Utopia (A Hilson Fanfiction)

VII

They spend the day after arranging and rearranging meticulously, sharing timid glances and pretending so realistically that sometimes, Wilson forgets it's a pretense. They laugh and bicker, and when Wilson starts coughing, House ignores it and keeps talking, if only to keep the momentum going. Sometimes, this feels like a game of catch, where they're attempting to keep conversation up in the air. Whoever drops the ball first drops the artful guise, and then there's nowhere else to go except down.

House is impeccable at staving off emotions. The day before was like a jolt of reality, and now when Wilson looks at him, all he can see is disconnection. All his smiles are glazed over with falsehood, and his eyes are hiding something deep and dark behind them that Wilson can't know is there, besides from the off chance that it must be.

He gets weaker as the days pass, and one time, while they're walking barefoot on the beach, Wilson's legs give out and he collapses in the wet sand, his lungs feeling like they're imploding in on themselves. He holds a hand to his chest, his hand covering the part of him which is abnormally growing, spreading to his lungs and the bones in his chest. When he coughs, the sputum is pink with blood and it flecks on the sand, only to be washed away by an incoming wave.

Wilson stares at where it was for a moment, holding the imperfect circles of scarlet paint in his mind until House rouses him up with a coarse, "Get up, Wilson."

Wilson looks up at House, whose brows are furrowed, and they both realize there's no point in pretending that the obvious isn't true: Wilson is dying, and there's nothing that they can do about it. There's no point in ignoring or paying attention to that fact, so instead, it floats there in front of them and they pay their dues and try to go on with life as per usual. Which is ridiculous, and insane, and pathetic, but they'd come to that conclusion together - they're miserable and pathetic and that's okay.

Wilson swears that bungee jumping could be fun, so they get on a bus at six AM and spend four hours commuting from one part of Italy to another. The first two hours, House takes turns with Wilson playing Nintendo, but by eight both their eyes are closed and Wilson doesn't give a fucking crap when he slips his hand into House's.

Wilson wakes up coughing at 9:30, and again, the thick taste of white-cell heavy blood in the back of his throat overwhelms his senses. He feels a creeping sense of devastation latching onto him, as if Death has stepped from the doorframe into the front hall, waiting, staring. Wilson imagines Death as wearing a cold pale grin, lips thin and coy and knowing. It's the knowing that catches Wilson by surprise.

Bungee jumping could, indeed, be fun, if the people jumping weren't a gimp and a man with two months to live. When Wilson locks up on the way down, for a terrifying instant he thinks that he's going to die, until his adrenal glands release a surge so tremendous that Wilson forgets about everything, all at once.

They go to restaurants, where everything is quiet and kind and soft and rain patters on the glassy windows at night. Servers speak Italian, and although neither of them understand what they're saying, they manage to order anyway. Wilson orders a prosciutto sandwich, even though he'll never bother to eat any of it. It's a wonder that he has any skin on him, anyway, starving himself any longer can't hurt.

They talk about diving off rooftops and the stupidity of paragliding in Brazil, all the while, Wilson avoids his meal and House picks off of it, as if the fact that he's no longer eating makes the prospect of taking his food less satisfying. If House picks up on this, he doesn't say anything; he never does. Wilson tries to bring up the fact that he's going to die, soon, and that he's sorry about that, but it's going to be okay - House shoots him down with a glib remark and then it's back to the way it was.

House and Wilson. There are lines. Call them indentations, grooves inside their hearts where they could slot together, or pop out of place. Lines are not optional and not parenthetic, but necessary; brain stems lined up neatly in a row, clamped down tightly to the blood spattered sand. Lines are concrete and finite and real, measurable; there is nothing utopian about a line, the way they cut through your brow and the way they define due dates and how they are, immovable and unstoppable. If lines were people, they'd look like Greg's dad, and they'd lock you outside during the cold winter months, and you would hate them for always being right.

But something about Wilson attracts him to abstract concepts. He dreams about utopias and heaven and falling in love, and if that's not pitiful he doesn't know what is - but, God, he's dying. He doesn't care anymore. If abstraction is the only thing keeping him from breaking down, then Wilson'll take it gladly and hope for the best.

They get home late. House fetches them both beers out of the fridge, and they collapse together on the couch, House turning on the television so they can watch some crappy Cartoon Network-esque show that's only been around for a month or two, destined to end after two seasons. It's in Italian, and they don't really know what's going on, so they drift off, drinking beers silently on the couch.

An hour later, when they're half asleep and smashed as hell, House's arm swings across the back of the chair. Wilson is dimly aware of everything as his eyelids droop, reality and dreams merging into one oblivious, thoughtlessly ignorant state of mind. Faintly, there's a fleeting expression of the pad of House's thumb running its way up and down the back of his neck, lulling Wilson into a peace that he hasn't felt in a long time. His body naturally eases into House's touch, a low grumble ever so often breaking through his lips. As time passes, House presses his fingertips into the softness of Wilson's hair, carding his hand through and occasionally daring to bring back thick strands that are shadowing the curves of his face.

It's not even voluntary when he kisses House. His thumbs have been steadily stroking the base of his neck, and Wilson is too sleepy and too drunk and too catatonic to even know what he's doing. With certainty, he presses his lips gently to House's and tries to take all he can from it, because this may be the last opportunity they may have.

His lips are pliant and accepting, allowing Wilson to press as softly as he'd like, allowing an expression of the words they both can't let themselves say. This is nothing like Wilson imagined utopia to be. He feels drowsy, his hands clinging onto the notion of happiness, underneath House's skin, underneath the pulse of running blood that Wilson can feel in his cheek. Utopia is bright, and full, but all Wilson can taste is the tint of alcohol and desperation. Wilson feels cavernous. Hollow. Wanting.

It's only when House gets up that Wilson can sense the gasping loss of him, like part of himself has been taken away. He seems pounds lighter, now, leaning back into the couch with fear in his eyes, unsure and pitifully terrified.

"What's wrong?" he asks in a voice so hurt and hoarse that he's surprised that House doesn't grab at the chance to make fun of him for being a total "pixie." But he looks at House, and his eyes are too tired for this, so he assumes that he's over analyzing again. Pain is pain is pain, and no matter how much House would like to, he can't avoid it. He sweeps his eyes over Wilson's body before saying gruffly, "You're drunk," and fetching one of the chair pillows to put under Wilson's head. "Go to sleep," he murmurs, worry hidden subtly in his eyes, behind a harsh demeanor. Wilson can hear it in his voice, if only for half a second. He watches House limp away.