I become a transparent eyeball; I own nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me - yeah. House belongs to David Shore, lucky guy, David, not House.
Third story, no warnings; this is just a little interlude, as you can see there is no NC-17, so it's not all the way. Patience. Fluffy ficlet sans twist. Thanks for reading.
House and Wilson go to see Puccini's Turandot. Emotionally stunted or not, the opera gets to you...(bear with me)
Wilson leans in, millimeters from House’s ear, brushing his cheek with his own, inhaling his scent as he whispers, “Tell what? The part where ‘boys don’t cry’ or the part where boys cry out together?”
Nessun Dorma
Wilson glimpses at House, sitting slightly to his right and front in the half moon shaped loge. He takes in his posture and profile. He is wearing a suit and tie for the occasion, and Wilson smiles, remembering the ridiculous hokum preceding that. His long legs are crossed at the ankles under his chair, one hand squeezed between his knees. He has put his elbow on the rest of the red satin-upholstered chair and his hand is at his chin, two fingers resting against his cheek, his ring finger between his lips, stroking absentmindedly. The lights from the stage cast a soft, warm glow to his skin, his hair and beard seem darker than usual, his eyes sharp and light blue in contrast. He is breathing deeply, his expression reminding Wilson of his pensive puzzle-solving face at work, serious, oblivious to everything near him, his focus turned inwards and far away at the same time.
Wilson’s heart jumps as he notices the wet glint at the corner of House’s eye. His eyelashes fluttering for a second, his gaze flicks down to the balcony rest, then he inclines his head, leaning toward Wilson, looking at him, the corner of his mouth barely lifting.
Wilson returns the little smile, inwardly overwhelmed by House’s open display of vulnerability. He lifts his arm and lays his hand on House’s back near his neck, rubbing softly, then letting his hand drop into his lap again.
House leans his head back further to look at Wilson. They are almost near enough to kiss. Wilson raises his eyebrows, studying House’s face.
“Don’t tell anyone”, House murmurs.
Wilson leans in, millimeters from House’s ear, brushing his cheek with his own, inhaling his scent as he whispers, “Tell what? The part where ‘boys don’t cry’ or the part where boys cry out together?” House winces and snorts quietly. Still smirking, he leans forward to rest on the balcony with both elbows. He pinches his lips together and raises his eyebrows. Wilson knows he's trying desperately not to laugh, sees the tears of laughter now forming in his eyes. For a second Wilson gets the same urgent feeling in his chest to burst out laughing, but he suppresses it with a grimace, eyes sparkling with mirth.
House has calmed himself as well, arms resting on the balcony, elbows outward, his hands folded, thumb stroking stubble beneath his chin, his attention back on the stage.
The sides of House’s open jacket hang on his spread thighs, the material stretched tight on his back, outlining his waist. Wilson feels a nudge in his stomach thinking of all the skin underneath. His eyes dip lower. House’s position kind of brings out certain body parts quite nicely in his dress pants. And it looks as if House’s shirt got pulled out at the back. Before he can stop himself he reaches out and slides his hand slowly beneath House’s jacket and under the shirt, feeling warm, soft skin and the slight dimples just above the swell of his ass. House twitches, straightens and puts his hands flat on the balcony to hold on to it, disturbing the libretto lying next to his arms. Wilson removes his hand, brushing over House’s ass in the process. House’s hands twitch again.
The libretto sails down to ground level, landing on an empty parquet seat. They lean back simultaneously. The incident is graciously ignored by their fellow music enthusiasts.
“Maybe you should keep your tentacles to yourself, Octopussy, or I will go home with James Bond over there!” Wilson follows House’s line of sight. He thinks about making a joke about daddy issues, but he isn’t sure if House remembers Wilson calling his supposed biological father Sean Connery.
“Hm, he’s not bad. But I already paid for the evening, and the night.”
House smirks at him. “You can call me Vivian. I know how to drive a stick shift”, House murmurs from one corner of his mouth.
Wilson rolls his eyes. ”Stop. I’m getting turned on.”
“Shshsh, I want to hear that.”
They turn back to the stage in unison and Wilson puts his hand on House’s thigh, stroking lightly. House's eyes flicker briefly, but he lets Wilson have his way. Like always.
He’s so glad they came here.
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no subject
Date: 2009-11-17 01:13 am (UTC)But you know House is loving it!
I will never hear Nessum Dorma the same again, I will always a smirky smile on my face with House and Wilson memories
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Date: 2009-11-17 02:23 am (UTC)They so enjoy each other;)
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Date: 2009-11-17 02:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-11-17 02:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-11-17 03:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-11-17 04:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-11-17 03:58 am (UTC)I love Wilson being the naughty boy, and House's response.
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Date: 2009-11-17 04:19 am (UTC)House enjoys wicked!Wilson;)
Thanks for reading and commenting!
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Date: 2009-11-17 09:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-11-17 01:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-11-20 08:50 pm (UTC)I love this =) This is beautiful and touching and sweet and funny all at once - clearly you enjoy playing with our emotions =)
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Date: 2009-11-22 08:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-03-02 12:32 pm (UTC)Thank you
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Date: 2010-03-02 02:02 pm (UTC)