There's helpless hope, and not a small amount of pleasure in his face when House tells him that he can stay with him, and he's looking over his shoulder back at him with a smile. Then he shifts, not away from his hands, but just so that he can drape a little more comfortably over his lap, his cheek leaning against the cool wood of the piano bench. He's quiet, but only for a moment before it cracks, in light of House offering to let him stay, not caring how long he stays for, that silence cracks.

"I couldn't sleep with him," he says, almost in a rush, and a tremble that shivers through his body. "We.. tried a few times, but I always chickened out. I'd get scared. I didn't trust him, I guess, I could never let him touch me. And Brett said he wasn't interested in 'gradeschool hand-holding' so he broke up with me." He doesn't know why he's telling him about this, except that it frames the second part. The part that's even more frightening than talking about Brett and how things had gone wrong.

"You don't scare me," he admits softly, almost shy, a little timid. He swallows, tries to figure out what he's trying to say here, but he has only half a clue, and he keeps talking anyway. "I.. I want you. I think about you fucking me. That night, when you were, you know, touching me." His face is about as red as his ass, but he's not looking at House for a reason. "I don't understand why it feels okay with you when it never did with Brett. He was nice and sweet and funny. He was the kind of guy I've been having fantasies about dating and settling down with and adopting kids with once I can't dance classical ballet anymore since I was eleven and realized what liking boys more than girls meant."

He finally shuts up, curls a little onto House's lap, that hand against his heated skin somehow almost a comfort.