A big thank-you to all my reviewers, as this is my first entry into fanfiction world. I've been an avid reader for god knows how long, and decided it was time I try and write. A special mention to:
Kitera-n-Lil: for reviewing EVERY SINGLE CHAPTER! Yay! And please continue!
BrideOnFire: for being my longest reviewer. Also love your retelling of Sleeping Beauty on FictionPress.
PinkForever: for having a totally cool user name.
And now…
CHAPTER 6
It was night – no, early morning – and Hwoarang, try as he might, just could not get to sleep.
His head was starting to throb – perhaps he shouldn't have drunk so much? – and he was getting sick and tired of seeing a certain pair of almond shaped eyes every time his eyelids closed.
It wouldn't be so bad, if only his mind didn't insist on zooming out of Ling's face to see Jin's arms around her waist, his head on top of hers, and his face silently taunting him.
He just couldn't take it anymore.
He untangled the sheets from his body and kicked them off the bed. His hand groped his bedside table for the lamp switch and instead knocked over a glass of water.
The coldness was refreshing and he stumbled out of bed. If he couldn't sleep, he might as well do something useful.
Minutes later, shirtless and still in his pyjama pants, he was at the gym.
He tried practicing his technique but he couldn't concentrate properly and he messed it up so often that he felt like he did years and years ago, when Baek had first taken him in and he realised that he didn't actually know anything about Tae Kwon Do, let alone proper fighting.
He stopped, sweat-drenched, and flicked his hair back into his headband. His eyes flicked around the large room and fell on the rowing machine at the corner. Strenuous, yet mindless. Perfect.
He didn't know how long he spent there, counting his strokes like most counted sheep at that time of night. He stopped, not tired but bored, and wiped at his face with a towel.
And that's when he saw them.
They were sparring in the appropriately named sparring room, and he watched them, unseen, through the glass walls.
He observed Kazama's Mishima-style attacks – all balance and power, and found himself wanting, again, to destroy his pretty-boy face.
For the first time, he saw Ling fight and reminded himself not to be fooled by her China-doll looks. The girl was lethal. She ducked and weaved and cart-wheeled and flipped and Hwoarang was reminded of a dancer as he watched her.
And then, after he'd scrutinised both of their fighting styles, he studied how they interacted – how Jin held back his kicks and punches just so, how Ling rushed to his side when one of her own attacks were successful. How they held onto each other and giggled as a particular move landed them both on the floor. How they smiled and talked and laughed together even as they fought.
His reverie was interrupted by someone else entering the gym and he immediately busied himself with the rowing machine again, glad that the walls of the sparring room seemed like mirrors from the inside. How long had he standing there, just looking? An hour? More?
He shook his head. So much for not allowing any distractions.