III. Symmetrical Companion – May Swenson
It must be
there walks somewhere in the world
another
another namely like me
Not twin
but opposite
as my two hands are opposite
Where are you
my symmetrical companion?
Do you inhabit
the featureless fog
of the future?
Are you sprinting
from the shadows of the past
to overtake me?
Or are you camouflaged
in the colored present?
Do I graze you every day
as yet immune to your touch
unaware of your scent
inert under your glance?
Come to me
Whisper your name
I will know you instantly
by a passport
decipherable to ourselves alone
We shall walk uniformed
in our secret
We shall be a single reversible cloak
lined with light within
furred with dark without
Nothing shall be forbidden us
All bars shall fall before us
Even the past shall be lit behind us
and seen to have led
like two predestined corridors
to the vestibule of our meeting
We shall be two daring acrobats
above the staring faces
framed in wheels of light
visible to millions
yet revealed only to each other
in the tiny circular mirrors
of our pupils
We shall climb together
up the frail ladders
balancing on slender
but steel-strong thongs of faith
When you leap
my hands will be surely there
at the arc's limit
We shall synchronize
each step of the dance upon the wire
We shall not fall
as long as our gaze is not severed
Where are you
my symmetrical companion?
Until I find you
my mouth is locked
my heart is numb
my mind unlit
my limbs unjointed
I am a marionette
doubled up in a dark trunk
a dancer frozen
in a catatonic sleep
a statue locked
in the stone
a Lazarus wrapped
in the swaddling strips
not of death
but of unborn life
a melody bound
in the strings of the viol
a torrent imprisoned
in ice
a flame buried
in the coal
a jewel hidden
in a block of lava
Come release me
Without you I do not yet exist
--
"As long as you're trying to be good, you can do whatever you want."
"And as long as you're not trying, you can say whatever you want."
"So between us, we can do anything. We can rule the world!"
House can't pinpoint the moment he became interested in Wilson, and God knows he's tried to figure it out. He wants to stop it. It's dangerous, for both of them. For Wilson because, no matter what he might say, he doesn't really want people at the hospital to know that he occasionally sleeps with men or shaves his legs or wears chiffon or whatever it else House lets him hide from him. And it's dangerous for House because he knows it's bound to change things, and no matter how unhappy he may be, he can't be bothered to learn a new way of being and he can't afford to push Wilson away. Logically, he knows it wouldn't matter if he could convince himself that everything stemmed from that day long ago when Wilson wore the green tie and French shoes for some random nurse or from stolen sandwiches and juvenile pranks. How would that help? But he still wants to know. Maybe then, he could control it.
"Lunch?" Wilson asks when he pops his head into House's office.
"Mexican."
"Italian?"
"Greek."
"Pita Palace?"
"Fine."
House doesn't have to stare at Wilson's face as he tries to figure out what's so special about him, but he does any way, knowing that it bugs Wilson. He counts the number of times his friend wipes imaginary smudges from his face (6) and the number of times he runs his tongue over his teeth to check for food (4).
"What's up?" Wilson finally asks, frowning as he reaches for his wallet, as House makes a show of ignoring the check.
House won't say anything. It's Wilson's job to tell House how he's feeling, especially if he's feeling like shit. But it's been a quiet day and Wilson doesn't have anything to go on, so instead House talks about work. Like it's not obvious.
Just before leaving him at the door to his office, Wilson tells him that he signed the papers.
"Now you can finally make an honest man of me," House answers, making a swift exit from the conversation before Wilson can joke about it.
By the end of the day, his leg is killing him and he's gone through too much Vicodin to be asking for more, but that doesn't stop him. And it never stops Wilson from writing for him. Only at his most self-destructive does House bring that up. And it's been a quiet day.
"Ah, assisted suicide. I'm so glad I picked an oncologist," he says as he shakes his new bottle of pills, wanting to shove his Pavlovian response in Wilson's face. He knows he's being particularly cruel. Knows that Wilson lost a long-time patient yesterday, one that had been in too much pain for far too long. Knows that Wilson still feels guilty for his part in the detox bet. But he can't help himself.
"I'm still the beneficiary of your will, right?" Wilson asks, but House knows that it stung. And he wonders why he doesn't just come out and tell Wilson that he wants him, if he's so hell bent on pushing him away anyway.