"The Forgotten"

Written By: The Plotting Housewife

Disclaimer: Gundam Wing belongs to Bandai, Sotsu and associated Parties. This work is written for pleasure not profit.

Rating: NC 17

Warnings: Heavy Angst, Domestic Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Physical Abuse, Sexual Abuse, Stockholm Syndrome, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Depression, Anxiety, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con

Pairings: Quatre Raberba Winner/Original Male Character(s), Trowa Barton/Quatre Raberba Winner, eventual - Relationship

Summary: Quatre is having a difficult time coming to terms with the fact that his friends have moved on without him. Lonely and desperate, he accepts a proposal from a handsome stranger, not realizing the danger he's putting himself in until it's too late.

"The Forgotten"

Prologue: Tall, Dark, and Handsome

"I really need to find a new job," Quatre muttered, dragging his fingers through his disheveled hair. The mousse keeping his blond curls meticulously styled during normal business hours decided to throw in the towel just before eight o'clock, but thankfully no one had been around to watch his appearance gradually unravel as the evening wore on.

After staring at the harsh, white glow of his computer screen for hours on end, his eyes felt like someone had rubbed sandpaper over them and then rinsed them out with lemon juice. It probably wouldn't be long before the eye strain forced him to make a trip to the optometrist for a spiffy new pair of readers.

Allah, five years ago, I had better than perfect vision. Seems my eyesight retired as soon as I became a civilian again.

Birthday, or no birthday, he was swamped and as much as it stunk to work late on such an occasion, it was preferable to spending it at home with no one for company but his traitorous mind. A mind that seemed to be suffering from a terminal case of sadism. It liked to remind him how alone he was. How he was nothing special to anyone, particularly not the man he'd been in love with since he was sixteen.

Time heals all wounds, my ass.

However he was supposed to move on, he wasn't doing it right because the rejection still hurt as badly as it did on that cold, grey November morning on the coast of Nova Scotia. Trowa didn't live too far from it and Quatre had gone to visit before they were both swamped by the holidays. Every year, it seemed to get harder and harder to work those little reunions into their busy schedules.

They'd walked to the beach, Quatre bundled up in one of Trowa's parkas. Trowa had laughed and told him he looked like a puffed up marshmallow. Quatre laughed too, but it sounded just as distracted to his own ears as it did Trowa's if the questioning look he'd received was anything to go by.

He was preoccupied and Trowa could see and feel it. Preoccupied by all the things he'd wanted to say. Preoccupied by the anticipation of beginning what he had hoped would be the next phase in their lives. Friends to lovers was as old as time, but Quatre didn't care how corny it sounded. To him, it was the most beautiful kind of love there was.

He'd been extremely nervous. So nervous that his belly was twisted up in knots and his palms were sweating buckets inside his gloves. But his hopes had been high. They were so close, so loving, even sharing the occasional tender kiss now and then. He was so certain Trowa would be elated by his confession and sweep him into his arms with his own admission of love spilling from his lips.

It didn't happen. Not in the way Quatre had expected. He'd poured his heart out, all but physically opening his chest cavity and placing said organ into Trowa's hands. Though he would have done that as well if it were possible.

But instead of the warm, inviting response he'd been looking forward to, instead of fireworks and tears and consummating kisses, Trowa completely shut down. It was like a switch had been flipped. His body immediately tensed and his expression became wooden. A barrier had gone up between them, unseen, yet impenetrable like a force field. Quatre felt a strange push in his mind, as if he was being repelled by two opposing sides of a magnet.

That was the last time Trowa ever looked him in the eyes again.

Quatre left as soon as they got back to the house, hurriedly packing his things and sneaking out the back door as silently as a mouse without so much as a goodbye to him, or Catherine. The humiliation had been too much to bear and he'd been grateful for the extra cover of his hood during the four mile walk to the nearest bus stop. It was comforting in the way it provided a sense of invisibility and anonymity, a shield between himself and the staggering blow of rejection.

As quickly as Trowa had come into his life, he was gone. The show was over and Quatre had no choice but to exit stage left.

For several weeks, he was frozen and numb from shock. He ate, but he couldn't taste. He slept, but was never rested. His days were a linear sequence of incomprehensible shapes, voices, and smells, separated only by short increments of blissful unconsciousness. Everything he said and did was automatic, drawn from the primitive part of his brain that was responsible for keeping him alive and not much else. When people spoke to him, they may as well have been speaking in an alien language for all he could understand them. The once bright and colorful world around him reflected off his retinas in dull shades of black, white, and grey. Not even the warm rays of the sun could touch him. No matter how long he stood bathed in their live-giving light, he felt chilled all the way down to the bone.

It wasn't all that much later that he began to lose contact with the other three ex-pilots as well, though he couldn't fathom what he'd done wrong. He realized now that he hadn't actually grieved for them yet. He still hadn't worked through the process which was probably why he couldn't heal. He'd been in denial all this time, nurturing something that no longer existed because he was terrified of falling apart if he let go.

If he broke, there would be nothing and no one to put him back together. It was a fate worse than death, but its inevitability was closing around him, threatening to suffocate him beneath its smothering hands.

In his relatively short lifetime, he had overcome impossible odds, survived unimaginable trauma, and had endured the painful betrayal of rejection and abandonment from those he would lay down his life for.

In the end, despite all he'd done...the sacrifices he'd made, he was nixed time and time again. It didn't matter how much blood, sweat, and tears he had shed, the love he'd shown to those he cared about. He still wasn't important enough to warrant anything more than empty promises that they would get in touch with him soon.

Only they never did. And he had stopped contacting them after a while. Once the subtle politeness gave way to more obvious signs of displeasure, he gave up. Perhaps too kind in his own right, he backed off and licked his wounds in the silence of his bedroom at night. Alone, he was safe to nurse his pain and insecurities without inconveniencing others. He didn't want pity. He didn't want obligations, or forced interactions derived from guilt.

Allah knew he'd had enough of that growing up. He never quite understood the look of torment and shame in father's eyes until he found out about the true origin of his birth. After that, it was easy to understand. When Zayeed Winner looked at his son, he saw the woman who had died for him. He saw the tiny creature who had killed the one person he treasured above all others. He had tried. Allah, did he try to convince her to get rid of it. Aborting the child she carried was not the end of the world, he'd told her. There were still plenty of opportunities to produce an heir. She didn't have to give up her life for the parasite inside her that took more and more of her strength with each passing day.

But stubborn as a mule, she did and out of respect for his wife and her wishes, Zayeed raised the child. Though he did so reluctantly, incapable of feeling anything more than resentment towards his own offspring whose mere existence seemed a talisman, a miniature harbinger of death who wore his wife's face and mocked him for his failures.

It never seemed to occur to him that the child was there through no fault of his own. Quatre never asked to be conceived, much less born. If Zayeed was so adamant about not risking Quatrine's life, perhaps he should have been more cautious when he'd bedded her on that fateful night in March.

Even though Quatre grew up unaware of the pain he caused his father, his empathy had given him enough insight to sense Zayeed's reticence about developing a close relationship with him. He just didn't know why. For the bulk of his childhood, he believed it was simply the impersonal detachment of a man who had built quite the reputation for producing artificial children every two to three years in his endless quest for a male heir.

And thirty times was the charm, only the boy he'd spent nearly two decades trying to acquire came to be in the most devastating way possible. In his despair, Zayeed believed he was being punished for his unorthodox methods of reproduction, turning out child after child while ignoring his primary role which was to be a loving, nurturing parent.

The twenty nine females he'd created were disadvantageous, but not unmanageable and he saw to it that their needs were met with nannies, tutors, husbands, and trust funds. It was enough to clear his conscience, but his only son was cumbersome in ways he wasn't prepared to handle. The onus he carried over the death of his wife and the fact that he was forced to look the catalyst in the eyes everyday sent him spiraling further into his own personal Hell.

It didn't help that Quatre's empathy made him virtually impossible to deal with, though Zayeed failed to understand that the crux of his son's behavior was a direct result of his own damaged psyche. Quatre wasn't the problem. Zayeed was. Quatre became the unwitting vessel for his father's demons, channeling grief and rage that was not his own. Grief and rage that his young mind wasn't capable of understanding, much less able to separate and put into perspective.

Essentially, little Quatre was a living satellite dish, receiving multiple signals from multiple sources simultaneously and he had not yet possessed the abstract reasoning skills to keep them in check. To him, the emotions he felt were his own. He had no reason to believe otherwise. More often than not, the constant feedback would chase itself around inside his head, looping faster and faster until the kinetic energy would simmer and churn before it boiled over, giving birth to a perfect storm.

That storm would manifest as the most monumental temper tantrums known to man and generally left the entire household reeling in the aftermath.

Quatre's unique circumstances, coupled with the weight of his tragic birth was a heavy burden on his family's shoulders, but instead of creating a more compassionate environment for him to cope and thrive, they did the exact opposite. And unfortunately for everyone involved, it did nothing but provoke the very beast they were trying to tame.

***

Despite his better judgment, he compulsively checked his emails once more before turning off his computer. No new messages in the five minutes since he'd last checked it and he knew none would be incoming any time soon. He didn't need anything flashy, or remarkable. Just a simple acknowledgement that yes, they remembered him, yes, they were thinking of him, and yes, they hoped he was doing well.

Quit holding your breath, Quatre. It only leads to disappointment. You should know that by now.

Oh, he knew. He knew, but he couldn't stop himself from keeping that tiny flame of hope alive.

Even when the days bled into weeks, the weeks into months, and the months into years, he nurtured that flame and protected it from the extinguishing weight of loneliness and sorrow.

Before he knew it, four years had gone by and he still kept his hands cupped around it in a dwindling, but tenaciously sanguine vigil. Even in the silence of the night, he would still send softly whispered prayers up into the sky in the hopes that a passing deity might hear and answer them.

Contrary to popular belief, it was not that easy for him to make new friends, let alone pursue a romantic relationship. The world took one look at him and saw a young man who had everything: Looks, wealth, popularity, friends, lovers, admirers. But what they didn't know was that his popularity was no deeper than a tiny puddle evaporating in the hot sun. People admired his public image, the bright and beautiful face that graced the glossy covers of business and fashion magazines alike. A two-dimensional version of him that was always impeccably dressed and glowing with golden hair, flawless skin, and a thousand watt smile.

They admired what he was, not who he was. 

When it came down to it, getting to know him as a person and understanding him on a much deeper level was something most people were not willing to concern themselves with. To see him as anything less than a sparkling diamond in a sea of coal would shatter their illusions of him. The treasured fantasies they entertained about his so-called perfection, his so-called perfect life.

The idea that he was no different than they were, that he had flaws and insecurities and bad days, was rejected for fear of being disappointed. People needed idols. They needed someone they could look up to. Someone who rose above the mundane, immune to the banality of mere mortals. They wanted someone who could not be tainted by corruption. Someone who would be their guiding light, leading them all into some sublime utopia, even if only in their dreams.

The moment he displayed behavior akin to something they might have to put some personal effort into, they were gone. Poof. Vanished from his life without so much as a trace that they were ever there.

The profound - or what he thought was profound - connection with his former copilots was different because they did know him. Better than he knew himself even. And they did not run away when they caught a glimpse of his vulnerable side. That kinship became the most precious thing in his life and those four young men became the most precious people in his life. There wasn't anything he wouldn't do for them.

The real pisser was that he'd foolishly deluded himself into believing they felt the same way about him. So ardent in his devotion and blind trust, he had given them everything, every part of him. Surely a bond like that was too strong to ever be broken.

But he'd been wrong. Somehow...at some point along the way, their interactions with him had gone from daily, to every other day, to every other week, to once, or twice a year, and finally...to no contact whatsoever. And he quickly became discouraged from contacting them when it began to feel like he was still latched onto something they no longer wanted to be a part of.

Maybe for them keeping in touch was a constant, painful reminder of days that seemed to exist only for death and grief. A reminder of the horrors they witnessed, the blood they spilled, the lives they took. Horrors so cruel and heinous, they were enough to keep even the most hardened soldiers awake at night.

He couldn't fault them for wanting to move on. To remove the reminders of the past that had brought them so much pain and loss. They had people in their lives now who represented the future, not the obsolete. They were symbols of brighter days ahead, of normalcy and stability. People who had managed to escape the war relatively unscathed and who had the potential to help them heal.

How could he possibly be angry with them for embracing that? They deserved it after losing so much, after giving so much of themselves. It didn't matter how much it hurt him. To offer them anything less than unconditional blessings was unacceptable.

He just wished he could find that for himself, at the very least so he could stop desperately clinging to people who wanted a future that did not include him.

Soy un perdedor...

I'm a loser, baby, so why don't you kill me?

He powered down his computer and grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair. It was nearly ten in the evening, long after everyone else had gone home. Right now, the emptiness of the building was welcome. He didn't have to plaster that faux smile on his face and pretend everything was peachy keen. At most, he'd have to conjure up a polite nod for the janitor, but nothing too emotionally draining.

He was dog tired, hungry, and depressed. In his heart, the only thing he wanted to do was go home, order some takeout, and kill a few billion brain cells watching old reruns. But it seemed he wasn't so rock bottom that the little voice inside his head ordering him to quit being a pussy was ready to go quiet just yet.

It's your birthday, so stop moping over people who don't care about you like some pathetic emo drama queen and go live your damned life. It's Friday night and there's nowhere you need to be for the next two days. Head over to the club, have a few drinks, and dance away every fuck until you have none left. Until you forget the world that has forgotten you.

***

He had to hand it to that little voice. Its powers of persuasion were very effective and after finishing off his third gin and tonic, his mind began to reconstruct that familiar wall between himself and the world around him. It numbed his tension and heartache, and made him impervious to everything but the flashing, colored lights and the pounding base that vibrated up the length of his body.

The rhythm moved through him, filling the empty spaces left behind by those he loved so dearly. He was well aware that when this night was over, those empty spaces would become gaping wounds once again, but for now, it made him feel whole. At peace.

Music spoke to him in ways no human language ever could. It communicated with him in the most primitive ways, curling around his ears like a lover's caress, and strumming the corresponding chords of his heart. It propelled his muscles to move with little to no conscious thought and he closed his eyes, letting everything else go until there was nothing left but a universe comprised of only himself and the music.

Other bodies moved beside and against him, under the same spell as his own. Arms pulled him close, hands touched and groped, but his resistance was nowhere to be found. He kept his eyes closed and let himself feel. Not think, but just feel the strong arm around his waist. The fingers digging into his hip hard enough to leave bruises. The insistent press of an erection grinding against his backside. The smell of sweat, cologne, and hot breath laced with a hint of vodka and lime.

It didn't matter who was moving in such a brazenly intimate way with him. It didn't matter why. The only thing that mattered in that moment was that he was wanted. That he was interesting enough to hold at least one person's attention, however briefly. So he went with it, allowing himself to be virtually dry humped in public because he was that starved for close human contact.

"God, you're so fuckin' beautiful," breathed a voice that was raspy with what he assumed was lust. The sentiment was spoken directly into his ear, close enough to make the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. "I've never wanted anyone so bad in my entire life."

In his right mind, Quatre would have laughed it off and walked away. He'd never been a ‘hook up' kind of guy. He never followed any of the other club-goers into the men's room for a one-off like he'd seen so many others do. Part of him was still clinging to the hope that Trowa would eventually come to his senses and declare his undying love. It was absurd, but it was what it was.

Later on, he would wonder what possessed him to go home with this stranger. Maybe because it was his birthday. Maybe because he was twenty four and still a virgin. Whatever the reason, he turned around in the circle of the man's arms and was instantly lost in the warmest pair of brown eyes he'd ever seen. Any reticence he may have harbored flew right out the window as he wrapped his arms around the handsome stranger's neck and smiled teasingly. "Prove it."

***

Saturday morning greeted him with sunlight shining in his eyes and a heavy weight draped over his back. He was pleasantly warm and sleepy, with a telltale ache between his legs that brought the memories of the night before slamming into him with the force of a fastball thrown by a major league pitcher. He didn't remember much about the trek from the club to the stranger's townhouse, let alone what the inside of his abode even looked like.

What he did remember was being wrestled to the bed, panting and ridiculously horny as the man's hands tore aggressively at his clothing. Each new patch of skin revealed quickly became peppered by angry red hickeys and bite marks. He remembered losing himself to the unbelievable sensation of that same hungry mouth sucking down the length of his cock and the wet swipes of tongue probing between his buttocks.

His lover was shamelessly dominant, using his words, body language, and hands to assert his authority and Quatre was content to let him call the shots. When he was dragged off the bed and pushed down onto his knees, he eagerly took the man's straining cock into his mouth. He instantly fell in love with velvety texture, the salty flavor of sweat and musk, and the way his eyes watered from the harsh pulling and tugging of his hair. The man was extremely vocal, blurting out deep grunts and obscene remarks about how hot Quatre looked while sucking dick. An indiscernible amount of time later, he was manhandled back to the bed and rolled onto his belly, ass tilted upwards with the added help of pillows shoved beneath his hips.

He'd moaned brokenly into the plush bedding, first in pain, then in pleasure as his lover's fingers pillaged the uncharted waters of his body. The burn of being stretched and the piquant ache of deep penetration summoned filthy pleas to spill unbidden from his trembling lips. Tawdry words that at any other time, he would have been far too embarrassed to say.

He knew what came next. He knew that the natural progression would inevitably lead to to intercourse, but there was no trepidation, no fear. Only restless anticipation and a wicked thrill that had him begging to be taken with wanton abandon.

His lover was an adventurous one, quite skilled in the art of lovemaking and Quatre thanked his lucky stars that he hadn't gone home with some bumbling novice who had no idea what he was doing. It likely would have turned into an awkward case of the blind leading the blind. Two idiots fumbling their way through something neither of them had done before.

The man took him while he was still on his belly, hips working up to a steady pace between his splayed thighs. A short while later, he was on his back with his head dangling over the side of the bed and his ankles held firmly in his lover's hands. The position provided the perfect angle to stroke his prostate and he came with a shout only minutes later, painting his groin and belly in white hot pleasure.

But his lover was far from finished and Quatre's world tipped once again when he was pulled back up and then draped over the man's broad chest. Trembling and spent, he endured the aggressive thrusts and near-painful pressure against his prostate with soft whimpers, harmonized by the lewd sounds of fucking and his lover's deep growls. His hips began to ache from the grip of hands and unforgiving fingers digging deep into his soft flesh. When the man came a few minutes later, he held Quatre down firmly against his groin and emptied himself with loud groans and reverent praises.

Quatre didn't have to be an expert to know great sex when it happened and that was probably the best sex he would have for quite a while.

To his surprise, he wasn't asked to leave after he'd given up the goods. Instead, the man became extremely clingy, refusing to let him go any further than the bathroom. Quatre was lulled to sleep by the soft, rhythmic thump of the man's heart beat, tucked securely in the circle of his lover's protective embrace. Though he wouldn't allow himself to hope for anything more, he couldn't help thinking how easy it was to get used to a warm bed and the feeling of strong, loving arms wrapped around him.

"Mmm...you're awake now. Good morning, gorgeous."

He turned his head to look at the man who was responsible for his beatific mood and happily accepted the drowsy kiss. "Morning."

"Did you sleep well?"

"Like a babe," he replied with a blissful smile, but then turned his mouth down into a playful pout.

"But...there's a small problem."

"What?"

"You never told me your name."

The man tipped his head back and let out an easy laugh that made Quatre's heart skip giddily. "I suppose we were a little preoccupied last night, weren't we? It's Stephahn. And I do believe I know yours already."

Quatre chuckled, though his cheeks flushed with heat. "You probably do, but I'll tell you anyway. Just in case and because I'm all about proper introductions. It's Quatre."

Stephahn grinned. "I knew that. And I must say, you are even more beautiful in person," he said, leaning down to capture Quatre's lips again. This kiss lingered and then deepened and Quatre gave himself over to it, arousal sparking in his groin as he felt Stephahn's erection pressing into his buttock. The ache flared, spreading like warm chocolate throughout his body and he whimpered into his lover's mouth, hoping Stephahn would get the hint.

Not a problem there. Stephahn was on the same page, already reaching behind him to fetch the lube on top of the nightstand where he'd left it the night before. He squeezed out just enough of the gel to wet Quatre's opening and then he was scooping him into his arms to hold him flush against his chest.

Quatre kept his breathing slow and even, reminding himself to stay relaxed. Though he was ready, he still couldn't stop the shaky gasp when Stephahn's cock quested between his cheeks and pushed inside him. He didn't bother with a slow, incremental entry, instead sliding into Quatre's heat in one smooth movement until he was buried balls deep.

Sweat broke out along Quatre's brow when Stephahn immediately pulled back and slid in again, not waiting for him to adjust to the stretch. He hooked one hand beneath Quatre's thigh, lifting his leg up into the air while the other wrapped around his throat and held him in place. With the pressure against his windpipe, Quatre's mind grew fuzzy around the edges from the depleted supply of oxygen. He clutched handfuls of the rumpled sheets and held on for dear life as he endured the forceful thrusts, unable to do anything more than ride each one out.

"That moment when I first saw you in the club, I knew I had to have you before anyone else got the chance," Stephahn growled into his ear. "I couldn't believe you, of all people, were there, but you looked so beautiful on the dance floor bathed in red and blue light and all I could think was, ‘He is mine.'"

Quatre groaned through clenched teeth, the possessive words and jarring of his body which took the brunt of the man's lust heated his blood like molten lava and traveled down to his groin where it churned like a roiling volcano in the moments before eruption. The repetitive pressure against his prostate chased every thought from his mind until there was only the singular focus of searing pleasure that pushed him closer and closer to release. This guy was intense as hell. Maybe even a little too intense, but his cock felt so good and his territorial behavior was igniting every nerve in Quatre's body as if they were newly born stars.

"I want you to be mine," Stephahn groaned, sounding close to orgasm himself. "For keeps. I want you by my side all the time. I want to make love to you every morning and every night. I can make you feel so amazing if you'll let me. All you have to do is say yes and you'll never want for anything again."

Quatre was tempted to accept. It was difficult not to be when he was getting his brains fucked out in the most delightful ways, but this was a lot for two people who had only known each other for twelve hours.

It seemed foolish, reckless. A recipe for disaster. There was a significant probability that they could wind up hating each other.

Then again, even if it did go sour, there really was no harm, no foul. If it didn't work out, then he would be no worse off than he was now. If nothing else, he was pretty sure the odds of finding someone who could make him feel this incredibly satisfied were not in his favor.

"Fuck...you feel so fuckin' good, baby. I can't stand the thought of anyone else touching you. Please say you'll be mine."

Quatre hovered precariously between refusal and acceptance. Whatever he chose, it would be life-changing. There was no avoiding that.

Stephahn's teeth sunk into the side of his neck, perfectly timed with a powerful thrust which pressed the head of his cock against Quatre's prostate with maddening precision. As Quatre was catapulted headlong into orgasm, the decision was confirmed before he even knew what he was agreeing to. Through the haze of ecstasy, he yielded to the man's request with a broken moan and a nod of his feverish head, too immersed in the moment to think clearly.

In hindsight, he would realize that the red flags were there since the very beginning. Only he'd been too blinded by his desperate need for love and companionship to see them.

~ * ~

Chapter 1

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