XIII

And then sometimes Wilson has happy dreams, but those are the dreams where he's most lucid, where he realizes that when he wakes up, everything will be back to the way it was: achingly normal. Tonight, it's not a dream. He falls asleep curled across House's arm, and House strokes hairs away from Wilson's cheek and stays awake until two thirty, just so the moment can last a little longer. He turns to Wilson and casts his fingertips across the soft depressions in his skin, softly enough so that Wilson hardly stirs. House's lashes don't flutter shut until rain hits the windows of their seaside home, and a grumbling, tempestuous storm sets in.

***

It takes a few hours of raining until the harsh reality of the situation makes itself known. They fathom each other in the soft gloom, a fatigued Wilson lazily laying his head across House's thighs, watching a rerun of "Ancient Aliens" in subtitles. Rapid Italian reverberates in the tiny living room, and it lulls Wilson into a hushed sleep. He falls unconscious to the sensation of hands running through his hair.

When he wakes up, it's still raining. There's a blanket on his body but he doesn't know how it got there, or why the TV is running, a monster truck rally playing in the silence. He rasps, "House?" and when there's no answer, his gut plunges into the depths of his stomach. The sudden stimulus makes him nauseous; he staggers up from the couch and runs into the bathroom, his stomach churning violently. The rain picks up, hiding the sounds of vehement retching.

When Wilson finishes, he doesn't have the energy to go back to bed, so he closes his eyes and lays on the floor, waiting for someone to find him. The moment before he passes out, he realizes why this won't work. Why nothing will ever work.

***

He's spent the entirety of their friendship worrying about House, caring for House, loving House - and through all those moments - split into fractions, no less - he's put up with him, eyelashes and all. But there are lines that James doesn't cross, because they are distinctly House and Wilson as opposed to "House and Wilson," and that entails a certain amount of disconnection. They only touch at a distance, sometimes at work, the back of their hands brushing as they hold case files or flowers for dying husbands. There are lines. They do not call each other Greg and James; they do not hug; they do not comfort; they do not brush fingers; they do not speak to each other when they both know they're too tired to close their eyes; they do not get angry enough to reach out and grab each others' wrists and scream that they lied; everybody lies; Wilson lied; he is in love but there are lines.

He doesn't want to die like this. He doesn't want to die with seams, connecting them like two pieces of cloth and separating them into sections at the same time. He doesn't want eyelashes slicing darkness across any possible emotion he is capable of having.

He doesn't want that. But he knows it's not about what he wants, anymore, and he's back to where he started, sacrificing self for the well-being of others.

When he wakes up, he's going to kiss House awake, one last time. And then he's going to leave him. He can't let House go through the pain of watching him die; he just can't do it. There's nothing worse than that feeling. He will not spend his last moments drowning in the thick, swamping sludge of guilt, every flicker of anguish in House's eyes causing a sharp pain in his gut.

Wilson's going to die. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow - but soon. And there will be no hospital wedding, there will be no goodbye kisses, there will be no reunion, no shaking of hands, no moments to cherish, no utterance of "We did it, we made it." Wilson will die in pain, and House will live in pain.

Forty minutes of pure joy isn't going to change that. Nothing will change that.

***

He gives House a list of groceries. Wilson lies: he rasps, "I'm going to make us dinner," and the guilt is tremendous and shaking. House stares at him for a second, his gaze cynical, but decides against making a fuss. He pulls in Wilson's head and kisses his temple chastely before limping into the rain, swearing obscenities.

Wilson lets himself feel sad for barely a second (he could've said "I love you" at the door, he could've pulled him back in, he could've convinced House to stay, he could have, he should have) before grabbing his suitcase and stuffing it full of clothing from the closet. He doesn't take anything else, figuring that he's not going to need it, where he's going. To be fair, he doesn't know exactly where he's going - he'll probably walk into a hospital, staggering like he's tripping on acid, or into a hotel, waiting out the moments. It doesn't matter where, Wilson thinks. Just not here.

His packing becomes more frantic as the minutes pass, and soon he starts packing while coughing with his other arm. He still needs to hail a cab, and he'll be goddamned if House comes back inside their home before he's gone. He dumps clothes in - more clothes - and then he accidentally takes a pair of House's boxers but he figures he might as well fucking keep them; they're not the worst thing that Wilson could've stolen.

Wilson stops mid-packing; he grabs a pen that's running out of ink and finds an envelope, writing out a quick apology and a PIN number before stuffing his debit card in there, implying that House should withdraw whatever he sees fit. It feels like a suicide note. That's when Wilson realizes - it effectively is.

I'm sorry, Wilson writes on the envelope, but it's not worth the pain.

He knows that House is never going to forgive him; he knows, so he keeps writing, even though the pattering of rain on the window sills urges him to get up and walk away. He's signing his initials when he hears the door open and someone step inside.

His heart crumples.

There are meaningless, almost empty points in Wilson's life that he remembers for the sole reason that they happened. The mundanity of the event did nothing to affect how it had been placed in Wilson's mind. (He remembers his mother's lilac perfume on the bed stand and a carpenter's sander and yellow flowers with water droplets conglomerating, like two people trying to find each other in a vast, empty space. Frozen icicles and Cary Grant, playing on a loud speaker. He loves scented candles, because they remind him of late dorm room nights in Pennsylvania.) He wishes all those memories were gone, so he could stash the image of House walking in, rain trickling down his face and darkening his eyelashes into blackened triangles. Something about this says "important," and he'd mark it down in a calendar to remember every year, if he had years left.

He has weeks. House walks in, wetting the floor, and starts saying words that Wilson can't quite place - until House notices the luggage and the pen and paper being held in James's hand. "Why are you..." he trails, his voice accusatory, diagnostic.

He looks like a Renaissance painting; a still from a cinematic masterpiece; consummate and picturesque and it strikes a dark chord in Wilson's heart when he realizes. (I love you, and I am so sad to leave you.) He realizes that he's sorry and that he doesn't regret as much as he had previously thought, not if those grievous moments had led to this image in his mind, not if butterfly effects managed to bring him here.

House's words bring him back as he stares vacantly at him, thinking about an entirely different world already. "I forgot my wallet," House says, "Er, yours. That brings me back to my previous question... what are you...?"

"I was hoping to be done by the time you got back," Wilson blurts, his voice displaced.

House shakes his head, slowly, his mouth falling open, and in three strides he's across the room, ripping James's letter out of his hand with little to no resistance. He pulls it up close to his face while Wilson backs away from him, his eyes pinned shut from the pain of him knowing. He holds his breath, waiting for it-

"What the fuck is this?" House shouts, shaking it in front of Wilson's face. "Are you some kind of fucking moron, Wilson?"

Wilson mollifies with his left hand, trying to get out the temperate words before Greg has the chance to pounce on them and rip them apart. "I was trying - I was just trying-"

"To get yourself killed? You tell me not to commit suicide and then your first instinct is to fuck the fight out of me and then go die in some alleyway somewhere?" House spits, his eyes full of some ravenous fury. He looks like a cyclone; all his hairs are damp and askew, and his voice is dangerously calloused, ripping through what's left of Wilson's chest.

"No, House," Wilson says placatingly, "I needed to leave because I knew that dying was going to hurt you more than me leaving-"

"Don't give me that temperate, cowardly garbage!" House almost screams. "This?" he yells, shaking the envelope, a debit card falling out of it, "This! This is fucking bullshit! All of it! Quote, 'I'm sorry, but it's not worth the pain.' As if you know anything about pain!"

Wilson closes his eyes against House's snarling, unable to take the look that's burning in his eyes. He just wants to lay down for the long sleep, and not have to worry about loving House or caring for House or even thinking about House. Because all he's ever done, all that Wilson has - ever! - wanted has been to keep House safe. House isn't worth it. None of this will ever be worth it. Wilson snaps, and he begins yelling just as loudly, because he did this for House, and he's trying to invalidate it, as he always tries. "I did this for you, you fucking ass!" he shouts. "I didn't want you to watch me die like I watched Amber, I didn't want you to watch the last person you cared about leave you! You have no self control-"

"And your fucking brilliant solution is to have sex with me?" House shakes his head disbelievingly. "You thought that would temper my homoerotic love for you?"

Wilson shouts, spit flecking House's face, "IT WAS A MISTAKE."

"You didn't accidentally trip and start sucking my cock, Wilson! You didn't tell me that - that you loved me by accident!" House shoots back, his voice lowering down to a volume that is probably more scary than his yelling. "This letter" - he holds it out in front of him - "is so full of bullshit I can't fathom it. 'I did this for you'? You're a shit eating, manipulative bastard. The part that really pisses me off, though, is the fact you thought I would fall for it because our salamis had done the bologna."

"I thought you would fall for it because I'm dying, House," Wilson yells, his arms moving in exasperation. "I thought you would fall for it because I'm your best friend, and I have no time left."

"So you admit to feeding me bullshit?" House prods angrily.

"No, I just-"

"Then what the fuck is it?" House shouts, his voice rising again, "You thought it'd be a funny joke to die on the side of the road?!"

"I didn't... want... to hurt you," Wilson growls, "how many times do I have to spell it out?"

"Until the word looks like it wasn't written by a blind man high on marijuana!" House shouts, ripping the envelope in half. "You idiot!"

"I am so glad, House," Wilson snarls. "I am so fucking happy that I never acted on my feelings for you." He shakes his head, tears welling up. "You're not worth it. You're not worth it, House. Everyone left you because that's what you deserve, that's what you wanted."

"Yeah, I wrote Santa a letter, asking him to kill you for my Christmas present," House bites sarcastically. "When I got action figures instead, I felt really fucking bummed - can we get back to the real world, now?"

"I am so happy, because you would've sabotaged our relationship until there was nothing left except bitterness and dust - like Cuddy, except worse, because I would've known that you were the only person possible that I could've loved until the day I died. The day I die, House." Wilson's tone is suddenly tortured, and he's grabbing House's forearms, running the words "the day I die" over and over under his teeth, like he's trying to express a motive that they both haven't found yet. "I didn't lie to you, House," Wilson scathes, turning back to his luggage to continue packing. "I'm not like you," he says in between pieces of clothing. There's a flash of House's boxers; he ignores them. "I actually care about you-"

"And where d'you expect to go?" House shouts disbelievingly, "This isn't the fucking Mexican border, Wilson! You have nowhere to go, no way to get anywhere-"

"I don't know, House," Wilson says, his voice grating as he stuffs things inside his luggage. "But what I do know," he hisses, "is that once the rush of endorphins wears off, we'll be back where we were and you're going to die knowing that we could have done something more useful with our time together. The reality of the situation is-"

"I'm so fucking tired of reality!" House screams insanely. "You know where reality got me? Huh? It got me thrown into a psych ward! It got me to drive into Cuddy's wall! It got me a dying best friend, who fucks me over by literally fucking me, and then leaving me, like everyone else! Reality is so stupid and I live my life by it and even I recognize the appeal of drowning in booze and painkillers and methamphetamines until there's nothing left of you. Your brother is lucky that he has schizo. At least when you left him, he had a place to escape to-"

"Don't bring up Danny," Wilson warns-

"The fact that he's a freak and you're a spineless piece of shit certainly made it easier on the both of you-"

"House!"

"Reality made you leave; why do you have to analyze everything; why can't you just let things be-"

"I was going to leave you anyway!" Wilson shouts coldly, zipping shut his suitcase with fanaticism, "Sooner or later, House, we were going to break. You were going to bend this until it snapped past the point of repair - eventually, eventually. The cancer just proved that."

"Fine!" House shouts as Wilson grabs his luggage, hoisting it off with a pain in his chest. "Go die in a ditch on the side of the road, for all I care."

Wilson is leaving when he suddenly stops and rotates on his heel to face House, his eyes wet and bloodshot, but furrowed in anger. "I remember" - he chuckles bitterly - "I remember standing next to you in the elevator. I remember thinking... 'Today. Today is the day I'm going to tell him.'"

House's expression softens as rain slides down to his chin, dampening the collar of his tee. He still looks mad, but the anger is soon replaced by disbelieving shock as Wilson continues, his cheeks damp. "For a couple of years it was like that. In the morning, I would wake up with you in the next room, and I would think, 'Today.' Even," Wilson admits, "when you were with Stacey. Until it was thirteen years later and I had five months to live." Wilson takes his index and thumb to the bridge of his nose, pinching. His back straightens. "I stopped telling myself 'today.' Because I recognized that this isn't a utopia we live in, it's reality." Wilson shakes his head, tears soundlessly painting stripes down his face. "I'm sorry that I ever believed otherwise, House," Wilson says, his voice painfully inflected, "I'm sorry that I ever thought that we could ever be together. I'm sorry I thought you could change."

House's eyes are red. His hands are shaking, and he looks paralyzed from the neck down, held up by puppet strings. Wilson uses his forearm as support as he goes on his toes to kiss House's cheek, softly. His skin is tender from the rain, and he smells like the ocean tossing feverishly in the middle of the night. Wilson relishes in the moment, knowing that it'll never happen again, before easing back down onto the balls of his feet. "Yeah," he says raggedly. "I'm sorry. Goodbye, House. You were a good friend."