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The first day, they had ridden for four hours, just a few towns away from PPTH, away from their old lives and everyone they knew, before pulling off the freeway and checking in at a motel. House had paid for a room with twin beds, while Wilson had walked to the small diner next door and got a takeaway of chicken sandwiches and limeade. They had sat down on chairs facing each other, stretched their legs out on the wobbly little table between the chairs, and eaten their dinner in comfortable silence. House had taken a quick shower and brushed his teeth, while Wilson mindlessly surfed channels on the ancient motel television. While Wilson used the bathroom, House had switched off all the lights except the table lamp, gotten under the sheets on his bed, and was staring sleepily at the ceiling, thinking thankfully of nothing in particular, a bit worn out after their long ride, waiting for Wilson to get into his bed so he could wish him good night, when Wilson slid into his bed, beside him.
He had turned and stared at Wilson, startled fully awake.
Wilson had met his eyes challengingly and said, “I don’t want to spend my final months sleeping alone nor do I want to have meaningless casual sex. I want to be held every night by someone who loves me, and someone I love.” They had stared at each other for a while, and House had felt the initial shock on his own face settle down into understanding and acceptance. There was only one thing he did when Wilson wanted something from him. Acquiesce. He had turned off the bedside lamp, thrown his arm around his best friend and they had gone to sleep, snuggled against each other. The next morning, House had woken up to Wilson nuzzling his neck, and they had made love, so naturally, so assuredly – House running his tongue on Wilson’s jaw, Wilson grasping his back and chanting his name in his ear, as they brought each other to completion – that it was a shock that they had never done this before.
The next two months seemed like years often times and mere days at other. They had traversed the breadth of the country, sticking to small towns and sparsely populated regions. They had ridden for miles, the wind in their faces, the sun warming their leather jackets, the comforting purr of the motorcycle engine beneath them. They had eaten at diners and food trucks, Wilson not bothering to count calories but still insisting on eating (and getting House to eat) salads and whole fruits. They had halted at mid-range motels, which while not luxurious, were clean and comfortable. They had always taken double beds after that first night, when they had both been cramped together on a single twin bed. They had made love most nights, except for when one or both of them were too tired and then they had still fallen asleep entwined around each other. A few times, one of them had woken up from a nightmare, and the other had wiped his tears and held him, and kissed his forehead till his breathing evened out and he could fall asleep again.
Then Wilson had decided to go visit his parents for a week. He wasn’t planning on telling them it would be his last visit. He just wanted to spend some time with them, eat his mom’s casserole and chocolate cake, watch his dad falling asleep in front of the television, and come back without tears and drama. House could have gone along, of course, Wilson’s parents adored him for some reason, but he was dead to the world, and while his parents would keep the secret, Wilson didn’t want to risk someone else recognizing House and notifying the authorities. So House waited in a sleepy, half-dead little town in Nebraska while Wilson went home to Boston. He was antsy the whole time, not sleeping well, itching to go get drunk at a bar and provoke a fight. He kept imagining worse case scenarios – Wilson’s parents convincing him to stay back, his health taking a sudden turn for the worse or Wilson just deciding he didn’t want to waste any more time on the road with his crabby partner.
On the eighth day though, Wilson was back just as he promised, and House embraced him, urgently, showering him with kisses, running his fingers through the younger man’s soft hair, reluctant to let go, and James had just let himself be held. He had looked happy to be held, to be clung to. And then they had smiled at each other. House’s smile a watery one, relief seeping through, while trying to hold back tears, while Wilson beamed, happy to be back, glad to have given his parents and brother some beautiful final memories.
That night, Wilson had run his hand through House’s hair and asked him in the darkness of their quiet motel room, “What will you do? After?” A pause. “Will you.. stay?”
It was the kind of question House would have gruffly deflected earlier, but now there were no barriers between them, physically or emotionally. So he had replied as honestly as possible, “I don’t know. Sometimes I think I would go back. Back to my apartment, spend a couple of days there, playing my piano, eating takeout on my couch, watching boring TV. And then… I have morphine stashed behind my fireplace. I would message Chase, so that.. so he finds my body.”
Wilson was quiet for a bit, absorbing all that. Then he asked, “Why Chase? Why not Foreman?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t have a great equation with his dad.. just like me,” House had trailed off.
“Yeah I get it.. you relate well with each other,” Wilson had smiled in the darkness of their motel room, “He’s always been your protégé out and out, even more than Foreman.”
House nodded, then continued, “At other times, I think I will continue riding, town to town. Practice medicine again, for minimum fees. Nothing fancy. Just help out folks from a mobile clinic.”
Wilson nodded approvingly, House felt his head move on his shoulder. “That sounds nice,” he said.
After several minutes, by when House would have expected Wilson to have fallen asleep, except his breathing had not steadied out, which meant he was still thinking over what he had shared, Wilson cleared his throat and said softly, almost hesitatingly, “If there’s a heaven, I will wait for you.”
All House could say was, “I know.”
By the fifth month, Wilson was tiring faster, and was lethargic on some days, waking up later and going to sleep earlier. House had planned well. They had enough stock of Vicodin as well as other painkillers. So Wilson was not in pain. They started taking longer breaks and covering less distance during the day.
They stayed for two weeks in a rented cottage in Alabama, and House cooked fresh meals, to Wilson’s delight.
One week into their seventh month on the road, Wilson declared he did not want to travel anymore. So House rented a tiny studio apartment on the outskirts of New Orleans, a city which they had last visited seventeen years back. When House had followed a handsome young doctor, with long legs and shapely cheekbones, around town after a conference. They didn’t talk about it but on one of Wilson’s better days, they walked to the road with the bar, which they discovered had since been demolished and a bridal boutique, of all things, had come up in its place.
Wilson developed a slight wheeze, but refused to take any more medicines that would make him even more groggy. House took to reading to him from books borrowed from a nearby library. Wilson liked to lie close to House, a blanket snug over him, listening to House’s voice. He had been reading Siddhartha to him over the past few days. After House finished reading the last line, he kept the book aside and turned towards Wilson, wrapping his arm around him, finding his lips for a gentle kiss. They had had sex that morning, and while Wilson had been enthusiastic, it was obvious the effort had tired him, and they had spent the rest of the day indoors.
Moonlight was streaming into the room, and he could see Wilson’s pale face clearly, the only sounds a slight rustle of the wind outside, the soft ticking of the wall clock and the slight wheezing sound from Wilson’s chest. Wilson said softly, almost nonchalantly, as if they were making small talk at a party after work, “You know Hindus and Buddhists believe in rebirth. If we were to be reborn, I hope we meet early in our next lives, maybe in high school. It would be easier if one of us were a woman,” he mused. “I wish we were one of those maudlin couples who fall in love at sixteen and stayed married for sixty years. I hope we have children and grandchildren. We would fight a lot, but never go to bed angry. We.. we would never run out of time.” And Wilson smiled, like he had not broken House’s heart and remade it again with a few words. House didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry. He had Wilson for close to two decades, but he could have really had him much earlier. Maybe. If Wilson had given up on his white picket fence delusions. If House had the guts to make a move – to take a risk – earlier. But they also got this. This last few months. Thousands of hours. Millions of seconds. And so, lost for words, he hid his face on Wilson’s frail shoulder and sobbed his heart out.
Early next morning, Wilson tapped him awake. “What is it Jimmy?” House asked, “Do you need to go to the bathroom?”
“No, I just want to see the sunrise,” Wilson said, his voice barely a whisper.
So House propped Wilson against him, and they moved to the balcony, his other hand holding onto a chair, then a table for leverage, so both of them didn’t end up falling down. On the balcony, House leaned back on the wall, and Wilson leaned on him. House wrapped his arms around Wilson. There was a slight chill in the air, but the day would probably be sunny. The sky was still dark, and as they watched, shades of orange and pink started appearing on the horizon. The sun rose up, almost dramatically, and the rays started warming their night-chilled skin. Wilson smiled. House kissed the back of his head and neck. Suddenly Wilson’s wheezy breath stopped, and his head slumped against House, and a strange feeling of complete silence enveloped House. He held on to Wilson tightly. He felt mostly numb, but he could parse some relief within him. He had done a good job. He had given Wilson the best possible seven months and three weeks that he could give him. He will have to call Wilson’s parents and make arrangements soon. But for now he could watch the sunrise for a few more minutes, hold on to Wilson for a few more minutes.