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Title: Gray Morning
Wordcount: Just over a thousand
Pairing: House/Wilson
Warnings: Spoilers for Merry Little Christmas.
Rating: Heavy R, I guess.
Summary: All he remembers is that the transition between a stupid joke and the meeting of mouths was almost seamless.
Disclaimer: If I owned House and Wilson, at least one of them would be giving me a foot massage right now. I don't, so they're not. It's a sad world to live in.
A/N: This was written for

no_eden's House/Wilson Kissing Meme, so thanks to her for the inspiration.
This takes place a year after MLC.

The morning after, Wilson rolls out of House's bed at seven. It's the day after Christmas, and the light filtering into the room at this hour is gray and dim, everything soft at the edges. House is only a vague bump underneath the covers, a small spray of messy brown hair sticking out of one end the only part of him visible.

Wilson gathers up his clothes, strewn across the floor where House had flung them carelessly the night before. He winces when bending over, sore and aching in a way that is both satisfying and at the same time, shaming, a reminder of what they did. Clothes in hand, Wilson pads into the bathroom in his bare feet. He shuts the door softly, hoping House will keep sleeping.

He turns the shower on, and looks at his reflection while waiting for the water to heat up. There are dark smudges beneath his eyes, his hair is mussed and his lips swollen, and there are faint purple bite marks on his collar bones. He stares at them until the steam billows out from behind the curtain, and the sight of himself is lost. He steps into the hot spray.

Yesterday, House invited him over for Chinese and horror movies, what had been their Christmas tradition, broken only last year by betrayals and addictions and unspoken anger. Wilson wondered; was this an overdue apology translated into lo mein and beer and killer prom queens? Or another attempt to forget that nothing had changed, not really? Nothing that mattered anyway, or so Wilson thought.

Except it had, apparently. Somewhere in the middle of a cheaply made onscreen massacre, House kissed him, or maybe Wilson leaned in first. It's impossible to tell in retrospect. All he remembers is that the transition between a stupid joke and the meeting of mouths was almost seamless, not surprising at all to be suddenly kissing his best friend. House's lips were a soft contrast to the stubble on his chin, and he tasted vaguely of salt and beer. Onscreen, somebody shrieked impressively, but Wilson was distracted by the weight of House's body as he was pushed onto his back on the couch, one of House's hands steady on the armrest, supporting his weight, the other busy unbuttoning Wilson's blue Oxford shirt. They only stopped kissing to get off the couch and into the bedroom, and by then the movie had ended and Wilson's lips were half numb.

Wilson shuts his eyes, pulse already starting to race again as he remembers the rest of it. Wilson puts a hand on the tiles and leans into the shower spray, rubbing his other hand across his eyes. He tries to slow his heart beat, tries to will his persistent erection away, tries not to think why did I let him do that or what does this mean or, the absolute worst, what happens next? Where do they go from here? Wilson wanted something to change, but now he wishes the change had been more gradual, or smaller, or less important. They should have gone slower, at least. You can gloss over a hand job, even oral sex if you're persistent, shrug it off as the loneliness and booze impairing your judgment, but you can't gloss over sex. Not when it leaves you marked up, bruised, sore as hell, and still wanting more of the same. Wilson can't forget how House ran his tongue lightly across Wilson's bottom lip, the way his hands rippled across Wilson's bare skin. The look on his face when Wilson pushed House on his back and licked and bit a path down his naked chest. The strength in his hands as he held Wilson's hips before entering him. The trust in House's eyes that Wilson can't help wondering if he deserves.

There is a knock at the door, and Wilson leans back, wiping the water out of his eyes.

"Come in?" he calls, wondering why the answer slipped out in question form. The door opens, and he doesn't hear it shut. House must be standing in the doorway, leaning against the jamb to take weight off his leg.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I? Morning masturbation session? Sexual identity crisis?"

Wilson laughs. Trust House to disguise concern as tactlessness. "A little bit of both, actually. What are you doing awake? It can't be seven thirty yet."

"You're not the only one multitasking this morning," he replies cryptically. Wilson takes a moment to puzzle out what House means, then smiles.

He hears House take a step in, and shut the door behind him. "Can I come in?" House says.

He moves the curtain aside so he can see House. "You are in," Wilson says, wondering why he has to point out the obvious to such an obnoxiously brilliant man.

"I meant into the shower."

Oh.

Wilson figures he must be doing that thing where his eyebrows are shooting up dangerously close to his hairline, because House is smirking at him. "Sure. So long as you don't hog the hot water," he says.

It takes House a quick moment to strip off his flannel pants, another to step into the shower, and then Wilson is against the cool tiled wall and House is pressing his entire body against him. One of House's hands threads itself through Wilson's hair, and the other grips one of the safety bars.

House is an intense kisser, the kind of person who kisses with his entire body, not just his lips and tongue. All that focus and passion channels into the touch. His lips are wet and warm, steam collecting and condensing on his skin. Their mouths slide against each other messily, and House's breath is still musty from sleep. The kiss is startlingly wonderful in the face of its imperfections.

Wilson winds a steadying hand around House's hips and pulls him forward. He forgets the questions he needs to ask and the inevitably awkward conversation they'll have to have at some point, and instead marvels at the way House's frame fits against his own, and at how everything and nothing has changed. The steam wraps around them, a warm cocoon. The questions can wait. This moment belongs to them.