[ Tekken ][ Gen ]
Fandom: Tekken.
Characters/Pairings: Hwoarang, Jin.
Rating: R.
Warnings: Language. IC racism.
Notes: Starts between Tekken 4 and 5; goes off into AU later.
Part One.
Fight me.
No.
Fight me.
No.
Kazama-!
No.
Pause. Then:
Pound pound pound pound FIGHT ME DAMN YOU I’LL BREAK THIS DOOR DOWN IF I HAVE TO smash kick smash smash, click, and open-
and then Jin’s standing there looking out at him, leaning against the frame of the door-
-and Hwoarang stares at him, just for a second, mostly in shock, before he’s able to tear his gaze away. But a second is long enough-long enough for the exhaustion to register, the exhaustion that Jin’s managed to conceal in every part of his body except the anger lines, the worry lines, the light-dark-maybe half-circles under his eyes that he can’t erase through sheer force of will. He looks, Hwoarang thinks, staring at the splintering, uncarpeted wooden paneling on the floor outside Jin’s apartment door, like a man who hasn’t slept in a week. Like a man having-maybe living-a waking nightmare.
He looks weak.
Hwoarang hates it.
Jin doesn’t notice.
Hwoarang hates that, too.
Weak, weak, weak. Weak! How the fuck could this guy have beaten him-how could he have let this guy beat him-
You again…
Jin’s carefully neutral voice cuts into his thoughts, and Hwoarang suddenly regrets it all, regrets trying to track Jin down before the tournament began, regrets coming here, regrets demanding a fight, regrets even looking up at Jin-especially since
Yeah. Me. Again.
in a what-you-gonna-do-about-it-punk tone is all that he can salvage from the millions of possible responses blaring at ragespeed through his head. He hears Jin sigh quietly, a noise of resignation, and he looks up, glaring his anger into the pair of carefully unreadable, impossibly guarded dark eyes that meet his own.
They tell him nothing, but he’d been expecting that.
Fucking Japanese.
And he’s almost been expecting the next part, too, when Jin prompts, in a suddenly tired voice that sounds like he’d much rather run and slam the door in his face,
You wanted to fight me.
because Jin, for some reason, Jin, of all people, has always known exactly the right thing to say to tilt Hwoarang off the edge of slightly pissed-off into raving fury.
Yeah, he fucking wanted to fight him. Yeah, he wanted to win. Yeah, he’d been chasing Jin around for over a fucking year, wanting and training his ass off for that rematch that he’d been denied for so long. And hell fucking yeah, did he want to take Jin’s fucking face and grind it into the dirt-but not like this, not like this when Jin obviously couldn’t concentrate, when he obviously wouldn’t get a match with Jin at his peak-who the fuck, what the fuck, did Jin take him for!? Not like this when he couldn’t fucking face the same fighter he’d fucking lost to, not after seeing him like that, not like this when something else-something more important, comes the bitter thought-was distracting the son of a bitch of a bastard from Hwoarang’s moment of triumph-
The same son of a bitch that’s passively, blankly, watching him swearing like a lunatic in Korean now, not understanding a word and apparently lost in his own damn thoughts again.
Kazama!
Jin looks up, startled, and Hwoarang’s fists clench in anger once again as the odd, infuriating fact registers: the fucking bastard has just completely forgotten I’m here.
And just as Hwoarang’s about to call it off-more like blow it off-and say something like I-can’t-fight-you-like-this, or I’ll-come-back-later-and-you-better-be-fucking-ready-next-time, or nevermind-there’s-no-point-in-kicking-the-ass-of-pussies-go-find-your-balls-and-then-we’ll-spar, Jin says
I can’t, right now.
And then he adds,
I’m sorry.
and Hwoarang’s immediate, flaring response, all smartass comebacks instantly forgotten, is
Why the hell not!?
and an absolute silence falls over the hallway.
But Hwoarang can deal with silence. Better than Jin opening his damn mouth and-
Take the win.
-making him explode back into outraged, furious cursing again, in Japanese this time, things he’s picked up in the alleyways of Japan’s night life the last two times he’s been here-hell, making shit up as he goes-and he’s only encouraged by Jin’s eyes widening, narrowing, then hardening.
And then he finally gets it: a reaction that’s not calm, calculated, or like anything he’s been expecting.
You idiot-I might kill you-
I’m not that fucking easy-
You don’t understand-
You don’t understand-you think I’m afraid of-
You’re too damn proud-
I’m too damn proud-
And too stubborn to run the fuck away when you should-
Fuck you, Kazama, I’ll fight you all the way to hell!
And the way that curtain of dark, impenetrable emotionlessness re-closes over Jin’s face and the way Jin half-whispers
Exactly.
makes Hwoarang fall silent again, staring at Jin half in confusion, half in too-fucking-pissed-to-speak.
Jin avoids his eyes.
I don’t have time…
And Hwoarang knows that expression-or at least knows Jin well enough to know what that expression means-and it means that he’s not going to get any answers, no matter how long he stands there and argues, or how many direct damn questions he asks. He knows that expression, the one that tells him that Jin will say everything and anything but the truth. It’s pointless to even wonder.
Fucking Japanese.
You’ll make time, he contents himself with saying, you’ll make time during the next King of the Iron Fist tournament. And you won’t get your ass kicked by anyone else but me, once we meet in the end. That clear?
Sou, Jin replies, a one-syllable response that could mean anything from I-understand-completely to I-haven’t-fucking-heard-a-word-you-just-said-
-but it has to be enough for Hwoarang, because Jin steps backward and closes the door, and he’s left standing alone in the empty hallway, listening to Jin’s muffled, receding footsteps and the rain outside. But it is enough, that short, vague answer, because he saw that spark, the one of determination that he’s always seen in Jin, return at the mention of the tournament. He’ll be there, Hwoarang knows for sure. They’ll both be there. And whatever happens will happen.
But hell-he’s always hated waiting. And now, he’s still way too pissed off to go back and train, especially with what he knows Baek sabumnim is going to say when he figures out where he’s been-we didn’t relocate to Japan for you to visit your friends, take something seriously for once-even though it’s months yet until the tournament officially begins, and he does already take it more seriously than anyone can ever guess. Except maybe Jin. Especially because of Jin.
Fucking Jin.
The rain is cool against his skin, humid air rising from the street, when Hwoarang steps out of the nondescript apartment building-Jin’s found a good place to hide; the name by his apartment number even read Asano-and looks around to see the neon lights of downtown Tokyo already lighting the night almost more brilliantly than the day. It’s 9 PM, a Saturday, five months before the tournament begins, and the city seems more alive than ever, breathing rain-steam up at him, flashing its ads-inviting, with all the allure of a cheap whore under dim lighting, bright-red lipstick and a bastardized schoolgirl skirt she might have worn ten, twenty years ago.
Not that Seoul, or any city he’s ever been to, has been any different. Different whores. Different clothes. That's about all. He used to be a part of it, once, that teeming mass of darklit life. Then Jin-
Dragged him out of it, maybe-
Fucking-
Hwoarang curses, pulls his hood over his head, and starts down the street, ignoring the looks he keeps getting for speaking a language that isn’t Tokyo’s own, and ignoring the indignant protests of the pedestrians he roughly shoves out of his way. To hell with them. To hell with all of it. Fuck what time it is, fuck what day it is, fuck when the tournament begins or ends-it’s night, it’s a city, it’s raining and he’s pissed-
He’s going to find a fucking bar.
Characters/Pairings: Hwoarang, Jin.
Rating: R.
Warnings: Language. IC racism.
Notes: Starts between Tekken 4 and 5; goes off into AU later.
Part One.
Fight me.
No.
Fight me.
No.
Kazama-!
No.
Pause. Then:
Pound pound pound pound FIGHT ME DAMN YOU I’LL BREAK THIS DOOR DOWN IF I HAVE TO smash kick smash smash, click, and open-
and then Jin’s standing there looking out at him, leaning against the frame of the door-
-and Hwoarang stares at him, just for a second, mostly in shock, before he’s able to tear his gaze away. But a second is long enough-long enough for the exhaustion to register, the exhaustion that Jin’s managed to conceal in every part of his body except the anger lines, the worry lines, the light-dark-maybe half-circles under his eyes that he can’t erase through sheer force of will. He looks, Hwoarang thinks, staring at the splintering, uncarpeted wooden paneling on the floor outside Jin’s apartment door, like a man who hasn’t slept in a week. Like a man having-maybe living-a waking nightmare.
He looks weak.
Hwoarang hates it.
Jin doesn’t notice.
Hwoarang hates that, too.
Weak, weak, weak. Weak! How the fuck could this guy have beaten him-how could he have let this guy beat him-
You again…
Jin’s carefully neutral voice cuts into his thoughts, and Hwoarang suddenly regrets it all, regrets trying to track Jin down before the tournament began, regrets coming here, regrets demanding a fight, regrets even looking up at Jin-especially since
Yeah. Me. Again.
in a what-you-gonna-do-about-it-punk tone is all that he can salvage from the millions of possible responses blaring at ragespeed through his head. He hears Jin sigh quietly, a noise of resignation, and he looks up, glaring his anger into the pair of carefully unreadable, impossibly guarded dark eyes that meet his own.
They tell him nothing, but he’d been expecting that.
Fucking Japanese.
And he’s almost been expecting the next part, too, when Jin prompts, in a suddenly tired voice that sounds like he’d much rather run and slam the door in his face,
You wanted to fight me.
because Jin, for some reason, Jin, of all people, has always known exactly the right thing to say to tilt Hwoarang off the edge of slightly pissed-off into raving fury.
Yeah, he fucking wanted to fight him. Yeah, he wanted to win. Yeah, he’d been chasing Jin around for over a fucking year, wanting and training his ass off for that rematch that he’d been denied for so long. And hell fucking yeah, did he want to take Jin’s fucking face and grind it into the dirt-but not like this, not like this when Jin obviously couldn’t concentrate, when he obviously wouldn’t get a match with Jin at his peak-who the fuck, what the fuck, did Jin take him for!? Not like this when he couldn’t fucking face the same fighter he’d fucking lost to, not after seeing him like that, not like this when something else-something more important, comes the bitter thought-was distracting the son of a bitch of a bastard from Hwoarang’s moment of triumph-
The same son of a bitch that’s passively, blankly, watching him swearing like a lunatic in Korean now, not understanding a word and apparently lost in his own damn thoughts again.
Kazama!
Jin looks up, startled, and Hwoarang’s fists clench in anger once again as the odd, infuriating fact registers: the fucking bastard has just completely forgotten I’m here.
And just as Hwoarang’s about to call it off-more like blow it off-and say something like I-can’t-fight-you-like-this, or I’ll-come-back-later-and-you-better-be-fucking-ready-next-time, or nevermind-there’s-no-point-in-kicking-the-ass-of-pussies-go-find-your-balls-and-then-we’ll-spar, Jin says
I can’t, right now.
And then he adds,
I’m sorry.
and Hwoarang’s immediate, flaring response, all smartass comebacks instantly forgotten, is
Why the hell not!?
and an absolute silence falls over the hallway.
But Hwoarang can deal with silence. Better than Jin opening his damn mouth and-
Take the win.
-making him explode back into outraged, furious cursing again, in Japanese this time, things he’s picked up in the alleyways of Japan’s night life the last two times he’s been here-hell, making shit up as he goes-and he’s only encouraged by Jin’s eyes widening, narrowing, then hardening.
And then he finally gets it: a reaction that’s not calm, calculated, or like anything he’s been expecting.
You idiot-I might kill you-
I’m not that fucking easy-
You don’t understand-
You don’t understand-you think I’m afraid of-
You’re too damn proud-
I’m too damn proud-
And too stubborn to run the fuck away when you should-
Fuck you, Kazama, I’ll fight you all the way to hell!
And the way that curtain of dark, impenetrable emotionlessness re-closes over Jin’s face and the way Jin half-whispers
Exactly.
makes Hwoarang fall silent again, staring at Jin half in confusion, half in too-fucking-pissed-to-speak.
Jin avoids his eyes.
I don’t have time…
And Hwoarang knows that expression-or at least knows Jin well enough to know what that expression means-and it means that he’s not going to get any answers, no matter how long he stands there and argues, or how many direct damn questions he asks. He knows that expression, the one that tells him that Jin will say everything and anything but the truth. It’s pointless to even wonder.
Fucking Japanese.
You’ll make time, he contents himself with saying, you’ll make time during the next King of the Iron Fist tournament. And you won’t get your ass kicked by anyone else but me, once we meet in the end. That clear?
Sou, Jin replies, a one-syllable response that could mean anything from I-understand-completely to I-haven’t-fucking-heard-a-word-you-just-said-
-but it has to be enough for Hwoarang, because Jin steps backward and closes the door, and he’s left standing alone in the empty hallway, listening to Jin’s muffled, receding footsteps and the rain outside. But it is enough, that short, vague answer, because he saw that spark, the one of determination that he’s always seen in Jin, return at the mention of the tournament. He’ll be there, Hwoarang knows for sure. They’ll both be there. And whatever happens will happen.
But hell-he’s always hated waiting. And now, he’s still way too pissed off to go back and train, especially with what he knows Baek sabumnim is going to say when he figures out where he’s been-we didn’t relocate to Japan for you to visit your friends, take something seriously for once-even though it’s months yet until the tournament officially begins, and he does already take it more seriously than anyone can ever guess. Except maybe Jin. Especially because of Jin.
Fucking Jin.
The rain is cool against his skin, humid air rising from the street, when Hwoarang steps out of the nondescript apartment building-Jin’s found a good place to hide; the name by his apartment number even read Asano-and looks around to see the neon lights of downtown Tokyo already lighting the night almost more brilliantly than the day. It’s 9 PM, a Saturday, five months before the tournament begins, and the city seems more alive than ever, breathing rain-steam up at him, flashing its ads-inviting, with all the allure of a cheap whore under dim lighting, bright-red lipstick and a bastardized schoolgirl skirt she might have worn ten, twenty years ago.
Not that Seoul, or any city he’s ever been to, has been any different. Different whores. Different clothes. That's about all. He used to be a part of it, once, that teeming mass of darklit life. Then Jin-
Dragged him out of it, maybe-
Fucking-
Hwoarang curses, pulls his hood over his head, and starts down the street, ignoring the looks he keeps getting for speaking a language that isn’t Tokyo’s own, and ignoring the indignant protests of the pedestrians he roughly shoves out of his way. To hell with them. To hell with all of it. Fuck what time it is, fuck what day it is, fuck when the tournament begins or ends-it’s night, it’s a city, it’s raining and he’s pissed-
He’s going to find a fucking bar.