Author: Chauni
Email: ChauniMaxwell@mechpilot.com
Website: www.oocities.org/asukalangley2nd/
Warnings: Violence, Angst, Language, Attempted rape, Yaoi
Pairings: 1x2, 2x4, 3x4, 5+2
Disclaimer: I don’t own the GW boy nor did I make any money off this.
Pity me.
Bind The Soul
My
days have fallen into a continuous circle of hazy wakefulness and oblivious,
drug-induced slumber. I can’t tell which way is up, let alone where am I or even
what time it is. All I know is that the clouds I ride upon are much more
pleasant than the reality that constantly awaits me, and no matter how hard I
try to stay, some bright light always tears me away from that gentle peace.
Finally,
after a particularly long nap, my system is cleared from all intoxicants and I
am allowed to get a certain bearing on my surroundings. The room is slightly
lavish, nothing breath-taking, but nothing dingy. What little is there is
expensive: the canopy oak bed with crimson satin sheets, the oil painting of a
calm forest scene on the paneled walls, the wooden rocking chair that had been
painstakingly crafted by a person’s bare hands, rather than a cold machine.
This room celebrates an odd sense of life, of mortality that enwraps me and my
soul for a moment and I can think of nothing to say.
But
then my eyes fall across the mirrors and my mind falls short, dead, and my
chest throbs in excruciating agony. Words that beg to be release can’t fly pass
my numb lips. My blood is cold as it pumps furiously through my veins, making
the rest of my stiff body the same way.
Those…people…as
they screamed for mercy, for my help. Their faces speckled with scarlet drops
of their own life…their flat eyes as they stare beseechingly at me…The violin
broken into shards across the floor, broken like me, like everything I
know…Allah, save me!
I
curl up on the sheets, unconsciously mewling in the back of my throat. Lost in
my own world of mental torment, I dimly register the sound of a door opening
and the soft footsteps approaching me.
“Mr. Winner, you surprise me,” a
quiet distinctly feminine voice says above me. “I never thought you would be
this afraid of us. This really does not make you seem like the ruthless,
murdering pilot famous for his role in the war, now does it?”
My muscles immediately stiffen and
all dread of the waking nightmares flee as if banished by her voice. I look up
through my golden bangs, attempting a blank face, but I can feel the rage
slipping into my eyes. “Who are you and why did you kidnap me?”
She delicately sits down in the
rocking chair, and I recognize her at once. She has discarded her business suit
for a pair of black pants and a crimson, buttoned shirt and her plain hair is
pulled up into a hasty ponytail that just brushes against the back of her neck.
The glasses have been shed for a set of contacts, obvious by the change of eye
color from a doe brown to cool gray. This is the woman from my office, and most
likely the mastermind behind my abduction, damnit.
Her poise and stature is full of an
unearthly confidence, reminding me eerily of Treize. It exudes off her in waves
that nearly bowl me over, but I harden my eyes to walls that would have made
Heero proud. She leans back in her chair, rocking it slowly, as a sly smile
creeps its way across her lips like a feline stalking its prey.
“I’m sure you have quite a few
questions, Mr. Winner,” she purrs with a slightly French accent, reminding me
yet again of a cat. “I suppose it’s rightly so, considering this peculiar
situation, eh?”
I straighten on the bed, sitting up
tall as I can, which isn’t very tall at all unfortunately. However, I ignore my
rather short stature and attempt to look as even and careless as I can, not
wishing to lose the mental battle lain before me. She may have me, but she
cannot keep me.
“Questions?” I snort. “That’s an
understatement.”
“Well, Mr. Winner, I hope I can be
able to answer any and all inquiries you may have concerning your current
situation,” she says, sounding ever bit professional. “My name is Excelia
Barton, cousin to Trowa Barton and niece to Dekim. You, kinda little sir, have
killed half of my family.”
Revenge? Is that the underlying
reason for my abduction? But the sound of calm peace that exudes from her voice
banishes all those thoughts. Vengeance may be a nice side dish, but it is
definitely not the main course.
“You see, Mr. Winner, although you
have killed half of my family, that is not my main objective,” she continues.
“Although, it is also something that will not go unlooked.”
“I see,” I murmur, eyes never
leaving hers.
Gracefully, she rises to her feet
and begins pacing, all the while removing a package of cigarettes from her
pocket and lighting one. Smoke, thin and wispy, wafts up in front of her face,
giving her a dream-like quality. “Mr. Winner, do you realize just how powerful
you truly are? You have a hand in almost every major company on both the
colonies and the Earth. Pharmaceuticals, construction, stocks, everything. One
might say that you have made yourself into a king.”
“Is this a terrorist attack then?” I
ask, voice even. “Against my company and power?” The images of angry colony
citizens emerge in my mind, those enraged people day of my fa- father’s heroic
death. I quickly shake my head, closing my eyes. Father…
She cocks her head to the side, the
cigarette dangling between her unpainted lips. “I suppose you can call this
that, although I’d like to think of it as a hostile takeover,” she drawls,
going back to her previous pacing. “You see, Mr. Winner, your company is still
weak due to your father’s foolish actions.”
I can feel my hands twisting into
the satin sheets, clutching them to keep myself from dashing across the room
and screaming at her. My father died heroically, died for what we believed in,
and I think to this day, he is a stronger man than I can ever be.
She sees the sneer across my lips
and takes another long draw off her burning smoke, blowing it slowly out her
nose as if to impress me. It doesn’t. “If another one of the presidents of your
Corporation winds up missing, your stocks will plummet. Investors will
immediately withdraw all their money. It’s not good for a company to change
presidents twice in three years, you know. Policies change, control alters,
entire new rules and ways of thinking are begun, and people think it’s bad
luck.
“You, Mr. Winner,” she continues,
“or may I call you Quatre? Oh, I think I shall. So, anyway, Quatre, although
your sister may be a wonderful, strong leader in your absence, she is still a
woman and unfortunately still in this day and age, females are still viewed as
‘inferior’ by arrogant, pompous, stupid men.” She grumbles some curses under
her breath, stamping out her cigarette in a nearby metal ashtray. “You have
done an amazing job with the company, I might add, and only at the age of
eighteen. People doubted you at first, due to your past as a Gundam pilot,
however in the end, being a war hero seemed to work for you, eh?”
I snort again, loosening my hold on
the sheets. That isn’t going to save me in the least. I need to calm down, and
fast. If I allow my rage to seep through, I’ll die sooner than I want to; I can
tell by the gleam in her eyes. She’s just looking for an excuse.
“So,” I say, using all my will to
calm my voice, “when the news of my ‘disappearance’ is made public, my stocks
will crash and my company will go through a hard time, inducing layoffs and
other such financial troubles, correct?”
She nods, her ponytail bouncing and
a smile breaking off across her lips. “And then I can go in and purchase it,”
she explains. “And I can be the major power in the world. You see, I don’t want
to rule the world; that’s way too much work. I just want a piece of it to play
around with.”
“If that’s the case,” I evenly
reply, “why haven’t you killed me yet?”
“I haven’t forgotten what you pilots
have done to my family,” she purrs, sitting back down her rocking chair and
leaning forward. “I won’t allow you murdering children to go unpunished. I’m going
to make you all suffer, especially that little bastard nameless kid! How dare
he take my cousin’s place and name!”
I
can see the fury as it crosses her face in waves and I fear for Trowa. I know
what she plans to do; her eyes are open and she isn’t attempting to hide her
emotions. “So, you want to use me as both bait and a torture method?”
She cocks her head to the side, as
if amazed I thought of it on my own, which she plays off as if I had. “What a
splendid idea!” she says, standing up and ignoring my rolling eyes. “And you
seem more than eager to comply, as if you had a choice any how.”
I lunge off my bed and stalk towards
her, lost in my own fiery pit of rage. “I will not be your pawn! I will never
allow you use to me to hurt Trowa!”
“Don’t call him that!” she screams,
pulling her hand back and striking me across the face hard enough to send me
stumbling back a few paces. “That’s not his name! He’s just a rotten no-name
thief who doesn’t deserve to live!”
The heated handprint begins to form
on my cheek, burning and stinging horribly. Excelia regains her composure after
a few moments of heavy breathing, and her gray eyes turn towards me coldly.
“You will be our pawn, for control of your company and to revenge our family
members,” she growls, walking to the door. “You see, Quatre, you have no
choice. Your life, or what little remains of it, is completely and utterly
ours!” As she reaches the exit, she spares me one last, cocky look, a horribly
arrogant grin spreading across her lips. “Oh, and Mr. Winner, if I were you, I
would be nice to the men who will be looking after you. They have an insatiable
hunger for pretty young boys.”
I watch as she slips out the door,
hearing the lock click once she’s gone. Slumping down on the bed, I close my
eyes and think about everything that has happened and what is to come if what
she wants truly does occur.
Trowa….
Although, in general, my life has
been an easier journey than the other pilots, it has never been a simple walk
in the park. There has always been an image I must uphold, and it only became
worse as the Winner Corporation fell into my hands. Stockholders, competing
businesses, the media, all had to be fed this shining, perfect image of me, an
image that I hated and despised, because it wasn’t truly me.
My advisors had insisted on many
things the instant I took hold of the presidency; some easy, most impossible.
The news of my battles during the war were downplayed to the best of their
abilities, but in order to do that, I had to hide my communications with my
fellow war heroes, which became agonizingly hard. My speeches were written for
me, however, I approved them all first.
However, the worst came when I was
ordered above all else, not to carry on with my newfound relationship with the
secretive Trowa. They warned me of rumors, of slander, of the shareholders
removing their money. They spoke of the horrors of financial collapse, of
layoffs, of takeover, of ruin. They ordered the relationship to be severed.
Immediately.
I am a fool, and not one day goes
back that I don’t regret saying goodbye to Trowa.
These terrible thoughts run rings
throughout my mind as I lay back on the bed, feeling the smooth satin sliding
beneath me. I can hear frantic voices speaking hurried French outside my room,
one voice obviously Excelia’s, but the other is something unrecognizable. I
strain to pick up a few words, but the only two languages I know thoroughly are
Arabic and English, and the only few words that Trowa ever taught me in French
are not once spoken in the conversation. I give up my struggle, toss away all
hopes of understanding, and breathe slowly.
I banish all evil thoughts of my life away from my mind, but
the idea of Trowa always seeps back in. Hurt him…They don’t mean physically, of
course. They must know of our past relationship; how I don’t know, nor do I
care. It doesn’t matter anymore. I will be the bait, the torment, the agony of
Trowa, and I can’t even stop it!
I don’t even look at the door as it creaks slowly open, nor
do I shed a glance toward their direction. Basking in the clouds of my own
emotions, memories, of the image of my- er- of Trowa; that is all I desire.
However, it seems even the simplest request is lost in this
hell as a rough hand grasps my chin and forces my eyes to dive into a pair of
murky black ones. The grip is tight and hurting my jaw, almost threatening to
break it to my horror.
I can feel my eyes grow wondrously large as another hand,
immense and threatening, grabs the buckle of my belt and savagely tears it off.
My hands fly downward as a scream is locked in the back of my throat. She had
warned me, damnit! Why hadn’t I taken it seriously?
“You’re such a pretty little boy,” the man growls in my ear,
knocking my protesting limbs away with only one hand. His voice is barely
understandable as a thick French accent takes hold of his words and mangles
them. “I’m going to make you mine, understand? Mine!”
The mixture of his hot breath and the alcohol stench riding
high on it makes me ill and I can’t stop the hot tears of embarrassment and
horror from squeezing out of my eyes. His weight is nearly crushing atop me;
the man is huge! This cannot be happening!
I allow myself to blank out, ignore the surroundings with all
my will, but it is near impossible. The cloud I ride on is thin, and the
slightest movement by the brute above me reminds me of my horrible fate. My
hands are weak and frantic against his bruising fingers, those agonizing digits
that grab my flesh and twist it. Whimpers escape my forcefully shut lips, and
an unshaven, flushed round face fill my vision. Hell could not worse than this…
Due to the crushing fingers, I can feel the bruises begin
the spring across my jaw-line, forcing me to acknowledge my current state.
Shame flares inside my torso, renewing my strength as I unsuccessfully bucked
beneath him. I don’t want to be robbed of this, not this, damnit! My dignity, my worth,
will be stolen in a matter of moments; by Allah, I can hear him taking down his
pants! Make it stop! Someone, make it stop!
“I’m going to make sure you never forget me,” he sneers, his
lips next to my earlobe and all too soon, I realize what he means.
His teeth, jagged and yellow, bite deeply into the flesh of
my right cheek, marring the smooth, perfect flesh there. Blood, a thin stream
of it, slips down my face, mixing with my shameful tears as they fall onto the
satin sheets. This isn’t real…it just can’t be!
His hand jerks my head to the left sharply, those bruising
fingers of metal squeezing even harder for a moment. My eyes fall onto a
mirror, just as he wanted, and I can see myself clearly through my tear-hazed
eyes. I can see what his evil hands are doing to me, where they are flying,
what they are touching. I attempt to turn my head away, but it’s useless
against the iron grip that’s refusing me any sort of movement. My shamed,
frightened eyes stare back at me as he forces the pants off my body with his
knees, leading me to believe this is not the first time this has happened.
And behind us, standing in the background of the glass, are
the people, those dead flat orbs never leaving mine, and some cracked and
bleeding lips are even open in smiles.
Dimly, in some other plane of reality, I hear a door slam
open and screaming begin from all around me, but it all fades into a white
noise in the background. My would-be rapist is suddenly yanked off my quivering
body and thrown onto the floor in a heap of muscle and nakedness, grunting in
both pain and surprise. Scampering wildly, he collects his clothes and dashes
out of the room, without so much as a glance upward at me or my savior, who
immediately shuts the door behind him.
I ignore the mysterious person who saved me and can feel my
body curl into a fetal ball among the blankets, the blood and tears still
streaking down my cheeks in torrents no matter how hard I try to stop. I feel
pathetic, battered, bruised, and sobbing like a lost child, but I don’t care.
After all, I would most likely be dead in a few hours anyway…
The bed creaks softly as my savior sits beside me and I find
myself unconsciously flinching from his entire presence. I await to feel the
greedy hands of another predator touching me, feeling whatever skin he can
find, but after five minutes and nothing, I crack open a single ocean colored
eye and peer at him through matted eyelashes.
The man before me is exquisitely beautiful, a figure made of
silk and marble and the smoke of dreams. His hair, an obsidian silk that
stretches to the center of his back in a loose ponytail, reminds me of slick
raven feathers under the sunlight, where his turbulent gray eyes stare warmly
at me. Hands, built of hard muscle and soft flesh, caress my wounded cheek,
bringing a small gasp from my mouth. His clothes are casual: a pair of dark navy
pants, a plain white t-shirt that looks a tad to large for his thin frame.
“You’re all right now,” he
whispers softly, and I know he speaks the truth. “My name is Ciris, and I won’t
let anyone harm you again, Mr. Winner. Ever.”