There was a reason he wasn't going to break under the Russian.
No matter how many times he was violated in ungodly ways, no matter how many times he thought he was going to die, the albino refused to break. He refused to become one of the Russian's servants, jumping to do his bidding without as much as a shred of pride.
It wasn't because he was too awesome for that (though he was).
And it wasn't because his pride refused to bend that way, no matter how much torture was inflicted upon his body. All of those things, they weren't the true reason for the albino's stubbornness, for the fire in his eyes as he approached every day. No, rather, as he survived every day under the psychotic reign of the Russian.
At night, as he sat locked away in some meat cellar, the Russian thought he was taking away the albino's hope: he thought he was breaking his spirit by not letting him see the gleam of the stars. Sitting in the dark though, completely alone, it was the albino's saving grace. He didn't need the light of the stars to give him hope, nor did he need them to light his path. He knew where he needed to go, and every bone in his body ached to return home.
Not home in West's house, this was a different sort of ache.
Closing his fiery red eyes, Gilbert carefully shifted so he was laying on the floor, feeling the shackles biting into his ankles and wrists. The home he was aching for was not a physical sort of structure. The home he was aching for was the warm embrace of a single person, and the only sounds he wanted to hear was a soft voice, telling him that it was okay, and that he was proud of him.
There was a single reason that Gilbert survived every day under Russia.
He wanted to return to the warm embrace of the man who had snagged his heart before Gilbert had ever had a chance to fight back. To gaze into warm violet eyes that often carried a tint of annoyance (though Gilbert knew he wasn't really annoyed), to and to hear the soft melody of the piano, echoing up to him as he listened from the couch, where he had seemingly passed out. Laying on the cold, hard floor, bound to the wall, Gilbert let the Russian think he was breaking down here, and he let him think that he was winning. Cut and bruised to the point he couldn't move without pain, he let the Russian have his thoughts for tonight.
Little did that stupid Russian know that he couldn't break his awesomeness, he couldn't beat him into submission.
Gilbert had made a promise to return to his violet eyed love.
And no way in hell, was he going to break it.