Transfigurations
In the U.S., everyone calls him Gus – a very American name; he even shares it with a groundhog that is the mascot for the Pennsylvania lottery, of all things.
But in Chile, he was Gustavo – and Maximo, or Max, would troll his tongue over the name, playing up the sound of it. "Gus-TAHHH-vo." Gus always grinned; it was playful and free with him. He couldn't forget the first time he'd seen the man, while crossing the slums of Santiago with an overwhelming desire to not get any of it on him; simply to get from point A to point B.
He'd been shouted at by beggars often, but Max stood out, not begging or harassing so much as… offering, something with his eyes.
"Sir, could I help you with anything? I require very little, and anything you could give would be – I'd be eternally grateful."
He hadn't replied that first time and had just kept going along, going his way, his businessman strut indicating that he had more important things to do than mix with anyone who didn't have a proposal in their hands that would help Gus acquire a nice new car or a paint job for his house.
But even when he had arrived at the ritzy business dinner he had been on his way to, one with champagne and busty dark-haired beauties, he couldn't stop thinking about the man he had seen. The one with such deep brown eyes. Gus envisioned snapping his fingers and having those eyes on him, and he had to excuse himself a moment, had to regain his composure, stand up that little bit straighter.
Gus didn't decide that Max needed to be his that first day. But he walked by again and again and always slowed a little when he past him, until he began to give the boy just the slightest hint of a smile.
When he'd lost count of the times, he began to see other men hanging around Max, leering at him, making the big brown eyes squint a bit uncomfortably, with nervousness that grew week after week, walk after walk.
It was then that Gus decided Max was too sweet for the slums, too naïve to be running the streets with people lure him away and snatch away for what little he had. People who would hurt him and destroy his innocence.
He'd extended his hand and never looked back. He paid for an education for the wide-eyed boy and he only then realized what they could do if they got out of Chile – if they went to Mexico and put their respective talents to work.
"Will it be dangerous, Gustavo?" Max blinked and moved closer, one hand groping gently for Gus' shoulder.
"I'll protect you. No one can hurt you," Gus promised in response. "We'll be rich – and then the world will be ours."
"Are you sure?" But the naïveté led to trust. He was willing to follow Gus wherever he might lead. "You'll always protect me?" He'd ask the question every so often, always receiving the same answer.
"With my life, if necessary."
"The world will be ours," Max echoed. "We're partners." He'd repeat it again, liking the sound of it. "Compañeros."
Gus' family – (blood is thicker than water, after all, and thicker than chlorine), his partner, his compañero – has been avenged. With Gus' life, if necessary.
He notices but doesn't feel the stab in his gut, the proof that the poison was working on him, too.
Mike is carrying him, his arm looped under Gus' armpit. Mike, his trusted friend – so many years now. No, trusted associate. The idea of friends and more was left with Max.
Gus has a beautiful wife, Sasha, and three children whom he loves dearly and would kill for, but Sasha is as different from Max as Gus was different before and after that blood ran through the crystal blue water of Don Eladio's pool. She is as coolly professional as he, cynical and sharp-witted, with none of the endearing naïveté that drew him to Max. She has never asked Gus to protect her. In fact, she once punched a co-worker who had mocked Gus' accent; she is fire and emotion very rarely, and only in defense of her family. That is another thing that she and Gus share.
Under Gus' other arm is the young protege who he had never suspected would become one. His opinions of Jesse Pinkman have transitioned in recent months from disgust to surprise to a supreme pride. He no longer sees a young slacker who blusters and stumbles occasionally to a correct answer, but a man with his own code and morals, a backbone, loyalty and strength.
Gus is sure his countermeasures haven't worked well enough, as he can feel the life draining from him (it starts at his legs first and works up towards his chest), and he slumps against the car, hoping Jesse doesn't notice – now is not the time to slow. It is never the time to slow and second-think, if you have thought well-enough beforehand, that is - if you have thought out your moves.
Jesse continues to drive, taking direction from a wounded Mike and dying Gus towards – somewhere, or nowhere. Gus begins to calculate his chances of getting out of this alive, but the math gets hazy in his head and he lets the eyelid for one pitch brown eye slip closed, then the other.
Jesse pulls over and looks around before climbing back into Gus' seat, shaking him as Mike demands that he keep driving.
"Gus?" He shakes him. "Come on, wake up!" He quickly turns the man to his side, puts his hands on his shoulders as he tries to jostle him awake without hurting him.
"Listen to Mike," Gus whispers, eyes still closed.
"No, come on, we're getting out of this, all three of us. Like Mike said," Jesse pleads. Gus shakes his head.
"Keep driving – get out of this area and then out of the country. If you can get to the next town, there are people there who will help you get out."
"But what about…" Jesse begins.
"Reinforce success, Maximo," Gus replies, letting out a slow breath and falling limp against the car.
"What? Come on! Who's Maximo? Wake up!" Jesse exclaims, all one thought, shaking the Chilean one last time like he's a paint can Jesse is determined to get the last spray out of.
His only answer is Mike's rasped order: "Drive."