Title: A Final Fantasy VII Character Study – Reno
Author: YoukonoHisui
Character(s): Reno
Rating: PG-13 due to some language and suggestive themes
Fandom: FFVII
Disclaimer: As much as I may like to, I don't own Reno.
Warnings: Little bit of language, angst
Word count: 1,027
Author Notes: Just a thought that occurred to me… and a line from somewhere… can't remember if it was from a song, a friend, or just out of my own head… The line is the summary.
Summary: His pain was something he held close, and no one could take it away from him.
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"Turks don't do this."
It was a universal truth.
It wasn't something stated in the Rules and Guidelines handbook Reno had never quite finished reading. It wasn't something that anyone had ever told him. One only had to look at the Turks and recognize it as the truth. Reno knew this and that knowledge made him wonder just what he thought he was doing.
It was Thursday--his new Friday. He had cajoled and begged and threatened and blackmailed until he got his dream schedule: Fridays and Saturdays off. He knew it was widely assumed his reasons centered on and were limited to because those were the nights the clubs and bars were most active, but that was only part of it. While he did have full intentions of taking advantage of that fun fact, it was also because if everyone expected him to be drunk off his ass in some bar, no one would come looking for him elsewhere. Which was where he currently resided.
Elsewhere.
No one knew where he was. It was one of his most guarded secrets. He had never been told this, and, most likely, those concerned would never admit it, but he knew how his fellow Turks depended on him. He had been there when Elena's mother needed to get out of the country. He was the first one Rude called when he lost his apartment due to one too many suspicious bloodstains. (Of course, that was before Shinra had as much influence.) Even Tseng called on him occasionally. Nobody would ever say so, but he was a big part of the strength of their group. He was always joking, lightening the situation, and people in their line of work needed that sometimes--if only to remember they were still human.
But the ever-blithe clown needed to take off his makeup every occasionally. Unwind. Express the rest of his emotions, the ones that he couldn't show to others. Which is why he found this place.
It wasn't the nicest apartment and it wasn't in the nicest neighborhood. He was pretty sure the previous owner was still there, at least in part, as that odd stain on the carpet by the door. But none of that mattered. The fact was he was only going to be using this place every once in a while and the rent was cheap enough that he could keep it without too much of a strain on his bank account.
It was practically empty and the furniture that was there--an old beat up looking couch and a couple of chairs--weren't aimed at comfort.
He didn't come here for comfort.
What he did come here for was the reason no one could know where he was.
Most often, he comes in, locks the door behind him, and turns to gaze around the apartment, almost as if he couldn't believe he was there again. He pulls the cigarettes out of his coat pocket, the lighter out of his pant pocket, and moves further into the room. He is still in that numb stage that always signals he needs some time to himself to release, so he doesn't think about his actions too much; sometimes, going through the motions was all that got him through the day.
Step with right. Step with left. Take jacket off and drop it across chair. Step with right. Step with left. Step with right. Turn. Sit on couch.
It was all very simple. Just for something to do with his hands, he lights the cigarette, makes sure to slip the lighter back into his pocket. Then he sinks back into the couch. Relaxes every muscle in his body. He could sit like that for hours, only moving to pull a drag off the flaming cancer stick in his hand.
But he doesn't sit there idle.
He tries to be, but the tears rolling down his cheeks always belie his stillness. He sits there, every time, in the same way, and cries.
Not loud, chest-wracking, heart wrenching sobs. Just silent tears; the kind where you wouldn't even know he was crying if you didn't look twice.
For hours, he would sit there, barely moving, barely breathing, just wanting it all fucking go away and DIE... Images and half-formed thoughts whispering and screaming, raking dirty claws across his mind… Sometimes, his mind only drifts back to more recent memories…
Don't worry, little girl; you'll be joining your mommy soon…
And, sometimes, it would drift further back, even to his adolescence…
Thick, pungent stench filling his nostrils as 'thatbastard' tried to touch him again… no. more. No. More. NOMORE!... The dark river of blood flowing over the blade to run slick and viscous over his hands…
Reno never knows who he cries for: those who have died by his hand or for himself, but the tears stream unceasingly, a steady cool heat against his skin…
But, after a while, his mind would begin to wake and he would find it functioning in a comprehensible pattern. Never anything too important, mind you, but functioning, which meant that the burden wasn't quite as heavy anymore. The tears would slow until they stopped and his breathing would deepen, taking in more oxygen, allowing his mind to slowly recover.
He almost relished that time when the tears had stopped, but his body wasn't quite ready to move yet. He felt boneless, like he was floating away from everything. He likened it to post-orgasmic bliss, but not quite he thought. Not quite.
He usually went home to sleep while he still felt relaxed, though sometimes, he went to a bar and got drunk, and other times, he called up some girl and had a casual fuck, nice and easy. True post-orgasmic bliss.
Then by the time Sunday rolled around, he was ready to go, mask on, smirk in place.
He held his pain close, in the most secret parts of his heart, and no one could take it away from him. Reno knew Turks weren't supposed to cry, and sometimes that made him wonder just what the hell he thought he was doing.
He called it surviving.