"Oh, come on," Matt urged, frowning. "You know I don't like it when you lie to me like that."

He was being a little harsh, he knew, but this friend of his was always taking care of him. Whatever Matt needed, this was the person he could turn to. If he was sick, he'd get chicken soup. If he was hurt, he'd get patched up. If he was down, he'd get cheered up. So why was it that when his friend was the one in distress, Matt got shut out?

"You know, there's an Oscard Wilde quote," he said as he sat down on the couch next to his ailing friend, "and the abridged version is, 'If after I am free a friend of mine gave a feast, and did not invite me to it, I should not mind a bit. But if after I am free a friend of mine had a sorrow and refused to allow me to share it, I should feel it most bitterly. If he shut the doors of the house of mourning against me, I would come back again and again and beg to be admitted, so that I might share in what I was entitled to share in.' And he was right, you know."

Matt placed a gentle hand on his friend's shoulder, feeling the soft fabric underneath his fingertips. He knew something was wrong. Of course he knew. He could feel every shift in his friend's heartbeat, hear the almost imperceptible whimpering sounds. He could smell the pain a mile away. It tingled in his nostrils, constant, uncomfortable.

"Let me help," he pleaded. "Please. You don't have to be stoic. Not around me. I mean, damn, how many times have you dropped everything late at night and come running for my sake? Let me return the favor. Let me take care of you, for once."

He picked up on the subtle shaking, ever so slight. Felt his friend's skin prickle up. The hesitation hung heavy in the air, and Matt leaned a little closer, his voice lowering to a gentle whisper.

"Come on. Don't push me away. Don't hide from me. It's me, okay? Let me in."