A/N - A short "Veteran" vignette. I have been trying to reawaken my muses.
Disclaimer - I don't own Ruroken, any of its canon characters, situations or settings. Don't sue.
Novocaine
"...And I never stopped the dreams,
or the growing need for speed and novocaine..."
Khe Sanh, by Cold Chisel
His scraped knuckles sting, his whole body aching and sore. He hasn't slept in days. He has no appetite, he doesn't feel like drinking, and even gyrating Thai girls propositioning him in sing-song English don't stir him. The white powder, crutch and downfall in one, can no longer drown out his troubles. He's on a downward slope and he knows it – but still, he can't bring himself to care.
The war is long over, but Sano has yet to return home. There's nothing to return to: he has no family, no education, no prospects and no plans. He's got an uncontrollable temper, recurring nightmares, and a serious drug problem. He's pissed away all his money, burned all his bridges, and chased away all his friends –
Except one. And when he finds himself staggering back to an old, familiar refuge, the last one he has left, he knows he's finally hit rock bottom.
The door to number 304 is old, warped, the green paint faded and peeling. Hesitating, he raises his aching fist and hammers on it, cursing himself, half-hoping that no one would come, that the door would remain closed in his face. For a long, long while, there is silence, and Sano half-convinces himself that there is no-one home, that Ken has long since moved on.
He turns back to the stairs, his shoulders hunched into his filthy, battered jacket, when he hears the locks being thrown back, hears the hinges creak and groan, and hears Ken say, in his soft, concerned tone, "Sano?"
"What the hell are you trying to prove?" Ken asks him. They sit at the rickety table in Ken's tiny kitchenette, surrounded by the contents of his rudimentary first aid kit.
Sano can't meet Ken's eyes. Too often, over the years, he's found himself crawling back here, leaning on that calm, steady strength, sleeping on a mattress on the floor until he feels the old, familiar discontent stirring.
Ken has always made a point of looking out for him, ever since he'd first arrived in hell, a cocky punk kid completely unprepared for what was to come. The harsh, terrifying reality of 'Nam had stripped Sano of his bravado; constant tension and paranoia had made it seem as though the world had gone mad, and he with it. And then when it was all over, when they could all go home and return to 'normal' life, Sano fucked it up. What he'd done, the things he'd said: the memory still has the power to make him feel ashamed, even now.
But Ken hadn't given up on him. Nothing Sano said or did could get rid of him, not even the worst abuse – Ken might speak softly and smile gently, but in his own way he had a will of absolute, immovable bedrock. And Sano both loved and resented him for it.
"I don't know," Sano says. All his life, he's never had anything except his fists and his aggressive bravado – until this crazy friendship with calm, quiet Ken Hamill of undisclosed rank and role, who had taught him there was more. When Ken looked at him with those ancient, golden-brown eyes, that gentle martyr's smile, he wanted so badly to be worthy of him.
"Sometimes," he murmurs slowly, "fighting is the only thing that makes me feel alive."