All Better

By: Agent Midnight

When he's in pain, all I really want to do is gather him up in my arms and hope to God that whatever it is that's hurting him will leave him alone. I want to tug him into my arms and feel his breath against my neck, him whispering all his worries to me because I am his best friend even though I don't act the part. I want him to tell me what's troubling him, and in return, tell him all the things that make me angry and upset. All those things that I wish I could tell all my friends but can't because I fear what they may think of me. The image I've created for myself would develop cracks around the edges if I ever let something that important slip. But it's different when he's in pain.

Oh, how I wish I could shatter my mask and let him see my own pain.

How I wish I could comfort him and force both of our demons away until it's just the two of us. Just the two of us in our bedroom, wrapped in each other's arms with nothing but clear minds and a clear existence. With hands that aren't brutalized with blood or souls not tainted with guilt. How I wish we could both be the teenagers we're really supposed to be, innocence dancing in our eyes as we go out to see a movie or even beat the shit out of some mailboxes.

I wish we could both be frustrated over simple things like cafeteria lunch or significant others. Instead, we get to be frustrated over larger burdens that men twice our age would not want to touch with a ten foot pole. We are graced with the weight of many on our shoulders, trying to defend what we feel is right and what we feel is wrong. I have never been given the chance to hold my own troubles before everyone else's; never had the chance to think of what I want to be when I grow up or how I have to write that damn essay for school. I can't complain over having to get up early on Mondays to go to classes, and I certainly can't laugh with friends over how stupid my parents are being for not letting me go out on a school night.

We can't even run away from home to prove something because we never stop running. Eventually, you come to a point where all you want to do is just... give up. He reaches that point, it seems, much more than I do. Lying on his bed with blood sliding from his curved lips, his right hand held up in front of his face so he can inspect the slight trembling of his fingers. The horrible coughs he lets out as soon as he touches one of his wounds, his eyes darting across the room to lock with mine. All of these things could not get worse; nobody wants to know that their friend is in pain, so why should I be an exception?

It would be so easy to walk across the room and trail my finger through the blood leaving his mouth, wiping it away. Cleaning his face until he looks somewhat normal. It would be so easy to step across the room and help him rub antiseptic cream on the cuts decorating his face, my helpfulness allowing him to drop his damaged arm so he wouldn't have to strain. I think if I just sucked up my ego and gave him a little smile, he would return it because that would make him momentarily happy.

That's what friends do, right?

I can't make everything perfect for him because I can't make everything perfect for myself. Life isn't that easy. If I could live in happiness for eternity and beyond, don't you think I would let him in on the little secret so he could join me? The first person I would tell would be him, no question about it. Granted, I would probably tell the others as soon as the two of us knew, but he would hear it first. He would hear it first because I consider him to be my best friend just as much as he assumes I am his.

No matter how much I may want to, I can't magically make his pain vanish. I get confused when I have to sit at my desk and try to ignore his small hisses of pain or him cursing himself for bumping a wound wrong. I don't know if he wants me to try and help him, or if he's too self-centered like myself to accept the assistance without argument. Something tells me that I would hurt if he ever cast me away from helping him, telling me that he was fine even though I knew that was a lie.

What does he feel, then?

Every single time I come into the room from a mission and see him sitting on his bed waiting for me, does he hurt when I tell him I don't need his help? Does he hurt when I offer him that little smile that practically screams 'fake' no matter how you may look at it? Does he hurt when I take his kindness and shove it right back at him until he can do nothing but accept it and try and ignore my pain? When I'm fixing myself up, does he sit with his back to me and grind his teeth together to keep himself from rushing over and acting like a worried lover?

Does he want to act like a worried lover just as much as I want to?

The only thing I can do is wait until he's all bandaged up, resting under the mounds of blankets he keeps on his bed. As soon as his ragged breathing calms down until it sounds natural and relaxed, I can finally force myself to turn around and see how much damage they did to him. And the second I turn around, his eyes are already locked onto mine almost as if he were waiting for my evaluation of his injuries. I force my gaze away from his and take in every part of his body until I know that he's okay. Even if he's laughing or singing to some horrid music, I have to check his body and make sure he's still alive. It eases my mind when I get to file away every little thing that happened to him, almost like those little tears were on my own body. Almost like those scars were decorating my own being.

Almost like his pain was my own.

I wish I could pull him into the curve of my arms and hope that he feels better, but I know that I may never get that chance. Instead, the exact second he calms down and his breathing regulates, all I can make myself do is turn around and say the same thing every time it happens. Just one phrase that I know isn't doing much good for him, but at least it's a sorry attempt at comfort coming from his best friend. At least it's a sorry attempt coming from a hopeless spectator to his pain.

"I wish I could make it all better."

But every time he hears me say it, this beautiful smile graces his features almost like the words helped.

"I know, Heero."

... and for just a moment, it seems like they really do.