A/N: Constructive criticism would be loved for this. I'm new to oneshot writing, and feel that I've rewritten and pieced this back together so many times that it's ruined. ._.
Also, this is titled after the song of the same name by 'The Airborne Toxic Event' that inspired me to start it.
Disclaimer: Tekken and all it's characters belong to Namco.
Sometime Around Midnight
Sometime around midnight Steve Fox's world began to blur.
The distorted reflection of the wall clock within an empty shotglass testified to this, the minute hand's wavering reflection crawling its way ever closer towards the twelve.
Bright blue eyes rimmed in bloodshot red watched the slow progress of time as if completely entranced, flicking upward only when a bottle appeared and spilled amber liquid into the makeshift mirror.
"On me, honey."
Azure gaze settling on the bartender, a pretty little thing that had been flirting all night, the boxer mumbled a thank you, drunkenness was no excuse for bad manners after all, before dropping his attention downward to the liquor before him. Lifting the refilled glass, he nodded to the woman and pounded it back, finishing in one go.
Exhaling harshly, the fighter's nose crinkled in distaste. He'd never particularly liked whiskey. It burned from start to finish, leaving a fiery afterglow at the back of his throat that intensified and faded with each breath. Still, it was cheap, it was fast, and it was harsh. Just what he needed.
Turning away from the bar, he began to watch the people milling about the dimly lit lounge. Alcohol always brought out the truest side of people, be they barflies, singles on the hunt for a lover, lovers already matched and sneaking off to the bathroom together, or the those individuals that were just plain lonely and in need of a little forgetting. Like him.
It was then, mulling over his apathetic kinship with the other pathetic souls, that he saw her.
As with the first time they'd met, it was the way she moved that caught his attention, the graceful dancer's sway in her casual stance evident even with his progressively worsening vision. Skirt rustling flirtatiously around her thighs as she shifted in place, the tip of the Brazilian woman's ponytail tickled between the shoulder blades of her bare back as she smiled and chatted with the small cluster of women around her.
His mind reeled. How long had she been here? Had she seen him? Was she here for the tournament?
He shook his head. Of course she was here for the tournament, why else would she be in Japan?
The shock of seeing her quickly wearing off, Steve's focus turned inward to another place and time.
She was nestled beside him, the tangles of stark white hotel sheets her only modesty. Skin, as silky and warm as its caramel hue promised it to be, shivered beneath his fingertips as they basked in a glow that no ambient bulb or poetically described sunbeam could cast. Her mussed tresses were fanned out on the pillow, the few pieces that fell into the face smiling up at him gently swept away by his punch-hardened knuckles.
He had many such memories cached away in his mind. They had met during the fourth Iron Fist tournament and had gravitated towards one another, each becoming to the other a balm to temporarily soothe the inner aches of self-doubts and the outer ones of matches hard won.
She had been lonely, and in the most intimate of their nights curled around one another admitted to feeling moments of despair at finding her mentor, the man that had taught her Capoeira, alive. He had been just as alone, tired from running from the mafia and searching for the truth of a past that evaded him at every turn.
The therapeutic nights of heat and occasional days of relaxation they shared had continued until she was knocked out of the tournament and disappeared a few days thereafter, her parting message to him a note left on his bedside table with the simple message of 'Thank you. I found him.'.
In the moment he read that she'd found him, a man who obviously meant more to her than he'd thought judging by her abrupt departure, he realized that he'd fallen for her.
And now, seeing her again, he realized that he was stupid for falling, and even more stupid for still wanting her.
Tearing his eyes away, a simple motion but a difficult feat, the boxer signaled the bartender over.
Steve Fox had never liked whiskey, but it burned from start to finish, leaving unwanted memories as blurred ash in its wake.
He ordered another. The minute hand ticked past midnight.