Title: Fragment

Association: Beyblade

Pairing: None, implied YuBo

Short Summary: It's not much to go off, but they're not beyond saving. Set season one, implied YuBo.

Full Summary: It's Boris, Yuriy, and the confines of their bedroom the night before the World Championship finals. A brief conversation might mean the difference between death and salvation.

"Hey."

The greeting barely reached Yuriy's ears. He turned from the entrance of the holding cell his teammate jokingly referred to as a bedroom. A safe haven. Home. His gaze remained on the bars over the room's sole window.

The door clicked softly behind the intruding Boris, who slid off his boots and sat opposite his captain on the adjacent bed. Concern aged his weary eyes.

"Borya."

The falcon perked at the nickname, not accustomed to hearing it anymore. How easily it seemed to roll off his captain's tongue. "Ya?"

Frigid blue eyes cut across the room, pinning Boris with contempt. He knew better than to think it was directed at him though. "Do you think we're ever gonna make it out of here?"

It was a serious question and a pressing one at that, but Boris couldn't help but laugh. Uproariously. Was he absurd? They were lucky to even be alive at this point. He looked at Yuriy again, quick to realize that his captain was about three seconds from ripping his goddamn head off, and shut his mouth. "I was about to ask if you were kidding, but I see clearly now that you're not."

Yuriy rolled his eyes. "Why do I even bother wasting my breath on an idiot like you?"

The lilac-haired male threw himself back on his dilapidated mattress, tucking his arms behind his head. "Hell if I know. Boredom? Because we're teammates? Or maybe you're just lonely." Boris caught the hitch in his partner's breath and rolled a nonchalant look his direction. "Is that it?"

Yuriy sat frozen on the end of his bed, hugging his knees to his chest for warmth. There was a sullen tug at his lips; something akin to a pout as he looked away. He couldn't meet those omniscient eyes.

"So what if it is?" he muttered, clutching himself tighter as he wiggled his toes. They were turning a pallid blue from lack of circulation. "If you don't talk to anyone in this place, you're sure to go insane."

"At least you're still somewhat human, I suppose." Boris sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, hunching despite the ache in his shoulders from training. He decided to humor his captain a bit; after all, they were friends until just a few days ago, right? Maybe Yuriy wasn't beyond saving. "How do you feel about tomorrow?"

Oh yeah. That.

Yuriy unfurled and sat with his back to the wall, twisting a bony finger in unruly red bangs. He never could get the damn things to stay gelled down with the rest of his hair. "Can I trust you?"

"I expect you to," came the instantaneous reply.

"I'm nervous. Scared. A whole slew of other things that I shouldn't be." The wolf met Boris' stunned expression with apathy. "You may resume laughing now."

Boris snorted. "I would, but I fail to see the punch-line. Nothing you've just said is even remotely funny. Not in the slightest." He began to stare at the bars over the window as well, sights set on the falling snow beyond the frothy pane. "Fear is a very real component of our make-up, Yuriy. We're better off embracing it."

In all the years he'd known this boy, Yuriy couldn't help but feel his respect for the younger male rise exponentially in that moment. Realization hit him square in the face. "...You're going to throw the match tomorrow, aren't you."

Not a question, but a statement. Boris met Yuriy's hollow stare with one of his own. "I'm not about to make it easy for him." He stood and began to pace, large feet treading quietly over the cobblestone floor. "The first match is Spencer's, of which he's been instructed to win at all costs. I will be losing my match regardless of the opponent. And you..." Boris crawled up onto Yuriy's bed and towered over his former friend. Calloused hands grabbed the captain by the shoulders. "Yuriy, if there's anything left in you that's even remotely human, please hear me out. Lose. Go out there and fight your damnest—you're expected to win, but failure may be our only chance at freedom."

He'd be lying to say he wasn't stunned by the gesture, and the desperation in Boris' voice was a bit unexpected as well, but well, why should he care? He was destined to win, right? He couldn't very well "throw the match" when he'd been specifically designed to do the opposite. Was that even a possibility? A sinking sensation nestled itself in the pit of his stomach, knowing he wouldn't—couldn't—fulfill Borya's request. A tear he didn't feel, shed from what little remained of his former self, trailed shamelessly down his cheek.

"I-I can't do that, Borya," the wolf replied steadily between each bout of tears. His voice never fluxed, but the tears meant something.

There was still a young man trapped in that gutted shell; a boy so terrified for his life that he'd wager anything for the chance to flee. A boy that Boris had held night after night for years. Who cried only in his presence. Who confided his every sin and nightmare unto him when no one else could be trusted. That boy still lived.

"No, you can't. But you will."

Boris looked down hesitantly at his captain before cradling the familiar face in his battered hands, smoothing away the nasty tear-trails tainting his perfect skin. To his surprise, a pair of bony hands wrapped around each of his own, squeezing gently.

"I can't."

But I'll try.

FIN