Title: Mirror Man
Chase looked at himself in the mirror after he washed his face. Soap and water weren’t going to remove the stains of the day. The bruise that Wilson’s ring had left on his face was barely noticeable, but the memory of the slap was permanently etched onto his skin. Wilson cared enough to hit him and call him a slut for screwing Cameron. The thought made him giddy with happiness and revolted for being giddy.
“He’s too pretty to be straight.”
And too weak to turn down Allison. He thought he saw redemption in her dilated pupils. He’d save her from that pathetic crush on House and he’d make himself forget that Wilson had taken over his heart, his body and his life without giving him a shred of hope in return. It was amazing her bed didn’t break, what with all four of them in there.
He touched the bruise on his lip, where Wilson’s teeth had marked him, before turning away, unable to look anymore.
It would be nice to ask how it how had it come to this, but he already knew the answer. He’d done it to himself.
He could still smell the cinnamon from the French toast Wilson had made that first morning. Chase had been overwhelmed by the kindness from a man he thought barely noticed him. Making sure he got home safely. Cooking him breakfast the following day. Licking syrup off his fingers.
Wilson had covered his body in soft kisses, making sex seem like nothing more serious or dangerous than a game for two wayward children. He’d never imagined he’d be able to touch a man with such a lack of guilt. He nearly cried from the relief as well as the power of the orgasm. When he woke again Wilson was gone, leaving Chase to convince himself the whole thing had been a wonderful dream, something he could hold onto to get through the bad times.
Then Wilson came back. Chase happened to look out his window and see Wilson in his car. Maybe a normal person would have thought it odd and made a connection to the “following you home to make sure you’re safe”. Chase knew he’d abandoned “normal” a long time before he got to New Jersey. All he could see was James Wilson coming back to him. It gave him the courage to let Wilson know what he really wanted. In place of feathery kisses and giggles there were torn buttons and rasped obscenities.
With Wilson already inside him, he’d begged for harder and deeper and more; more possibly than Wilson wanted to give him. There’d been hesitation, and Chase felt Wilson start to pull out, ready to leave him alone with his pathetic needs. He sent up a completely inappropriate prayer and found it answered as Wilson pushed back into him, giving him everything he wanted and beyond. This time the tears had nothing to do with relief and his own cries left him hoarse.
If Wilson had once resisted Chase’s impulse toward abasement, he’d long since given up the fight. Together they’d left a trail of sex all over Princeton Plainsboro. On top of Wilson’s desk, in the cubicles of the second floor men’s room, the bed in exam room one, and most gratifying of all, in House’s chair; with Chase straddling Wilson, riding his long cock, not even caring that Wilson might be thinking about himself and House as long it was Chase’s body he poured his frustration into and left drenched with their combined sweat.
He needed the bites and bruises to keep him from plunging into despair every time Wilson went home to his wife, or was rumored to be more than just a friend to some new nurse, or especially those times when House and Wilson stood out on their respective balconies like boys in a tree-house shutting out the rest of the world.
Wilson never talked to him about House, or his wives, or anything else for that matter. By unspoken but binding agreement, they rarely talked at all except for demands and taunts and threats and begging. Sometimes Wilson whispered “You’re mine,” while pushing his cock so far down Chase’s throat, it felt like he might be trying to kill him. Chase came from the words alone.
Chase had a brief flash of trying to end it with Wilson. He closed his eyes and replayed the slam of the door, the slap, and Wilson’s voice saying “Slut”. Maybe Wilson was getting dangerous, because Chase had driven him to it. It didn’t matter what Wilson did to him because Chase felt like he’d die without him.
His mind was so full of Wilson that he was opening the door almost before the bell rang.
Wilson walked in wearing his suit, full of purposeful rage. He pushed Chase to the couch, bending him over and spreading his legs. Wilson undid the minimum amount of clothing necessary to fuck as roughly as Chase could have imagined in his best dreams or worst nightmares.
Afterwards, he half-pushed, half-carried Chase into the bedroom. “Don’t do that again.”
Chase was too dizzy with mixed pain and pleasure to tell if it was a demand or a plea.
Wilson lay down beside him, gently stroking his face and hair.
It was nice to know they both cared enough to lie.