Disclaimer: I own nothing.  Don't sue.
Warnings: Not much, just a lot of angst.  This can be either 1x2 or a friendship fic, depending on how you interpret it.  I'll leave that up to you.
Notes: Heero's POV.  I wrote this fic a very long time ago, but I left fanfiction.net and took all my stories with me.  I've had a lot of time to think and edit, though, so I'm back.  I doubt you remember this, though…

Don't Give Up

by: Thyme

There are two ways that I remember Duo Maxwell: happy and carefree, and utterly crestfallen and forlorn.  I believe I was the only person to ever witness the latter, and I suppose I should take some sort of honor in that.  In a way, I do, and in return for that honor, I've never spoken of it to another living soul.  It's not my place, not my story to tell, secrets to give, or my reputation to ruin.  So when the reporters hungrily asked me what I thought of Duo Maxwell, I replied, "He was a good soldier," and leave it at that.  I never revealed any of the feelings I knew to be true.

It was the middle of the war when it happened.  Our cell was pitch-black and damp, with a little metal door that was always, always locked.  After a while I didn't even bother opening my eyes anymore, because there was no light to be seen. Our captors never bothered to heat the room – it was a waste of time and energy, and we would be dead as soon as we gave them the information they needed.

We were interrogated daily regarding the location of the other pilots.

Duo was very aggressive in the beginning. He spat in their faces and defiantly yelled, "I'd rather die than tell you," then proceed to call to call them every dirty name that entered his mind, which, given his profession as a soldier, was a rather impressive collection.

I, on the other hand, preferred to remain silent and detached, only shaking my head. I guess I wasn't as much fun, because they never beat me like they tortured Duo. They had some kind of sick fascination with asking him the same question for hours, clubbing him when he denied them information.

I admit looking the other way. There were only so many times I could watch Duo crumple to the ground, listening to the guards 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.

Eventually, Duo lost consciousness, and the guards lost interest. Only then did they approach me with questions, like they expected me to talk now that my comrade was down. As though I'd ever give them the satisfaction.

"What about you? Where are the other pilots?" the taller guard asked, but I would regarded him with cold silence, shaking my head. I never resisted when they pinned my arms against the wall, repeating questions. I saw what happened when Duo struggled. I learned from his mistakes.

"Where are they?"

But I only shook my head, closing my eyes to brace myself for the attack I knew would come. It was nothing compared to Duo's torture sessions; they never broke any bones or made me bleed. It was nothing I couldn't handle.

Then, one day, it stopped. Duo was in a lifeless ball in the corner, and I was trapped between a guard and the wall, preparing to be beaten. But it never came.

I opened my eyes, confused, and 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 didn't even stir.

A strange smile grew on the guard's face, and he looked to his companion stationed by the door.

"Let's go. We'll try something…different tomorrow."

A sudden sick feeling in my stomach told me that 'something' would be worse than anything they'd ever 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, carrying a pair of handcuffs with their clubs and guns.

"Get up," the tall one ordered, and the two guards broke off into their normal positions. One stalked over to Duo and me, and the other stood by the door. Something was different in the way he walked. Eager, somehow.

I got up.

"Not you," he snarled, motioning me to sit down. I slunk back, sliding down the wall to a sitting position. He glanced 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, violet eyes flinching apprehensively. "No."

He received no answer as he was hauled sharply to his feet. The guard roughly grabbed his arms, cuffing his hands and painfully forcing them behind his back. He pushed Duo towards the door, nodding to his companion to open it for them. He did.

"Come on," he grumbled, digging his gun into Duo's back, "move it." Then he sent a hard look over to where I sat on the ground, impervious and indifferent as always. He scowled.

"Don't worry," he told me in a taunting voice, "you'll get your turn."

The door shut and all three were gone.

Suddenly, the frigid air and silence in the room that hung over me seemed a thousand times heavier on my shoulders, pressing in from every side. It became hard to breathe in my corner, knees tucked tightly against my chest and my hope dwindling. It was only after hours of mindless rocking, back and forth and back and forth, that the soldiers returned Duo to our cell. Only after I'd nearly lost my mind.

The guards wordlessly shoved Duo to the floor, handcuffs still digging into his wrists. He remained still, curled in the fetal position on the ground where he'd been thrown. I carefully crawled to his side as soon as the door shut.

"Duo," I muttered, 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 and unruly, dirty bangs. I scowled and shook his shoulders. Hard. "Duo!"

"Heero..."

It was quiet and barely audible, but he spoke. I held him, carefully and gently to avoid irritating his wounds, a little nervous at the condition he was in, and watched as blood flowed from his body. It mixed in with his hair, which had come loose by that time, and transformed the once proud strands into one large, tangled mass of dried blood, grease, and dirt. I started rocking again, not knowing exactly what to do or where to begin. I'd never been frightened or worried before in my life, but I thought it must have been something like this.

Having him there in my arms, limp and unspeaking, somehow seemed worse than not having him there at all. I gladly would have taken back the loud, chattering boy I was once so annoyed with. 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 up," he told me, his eyes opening and staring at me intently while his hands gripped the green fabric of my shirt. "Don't give up. No matter what happens, you can't tell them. 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, like it hurt to force the sound past his lips. The small little cut of laughter unnerved me somehow. "Did I ever tell you about life growing up, 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. Ever…"

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 with wide eyes.

"Don't tell anyone I told you that," he told me sternly, and then he laid back down against me again, relaxed.

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.

It seemed natural to repay him for the yank at my heart strings. Recompensation for the advice and pieces of his personality he'd shared with me. Although it was more of a plea, actually.

"Don't leave," I whispered. And that was all. I didn't even know why I only that, just one small request. But I did, and he seemed thankful for it, his muscles loosening as he tucked his head under my chin, falling asleep. I held him against my chest, cradling him in a way very uncharacteristic to me. I wouldn't have even considered it if I didn't think it was one of the last times I'd get to touch him. I held him like that until the guards came, dragging him out of my arms. 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 guards always came, ripping Duo away from me and dragging him out 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. I wished for a gun daily, longing to end the misery, or at least for a chance to escape. The loneliness that pushed at my brain was impossible to measure, and the silence was deafening. I almost went mad during 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. I counted the seconds I could dig my nails into my skin before I bled or got 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. Every time I crawled over to him and pulled him against me, slowly draining the strength I needed from him and returning strength he needed from me. And every time he'd say,

"Don't give up, don't ever give up."

And I responded,

"Don't leave."

Then we were silent, him nestled against me while I supported him, and he would sleep while and I stayed awake, thinking. They came again to take him after only God knows how much time had passed, and left 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. It was almost relieving to make my way to Duo's body, pulling him into my arms while cringing at the heavy scent of blood and dirt, 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 force 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 stole him again. I woke up just in time to see him dragged from  the room, and to see fear disrupting the flatness in his eyes.

"Never give up," he yelled hoarsely.

I frowned deeply, feeling confused. They closed the door before I could even reply, 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. Quatre took the news hard, and Trowa consoled him. Wufei pretended not to care, though I could see the grief at the back of his obsidian eyes. Duo wasn't there.

I haven't heard from him since.

Sometimes at night in my dreams, though, I can still hear his voice, ragged as it was in the last days of our captivity.

"Don't give up," it tells me, crestfallen – just as it had been at the time I knew those words best.

Even in my dreams, I always whisper back,

"Don't leave."

Then I wake up screaming.

I think it was around then I realized that 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 daily, faithfully scanning the world 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 ironic that in the end, I'm just giving up.