Disclaimer: Don't own Tekken.

Author's Note: Thank you, Sanah :) This is for you.

HIDEAWAY

Hands are struggling to keep stable. They shake violently as they attempt to piece together shards of a breaking dream. Of a broken dream. But the pieces that have been found just don't seem to fit, and no matter how many times he blinks, he can't seem to clear his vision so he can try again. It is as though he's drunk, without the alcohol. He lines up the pieces, but then his quivering hands cause them to slip apart. Another growl arrives, along with yet another failed attempt.

The glue is drying too quickly for him to safely piece the shards of this dream back together.

His hope is withering away faster than he can save it.

The fuck are you doing? He asks himself through a silent sigh, trying to keep his head together. His shaking hand brings his release up to his lips, where he hurriedly takes in the intoxicating smoke, hoping to God that this would eventually drown out the sickening, foreign feeling inside of him… Something that still felt bizarre to him. The rain cloud to his sunny day. The blasphemous twit to his sacred temple. The alien invaders to his planet Earth.

The smoky cure rushes through his lungs as he takes the cigarette away once more. His hands are dangling over his knees. One is holding his calmative, and the other grips his kneecap tightly. His amber eyes briefly flicker down, watching as fingers turn a deathly white. He can feel his fingernails digging into his dark blue jeans, and beyond. Beside his feet is an endless maze of white bandages, stained red from use.

This wasn't how he was supposed to be. What he didn't quite understand was why this was hurting him. Why was this one damn thing hurting him so fucking much, to the point where he wasn't even sure if he wanted to save the dying hope and piece together that broken dream. Just let the hope burn out, and just leave the pieces to collect dust.

A secret swept under a rug, for anonymous safe keeping.

Hwoarang stands up from his bed and turns for a brief moment. There are tents in the sheets from where he had been pulling at it. The otherwise smooth surface was also adorned with a groove, where he had been sitting previously, a packet of cigarettes, and his beloved lighter. His only two friends that sought to give him comfort.

His eyes narrow dangerously as he asks himself once more, The fuck are you moping over?

There's a tapping at the front door of his apartment. His head snaps towards the direction of the noise, mentally wishing it away. It ruptured his serene environment, and for a moment, reminded him of the feelings that were tugging inside him. The undoubted origin of his endless frustration and pessimistic distress.

It was not loneliness, as he had felt many times before. Loneliness had reared its ugly head more times than he could count, more times than he wanted to remember. Ludicrous scars that had no place in his life, yet they were insistent on leaving their marks – symbolisms of unwanted pain.

Thunder booms overhead as he moves to the window that's at the opposite end of his room. He rests his forearms on the sill, staring out into the grey before him. Frosty winds blow in, condemning the curtains, the soothing nicotine cloud, and his red hair to billow as it dictates. The dancing, watery chill touches his face, feeling as though it would turn to ice on his skin. He doesn't care.

Tapping ensues once again. The Blood Talon ignores it and raises the cigarette to his lips once more. He furrows his eyebrows, flicking the underside of the grimy, white sill with one of his still shaking fingers. It was once the smoke was blown back in his face, with thanks to the wind, did he raise this free hand and run it through his tameless hair. His goggles were carelessly hanging around his neck, long forgotten, along with scrapes and bruises from a fight that shouldn't have happened, that shouldn't have summoned these foreign feelings, because it should not have finished that way.

Its just one loss, He reminds himself, subconsciously gripping the cigarette tighter, One. Insignificant. Loss.

For so long, the Korean had been chasing after someone. For so long, he had been ignored, snubbed, avoided completely. His opportunity finally arrived not so long ago, to finish what was started in a filthy alleyway, all those years ago. Something that had begun because of his arrogance, and didn't end because of his inability to let sleeping dogs lie.

Until two weeks ago.

A frustrated growl arrives from the depths of his throat as tapping occurs for the third time. He curses silently in Korean, before further debating whether or not to step over towards the door and open it for the unwanted visitor on the other side. The intruder who dares to disturb him. The intruder who dares to step into the grounds of his hiding place.

The intruder who has stepped into the grounds of his hiding place, he realises, when the door closes gently. A silent intruder at that, like an assassin; for he did not hear the individual enter his sanctuary. The first click of the door did not rupture him from his thoughts. It was only the second one. He must have left the door unlocked.

There is a cold silence in the room. It's almost as cold as the wind and rain barging through the open window. The resident remains unmoving, still staring out into the grey night that so fittingly represents the clouded haze of his mind. He stares hard, searching for streetlights, wondering if they had all gone out… Just like he was searching within himself, searching for hope, wondering if it had completely withered away.

Another intake of his sweet comfort does little to soothe the repeating battle in his mind, or to block out the ravenous thunder outside. Fists and feet are flying as fast as that sudden gust of wind. They are as painful as his numbing face and as frustrating as the feeling of… feeling of failure inside of him.

He finally justified it. A feeling of failure.

His quest for the last few years was to get even with the one fighter who had fought him to a draw. The pig-faced, goody-two shoes Japanese martial artist by the name of Jin Kazama, who always had a huge fucking stick up his ass. There were so many words, alone or combined with others, that he wants to pitch at him. So many words to describe what he thought of him.

What he thought of him.

Hwoarang never thought that his long time rival could be… something like that.

He cheated. He swore that Jin had cheated.

At long last, he had defeated the asshole fair and square. He was sure he had never felt so happy inside before, as though he had performed extremely well… but then the fellow twenty-one-year-old had morphed into that thing and he had lost. He had been lost in exhaustion and a flurry of attacks he had no hope of stopping, like dancing flames. Flames that had burnt his undefeated streak, and had landed him in hospital for a week. For those first three days, he was unconscious.

His frown fades slightly as he inhales more smoke, not noticing it dance around behind him, covering the dark and dank room in chaotically mystical smog. Baek had been there the whole time for him, making sure that he was still alright. He shouldn't have blamed himself for what occurred. It was his own stupidity for not letting it go. The wounds that were still scattered across his form were unnecessary reminders of this.

It was his adored Doo San in the room, right now. He was so sure of it. Lately, the teacher had been coming in to make sure he was alright, if only for a minute or two, before turning around and leaving, biding him a good recovery. They had decided to stay in Japan for a little while longer, until Hwoarang was fully healed, before returning to South Korea to train up some more, like they used to.

It was when he didn't answer his barely audible Korean statement in the gaps between the booms of thunder, did amber irises flick to the corner of his eyes, along with a turning head. His free, loosely-clenched hand came up, now away from the grime, and rested on the top of the window sill. With such movements, he feels his plain black t-shirt twist along with his body – even the sleeves that were rolled up to his shoulders. He pauses for a moment, breathing in. A mixture of nicotine and perfume invades his nostrils, distracting him from this insane feeling of failure, of failure to be the best, for a few good, solid moments.

"Hello Hwoarang," Came the obviously female voice. There is a brief pause before she continues, "I brought you some dinner. I wasn't too sure what you wanted, so I settled on a hamburger and a milkshake."

He is lost in these new thoughts, if only for a moment. Why in the world did she bother coming here? He scrapes his mind for possible answers, though is given nothing but meaningless, redundant facts. She was probably trying to be a good friend. He eventually disregarded that idea, and came to the conclusion that it was for pitiful, sympathetic reasons. He turns away from the attractive female, hearing her soft footsteps move around in the unseen background, in his hideaway behind him.

Julia Chang's eyes pierce through the unhealthy mist, only visible by the slight light coming from outside, with thanks to the occasionally appearing lightning strike. She managed to make out the form of the Blood Talon, seeing his head turn back to the outside and right arm raise once more to inhale more of his cigarette.

The small steps she took towards him were as silent as her entry. The closer she gets, the colder she feels, in both atmospheric environment and emotional output. An abrupt gust of wind pushes her brown braided hair back, along with the fly-away pieces. Her eyebrows furrow as she smoothes out those pieces obnoxiously sticking up at the top of her head, and was quickly done with the task, now standing beside a broken and confused warrior.

After a deafening silence, only disrupted by the occasional howl of wind or scream of thunder, the woman's words drop from her mouth. They were soft and slow, like a Mother's humming lullaby, and were almost as comforting, "It doesn't matter how the fight finished. You still won the match you had been focused on for these past few years… You beat Jin. But as for… whatever he was… The end result was unforseen by everyone."

She sees both of his hands clench, whether being used, or just idly resting nearby. For once, they were not cloaked in his fingerless gloves. She notices his biceps clench as well. He was trying so hard to keep his emotions inside. He was trying so hard to not let anyone into his private hideaway, where he could scream and hate alone. That is what he had been doing since he woke up – keeping everything inside, preventing anyone from trying to help him, irregardless of the size or source. He had probably been doing such a thing his whole life. Perhaps it was the only way he knew how to deal with pain.

The Korean lazily blows out smoke, narrowing his eyes as the wind sent it back towards him and his company. It takes him a good long moment before he decides to open his mouth, keep it void of the cigarette, and speak. Even when he does, he is very reluctant to let the letters leave his lips. To bear emotions to another is to show weakness. It is to give them access to the deepest parts of one's self. To take off the mask and come out of the precious hideaway can lead to more pain, even death, "Maybe I should give up."

The twenty-year-old couldn't believe what she just heard. She was finding it difficult to comprehend that this one little loss was affecting him this much, in ways that no one could've fathomed. The only reason she believes the impact of the battle was because she heard him speak in person. She turned away from the blanketed outdoors and looked to her fellow fighter, quietly thinking, I knew he had his pride, but I was unaware of how deep it flowed in his veins.

"Kinda feels like I did all of this for nothing."

"Well, don't feel that way," She says, looking away from his hard face.

He sticks his right arm out the window, feeling the ice cold rain pierce his skin, and carelessly drops the now finished cigarette. He brings his arm back inside, now resting it in the same likeness of his other arm, watching the cigarette fall down to the puddle-ridden pavement below. The dying embers had no chance of survival now, no matter how hard they tried to burn, "I'm not even sure that I wanna do this anymore."

"Is this even you speaking…?" She presses cautiously.

"Yes Julia," He growls, fists almost turning white, "It's me. I'm right here, standing next to you, looking out this window, watching my breath appear, pondering whether or not to tell you to get the fuck out of my apartment, or to stumble over to the kitchen and split that now-cold hamburger and fucking milkshake with you."

The youth's eyes narrow. She looks down at her hands, which are also resting on the window sill, clasped together. Her hands are almost starting to shake from the cold, as well as other nameless emotions within her. Her fingers were starting to get wet by the rain, and they felt as though that at any given moment, they would freeze and fall to the ground, much like the cigarette a few moments ago. He may have said that it was him, though it was quite clear that he was currently saying things he would not normally say.

"I started all this crap to be the best, Jules, and then he comes along and fucks it up. I go about to defend it, and fucking fail at that too. Maybe I was just born to fail. No family to care, no friends to help me, and obviously no tangible talents. I'm a worthless piece of shit with no reason to be here at all."

The insecure little boy is coming out of his hiding place. He feels bound.

She looks at him, sadness pinned up on her visage. The twenty-one-year-old's face is briefly illuminated by three loud lightning strikes. He is angrily staring out into the night. She noticed something in his amber eyes, as though he were searching for something amongst the grey clouds. She struggles to find the words to say that will bring him any form of comfort, "Baek cares about you. He may as well be your family to take the place of the one you lost or abandoned… You have friends who care also, and you know it. You're just not allowing any of us entry into your hiding place so we can help you. So I can help you."

"I don't need your help," Hwoarang spits angrily, still looking out the window. He was still cold.

"You don't want my help," Julia corrects, now looking out the window with him, watching as thunder majestically inched down from the grey sky, "But you need it. If not mine, then Baek's. You cannot fight by yourself for the whole of your life. You cannot hide your head in the sand or give up once a problem arises."

He ponders saying 'get the fuck out of my apartment' for a good five minutes. In this time, he walks away from the window sill at last, and retreats to his bed once more. He flicks open his packet of cigarettes, hoping to find another friend at the bottom of its cardboard prison, but is met with nothing. With a harsh growl, he crunches up the inanimate object and tosses it on the floor. It now lays broken next to the maze of bandages.

Whilst he wonders about, the female fighter continues gazing out the window. She spots some streetlights, at last, as the grey clouds begin to dissipate. Despite this fact, the wind, rain and thunder continue to be relentless, "What is one little stain on an otherwise clean record, when that stain was given to you by something not of this world? What matters is you are alive and well. The fact that you survived such a battle says something on its own."

Done with his pointless and fruitless wanderings, he rejoins her by the window. His face is still hard, though not as hard as it was beforehand. He swiftly brings his goggles back over his face, and lifts them higher, pushing flaming hair back. His body is less tense as well, and the cold emotion he was emitting earlier is fading.

Julia notices that his eyes are still searching for something outside his hideaway, even as she continues speaking, "You're not perfect, but who is? Nobody is perfect, and nothing embodies the notion of perfection. You're a good guy. You try hard at what you do, though you are still flawed. Jin is likewise, though he is flawed differently to you. You lost your battle to the supernatural entity within Jin. So what? That is one loss, Hwoarang. One little set back. Are you going to let what all of us have said go to waste? The 'damn that was a good kick mate'? The 'you are the best student I have ever had, I'm proud of you'?"

It's slowly getting through. And then she sees it – a tiny smirk. The smirk everybody was missing.

"See it this way," She begins, unclenching her hands. The woman's hands are now holding the window sill pointlessly, feeling the aged wood under her smooth hands. The tips of her fingers are curved, barely touching the grimy underside, "That rivalry? You're still winning. Jin lost to Paul Phoenix in the King Of Iron Fist Tournament Three, if you recall. So that's one loss. And what did you give him two weeks ago? What did you give Jin Kazama, not the other variation, two weeks ago?" She pauses for a few seconds before answering for him, "A loss. That's two losses to one, you silly fool. In that sense, you're better than him. You always were."

A light laugh, and a larger smile.

The insecure little boy is standing in the middle of a large, grassy field, wearing a large smile. He feels freed.

"Hey, look over there," Hwoarang says after some more silence, voice more alive than it had been for the past few weeks. He stretches his right arm out of the window, not caring about the rain once more. His slim index finger points straight ahead of himself, "The streetlights are visible now. About time. It's been raining all fucking day."

She smiles and nods in agreement, watching the night sky slowly remerge from the violence of the storm. This is the man she knew. This is the man that would purposely yank one of her braids to annoy her, 'pretend' to perve on her ass to anger her, to draw stupid little things on her research notes to unknowingly make her shake her head with a grin… He was now far from the broken and confused warrior.

And the Blood Talon realises this, too. His hands were stable. They had, after many agonising attempts, and with assistance, successfully pieced together the shards of a now whole dream. The pieces he had found finally fitted together, and he didn't have to blink continuously to make sure they were all fine, because he could see. The pieces were perfectly lined up. The glue was holding them together.

His hope has been saved.

A light touch to Julia's right hand startled her for a moment. She looks down to see that his hand was softly perched over hers, as though unsure of whether or not this show of affection and appreciation was entirely improper. She looks up to his face, seeing that smile still sitting there, unwilling to move.

"Jules?"

"Mmm?"

"Thanks."

"Any time," She replies, turning her hand up, intertwining her fingers with his.

They stand there, like unmoving statues, watching the night time shine, that dark hideaway now long left behind.