A Duzzie Dedication. (Sorry I just had to make the alliteration :P) I still don't completely agree with this pairing, but I guess you can see it that way if you want to.
Loyalty
He hates authority and rules. Anything that tries to tell him what to do and restricts who he can be and anything that through its enforcement labels him as inferior.
It doesn't matter what he does anyway. The people in around here are all convinced that he's a thug and a low-life and therefore less than nothing and that opinion isn't going to change whether he conforms to the law or not.
Sometimes at night when the frustration with this shithole becomes too much, in place of screams he batters the alley walls with his fists until his knuckles spatter them with patches of crimson. He wants to yell that he's going to become something and he isn't just going to rot here all his life with no where to go, no ambitions because there's nothing to aim for but more petty crime, nothing - but instead he curses.
In the noise of the bar no one takes any notice of raised voices and the one man gesticulating wildly at another man with strange, lavender coloured hair. They do, however, notice when the slurred rant suddenly expires as the man connects soundly with the floorboards, the single bottle he was clinging to shattering in an amber spray.
For a second the world stops on the single, purple haired man casually shaking out his fist, and in that pool of silence he turns and for a second their eyes connect. Something inside him momentarily trembles.
"That," Gin thinks. "Is a man I could respect."
"He's in the way," Don Krieg says, cold and calm and dead and looks straight at him with a silent challenge in his eyes.
Are you one of us?
The man's bones crack horrifically as they are crushed and for a moment he feels sick. But it's then he catches the slight upward tilt of Krieg's mouth and the almost imperceptible nod of his head and his heart soars.
You're in.
For the first time he willingly submits himself to another person and swears his soul away with a single word:
"Captain."
Killing is easy after all. He belongs to Don Krieg and he wants nothing more than to hear his Captain's praise.
He has no emotion to spare for weaklings and those foolish enough to get in his Captain's way.
Devil-man they whisper, and their eyes are full of fear.
"Devil-man, eh?" Don Kreig smirks, and promotes him to battle commander.
It is perhaps both the proudest and the happiest moment of his life.
Rejection, eyes that won't meet his own and a closed, stony face, hurts more than any physical wound, more than the poison still coiling through his veins.
It was the right thing to do. It was honourable, his mind insists.
His heart bleeds.
His stomach is content with the betrayal.
He doesn't know which part of himself he should agree with.