Kind thanks to the reviewers, and to all readers taking interest in this story! Here comes the fourth installment. It's a long one, so brace yourselves.

Chapter 4: Clashing

The haze cleared the next morning.

Hwoarang woke up stiff and lucid. Stiff because he must have pulled a muscle during any number of falls on the other day, and now the injury pained him; lucid because, this time around, there were no hazy blanks to fumble over. He remembered Friday night. Consequently, he was reminded of the day before, and he winced.

He had been a bastard to Kazama.

He flung his feet over the bed and sat up. Damnit! It was coming back to him, and now that he thought of it, he could not for the life of him understand how he could have been so foggy the day before. He had kicked Kazama out of the bed in the morning, which had been unwarranted. The rest of the day had gone downhill on its own accord.

Why hadn't Kazama said a thing? Probably 'cause you didn't let him, Hwoarang answered himself. The other option was that it was all the same to Kazama, but that alternative wasn't worth exploring. Hwoarang ran a hand through his hair and rubbed at his face. What a mess.

As he prepared to face the day, he resolved to clear the air between them one way or the other.

It was easier said than done, though. Jin wasn't around, and, after having asked for him twice, Hwoarang was unsure if he could bear a third round of gigglefest from the available informants. Hwoarang stood in the lounge and wondered how to proceed.

"Are you all right?" a quiet voice asked. Jin had appeared out of nowhere and was standing by Hwoarang's side. His face was hidden under the hood.

"Fine," he said automatically.

"Does your head still hurt?"

"It's nothing," Hwoarang dismissed. "I've had worse. Look, Ji—"

"Jin Kazama. Your turn is in fifteen minutes," a voice called. Jin and Hwoarang both started, but the message was loud and clear. Jin had a match, and the officials had come to collect him.

Their gazes locked fleetingly. Then, Jin bowed his head slightly and vanished as stealthily as he had come.

Another time, then.

That other time never seemed to come. Jin, detached under the best of circumstances, was positively elusive. Any attempts to catch the man without making it too obvious fell through. Hwoarang had the feeling that Jin was avoiding him: even with the tournament back full-on, they should have run into each other. Jin barely had fights to speak of, if the result lists were anything to go by. By all rights, he should have been somewhere within reach.

On a positive note, Steve Fox had been right: as the games got tough, interest faded. While a couple of undaunted individuals persisted, the dust about the new pair settled almost as quickly as it had risen.

It was only after too many agonizing days later that Hwoarang finally caught up with Jin. On an impulse, he had gone to the training hall to throw a few punches and practice kicks. The late evening was ideal for someone avoiding company: a notion which was proven right almost immediately, as he spotted Jin practicing by himself.

"Hi."

"Hello." Jin's gaze swept over him, but his hands kept tracing the carefully controlled forms.

"We should talk." And I sounded like a chick.

Jin tensed—not that it showed much in his carefully controlled poise. He started another movement... and stopped. And started a move, only to have his hand fall down weakly on his side and his posture slump just a bit. "Yes?"

Will you look at me? Damnit, Kazama.

"Look, I'm sorry about the other day. In the morning, I wasn't thinking..." Hwoarang's voice faded. Was Kazama even listening?

"There is no harm done," Jin said evenly.

"There was something wrong with my head; I got confused for a moment."

"It doesn't matter."

And so came in a pleasant, placid voice the nastiest slap in the face that Hwoarang had endured in the tournament. "So it was all the same to you, Kazama?"

Jin caught the tone and, instantly, halted the form he had tried to execute. He straightened up and faced Hwoarang. His gaze fixated somewhere over Hwoarang's shoulder. "No, that is not what I meant. Hwoarang...," he used the name awkwardly, "I don't know what happened."

"What?"

"I don't remember what happened. So, to me, you have nothing to apologize for."

"What do you mean, you don't remember? My head was a mess the next day, but what do you mean—"

"I don't know what happened that evening. I've heard different accounts, but I have no memory of it."

"That's not possible..." Hwoarang sounded disbelieving. "It can't be."

"It must have been the alcohol," Jin suggested ruefully. "Or maybe someone tampered with the drinks?"

But Hwoarang shook his head rigorously. "Everyone drank the same stuff we did. And booze... it doesn't make you do things you don't want to." There was a plea in his voice.

"Nonetheless, I know nothing of it," Jin said. His eyes held Hwoarang's, who saw something flicker in them.

And yet, Jin walked away, leaving a stricken Hwoarang behind.

Hwoarang would not be struck down for long. As he calmed down and recalled the discussion, something stuck out to him. That had been several times in a row that Jin had presented different versions of "I don't remember," and, with a flash of insight, Hwoarang realized that Jin wasn't as composed as he tried to make out to be. Something else stood out stronger to him, still.

What Kazama did not deny was far more interesting than what he did deny. While Kazama was being, well, Kazama, he had not said a word about them two, only about his memory. Gut feeling told Hwoarang that he needed a second round of that little talk of theirs.

Thus, it was in the morning that Hwoarang cornered Jin at the training hall, which was quickly losing its status as a refuge to Jin. Jin did not back away when Hwoarang presented his case to him; stoic as ever, he listened to the monologue, and only a few signs gave away that something hit the mark. Yet, his response revealed little of this.

"My duty is to this tournament and to certain family obligations. I must complete this tournament, no matter the cost. I cannot be swayed by— by this. Please, leave it be. It cannot change anything." There was something very odd about the way Jin said "cannot."

Jin turned to leave.

Something snapped then. "Don't walk away from me!" Hwoarang snarled and, with a quick stride, clenched Jin by the arm and yanked him around.

Jin wrenched his arm free with a single pull, and his eyes flashed. Just as quickly, he regained his sang-froid. "Let it go," he warned in a low voice. He glared at Hwoarang darkly before turning his back again...

... or trying to. Without a warning, Hwoarang reached out at lightning speed and turned him around. Next thing Jin knew, he was being flung in the air. The short flight landed him on his back, with Hwoarang rolling to sit on his chest, immobilizing him with a firm hold of his shirt.

"Get off," Jin choked as he tried to push Hwoarang away.

Hwoarang would not be put off. "No."

Jin struggled up, but Hwoarang held him down with an iron grip. Jin found himself quite helpless, and the fear of what might happen if he lost it kept him at bay and locked to the ground effectively.

"Please. Hwoarang."

"What?"

"Don't do this."

Hwoarang hesitated. Jin was out of breath—a condition from which his sitting on Jin's chest might have played a part—and virtually pleading. Hwoarang could have just moved, shrugged it off as a one-time deal, and let Kazama continue his escapist ways...

"No way," Hwoarang said with a shake of his head. "Do you honestly not remember anything?" Anything at all? C'mon, Kazama.

They glowered at each other.

"I am sorry. Let it be. There is nothing you can do about it."

A pensive expression spread on Hwoarang's face. Jin tried to take advantage of the seeming lapse—and failed miserably, as Hwoarang's hold on him remained unfaltering. Then, Hwoarang cracked a smile.

"I have an idea..."

"I don't understand why I got to be 'ere."

"This isn't necessary."

The protests of both Steve and Jin fell on deaf ears. They had already given their best shot, and now feebly repeated their catch phrases to Hwoarang, who, after a day of frenzy, had finally cornered them and now pushed them into the lounge.

"What are you trying to prove?" Jin asked sharply, but Hwoarang remained indifferent to his objections. He was every bit as worked up as he ever got, and out to settle business.

Steve tried, too. "Come on. Talk to us. What and why?" He couldn't contain a yawn.

"This. And him and me. And you." "This" was a bottle, which Hwoarang held up.

"What is that?" Hwoarang handed the bottle to Steve, who read out the label. "Mezcal? What is that?"

"Just some booze. Alcohol, as some would say," Hwoarang said, and cast Jin a dark glance. "For the purpose of convincing some of us they haven't been forced into anything."

"That is not what I said."

"But that's what you meant, wasn't it?" Their gazes met and held.

Steve had trouble following. "Wait, wait. What are you on about?" It was as though those two were on an entirely different wavelength, and Steve was lagging behind. "Actually, never mind. Where did you get this?"

"The Mexican guy gave it to me. I didn't want to go to Fury, in case we'd get another dose of spiked punch." Another challenge, there.

"King gave this to you? Willingly?" Steve Fox sounded disbelieving.

"Somewhat." Hwoarang did not seem too concerned. "Anyhow, thought we'd play a little game here, and redo the party night. See what happens."

"What. You're attempting to reconstruct that evening. Is that it?"

"Recons— yeah. That's it."

Steve still looked confused, not to mention fatigued. He was not sure he had ever heard the reason for this offbeat demonstration, but he bore it with a stiff upper lip. "I'm not even gonna try to understand." He gave in and slumped in a chair by the table, leaning his head in his hands heavily, while Hwoarang snatched the bottle off his hands and coaxed Jin onto the couch, a small distance from him.

"How about it, Kazama? Are you game?"

"I do not see how this is necessary, or what you hope to prove."

"Maybe nothing. But aren't you curious? Or... are you afraid?"

Jin said nothing in response. Instead, he and Hwoarang embarked on a staring match from which neither was willing to back down. Hwoarang thought, through some convoluted logic, that repeating the conditions of that one night would be the key. This experiment would either confirm that it had been a hazy one-night stand...or, that it had been more.

Steve was the neutral third party—not that Hwoarang had actually mentioned this to him, or inquired his willingness for the role.

Jin, then, refused to subscribe to the alleged rationale of this insanity. He could have just left and never come back to it, but it was too much of a challenge to back down. Leaving now would have been unacceptable cowardice.

Steve, who was nodding off, finally caught up with the weirdness of the situation and wondered what, exactly, was going on. He could not stifle another yawn. "Some of us have been fighting, you know," he mumbled to no one in particular. The bottle lay forgotten in Hwoarang's grasp, as Jin and Hwoarang kept staring each other intensely. Steve reached out and snatched the bottle away to himself.

"Cheers to me," he said as he opened the bottle and took a deep gulp. Next thing he knew, his intestines were on fire. He gave a strangled groan to which the other two barely reacted.

"You okay?" Jin asked, not breaking eye contact.

Steve verged somewhere between the dead and the living before making up his mind. "Blasted, this is great!" he said enthusiastically and downed another shot. "Blimey," he murmured happily with a good deal of coughing. The drink went straight to his head, which, not long after, landed on the table, as he drowsed off.

Steve snapped awake to discover that something had changed in his absence. As he woke up completely, he realized just how much. It was still just the three of them occupying the dimly lit lounge, except...

"Umm, guys..."

He gulped.

"Hey, guys. I'm still here..."

His faint appeal went ignored. Steve wasn't sure whether to look away, flee, or step in. No, definitely not step in. That much he understood, even in his drunken stupor. Steve rubbed at his temple and tasted the lingering drink in his mouth. As he turned back to the other occupants of the room...

"Hey, keep that on. Come on. Don't take that off—"

As the dobok top landed on the floor, Steve Fox escaped the room. His departure went unheeded by Hwoarang, who was engaged in an intimate kiss with one hand caressing the back of Jin's head and the other holding him by the waist, and by Jin, who had moved on to untie the dobok belt.

T.B.C.

Mescal (also mezcal) is a Mexican spirit made from the agave plant, similar to tequila.
Dobok is the taekwondo uniform, the belt of which is a tti. Different romanizations of the Korean words exist, starting right from taekwondo.

Hearty thanks to Gypsie for the proofreading!

Revised June 30, 2008.
Published June 24, 2008.