Disclaimer: Nope, don't own Tekken. If I did, I would give Hwoarang many more punk clothes.

Author's Note: …This is… weird. It just came out on a whim, more of a free-write than anything I guess. And, for once, I'm writing from someone else's voice (i.e. not Hwoarang) because I want to give somebody else's mindset a go. As a consequence, Hwoarang feels and sounds very different (I feel) to how I usually write him. For those who read my main series, a few similies/metaphors will probably be blatantly obvious XD –shrug- Enjoy!

TASTE THE POISON

I am black.

I am as black as the night – a star that was supposed to shine, but never did, never could and never would, in the end. I am the blanket in which many other glittering gems are scattered upon, so that their brilliance can be emphasised against my colourless and empty swatch – and I am forced to stay and watch them shine.

I am the one left behind.

Am I jealous? Of course I am. I want that opportunity to shine. I want that opportunity to glow underneath the setting sun and to be marvelled by those around me. Does this make me an attention-seeker? Perhaps. Do I really care? No. That is what I want – that is what I can never have. You will always want what you can never have. You will always try and devise some way to get it too.

I am he who is caged.

Ethereal chains always hold me tightly to the ground. Even if I had it in me to somehow be that star in the sky, against somebody else's blackness, I would never get there. I am bound, and my wings are broken. I cannot fly. I am unsure if I even knew how to. It feels as though a part of me is accepting of my fate, where as another refuses to, shaking his head and voicelessly screaming for a chance.

Just one chance.

Just one.

I am the dead, and I breathe with a shaking gasp.

With that shaking gasp, I always cling to life, but the life always leaves. Most humans are like the four seasons. In spring, they are vibrant, curious and hopeful – they stick their heads out of their homes and investigate the new world. By summer, they have found something to hold on to, and they caress it in their feeble hands, blurting out sentences that always fall on deaf ears. By autumn, they grow tired of their toy, and by winter, they are alone again, having abandoned their former object.

Most… humans… are like the four seasons.

In spring, he is vibrant, curious and hopeful. He runs his fingers through his hair, throws open the apartment door, runs down the stairs and bounds onto his motorbike, revving it up before going off to some adventure. In summer, he is still ever curious, but a bit slower, because he dislikes the heat. By autumn, he starts to frown, but he still tries. By winter, he feels broken, but he is still clinging onto something. He won't let go of his springtime treasure.

I am his springtime treasure.

We met in the backstreets. Trash talk and terrible tempers teetered back and forth. Then the fists and feet went flying. A kick here, a punch there, and I think he even bit me at one stage. Wailing sirens forced us to part, but he found me again. An arrogant smirk on his face, a challenge, and an attack soon followed. And we fought until the sirens sang their songs again, forcing us to divide and hide. The adrenaline rush was a drug for us. It is our drug.

He would find me again and again and again and again, and sirens would sing and dance around us at every meeting. It was akin to a sick dance – the ailing andantes and the cataclysmic crescendos. It was when we met again in a gym did things change. I had no idea that he even remotely ensnared my mind until he had me against the wall, and against my lips did he faintly murmur after tasting the poison, "You lose."

Hwoarang stayed since then.

I am his challenge.

He is the star I always wanted. The white star that burns bright for many reasons – be they right, or wrong, or both. He glows. He has attention. He has and is everything I want to have and want to be, but can never achieve. He used to sneak into my bedroom in the Mishima Mansion, a cigarette in one hand, and watch me study, proclaiming, "Academics can only get you so far, Jin."

I'd shake my head and continue on my way – but in the back of my mind, I know, I knew he was right, however trivial the idea was. He'd lightly kiss my neck and run his fingers through my hair, and it would be difficult to ignore the annoying algebra, but he would force me to do my work again by stopping everything. And then when I would be back into it, he would start up his ministrations again. I asked him one day why he was like this, and he replied, "Think of me as your reward."

I loved him. I really did. I really do.

I am the volatile beast that he longs to tame.

When the Korean learnt of the demon within me, it took him so long to be able to accept it. He almost broke me trying to get himself right to accept it. But he did. He really did. And it shocked me. The poison… within my blood, the blood of a devil, the blood of he who laughs last… something I do not accept… was accepted.

Acceptance… is hard to accept.

I am the now unchained, free and shaken warrior, whose shield is shattered under a mighty blow.

I remember clearly when he told me. I was dumbfounded. I still am. But he scratched the back of his head with a sheepish smile and pulled me into a light hug, rubbing my back in small, comforting circles, because he was unsure of what else to do, "I'll stay for as long as you want me to."

Time is cruel to those who wait, to those who do not linger, to those who are strong and to those who are weak. We shifted. I shifted. In the sands of time, I was lost. The one time I did not want to be lost, I was – and I could not crawl back to the surface, for the grains had long since seeped into my eyes and blinded me.

Years passed. I began breathing. I lived again. I exerted.

Years passed. He stopped breathing. He died again. He withdrew.

I am the irresistible drink that scathes his insides.

He tasted the poison too many times. I was absorbing his light. He was becoming the black backdrop – something he was not at all fit to be. He became the part that I was supposed to play – that I always had otherwise played. And I hated it. I hated it almost as much as I hated myself and my own existence. Around others… he was ever silent, vigilant and blank. Around me, he seemed normal, but he this normalness would lapse.

There was a night where he was just sitting in the chair and watching the television whilst I would take care of work. His eyes were lifeless, and it terrified me. I shut off the television and tried to talk to him about it, but he ended up lurching forward from his chair, grabbing my jaw, and forcing me to kiss him – and then he went to bed. I could taste his pain, just as well as he could taste my poison.

I am the asp that bit the beauty.

And that is when I stopped to think – that is where I am now. I stayed up all night just thinking, staring at the ground, wondering what was wrong and how to fix it. I hadn't realised it, but, subconsciously, I had decided to do everything possible to try and get what I want – I want the attention, the light, and so on – and I took it from him.

I am the leech, and he is the victim.

I sucked the life out of him, and I didn't even know.

I am the poison. Venomous. Deceitful. Hate-filled.

I lured him into a sense of security and love, though I longed to provide both – but I never can or could. Once he was comfortable, I came out of my shell, and forced him into his. He surrendered his light, he gave it to me, fed it to me, like it was the difference between life and death. The nights that he would stay up with me as I cried for my Mother, the times he would take any hit by my tainted, clawed hand, without any thought, the times he would wait for me to transform back into my human form… broke him over time.

My light has faded.

I am the cold wind that blows out the candle in the night.

I am the man that must walk the Earth alone.

And the early hours of the freezing, winter morning crawl into the living room. He is standing behind me, just watching the cracks of the sunlight that dance upon the carpet floor.

"I want this to stop."

Hwoarang looks at me blankly – I don't have to look behind me to confirm it, I just know – and he walks by me, going to make his usual morning coffee. It takes him several moments to articulate a sentence – his English is not as good as mine in terms of fast-paced responses, "What do you want to stop? Us?"

I am the perfectly balanced and irresolute scales, whose decision can never go one way or the other.

"Figures," he scoffs, watching the steam steadily rise from the kettle, "It's been what, five years? We were what, nineteen? First loves, maybe?" He shrugs and looks out the window now, moving from his space, and I can vaguely hear his voice and heart crack in the distance, "I knew you'd get bored of me sometime."

My hands are shaking as I run them through my black hair, "I want you to be happy again. You are sad. You have been sad for so long now, and it because of me. I… I am your poison. I love you. I want you to be free and to find an antidote. To find that antidote, you must leave. Take up your bike and go for your ride in your springtime, human. Find a new adventure."

The kettle hisses.

I am his flickering sanity.

Hwoarang turns, hands in the pockets of his jeans, and he approaches me with a blank face. That face is almost terrifying to me, and he tilts his head back and to the side, "If I leave, then I'm poisoned. If I stay, then I'm healed," he then pauses and approaches, leaning forward thereafter, simplifying his speech, "I tasted the poison, and now I can't get enough of it."

"But you are me. I do not love me. I love you."

"This is me, Jin. This was always me… You fixed me. When Baek left, you fixed me, you matched everything I wanted… An unmoving, unwavering wall of support and care. You're the itch under my skin that I adore, and you're the black star that guides me through the night, because the world has shattered my will to shine. I'm an addict. You're my addiction. To cast me aside is to poison and kill me," he holds out a hand and strokes the side of my face, and for the first time in a long while, he smiles, "I said I'd stay for as long as you want me to. I know you don't want me going anywhere."

Just seeing him smile again…

I say nothing and merely grab him and kiss him, and under my skin, Devil shifts.

"Hold me like you held onto light," he murmurs.

"I always have," I reply. In this dark world, whether it is the reality or my own, he is and always was my sun.

I am the thorn in his side.

He is the stem that holds me high.