Unpredictable Impulses, Chapter One
I know that it's probably not necessary to repeat the disclaimer and stuff on every new chapter I put up, but that's what I'm going to do- just to be safe. Hope I don't annoy anyone too badly with it… ^ ^
Based on T3, Hwoarang's ending: He's tired of fighting. He's tired of being alone. He's even tired of college! Jin picks up Hwoarang's tab in a bar, with some interesting results. Yaoi: m/m relationship (Jin X Hwoarang). R for language misuse, implied illegal action, & possible explicit sex later.
Author's Note: I've never played any other Tekken game but T3, so I'm going to pretend that none of the others exist anymore. And Hwoarang did not join any stupid army! *snorts at the absurdity of the idea* That would really ruin my story.
Author's Note 2: I don't own Tekken or its characters, so don't sue me, but I can damn well ignore the parts of both that I don't like since I'm not even writing this for profit! *crosses eyes and sticks tongue out*
---------------------------------
Hwoarang scowled at the third empty bottle on his table, wondering dully when he'd drank the last of his cheap vodka. The throbbing lights of Cafe Sans Coeur Nuit quickened his pulse, intoxicating him further. The mirrors in each wall intensified the disorienting feel of the nightclub; light refracted off disco balls hanging from the low, smoke-hazed ceiling. He plucked listlessly at his favorite purple muscle shirt and jeans, both faded almost beyond recognition. Hwoarang clenched his left hand into a fist so hard a small line of blood appeared on it, but he remained unaware, caught in the last throes of his memory.
*That night…that night when I won the Tournament…* He paused a moment to consider that thought. There was no longer any pride in it, at least not for him. Not since Jin Kazama had reputedly beaten his grandfather Heihachi Mishima, grew wings, and flew away from the Tournament grounds, only to reappear in a warehouse by the docks Hwoarang and his master Baek used to train close to. He had seemed injured; he had not been wearing his fighting apparel. Hwoarang had just assumed that Heihachi's power had finally caught up with his rival, since the gunmen were… well… gunmen. In a rare empathetic moment Hwoarang tossed his trophy amongst them as a distraction, waltzed in and wasted the goons, then stepped back and offered truce with a simple, age-old gesture. *I was tired of fighting him... and at that point, I didn't really want the title anyway...* For a moment that seemed to take hours he had waited for some response, almost unsurprised when the dark-haired man whirled to leap at least thirty feet up and through the warehouse window. That had been the last time he'd heard of the guy, and it was starting to seriously bug him.
"No wan hash de wight te live afer takin' so many beetin's…" he slurred aloud, then, louder, "I wan' 'nother vodka, missy-" as a woman in an apron pranced by.
The waitress chewed her lip thoughtfully, looking him over as though he were a horse. "No, I don't think so. You're screwed enough." Her Irish lilt tickled his ears, bringing a sloppy half-smile to his face.
"No, ne'er that," he mumbled. "Ne'er scrood enuff…" He made such a pitiful face that the waitress had to laugh, and laugh she did, for almost half a minute. She just shook her head, still laughing, and walked away as the young fighter wondered what the hell he'd said that was so funny. He stared down at his fingerless gloves, letting the heavy bass music of the latest techno remix wash over him, numbing him. He heard the waitress laughing still and scowled faintly. "Jes' stop…" he muttered.
"Stop what?" Hwoarang's head lifted slowly, incredulously, at the familiar voice. There stood his old 'rival', looking even more fit and fightworthy than ever in a Hawaiian shirt, huge, baggy black pants, and a bandana. The Korean searched for something to say, then, finding nothing important, gestured wordlessly for the spiky-haired man to take a seat. Jin shrugged as he complied, his face unreadable as he studied Hwoarang and the three bottles. An abrupt laugh broke the unexpectedly uncomfortable silence. "Is this what the King of the Iron Fist Tournament does for fun nowadays? Getting trashed at the most fancy nightclub in town… but on cheap liquor? I thought your tastes had become much more refined than that."
Hwoarang made a lame attempt at a joke, still slumping listlessly. At least he managed to keep the majority of the alcohol from his voice, although the effort was a buzz-killer. "It's only been three years… give me time, yo."
His old rival snorted. "You look like hell."
"I feel like it, too."
"So, ah… what *does* royalty like you do after whipping ass in the Tournament?"
"There's no one like me," Hwoarang stated with a sad half smirk. Something of a blush (or was it the affects of the alcohol?) spread across his cheeks. "I've… I've been going to college," he confessed, staring down into his empty glass. "Taking a lot of Philosophy and Economic Studies and… and some Astronomy."
Jin sat back, dark eyes narrowing a little. "You go by a pen name, don't you. Kotun Mikoshi, if I'm not mistaken? And you wear glasses and geeky clothes and a hat to get around being recognized. Hmph. I thought I'd seen Kotun before. You sit two rows up from me in Chemistry, and Mrs.Easeth speaks highly of you in Philosophy. Who'd have thought Sir Bloody Talon would get high marks in - GASP - Philosophy of all things! Betcha can't wait for autumn semester huh?" Hwoarang squirmed a little at the teasing-yet-serious tone.
"Yeah, well, there's nothing else for me. I've already decided that I'm not the true King of Iron Fist. YOU were. I just got that damned trophy and…" his voice faltered as he remembered yet again the warehouse scene. "Anyway… I can't think of what I want to do in life yet, and I don't want to take any old mundane factory job that comes my way. I feel like a stray sock, you know; useless alone, something to be hung up and ignored until its mate is found." He shrugged, pursing his lips as though he thought he'd said too much for his own comfort. Jin stared all too closely at him and he felt compelled to make one last confession, though it came out garbled and unwilling. "I tried to kill myself. About a year after the warehouse… I'm not strong enough, as a fighter, and I don't feel called to do anything else but fight. I didn't see a reason not to end my life after so much bull shit. Everyone wanted me dead anyway," he mumbled bitterly.
"Not me," Jin contradicted him stoically, looking down at his hands where they lay on the tabletop. "At least, not after that night." The dark man stressed the words with almost reverent tones, as though he thought it had been… important, somehow… also. He looked up and stared at Hwoarang with intense, narrowed eyes. "I think it was STUPID of you to try to kill yourself. I mean - how will you know if you have a calling or not just by the first twenty-one years? Now that you're taking classes again, you're much more likely to find something you enjoy and stick with it. Right? I mean, these are supposed to be the best years of our lives: we're paid to learn things we wanna know, there's no worry about Ogre anymore, Heihachi is dead, we can legally get wasted, Heihachi is dead - "
"You already said that," Hwoarang said quietly. He watched Jin's face darken, then calm again. He sighed irritably. "I know all about it. I'm too young to die, yadda yadda, I show too much potential, yadda yadda, I'm too cute, yadda yadda-"
"So who has the ego now, huh?" Jin smothered a laugh. The red-haired fighter grinned faintly. He opened his mouth to speak when a sudden, incessant drone filled his head, echoing, and he slumped bonelessly into the floor as darkness overwhelmed him.
Jin slid out of the booth to kneel beside him, checking his pulse, feeling the energy that still radiated from his body (it was much less pure now that Hwoarang wasn't awake to monitor it), and diagnosed that it was only a little worse than a faint, perhaps a mild blackout from shallow breathing. Jin shook his head, looked around as though unwilling that anyone should witness his concern, then quickly picked him up and trotted outside (after paying for the alcohol and a tip, of course). "You better thank me for this later, Hwoarang," he muttered.
I know that it's probably not necessary to repeat the disclaimer and stuff on every new chapter I put up, but that's what I'm going to do- just to be safe. Hope I don't annoy anyone too badly with it… ^ ^
Based on T3, Hwoarang's ending: He's tired of fighting. He's tired of being alone. He's even tired of college! Jin picks up Hwoarang's tab in a bar, with some interesting results. Yaoi: m/m relationship (Jin X Hwoarang). R for language misuse, implied illegal action, & possible explicit sex later.
Author's Note: I've never played any other Tekken game but T3, so I'm going to pretend that none of the others exist anymore. And Hwoarang did not join any stupid army! *snorts at the absurdity of the idea* That would really ruin my story.
Author's Note 2: I don't own Tekken or its characters, so don't sue me, but I can damn well ignore the parts of both that I don't like since I'm not even writing this for profit! *crosses eyes and sticks tongue out*
---------------------------------
Hwoarang scowled at the third empty bottle on his table, wondering dully when he'd drank the last of his cheap vodka. The throbbing lights of Cafe Sans Coeur Nuit quickened his pulse, intoxicating him further. The mirrors in each wall intensified the disorienting feel of the nightclub; light refracted off disco balls hanging from the low, smoke-hazed ceiling. He plucked listlessly at his favorite purple muscle shirt and jeans, both faded almost beyond recognition. Hwoarang clenched his left hand into a fist so hard a small line of blood appeared on it, but he remained unaware, caught in the last throes of his memory.
*That night…that night when I won the Tournament…* He paused a moment to consider that thought. There was no longer any pride in it, at least not for him. Not since Jin Kazama had reputedly beaten his grandfather Heihachi Mishima, grew wings, and flew away from the Tournament grounds, only to reappear in a warehouse by the docks Hwoarang and his master Baek used to train close to. He had seemed injured; he had not been wearing his fighting apparel. Hwoarang had just assumed that Heihachi's power had finally caught up with his rival, since the gunmen were… well… gunmen. In a rare empathetic moment Hwoarang tossed his trophy amongst them as a distraction, waltzed in and wasted the goons, then stepped back and offered truce with a simple, age-old gesture. *I was tired of fighting him... and at that point, I didn't really want the title anyway...* For a moment that seemed to take hours he had waited for some response, almost unsurprised when the dark-haired man whirled to leap at least thirty feet up and through the warehouse window. That had been the last time he'd heard of the guy, and it was starting to seriously bug him.
"No wan hash de wight te live afer takin' so many beetin's…" he slurred aloud, then, louder, "I wan' 'nother vodka, missy-" as a woman in an apron pranced by.
The waitress chewed her lip thoughtfully, looking him over as though he were a horse. "No, I don't think so. You're screwed enough." Her Irish lilt tickled his ears, bringing a sloppy half-smile to his face.
"No, ne'er that," he mumbled. "Ne'er scrood enuff…" He made such a pitiful face that the waitress had to laugh, and laugh she did, for almost half a minute. She just shook her head, still laughing, and walked away as the young fighter wondered what the hell he'd said that was so funny. He stared down at his fingerless gloves, letting the heavy bass music of the latest techno remix wash over him, numbing him. He heard the waitress laughing still and scowled faintly. "Jes' stop…" he muttered.
"Stop what?" Hwoarang's head lifted slowly, incredulously, at the familiar voice. There stood his old 'rival', looking even more fit and fightworthy than ever in a Hawaiian shirt, huge, baggy black pants, and a bandana. The Korean searched for something to say, then, finding nothing important, gestured wordlessly for the spiky-haired man to take a seat. Jin shrugged as he complied, his face unreadable as he studied Hwoarang and the three bottles. An abrupt laugh broke the unexpectedly uncomfortable silence. "Is this what the King of the Iron Fist Tournament does for fun nowadays? Getting trashed at the most fancy nightclub in town… but on cheap liquor? I thought your tastes had become much more refined than that."
Hwoarang made a lame attempt at a joke, still slumping listlessly. At least he managed to keep the majority of the alcohol from his voice, although the effort was a buzz-killer. "It's only been three years… give me time, yo."
His old rival snorted. "You look like hell."
"I feel like it, too."
"So, ah… what *does* royalty like you do after whipping ass in the Tournament?"
"There's no one like me," Hwoarang stated with a sad half smirk. Something of a blush (or was it the affects of the alcohol?) spread across his cheeks. "I've… I've been going to college," he confessed, staring down into his empty glass. "Taking a lot of Philosophy and Economic Studies and… and some Astronomy."
Jin sat back, dark eyes narrowing a little. "You go by a pen name, don't you. Kotun Mikoshi, if I'm not mistaken? And you wear glasses and geeky clothes and a hat to get around being recognized. Hmph. I thought I'd seen Kotun before. You sit two rows up from me in Chemistry, and Mrs.Easeth speaks highly of you in Philosophy. Who'd have thought Sir Bloody Talon would get high marks in - GASP - Philosophy of all things! Betcha can't wait for autumn semester huh?" Hwoarang squirmed a little at the teasing-yet-serious tone.
"Yeah, well, there's nothing else for me. I've already decided that I'm not the true King of Iron Fist. YOU were. I just got that damned trophy and…" his voice faltered as he remembered yet again the warehouse scene. "Anyway… I can't think of what I want to do in life yet, and I don't want to take any old mundane factory job that comes my way. I feel like a stray sock, you know; useless alone, something to be hung up and ignored until its mate is found." He shrugged, pursing his lips as though he thought he'd said too much for his own comfort. Jin stared all too closely at him and he felt compelled to make one last confession, though it came out garbled and unwilling. "I tried to kill myself. About a year after the warehouse… I'm not strong enough, as a fighter, and I don't feel called to do anything else but fight. I didn't see a reason not to end my life after so much bull shit. Everyone wanted me dead anyway," he mumbled bitterly.
"Not me," Jin contradicted him stoically, looking down at his hands where they lay on the tabletop. "At least, not after that night." The dark man stressed the words with almost reverent tones, as though he thought it had been… important, somehow… also. He looked up and stared at Hwoarang with intense, narrowed eyes. "I think it was STUPID of you to try to kill yourself. I mean - how will you know if you have a calling or not just by the first twenty-one years? Now that you're taking classes again, you're much more likely to find something you enjoy and stick with it. Right? I mean, these are supposed to be the best years of our lives: we're paid to learn things we wanna know, there's no worry about Ogre anymore, Heihachi is dead, we can legally get wasted, Heihachi is dead - "
"You already said that," Hwoarang said quietly. He watched Jin's face darken, then calm again. He sighed irritably. "I know all about it. I'm too young to die, yadda yadda, I show too much potential, yadda yadda, I'm too cute, yadda yadda-"
"So who has the ego now, huh?" Jin smothered a laugh. The red-haired fighter grinned faintly. He opened his mouth to speak when a sudden, incessant drone filled his head, echoing, and he slumped bonelessly into the floor as darkness overwhelmed him.
Jin slid out of the booth to kneel beside him, checking his pulse, feeling the energy that still radiated from his body (it was much less pure now that Hwoarang wasn't awake to monitor it), and diagnosed that it was only a little worse than a faint, perhaps a mild blackout from shallow breathing. Jin shook his head, looked around as though unwilling that anyone should witness his concern, then quickly picked him up and trotted outside (after paying for the alcohol and a tip, of course). "You better thank me for this later, Hwoarang," he muttered.
