For a moment, Foreman let himself fuck his hand, getting caught up in the sensation, pressing one heel against the bed as he moved his hips up into his touch. He was waiting for House to hurry the fuck up and get on the bed, and then Foreman might be persuaded to suck him, after House had gotten with the program. Slow, and soft, light as their kiss in the living room, to pay House back for taking so damn long.
Except the bed didn't dip under House's weight. He didn't hear House stepping closer, or saying anything. Foreman opened his eyes only to see that House wasn't even fucking looking at him, he was staring at the fucking floor. Foreman felt a wash of shame move through him. Here he'd been putting on some sort of fucking show and not only didn't House appreciate it, he wasn't even watching. Fuck. Foreman could have been jerking off for all the fucking involvement House was showing. This was completely humiliating. Foreman took his hand away from himself, suddenly wishing he could cover up. He remembered what House had said when Foreman had accused him of running away--You're not important enough to avoid, Foreman. You don't mean that much. God, was that what this was? That House wanted to get his rocks off and he'd do it with the first convenient person who threw himself at him, like a pathetic, needy moron? That being here was just easier than avoiding him?
Fuck him. Fuck him. Foreman couldn't do this. He sat up and braced his fists on either side of his hips, glaring up at House. His first instinct was to show him the fucking door, if House was so uninterested in being here. "What the fuck is your problem?" he said, not really caring about the answer. It wasn't like House was going to be honest--and if he was, and Foreman was right that House just didn't want to be here, then Foreman didn't want to hear it.
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Except the bed didn't dip under House's weight. He didn't hear House stepping closer, or saying anything. Foreman opened his eyes only to see that House wasn't even fucking looking at him, he was staring at the fucking floor. Foreman felt a wash of shame move through him. Here he'd been putting on some sort of fucking show and not only didn't House appreciate it, he wasn't even watching. Fuck. Foreman could have been jerking off for all the fucking involvement House was showing. This was completely humiliating. Foreman took his hand away from himself, suddenly wishing he could cover up. He remembered what House had said when Foreman had accused him of running away--You're not important enough to avoid, Foreman. You don't mean that much. God, was that what this was? That House wanted to get his rocks off and he'd do it with the first convenient person who threw himself at him, like a pathetic, needy moron? That being here was just easier than avoiding him?
Fuck him. Fuck him. Foreman couldn't do this. He sat up and braced his fists on either side of his hips, glaring up at House. His first instinct was to show him the fucking door, if House was so uninterested in being here. "What the fuck is your problem?" he said, not really caring about the answer. It wasn't like House was going to be honest--and if he was, and Foreman was right that House just didn't want to be here, then Foreman didn't want to hear it.