers with House's and sit curled in his lap, not entirely sure of why but completely sure of who. He stares at House when he pretends to fall asleep. He stares and stares and stares, and it's only when House actually does fall asleep that he takes House's limp hand and looks at it closely, running his thumb into the dip, the concave depression of his palm.

House's head is tilted back, and his lips are open, and his lashes are fluttering like narcoleptic butterflies, sleepless angels. He looks exhausted, with the lines of his face deep and cavernous, dark, a canyon cutting its way through his brows.

Wilson wonders if House is in the kind of pain that he is. If he spends every waking minute fantasizing, notions thrumming patterns through his mind, diagnoses being made and thrown away, trampled upon in the wake of their inconceivability. (It's never Lupus, House thinks.)

His hands are soft as Wilson puts two fingers to House's wrist, a pulse thrumming slightly into Wilson's index finger. It reminds him how still his will be in a few months, and the thought makes him want to tie House to him, tether him to this life. He knows that technically, House is dead already - in multiple ways - and that tying him down, brain stem or any other parts, won't keep his pulse going.

There's the musk of cheap alcohol and sweat coming off of him in sharp waves, blue shirt unironed on his chest, as if he didn't care enough to take a bath before they left. Wilson doesn't mind; he finally leans back onto the seat and closes his eyes. He pretends to fall asleep on House's shoulder.