(And so the men went through their lives like parallel lines; never again to touch. One moved away, left the other to himself. But the wounds never healed. When either thought of the other, fresh blood was drawn. New scratches were made. Until one day, there was nothing left to think about.)

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House is in a park, sprawled on a picnic table. His head is tilted toward the sun, eyes closed. A breeze runs over him and he breathes with it, relaxes into its cool touch. He's been here awhile; he's beginning to get drowsy but the first stages of sleep feel good, so he doesn't mind. He's smiling up at the sun when a shadow falls over his face. He opens his eyes but the light is bright and he sees stars for a moment; the figure is shadowy, inconsistent. There aren't many details. It stands near the edge of the table, a swirling mix of human colors and features. House looks where eyes should be, tries to find some familiarity, but sees nothing. The pale smoke of the figure's face is clear; dark lashes protect invisible eyes.

"Hey," House speaks first, if only to be perceived as brave.

"Hi," the figure moves forward like the wind; uninhibited. More free than human beings could ever be. . House sits up, gets off the top of the table and sits properly. He gestures for his guest to do the same.

"How was it?" House's voice is calm, but inside he's anything but.

"I've made so many mistakes," the figure leans toward House, tries to feel humanity by proximity. "I feel like my life got away from me." House watches as details of the man's form begin to fill themselves in. The border between the outline of his body and the park closes; details no longer mix together, overlapping until you can't differentiate the two. There's a beginning and an end.

"I know that feeling," House inches closer to the vaporous form. "I think we all do."

"No, but I—I was so wrong. I thought I was trying to help, but all I did was inflict pain. There was a war in my head almost; I wanted to go back, to just make it how it used to be, but I thought it was too late."

"And I was waiting for you to win the war;" House whispers, a sad smile twisting his features. He looks wistful, a look never seen on him in life. He looks back at the figure and is staring into eyes that have depth, color. It spreads through his body; skin takes on color, hair becomes solid. Tangible. It's as if an artist were painting the man in front of him, filling in each feature. And then the painting's complete. There is a finished man in front of him.

"Wilson." It's one word, but it encompasses everything House has ever wanted to say. It's every regret he's had about letting Wilson go, watching the man leave without really trying to get him back. Without trying to fix what he'd broken. He'd tried to, in the end. He'd gotten on that train to New York, daring not to hope. He'd accept whatever Wilson had to say. And when the train came off its tracks, when it careened down the side of a hill and threw the passengers around like limp rag-dolls, he thought of Wilson. Thought of his eyes. His mouth; the way the man touched him and made his problems, his shortcomings go away. He lay on ceiling of the train, holding a woman's hand in his own; a detached seat pinned on top of him. He died there, thinking of Wilson, wishing the hand in his was Wilson's. When his grip went slack, the woman next to him began to cry. She knew she didn't have long.

"How?" House asks, unable to form full sentences.

"I got mugged." House reaches for Wilson now, gets up and walks over the table; nothing holds him back. He's whole again. His hand brushes Wilson's and images form in his mind. It's late; Wilson walks quickly down a well-lit street, doesn't notice the man walking quickly behind him. He's on his phone, apologizing for being late. He had to help a patient. He doesn't expect to be grabbed from behind, pulled into an alley. His phone hits the ground; a sharp metallic crack rings out and he hopes someone heard it.

"Money," the man in front of him says. He's tall, skinny. His hair is long, greasy; hangs in his face. He's not wearing a mask and Wilson can see his eyes; they're dark, animal eyes. Desperate. He reaches for his wallet, fumbles for it in his back pocket, but it's not there.

"It's gone," he says, panic rising. "I must have left it at my office, just—" But Wilson doesn't get to finish his sentence; two shots ring out and a man moves back onto the street, leaving him alone.

House's vision clears and he's holding Wilson, pressing him close.

"Who walks on the back streets of New York at night?"

"You're going to yell at me now? Wilson pulls away, looks at House and finds he's laughing. Laughing so hard he's shaking, bent over, gasping for air he's not really breathing.

"On a mobile; my god, Wilson." The voice is strangles, breathless. Wilson laughs too, now, because if he doesn't he'll cry. This is all too confusing. House stops laughing after while. He stops Wilson's mix of gasps and sobs by pressing his lips on the younger man's; it's an apology, this kiss. It speaks of regret and sorrow and wasted time, wasted anger that destroyed both of them. They break away a few times, look into each other's eyes, affirm that this is reality. That this is happening. And then they kiss again; lock themselves into each other, and take comfort in knowing that they'll be ok. That this is something that will last as long as they do (eternity).