[ Tekken ][ Gen ]
Fandom: Tekken.
Characters/Pairings: Hwoarang, Steve.
Rating: R.
Warnings: Language. IC racism.
Notes: Starts between Tekken 4 and 5; goes off into AU later.
Part Two.
He's always wanted to be the strongest.
To him, it's just that simple. It always has been.
He wants to be the strongest-and should anyone ask him to define strength, or ask him mental, physical, or emotional, he'd say that if he's got to explain it all, whoever is asking is never going to understand in the first place. Might as well get the hell out of his way. Out, along with everyone else that doesn't believe that-or can’t understand how-there's no lust for money or power or fame involved.
It’s not like Paul-Hwoarang remembers with distaste-it’s not like Paul, nothing like Paul and his loudly orated, stupid dreams of being the most powerful or of being undefeated. That’s just bullshit, Hwoarang knows it, and wonders how a man over twice his age can still be so damn childish. Glory isn’t strength. Challenging the universe isn’t strength. Neither is winning. No one can hold strength in a ring. Strength is not a fucking title, and it’s not a fucking test, and it’s not a competition in which people born lucky can buy their way to the top.
Maybe it’s because it’s the great equalizer that Hwoarang finds it so dear.
But there's more to it than that, for him. And less. Both.
Strength. It's just that simple. Everything else is peripheral, things a true fighter doesn't need-things he tries his best not to need too much, and feels strangely weak about every time he does. Strength. A wavering, vague idea in his head, unseeable, ungraspable, but he knows what it is, and it knows him. Strength. He has it, wants it, is it, needs it, worships it and curses it-all at the same time and all without thinking about any of it, although he feels it all.
It’s out there, somewhere. His destiny? He doesn’t know, but Hwoarang’s sure it’ll find him, someday. It has to. What else is there?
Baek-he remembers Baek had asked him what his dream was once, way-years back, when they’d first met. And he remembers saying that it was, one day, to stand above the rest of the world and have them look up at him and say, "no one can take him down,” or maybe, "why would anyone even bother to try?" It's not about ruling the world-someone else can have it, and besides, he’d do a shit job of being its leader: he'd hand it over to someone else, someone smarter-hell, whoever wanted it-in a heartbeat. He's just always wanted to be the strongest, just to know, just to be the guy who never stops getting back up and fighting no matter what gets thrown at him.
With that, Hwoarang remembers finishing, he could die happy.
And maybe he can, eventually.
If he doesn't die now.
The first bad idea had probably been pissing off the group of drunk, laughing, suit-clad Japanese businessmen in the corner when he’d caught them looking at him. It had probably been a worse idea to keep right the fuck on going after they’d all laughed awkwardly and dismissed him as just another punk Japanese upstart with dyed hair. And after they had all stood up silently and the bar had gone silent around him, it had probably been the worst idea of all to switch languages to Korean.
Bad idea, bad idea, always with the bad ideas-he’s starting to remember why he stopped drinking, except now that he’s drunk, he doesn’t really give a shit.
But fuck, Hwoarang’s looking for a fight anyway. Two-on-one, ten-on-one, what the fuck, it doesn’t matter-he just wants to kick somebody’s ass. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s been this drunk-training and Baek have forced him relatively dry for years-but it was probably that last night with the rest of his old gang back in Korea, right before he left them because-
Fucking Kazama-
Hwoarang grits his teeth hard enough to hurt as his heel connects with someone’s drunk, angry, Japanese face-that-isn’t-Jin’s, and it pisses him off that it’s so easy, that they’re all so weak, that he’s not even tasting blood even though he floor is tilting like crazy and their faces are blurry and hell, it pisses him off even more because he knows he’s going to regret this in the morning-he’s got no idea who these people are, doesn’t remember exactly where he is, can’t bother to listen to what they’re yelling, who the fuck cares? Yet he can’t stop, can’t back down, won’t give up, not even knowing he’s being stupid, not even with these odds-
And that’s the part
You’re too damn proud
that pisses him off the most, that
and too stubborn
he hears Jin’s voice echo in his head, and
to run the fuck away when you should-
maybe Jin’s not wrong.
I might kill you-
But he doesn’t understand, that fucker-he refuses to understand-
and fuck it all, morning seems like a thousand years away anyway. This-the bar smashing in a blunt line of pain across his back, pieces of glass imbedded in the soles of his boots scraping across the tiled floor, three down, three to go, where he stops, nobody knows-is here, immediate, tangible, now. Hwoarang wants to lose himself in it, the present, wants more opponents, more attackers, to go blind with fury and die in battle, a better death than Jin cares enough to give him-to flare out, to burn out, go out in a blaze of violence and a scream of fury-to make people realize, make Jin realize, that he just can’t stop a fire with fear-
Stop kickin’ me, you bloody idiot!
and then the sound of English, the sight of angry blue eyes, and a lightning-flash jab of knuckles to his right cheek jars Hwoarang back into reality and knocks him backward against a table. He hears shotglasses shattering with a tinkle behind him, splintering wood, looks down to see six men unconscious on the floor of a now-empty building. And then he looks up to see a familiar face-
You…?
No, the man says immediately. Right now, you-
and then he’s being turned and shoved toward the door, half-blinded when the hood of his jacket is pulled up and down too far over his face, and he’s got barely enough time before he’s pushed out into the street to latch onto the doorframe, force himself around-
What the fuck do you think you’re-
Look, I don’t care how badly you think you kicked my face in last time I saw you, but whatever bloody power trip you’re on, lose it!
What… the fuck are you talking about-
Mishima yakuza. There were seven to begin with, and now there are only six in there. You let one run. You know what that means?
I-
It means you pull that hood down, duck your head, don’t look back, hope to bloody hell that they don’t remember what you look like, and start leaving.
Hwoarang stops, stares, freezes
When did-what-how-why-Mishima yakuza?
and is rewarded by another shove that does force him into through the door this time, and a grating, half-angry half-panicked hiss in his ear.
Go, you stupid-stubborn-drunken-bastard! You can’t parry bullets!
And even through the hazy alcohol-adrenaline-fading-rage aftermath mess that seems to have surrounded his reason, the truth in that statement is all too clear. Hwoarang stumbles forward onto the sidewalk, letting himself be swept along and shoved into a nearby alleyway, out onto another blindingly bright street, then back into the dark again-left, right, left, left, bright, dark, bright, dark, just going as fast as his legs will carry him and just fighting to keep his balance until he’s lost all track of anything but the city-the endless, winding, dark-light of the city. There’s the sound of tires screeching around him, first here, then there, then everywhere, endless on all sides-
Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out-that’s the most important thing-don’t fall, and breathe-
And it reminds him of back when he was sixteen-that one night when-and he’d-and they’d brought knives-rules-and they’d had to-because-or else-police, and he’d run like hell-not home, but-to Baek sabumnim because his parents-hey-and he’d been pissed off as hell but-and then-but he’d always gone back-hey-and eventually-Hey-what-Hey-
-you! Whatever the hell your name was-
A hand’s on his shoulder, pulling back
Think we lost ‘em-
and Hwoarang crumbles more than comes to a stop, landing forward hard on the palms of his hands-stirs of empty cans, fluttering advertisements in the dark, thoughts scurrying away like mice-and rolls sideways, sitting up, to prop himself up against the wall as tightly as possible, and listens, listens, concentrates-
then exhales, sharp and explosive, relaxes, feels frantic time slow to maybe nothing, a crawling nothing, no more footsteps to mark the flow of seconds, slow enough to give him a headache-or maybe the headache was always there.
You’re right.
Breathe, breathe-he can hear the American-Brit? Baek’in. Gaijin-breathing too, somewhere in front of him in the dark-hard, harsh breathing that matches his own, and that eventually slows and ends in an abrupt
Ah, hell!
Hwoarang raises his head, and is surprised to see that the man he’s sure he recognizes has moved toward the light and is looking out at the neon signs of the street, hands in his pockets and scuffing his white sneakers against the ground, seeming more annoyed than anything else at the news of their escape.
Hell, he says again-what the fuck, is he laughing?-maybe I should have just let ‘em take me. Lei’s gonna bite my head off…
Lei?
The man turns, looks at him.
Wulong.
A tournament name, Hwoarang’s sure of it, and he’s sure the man’s caught the expression of recognition on his face, but-suddenly, or maybe not so suddenly, time is for some reason being irritatingly erratic-he realizes he’s too tired to care what it means, if it even means anything. And fuck, he’s used all the adrenaline he has-just thinking about moving is exhausting-thinking about thinking is exhausting-and the back of his head hits the wall, his eyes closing as he mumbles
Oh.
Pretty sure you’ve seen him around.
Yeah.
There’s a rustle of fabric in front of him, louder than the cars and muffled music from the street-probably that guy sitting down, Hwoarang thinks-and he can hear him still talking, about cell phones, or Japanese-something, or yakuza and bugs, or Lei, or what-the-hell-fuck-it, things Hwoarang decides he’s too drunk for. Maybe too tired. Maybe too sleepy. Except-
-say what was your name again? Something with an H, ah, Hyo, Hwo, Hwa-
his name. For that, he can muster the energy to open his eyes one more time and
Hwoarang.
clearly, and even enough to raise his chin a little in proud defiance as he adds,
the Bloody Talon.
Really? the man looks skeptical.
And Hwoarang’s rage is instantly here at the disbelief, and then instantly gone again when-
You look more like the bloody drunk idiot who just picked a fight with six Mishima yakuza to me.
He’s too tired for this joking shit.
Fuck you.
Fuck you, comes the response-why the fuck does it sound so cheerful-and in case you don’t remember, which might not be too surprising since I don’t happen to have a flashy alias like yours-
The man gives him something between a smirk and a half-grin and extends a hand and he says,
Name’s Steve.
and Hwoarang thinks,
he’s crazy
but the fucking world is crazy
and everything’s crazy for now but who the fuck cares
Steve Jin Lei baek mishima nightcity darklight
its all the same isnt it
isntit
hell
and he almost makes it, when he lifts an arm to take Steve’s offered handshake-
except the city starts disappearing around him and he gets distracted watching the signs melt into each other in a blazing murk of neon colors and words-
oh bloody hell don’t pass out on me now you bloody bastard I don’t have a clue where you live
And Hwoarang’s got just enough time to think
fuck
before the hands on his shoulders shaking him fade away and everything’s gone.
Characters/Pairings: Hwoarang, Steve.
Rating: R.
Warnings: Language. IC racism.
Notes: Starts between Tekken 4 and 5; goes off into AU later.
Part Two.
He's always wanted to be the strongest.
To him, it's just that simple. It always has been.
He wants to be the strongest-and should anyone ask him to define strength, or ask him mental, physical, or emotional, he'd say that if he's got to explain it all, whoever is asking is never going to understand in the first place. Might as well get the hell out of his way. Out, along with everyone else that doesn't believe that-or can’t understand how-there's no lust for money or power or fame involved.
It’s not like Paul-Hwoarang remembers with distaste-it’s not like Paul, nothing like Paul and his loudly orated, stupid dreams of being the most powerful or of being undefeated. That’s just bullshit, Hwoarang knows it, and wonders how a man over twice his age can still be so damn childish. Glory isn’t strength. Challenging the universe isn’t strength. Neither is winning. No one can hold strength in a ring. Strength is not a fucking title, and it’s not a fucking test, and it’s not a competition in which people born lucky can buy their way to the top.
Maybe it’s because it’s the great equalizer that Hwoarang finds it so dear.
But there's more to it than that, for him. And less. Both.
Strength. It's just that simple. Everything else is peripheral, things a true fighter doesn't need-things he tries his best not to need too much, and feels strangely weak about every time he does. Strength. A wavering, vague idea in his head, unseeable, ungraspable, but he knows what it is, and it knows him. Strength. He has it, wants it, is it, needs it, worships it and curses it-all at the same time and all without thinking about any of it, although he feels it all.
It’s out there, somewhere. His destiny? He doesn’t know, but Hwoarang’s sure it’ll find him, someday. It has to. What else is there?
Baek-he remembers Baek had asked him what his dream was once, way-years back, when they’d first met. And he remembers saying that it was, one day, to stand above the rest of the world and have them look up at him and say, "no one can take him down,” or maybe, "why would anyone even bother to try?" It's not about ruling the world-someone else can have it, and besides, he’d do a shit job of being its leader: he'd hand it over to someone else, someone smarter-hell, whoever wanted it-in a heartbeat. He's just always wanted to be the strongest, just to know, just to be the guy who never stops getting back up and fighting no matter what gets thrown at him.
With that, Hwoarang remembers finishing, he could die happy.
And maybe he can, eventually.
If he doesn't die now.
The first bad idea had probably been pissing off the group of drunk, laughing, suit-clad Japanese businessmen in the corner when he’d caught them looking at him. It had probably been a worse idea to keep right the fuck on going after they’d all laughed awkwardly and dismissed him as just another punk Japanese upstart with dyed hair. And after they had all stood up silently and the bar had gone silent around him, it had probably been the worst idea of all to switch languages to Korean.
Bad idea, bad idea, always with the bad ideas-he’s starting to remember why he stopped drinking, except now that he’s drunk, he doesn’t really give a shit.
But fuck, Hwoarang’s looking for a fight anyway. Two-on-one, ten-on-one, what the fuck, it doesn’t matter-he just wants to kick somebody’s ass. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s been this drunk-training and Baek have forced him relatively dry for years-but it was probably that last night with the rest of his old gang back in Korea, right before he left them because-
Fucking Kazama-
Hwoarang grits his teeth hard enough to hurt as his heel connects with someone’s drunk, angry, Japanese face-that-isn’t-Jin’s, and it pisses him off that it’s so easy, that they’re all so weak, that he’s not even tasting blood even though he floor is tilting like crazy and their faces are blurry and hell, it pisses him off even more because he knows he’s going to regret this in the morning-he’s got no idea who these people are, doesn’t remember exactly where he is, can’t bother to listen to what they’re yelling, who the fuck cares? Yet he can’t stop, can’t back down, won’t give up, not even knowing he’s being stupid, not even with these odds-
And that’s the part
You’re too damn proud
that pisses him off the most, that
and too stubborn
he hears Jin’s voice echo in his head, and
to run the fuck away when you should-
maybe Jin’s not wrong.
I might kill you-
But he doesn’t understand, that fucker-he refuses to understand-
and fuck it all, morning seems like a thousand years away anyway. This-the bar smashing in a blunt line of pain across his back, pieces of glass imbedded in the soles of his boots scraping across the tiled floor, three down, three to go, where he stops, nobody knows-is here, immediate, tangible, now. Hwoarang wants to lose himself in it, the present, wants more opponents, more attackers, to go blind with fury and die in battle, a better death than Jin cares enough to give him-to flare out, to burn out, go out in a blaze of violence and a scream of fury-to make people realize, make Jin realize, that he just can’t stop a fire with fear-
Stop kickin’ me, you bloody idiot!
and then the sound of English, the sight of angry blue eyes, and a lightning-flash jab of knuckles to his right cheek jars Hwoarang back into reality and knocks him backward against a table. He hears shotglasses shattering with a tinkle behind him, splintering wood, looks down to see six men unconscious on the floor of a now-empty building. And then he looks up to see a familiar face-
You…?
No, the man says immediately. Right now, you-
and then he’s being turned and shoved toward the door, half-blinded when the hood of his jacket is pulled up and down too far over his face, and he’s got barely enough time before he’s pushed out into the street to latch onto the doorframe, force himself around-
What the fuck do you think you’re-
Look, I don’t care how badly you think you kicked my face in last time I saw you, but whatever bloody power trip you’re on, lose it!
What… the fuck are you talking about-
Mishima yakuza. There were seven to begin with, and now there are only six in there. You let one run. You know what that means?
I-
It means you pull that hood down, duck your head, don’t look back, hope to bloody hell that they don’t remember what you look like, and start leaving.
Hwoarang stops, stares, freezes
When did-what-how-why-Mishima yakuza?
and is rewarded by another shove that does force him into through the door this time, and a grating, half-angry half-panicked hiss in his ear.
Go, you stupid-stubborn-drunken-bastard! You can’t parry bullets!
And even through the hazy alcohol-adrenaline-fading-rage aftermath mess that seems to have surrounded his reason, the truth in that statement is all too clear. Hwoarang stumbles forward onto the sidewalk, letting himself be swept along and shoved into a nearby alleyway, out onto another blindingly bright street, then back into the dark again-left, right, left, left, bright, dark, bright, dark, just going as fast as his legs will carry him and just fighting to keep his balance until he’s lost all track of anything but the city-the endless, winding, dark-light of the city. There’s the sound of tires screeching around him, first here, then there, then everywhere, endless on all sides-
Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out-that’s the most important thing-don’t fall, and breathe-
And it reminds him of back when he was sixteen-that one night when-and he’d-and they’d brought knives-rules-and they’d had to-because-or else-police, and he’d run like hell-not home, but-to Baek sabumnim because his parents-hey-and he’d been pissed off as hell but-and then-but he’d always gone back-hey-and eventually-Hey-what-Hey-
-you! Whatever the hell your name was-
A hand’s on his shoulder, pulling back
Think we lost ‘em-
and Hwoarang crumbles more than comes to a stop, landing forward hard on the palms of his hands-stirs of empty cans, fluttering advertisements in the dark, thoughts scurrying away like mice-and rolls sideways, sitting up, to prop himself up against the wall as tightly as possible, and listens, listens, concentrates-
then exhales, sharp and explosive, relaxes, feels frantic time slow to maybe nothing, a crawling nothing, no more footsteps to mark the flow of seconds, slow enough to give him a headache-or maybe the headache was always there.
You’re right.
Breathe, breathe-he can hear the American-Brit? Baek’in. Gaijin-breathing too, somewhere in front of him in the dark-hard, harsh breathing that matches his own, and that eventually slows and ends in an abrupt
Ah, hell!
Hwoarang raises his head, and is surprised to see that the man he’s sure he recognizes has moved toward the light and is looking out at the neon signs of the street, hands in his pockets and scuffing his white sneakers against the ground, seeming more annoyed than anything else at the news of their escape.
Hell, he says again-what the fuck, is he laughing?-maybe I should have just let ‘em take me. Lei’s gonna bite my head off…
Lei?
The man turns, looks at him.
Wulong.
A tournament name, Hwoarang’s sure of it, and he’s sure the man’s caught the expression of recognition on his face, but-suddenly, or maybe not so suddenly, time is for some reason being irritatingly erratic-he realizes he’s too tired to care what it means, if it even means anything. And fuck, he’s used all the adrenaline he has-just thinking about moving is exhausting-thinking about thinking is exhausting-and the back of his head hits the wall, his eyes closing as he mumbles
Oh.
Pretty sure you’ve seen him around.
Yeah.
There’s a rustle of fabric in front of him, louder than the cars and muffled music from the street-probably that guy sitting down, Hwoarang thinks-and he can hear him still talking, about cell phones, or Japanese-something, or yakuza and bugs, or Lei, or what-the-hell-fuck-it, things Hwoarang decides he’s too drunk for. Maybe too tired. Maybe too sleepy. Except-
-say what was your name again? Something with an H, ah, Hyo, Hwo, Hwa-
his name. For that, he can muster the energy to open his eyes one more time and
Hwoarang.
clearly, and even enough to raise his chin a little in proud defiance as he adds,
the Bloody Talon.
Really? the man looks skeptical.
And Hwoarang’s rage is instantly here at the disbelief, and then instantly gone again when-
You look more like the bloody drunk idiot who just picked a fight with six Mishima yakuza to me.
He’s too tired for this joking shit.
Fuck you.
Fuck you, comes the response-why the fuck does it sound so cheerful-and in case you don’t remember, which might not be too surprising since I don’t happen to have a flashy alias like yours-
The man gives him something between a smirk and a half-grin and extends a hand and he says,
Name’s Steve.
and Hwoarang thinks,
he’s crazy
but the fucking world is crazy
and everything’s crazy for now but who the fuck cares
Steve Jin Lei baek mishima nightcity darklight
its all the same isnt it
isntit
hell
and he almost makes it, when he lifts an arm to take Steve’s offered handshake-
except the city starts disappearing around him and he gets distracted watching the signs melt into each other in a blazing murk of neon colors and words-
oh bloody hell don’t pass out on me now you bloody bastard I don’t have a clue where you live
And Hwoarang’s got just enough time to think
fuck
before the hands on his shoulders shaking him fade away and everything’s gone.