Disclaimer: I own nothing. Don't sue me.
Warnings: Um... Not much. Angsty. I guess this can be seen as either shounen
ai or just a friendship fic; it all depends on how you interpret it. But
I'll just leave that up to you. ^_^
Notes: Heero's POV. This doesn't fit in with the timeline ANYWHERE... I just
felt like writing this.
There are two ways that I remember Duo Maxwell; one being happy and carefree, and the other utterly crestfallen and forlorn. I believe I was the only one to ever witness the latter, and I suppose I should take some sort of honor in it. In a way, I do. And in return for that honor, I have never told another soul. It's not my place to tell; not my secrets to give away or my reputation to ruin. So whenever anyone asked me what I thought of Duo Maxwell, I would reply, "He was a good man and he was happy with his life," and leave it at that. Never would I reveal feelings I knew to be true to the American pilot.
It was the middle of the war when it happened. Our cell was cold and dark, with a little metal door that was always, always locked keeping us from the outside world. They didn't bother to heat the room -- it was a waste of time and energy. We would be dead as soon as we gave them the information they needed, anyway.
So every day two soldiers would come in, and one would ask us,
"Where are the other Gundam pilots?"
And Duo would defiantly spit in his face and shriek, "I'll never tell you," then proceed to call to call both soldiers every dirty name that entered his mind, quite a few I'd never even heard of before.
I, on the other hand, preferred to remain more silent and detached, only shaking my head in a negative fashion. It was because of that they didn't beat me much; only Duo. The soldier that had asked the question would always smack Duo across the face with the butt of his gun, sneering with hate as he screamed at him.
"Where are they?"
Again and again he would ask, and Duo would always answer with a fresh spray of spittle. Then the soldier would nod to the other one, and the other one would stand by the door to watch for any higher ranked officers coming by. Meanwhile, the questioner would kick Duo repeatedly until he crumpled to the ground, where he would continue to connect boot to bone. But Duo would never give him the satisfaction of crying out, or shedding any tears. He was too proud for that.
For that, I admired him.
After the soldier finished with Duo, he would always look over at me, his face still red with anger.
"What about you? Where are the other Gundam pilots?" he would ask, and again, I would regard him with cold indifference and shake my head. Then he would smack me across the face a few times and ask me again.
"Where are they?"
And again I would shake my head, closing my eyes to brace myself for the hits I knew I would come. And they always did; a few slaps and punches, but it was hardly anything compared to Duo's beatings. It still hurt, though.
Then, one day, the soldier didn't beat me. I was glad.
I opened my eyes, confused and a little relieved as the man walked away from me.
"Forget it," he mumbled, "he's not gonna talk. Bastards..."
He looked down at Duo, applying a swift kick to the pilot's ribcage. The American winced, curling into a ball, but didn't scream. He never screamed.
Then the soldier smiled, looking over to his companion by the door.
"C'mon, let's go. We'll try something different tomorrow."
A sudden sick feeling in my stomach told me that 'something' would be a whole lot worse than anything they'd done to us before. Call it soldier's instincts, or whatever you want; it doesn't matter. I was right, even if I didn't know it at the time.
The next day, the same two soldiers came, only this time, they brought a pair of handcuffs with them.
"Get up," the same soldier as always said, the two breaking off into their normal positions. One stood by the door, while the other questioned us. Only, that day, he seemed different. Happier, but in a disturbing way.
I got up.
"Not you," he snarled, making a motion with his hand that told me to sit back down. So I did. He looked down at Duo, who lay in a beaten heap in the corner. "You."
Duo looked up from beneath a greasy veil of tangled, brown hair, his violet eyes flinching with something that resembled fear. "Why?"
His only answer was a growl as he was hauled sharply to his feet, rough hands grabbing his arms and cuffing his hands behind his back painfully. The soldier pushed him towards the door, and nodded to the other one to open it for them. He did.
"Come on," he grumbled, poking Duo in the back with the gun he always carried. Then he sent a hard look over to me, while I sat on the ground with my usual impervious stature. He scowled at me.
"Don't worry," he said to me in a taunting voice, "you'll get your turn."
And then all three of them were gone.
Suddenly, the cold and quiet in the room that hung over me seemed a thousand times heavier on my shoulders, pressing against me from all sides. It became hard to breathe as I sat in the corner, knees brought up to my chest, and my hope dwindling. It was only after hours of mindless rocking, back and forth and back and forth, that the soldiers brought Duo back. Only after I'd nearly lost my mind.
"Get in there," they growled, and shoved him to the floor with his handcuffs still on. I watched, a little horrified as he didn't move from his fetal position on the floor where he'd been thrown. The door closed, and I crawled over to him.
"Duo," I said, pulling him up into an awkward sitting position as I lifted his chin. "Duo," I said, more sternly, "talk to me."
His head lolled to the side, violet depths hidden beneath thick lashes. I frowned and shook his shoulders. Hard. "Duo!"
"Heero..."
It was quiet and barely audible, but I caught it. I held him, gingerly and gently as I knew I should, considering the condition he seemed to be in, and watched as blood seeped from various wounds in his body. It mixed in with his hair, which had come loose by that time, and turned the strands into one big, tangled mass of dried blood, grease, and dirt. I started rocking again, not knowing exactly what to do or where to begin.
Having him there in my arms, limp like a rag doll somehow seemed worse than not having him there at all. I was at the verge of a mental breakdown, I think; rocking back and forth while shivering from the cold, feeling more alone than I ever had before.
And then I heard him say the words I'll always remember him by.
"Don't give in," he told me, his eyes opening and staring at me intently while his hands gripped the green fabric of my shirt. "Don't give in to them. No matter what happens, you can't give in. It's not so bad, really." He paused, chest heaving, and licked his lips. Somewhere in the back of my mind I noticed that they were swollen, and a thin trail of blood was trickling down his chin.
"Not as bad as things used to be, anyway." He laughed; short and hard, not at all like the laugh I knew him for. The small little cut of laughter unnerved me somehow. ...Ironic how it used to always console me. "Have I ever told you about my past, Heero?"
I shook my head.
"Good," he said, closing his eyes as he leaned against me, his breath hitting my neck softly. "It was horrible, and I don't want anyone else to know. Too many bad memories..."
He trailed off, and I think he was just about to go to sleep when, all of a sudden, he jerked himself upright. He looked at me again, then, and his eyes were as wide as a deer caught in headlights.
"Don't give in," he said, very sternly, and then he laid back down against me again.
I don't know what it was about his words, but they tugged at my heart. Hard. He was so set against being controlled by anyone that he would allow himself to be beaten like this. I frowned.
Since he was giving me advice, it only seemed natural to give him some of my own -- if it could really be called advice. It was more of a plea, actually.
"Don't leave," I whispered. And that was all. I didn't even know why I said just that; 'don't leave.' But I did, and he seemed thankful for it, his muscles relaxing as he leaned against me and eventually fell asleep. I held him against my chest, cradling him like a baby, and we stayed like that until they came again. I didn't bother going to sleep, though. I just couldn't.
Since all I knew was the dark and cold of the cell, I couldn't tell when morning came. But regardless of whether it was morning or not, the soldiers came again, ripping Duo out of my arms and dragging him out the door again, and they left me alone for more countless hours.
If I'd had the choice right then, of staying there alone in the quiet dankness of that cell or going permanently to Hell, I would have picked Hell. The loneliness that pushed at my brain was impossible to measure, and the silence was deafening. I almost went mad those hours spent alone.
I played stupid games with my mind to keep from going insane. First I'd try to see how long I could hold my eyes open without blinking, or how long I could hold my breath until my lungs nearly exploded with need for oxygen. Sometimes I'd even see how long I could pinch myself on my arm, using my nails, until I either began to bleed or just grew tired of it.
Sometimes I thought what I was going through was ten times worse than anything Duo could possibly be going through.
But then they'd throw him back into our cell, face-down on the hard floor, and he just wouldn't move. And every time I'd crawl over to him and pull him into my arms, slowly taking the strength I needed from him and giving him the strength he needed from me. And every time he'd say,
"Don't give in, don't ever give in."
And I'd say,
"Don't leave."
And then we'd be silent, him nestled against me while I held him gently, and he would sleep, and I would stay awake, thinking. And then they'd come and take him again after only God knows how much time had passed, and leave me alone to go quietly insane. I'd sit and rock and play my stupid mind games until they threw him back into our cell. Then I'd go over to him, pull him into my arms while cringing at the scent of blood and dirt heavy on his frail body, scared and dumbfound as he stayed still for a long while. And then he'd look up at me with near-lifeless violet eyes, and he'd whisper with a voice so sullen I could hardly believe it was his.
"Don't give up."
Though after a while it was hard to get the words out, I would reply very softly.
"Don't leave."
It went on like that for a long, long time.
Then one day, when I'd finally slipped into the comfortable state of slumber, they took him from me again. I woke up just to see him being dragged out of the room, and to see horror clear and evident in his flat eyes.
"Never give up," he said to me.
I frowned deeply, feeling confused and helpless as they closed the door before I could respond to him. So I settled for whispering to the walls what I whispered to him every day.
"Don't leave."
Duo never came back that day.
I eventually escaped, halfheartedly as it was, and returned to the other pilots. Duo wasn't there.
I haven't heard from him since.
Sometimes at night in my dreams, though, I can still hear his voice, soft and smooth.
"Don't give up," it tells me, gentle but crestfallen -- just as it had been at the time I knew those words best.
And I always whisper back,
"Don't leave."
Then I wake up screaming.
I think it was around then that I realized I hadn't been saying those words for Duo's sake, but for my own.
Sometimes I wonder if he was the same way.
So I sit at my windowsill almost every day now, looking determinedly outside for a wisp of brown hair or a flash of violet eyes, all the time muttering to myself,
"Don't leave."
I don't think he's coming back.
But the sad things is, I think he's not coming back because, in the end, he gave up.
And so now, I get up, and I leave. I think I'll disappear, just like he did; never to be seen again. It only seems fair. He broke his word, so I break mine.
It's kind of ironic that in the end, I'm just giving up.
The End
(:./thyme/giveup)
