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"Leave A Light On For Me "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: rape/noncon, prostitution, drug use,
drug addiction, homophobia, and abuse of a minor. Please heed the
warnings. Pairings: 3x4, 4xOC'sx4 Summary: After recovering from an addiction to
painkillers, Quatre finds himself facing an uncertain future. " Leave A Light On For Me " A wise man once said to me, 'Quatre, sometimes the heart will lead you astray, but it will inevitably bring you home'. He'd said this to me while I was strapped to a gurney, shaking like the dickens, and frothing at the mouth. Detox had been a bitch, the facility I was stuck in, even worse. This of course came from the same man who'd been the one to make the medical decisions for me while I recovered in the hospital after being run through by a sword. Apparently, I wasn't old enough, or cognizant enough to determine whether or not I needed pain medication. Even though I'd told them numerous times that I didn't want the drugs they pumped into my veins, my old "friend" insisted that I didn't know what was good for me. Considering I wasn't legally old enough to sign off on my own treatment, my wishes were overridden and I was given the morphine drip against my will. It didn't matter that he had willingly taken orders from me on the battlefield. Didn't matter that I'd proven myself time and again. Suddenly, I was thrust back into the role I'd been in before I left my home at the age of thirteen. Incapable of knowing what I needed, useless without an entourage of governesses and caregivers to wipe my ass for me. Oh, that Quatre Winner. He's a sweet kid. Cute as a button, but such a tragic disappointment to his family, to the Winner name. My father finally got his son and he turned out to be nothing but a decoration. Of course, my abilities as a Gundam pilot and commander could never be used as credentials. Oh, no. The pacifist Winner family would never publicly admit to the shame that the beloved heir was a blood-thirsty war monger. Not that I was. But it didn't matter. In their eyes, I was already damned the moment I took up arms. Sold my soul to the Devil. And I did. The price in the end was just too great. And I'd done it all to protect the people who hated me. I was starting to believe I was just as stupid as everyone thought I was. Sure, we achieved peace and I suppose that should have been enough. Certainly more important than my selfish desires for more. Of course, being the sentimental fool that I am, I did the absolute dumbest thing I could have done in the midst of war. I fell in love. And when I say "fell" I mean I did. Hard. Like off a cliff and into a pile of mush hard. With a boy who was too far removed from his own emotions to reciprocate. I suppose I could have laughed it off as a crush, at least at first. But, I know I'd be lying. I gave him my heart. He took it and stuck it through a paper shredder, poured gasoline on it and lit a match before giving it back to me. Like I knew what to do with it at that point. Maybe it wouldn't have been so difficult if we hadn't gotten so close, if he hadn't led me to believe he actually felt something for me. The first time I told him I loved him, I'd been blasted out of my mind on morphine, convinced I was dying and was desperate with the need to tell him what I felt in my heart before I took my last breath. I can't remember if he responded. And he didn't mention it once. So, I simply let it slide, figuring he didn't want to embarrass me with what he thought were delirious ramblings. The second time was just after the Eve Wars. Unbeknownst to my comrades, I was popping Percocets like they were Pez candy just to stop the shake in my hands and to keep from going grand mal. I'd been "weaned" from morphine to Demeral in the hospital long enough to convince my system to latch onto it as a necessity. Then, they let me go with a pat on the back a prescription for Vicodin. I didn't fill it right away, ecstatic that I was allowed my autonomy. I never wanted to be pumped full of narcotics to begin with. The withdrawal began in less than forty eight hours and became so unbearable, I couldn't hold food down. My temperature spiked and I was rushed back to the infirmary by Rashid who was convinced that I had an infection. I certainly didn't know what the problem was. The doctors should have. Instead of recognizing the symptoms of detox, they simply gave me antibiotics and sent me home. That night, I was so sick I couldn't stand it anymore. I begged Rashid to fill the prescription for me. Oh, it was incredible how much better I felt once the Vicodin was running through my veins. The fever went away, I could hold down food though I didn't have much appetite, and I suddenly felt functional again. Normal. That should have been a massive red flag, but I was fifteen and had no idea what drug addiction did to a person. Just before the Eve Wars, I finally realized I had a serious problem, but I was too far gone in my addiction to be able to stop. I couldn't focus, didn't have my faculties without the pills. I told Trowa again that I loved him. There was only a minute change in his expression. He nodded, then said he had to go back to the circus. And that was that. That should have been the end of it. The 'Quatre, pull up your big boy britches and get on with your life' moment. But, I was devastated. More so because by that point I was sure he felt the same. The one time he'd cupped my face and brushed his lips against mine in a not-quite-kiss should have been the smoking gun I needed to know that he felt something more than friendship, or camaraderie for me. That he could just wave his hand at the whole thing was beyond my comprehension. I tried to quit then. That very night, but by three in the morning, I was seizing. After waking up in a mess of my own sick, I swallowed down three doses and convulsed on the floor until the sweet medicine saturated my system with its opiate healing. I cleaned myself up as best I could, still weak from the episode, kneeling in the shower weeping like a child, feeling lost and confused. I knew I couldn't go to my family for help. The only thing worse than a war-monger was a drug addicted queer. I went to the only person I could think of. "Rashid, I need your help." The next day, I was in full detox mode in a questionable methadone clinic in New Orleans. And by questionable, I mean some of the staff was under the impression that the patients were there for reasons other than recovery. I found this out the hard way during one of my lucid periods when I came to and discovered I was naked from the waist down and my legs were slung over the shoulders of some sleaze ball who was grunting and groaning above me. I was sixteen and a virgin. If the trauma of being hooked on painkillers wasn't bad enough, the rapes I endured were enough to ensure I wouldn't be able to recover. The assaults occurred on a nightly basis and I was helpless to stop them. Strapped down to prevent injury when I seized, and too weak and sick to do anything but whimper from the pain and humiliation. When I emerged from the clinic four weeks later, I was clean, but not better. Rashid had done what he could, but considering what I was now, he decided he'd done his good deed by dropping me off at the rehab center with a few sugary words as his parting gift. He hadn't been back since and I found out he'd gone back to Jordan when I tried to call him from a payphone. The Maguanacs were family only so far until the point where I'd broken two cardinal rules of Islam. I was an addict and a homosexual. Same dilema when it came to my biological family. There was no followup from the clinic. No aftercare. Just, 'Have a nice day and out with you.' I told them that I'd been raped. That other patients were also likely being raped. Their response was, 'It's a free clinic. It's got to cost you something'. Yeah. They actually said that. I didn't know where to go or who to turn to. I couldn't go to Trowa. I had no idea where Heero, or Wufei were. Duo probably would have helped me, but I was honestly too embarrassed to face him. And I was in no shape to be anything but a burden anyway. I realized for the first time in my life, I was homeless. Worse than that, I was alone. Post-war employment was scarce. Especially for a sixteen year old with no documents, ID, or address. Only a fake name. I lasted five days before I was so hungry I let some guy bend me over the backseat of his Mercedes. And I didn't fail to notice the gold band on his ring finger. He tossed me a few bills for my troubles and sent me on my way. I tried not to think about the fact that I'd just peddled my body for a few measly dollars. I savored the meal it bought me, the first real meal I'd had in weeks. And I'd earned every penny of it. It was the first time I'd sold my body, but it wasn't the first time I'd sold my soul. And it would be far from the last. It was the only thing I had left to offer.
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