Hey! So, this is my first fanfic, and I'm reeeeally nervous, truth be told! Anyway, I wrote this because I LOVE Xiaorang as a pairing, and this idea just came to me one day. Tell me what you think!
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, damnit.
Hwoarang
Two years yesterday.
How long it's been since the last tournament. How long it's been since I had something to live for, sad as it may sound.
Two fucking years wandering around trying to find a reason to not just kill myself. How tragic that I've found nothing.
A little over two years ago, I was a hero, here in my hometown of Seoul, South Korea. In the back alleys, people said my name with a certain reverence, as if I were a deity, something to be looked up to, worshipped.
In a nutshell, Seoul has no need for me anymore. There's just no interest in street fighting now. Or, at least, no profitable interest. Fighting is what I was born to do, but that doesn't mean I'll do it for charity.
It all went downhill very suddenly for me. Within a month of the tournament being called off indefinitely, people stopped betting against me. I remained undefeated, obviously, but I wasn't winning. It took me a depressingly long time to make myself change.
Deciding how to pass time was easy. Putting it into action was even easier.
Maybe it became fashionable to destroy yourself as opposed to watching other people destroying each other. Anyway, I caught myself up in the new craze, as much as it disgusted me; where there's a trend, there's money.
Finding out where the growers kept their stuff was the hardest part. Us Koreans pride ourselves on our secrecy; it makes us distinctive in the world. It just happens to be a pain in the arse when you're trying to illegally steal some illegal growers' illegal crops.
I found one, eventually. From the looks of it, I hit the jackpot. A huge warehouse on the outskirts of Seoul, three floors, crammed full of various plants. I visited it at night, when there was only one man on guard. Fool.
He was practically begging me to take the stuff before I'd even said anything. One look at me and he was terrified for his life.
I suppose it's kind of flattering that I have that effect on people.
I have about fifteen clients, give or take. I don't get involved with them in any way, if I can avoid it. Drug users disgust me more than drugs themselves. I will never sink as low as the people I am killing. In all modesty, my body is a temple; I have no desire to ruin it.
I suppose I am the worst kind of drug dealer; the lowest of the low. I don't buy and sell. I steal and sell. Infinitely more profit. Not that I really need it; I'm a young, healthy man living alone in a scummy one bedroom flat. Much of the money I make isn't used.
When the tournament was still here, I had less time to earn money, and nothing was wasted; everything I earned was spent on training equipment, basic survival necessities, and fuel for my bike. That's all I need.
Sometimes I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling, like I'm doing now, and think, really think, if there's anything for me at all here. Seoul, Korea, Asia, Earth – what am I doing on this planet? I fight. But what if I'm fighting for nothing? Then I'm living for nothing.
It's cold, in this room. I can't be bothered to find a blanket. I close my eyes, silently regretting not wearing a shirt.
That said, I should be used to the cold. When I was drafted into the army, I spent many a night sleeping out in the cold, in the rain, in the rat-infested. You'd think the Korean armed forces might differentiate from the British during the Second World War, but apparently not.
I hate the position I'm in. Can you tell?
I know, I know, I choose to be distant, I choose to dislike the company of others' – but being lonely does grow tiresome. Sometimes I wonder if having someone who gives a shit would make a difference.
Like I'm ever going to find out.
I snap my eyes open, a hollow feeling suddenly growing in the pit of my stomach.
I've been saying it to myself for months, but it's as if it's only just sunk in.
I have literally nothing to live for.
Ouch.
I stand and dress without thinking properly about what I am doing. I glance at the battered clock that's been sitting on my windowsill since I moved here; four thirty. That's enough time to do whatever I'm going to do.
Numb, I walk out of my apartment, grabbing my goggles from a hook next to the door on my way out.
I hop onto my bike, and drive around for a few minutes, absentmindedly following my instincts, ending up at the pastel-decoration adorned entrance to the world famous Lotte World. I stare blankly up at the huge, lighted sign, waiting for my thoughts to organize themselves.
[Sometimes I wonder; if the contents of my head were to be put onto paper and turned into a book, how fucked up would that particular novel be in relation to everyone else's?]
Eventually a light goes "ping" in my head. Possibly triggered by my eyes sweeping over a poster advertising a particular ride; "the wonderful, the terrifying, the heart-stopping Gyro-Drop".
Couple of hundred feet tall, at least. One of those boring rides that takes you all the way up and then – funnily enough – drops you to the earth. Terror, screams, messed up hair all round. Admittedly made more entertaining by the sheer height of it. Tall enough for a man to die if he should accidentally shimmy the central pole and fall off.
Worth a try.
I sneak through the staff entrance [I may be just about to die but no way am I going to blow fifty thousand Won on a bloody wristband] and surreptitiously work my way around crowds of bored teenagers and excitable toddlers and pasty tourists, all of whom disgust me, keeping both of my eyes on the white spire clearly visible from a very long way off.
If I were worth something, anything, and believed that I was, I'd turn back. I'd turn back, hanging my head, scolding myself internally for being so stupid and reckless.
Nowadays I live for the stupid and reckless.
It takes bloody ages to reach the bastard ride. And there's a queue – surprise surprise. A British couple tap me on the shoulder and ask me in slow, loud English to take a photo of them. I nearly take them both out there and then – two quick, precise jabs to the sweet spot on the neck, they'd be unconscious before they knew what was happening. However, I'm trying to not draw attention to myself before I need to; I should imagine I won't be able to climb the pole unnoticed, may as well make the most of being disregarded.
I shuffle towards the head of the queue with the rest of the people, head down in pensive contemplation, when a chirpy voice drills its way through to my cranium, rousing me from my stupor and making me snap my head up so quickly that an audible "crack" from my neck causes the nearby tourists to turn slightly green.
"May I see your wristband please, sir?"
Her voice hasn't changed at all.
Still light, still girly, still laced with giggles, still endlessly cheerful, still completely "her".
I gawk at her like a moronic tourist when faced with a foreign rip off, wishing for my head to get it together and say something remotely intelligent.
I manage a barely comprehensible "hey", which comes out as more of a "hurrrch-ey".
Recognition flickers in her chocolate brown eyes, and her brows furrow the way they always did when she was confused and trying to figure something out. She doesn't remember me. What reason does she have to remember me? We never spoke once, and it was two years ago; they've all forgotten me, I'm prepared to bet.
"Hi!" she screams excitedly. She remembers me…
"Hoorang!"
My newfound bud of hope is crushed underfoot.
"How are you? Wow, it's been too long! Fancy seeing you here! You never seemed like the kind to turn up at places like this!" she babbles, speaking quickly and happily, as if she is genuinely overjoyed to see me. If only. I don't know who this "Hoorang" guy is, but I bet he's a right freak.
I try for a smile. It doesn't really work. I give up.
"Hey," I whisper hoarsely.
"How've you been?" she smiles. I open my mouth to reply, "pretty shit, thanks", before the words catch in my throat.
When was the last time someone asked me how I was? How long has it been since someone cared about my wellbeing? Or pretended to, what does it matter?
It was Kazama, I think. Me and him were starting to get closer, towards the end. Well. We weren't hating on each other anymore. Shared a few drinks once or twice, in the company of others. Haven't heard from him in two years and a day.
Shit, that's depressing.
The people I… deal with [no pun intended] only care that I'm well enough to give them what they want. I suppose you could say that I have no one who gives a shit whether I'm alive or dead.
She's waiting for an answer. Crap, what do I say?
"Fine, thanks," I stammer eventually, feeling myself redden. "And you?"
"Can't complain," she chirps. "Though I'm actually in the doghouse at the moment – I don't usually take tickets, but I designed a ride that made four people faint during the test run. Boss wasn't too impressed with me," she laughs. I blow upwards, momentarily lifting my auburn fringe.
"You design rides?" I ask, impressed.
"Sure do! I love theme parks, it's pretty idyllic really."
A memory stirs.
"Didn't you enter the tournament to found a theme park or something?"
An eyebrow neatly rises questioningly.
"I overheard someone talking about it," I lie, not particularly wanting her to know I went out of my way to listen to her discussing it with a friend. She always fascinated me; tiny and adorable, but really quite deadly. Wherever she went, laughter would follow. She epitomized happiness. Quite different to the stuck up Korean guy, "too good" to deign to speak to anyone there. Yeah, I heard what people said about me. I shrugged it off until there was too much to just ignore.
She nods, and opens her mouth to reply when an overweight couple behind me begin to complain loudly about the wait. She gasps and apologizes profusely, allowing more people to pile onto the ride. She skips off to strap them all in and returns, harried and distracted.
"I'm sorry," she says quickly. "This is a really bad time…"
"Of course," I nod understandingly. "I'm sorry."
"Maybe we could meet up sometime?" she asks, twiddling a dial and pressing a button. The ride jerks upwards about a meter; some people scream.
"Huh?" I gawk idiotically.
She giggles, almost nervously. "Maybe we could… never mind."
Something inside of me panics. "No! Hey, that would be nice," I gabble. She laughs, a tinkling laugh that makes me want to laugh with her. I would try, were I not afraid of making an idiot of myself again.
She takes a notebook out of her pocket and scribbles something down. She rips the sheet off and hands it to me, smiling.
"Call me."
"Sure thing," I reply, turning to go away. As an afterthought, I turn back to face her. She's still smiling; it melts the layer of ice that's been accumulating around my heart over the last two years a little bit.
"It's Hwoarang, by the way."
Her eyes widen, and she coughs to hide her embarrassment. It's adorable.
"It's okay, Xiaoyu," I laugh, meaning it.
"You remembered my name though," she sighs, not meeting my eye.
"Hey, no worries!"
"…."
"I mean it. I'll call you."
She perks up at that.
"Yay," she smiles.
I wink, my version of a smile, before turning and walking away before I stay and annoy the queue even further. I had no idea she'd be so easy to talk to…
Feeling her eyes on me, I disappear into the crowd, tucking the paper into my pocket. I walk without looking back, lest I should run back and talk to her again.
When I reach the exit, I swivel, quickly finding the huge, white pointed construction. A different group of people are on it now; the mechanism has carried them all the way up to the top, and left them hovering. Even from here, I can hear the terrified screams. All of a sudden, they drop; they're all screaming now, clearly audible over the music and laughter and happiness that surrounds me. At the last minute, the device stops, and they all breathe a thankful sigh of relief. They're gently lowered to the ground, and I'm left wondering how big a mess I'd have made if I'd jumped.
Was I too chicken to do it? Or did someone enter my life who's given me a tiny spark of hope to blow on?
For the first time in years, I smile.