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Intimate Rivals	By : Salysha Category: +S through Z > Tekken Views: 5835 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Tekken or any of the characters in it. I do not make any money from writing this story.

Chapter List
- 11
- 12
- 13
Intimate Rivals will conclude at fifteen chapters.
--
Chapter 12: In the Hospital
Baek stood beside the hospital bed wearily. Hwoarang had lasted
through the night, but as the hours passed and he still hadn�t woken, the
hospital staff had started going over the patient files and looking for those
who should be notified. Baek had wondered about that--about how they had known
to contact him. Something new was revealed, then, and a paralyzing feeling of
anxiety settled in Baek�s gut.
�The number was wrong, of course, but we were lucky to
locate you from the same tournament--�
�Why was I listed as the emergency contact?�
Papers were shuffled. �The information is the same on all
tournament records we have, since The King of Iron Fist Tournament 3....�
As the year came with sickening certainty, all else lost
meaning to Baek. He had been thought dead at the time, and Hwoarang had to have
known this for a fact. Hwoarang had deliberately given his name and the number
where no one would answer the calls, only to provide the information to sign
himself in. Baek supported himself on the bed rail and felt weak. After all
this time, Hwoarang still had not forgiven his kith and kin for what had driven
him to the streets. There was no one he would have notified if the worst came
true. Not one. Baek was gaining in years, and he believed the old were better
suited to take pain than the young, but his heart was breaking.
His affection had been concealed more poorly than he had thought;
the voice asking if he had questions was kinder now, almost sympathetic.
�Is he in a coma?� Baek asked numbly.
�No....� The hesitation was marked. �We don�t know what it
is. By all reason, he should be awake. We can�t find--� The explanation was detailed,
but in the end, all that supposed medical expertise amounted to nothing. The
collegium of doctors had no idea what was causing the unconsciousness; it
wasn�t a coma, as such; they didn�t think the patient had brain damage, but
hedged and refused to rule out the possibility. Hwoarang was simply not waking
up. They could only tell what they did not know, but that was of no use. They
did, however, give a timeline for the head injury: if the time of spontaneous
unconsciousness exceeded 48 hours, the chances of recovery would diminish
rapidly. If Hwoarang didn�t wake up by then, he was not likely to wake up
again.
Baek nodded at the number. He gave his consent for the
suggested treatment and waited outside, while medical procedures were carried
out. Upon returning, he found a seat in the room and sat down to wait.
--
Baek didn�t yet know fully what had happened: Hwoarang had
been in a scheduled fight that had spun out of control, but the data was
insufficient, and the cause, in Baek�s eyes, unimportant. The fight had been
too difficult, and had he stepped up in time, Hwoarang wouldn�t have gone
there. It had been two years, but he wanted to believe that Hwoarang would
listen to him as he had in the past. It was like Hwoarang�s street gambling: he
had never approved of it, but he sure as hell had sanctioned it. Had he taught
Hwoarang adequately, this would not have happened. �I have failed you.�
Hwoarang didn�t hear his words. He remained just as lifeless
despite the silent plea, without responding to the quick squeeze Baek gave his
hand.
The visiting hours came and passed; Baek remained. He kept
out of the staff�s way and only left briefly to take care of necessities: find
accommodation as near as possible and change into fresh attire, take a quick
meal. The time that progressed in running steps slowed to crawling as he
returned to the room, but he was determined to stay in his rightful place,
waiting.
Twelve hours passed, and then a full day. The second day canted
to dusk. Baek knew it was only a statistical probability, and the count had
started from an arbitrary point zero, but as the hour neared, he kept looking
at the time at more frequent intervals. He had stayed by Hwoarang�s side and
spoken some, hoping the familiar language and voice could draw Hwoarang back
into the world, but nothing had happened. There was no turn for the worse,
either, a nightmare that would come to him on many a night yet.
As the forty-eighth hour struck and the count turned into
the third day, Hwoarang still hadn't woken up. Baek, in turn, buried his head
in his hands. What had he done?
--
Hwoarang woke to a world of blindness and signal noise. The
headache pounding with a vengeance was his first coherent perception, but
something was blocking his vision. His right arm wouldn�t bend to his will, but
the left one still worked. He brought it to his face and tore the bandages off.
Through persistent and painful observation, an image of his too-white surroundings
began to form. He was in a hospital, and he knew what had brought him there.
His arm gave a stab of pain as he struggled up. The new
discovery fouled his mood further: they had stuck tubes in him. Hwoarang looked
at the IV in the bend of his arm and tore it off. Only when he started to pull
his leg free from the sling did the noise alert the nurse and Baek, who had
retreated to discuss outside the room. The nurse moved to intervene.
�GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME!�
Not only did the nurse draw back; Baek listened on in the
back, stunned. Hwoarang had never shouted like that. Hwoarang launched for the
second attack, and the nurse was headed to an ill fate, when Baek spoke,
�Hwoarang.�
Hwoarang stopped. He stared at Baek like there was no one
else present. His breathing was heavy, but he held on, visibly battling fatigue
and pain and passing out. Then, he averted his eyes and released the sling. He
dropped back on the bed and curled to himself as blood stained the sheets. Baek,
on the other hand, cleared the room, pulled up a chair on the other side of the
bed, and started talking.
--
It was night, and Hwoarang was finally alone, after Baek had
agreed to leave him be. The master would be back in the morning.
The moon glowed through the blinds, left cracked open on
request, and he could only stare at the sky. It was over. Nothing that Baek could
tell him about the match had been news to him; he remembered vividly how Jin
had humiliated him and held him up to ridicule for all public to see. Even the
defeat to the matchless fiend he could live with, but not the other degradation:
he had never been so frightened.
He tried to tell him not to hate Jin, not to let this better
him, but the humiliation only he knew of was burning at his chest. He had been
nothing to Jin from the start: he had been some kind of a toy to amuse him and
romance, while Kazama had kept his true nature a secret and laughed up his
sleeve. He had fallen for it headfirst, and he had shamed himself. Hwoarang
tried to tell himself that the shame was more Jin�s, for allowing him to do what
he had, but he knew it was just as much his.
He would not hate Jin.... Yet, he knew it was a hope he
wouldn�t live up to. He kept staring out the window, as tears burned a trail
down. It was all over.
--
On the third day, Hwoarang received a visitor. He was no
longer as trapped into the bed; in a fit of epiphany, it had been decided that
he did not need the cast on his leg or arm, and had replaced the former with an
ankle support and the latter with an intricate splint. Baek�s mood had darkened
past any reasonable terms at the announcement of the news, as he deduced
rightly that the care had been inadequate from the beginning and the diagnosis haphazard.
He had gone to discuss the matter further.
That was when someone who stood out a smile away arrived in a blond breeze.
�Hey... You�re looking better already,� Steve tried. Pale and
drawn, still sporting visible red marks on his forehead, Hwoarang took his
arrival with shocking lack of enthusiasm, but Steve was resolved to keep an
upbeat mood. He went by the bedside and squeezed Hwoarang�s good foot in
greeting. �How�re you doing?�
Hwoarang smiled without much humor and did a shrug of sorts.
�I didn�t know what to bring. I guess chocolate or magazines
or flowers would be the usual thing, but they seemed kind of girly, and I
wasn�t sure what you like,� Steve said lightly, and Hwoarang rewarded him with
an incomprehensible utterance and shake of his head that told him that the
trouble wasn�t necessary. �That�s it for me. I�m out.�
�That so?�
�Yeah, I�m out. I�m going home--just came to see you first,
before I start looking for flights. Didn�t figure I was going to leave so soon....
Tried to call here first to make sure you were here, but these folks don�t
speak much English, do they?�
The welcome break from the heavy silence came when Steve scouted
for a chair and finally settled in a seat.
�I saw the match. I mean, a snapshot of it, afterward. What
do you do against something like that?� Steve looked at Hwoarang under his brow
and said a little quieter, but all the more decidedly, �You were lucky you got
knocked out so quickly.�
Lucky? That wasn�t
how he remembered it. The humiliation had been drawn out endlessly in the scene
that kept playing in his head. �What do you mean, quickly?�
�He got you a good one early on, after.... He knocked your
lights out. Looked like it hurt, too.�
Steve wasn�t playing jokes. He spoke evenly, and his
nonjudgmental tone undid any need for a backlash. Only the tone kept Hwoarang
from jumping from his skin, as Steve continued:
�You know, about Jin. That thing...,� Steve gestured around his chest and motioned like he was
picking something from his hair as he tried to find words for something that
defied comprehension. �He�s got everyone freaked out. Everyone�s scared of him,
and no one wants to get in his way. I don�t think he even stays in the house
anymore.�
The anxiety was back. It was like being trapped, cornered,
and netted all at once, and it was unbearable. It stopped breathing and
thinking, and it ignited the instinct to flee.
�I�m leaving here.� Hwoarang said suddenly and jumped up. To
Steve�s amazement, he started hurling his feet over the bedside and looking for
the support of the ground. �Get my clothes.�
�What are you doing?�
�Where are my clothes?�
�No, don�t! Where are you going?!� Steve was alarmed.
Where was he going to go? He had stowed his stuff away in storage
before entering military service, and he had come to the tournament straight
from the army. The only place he had had was the shared room with Jin back at
the tournament. He had nowhere to go. Hwoarang�s knees buckled.
Steve caught Hwoarang by the arm first and then gathered the
rest of him, as the redhead slumped against him. �Whoa. Whoa! Lie down. Please.
You got to rest.� He was worried out of his head, but then Hwoarang finally
allowed himself be pushed back into the bed and tucked in.
Steve stayed on a while and made chitchat, but eventually, he
had to give in and acknowledge that it was time to leave. He had never seen
Hwoarang lacking so much energy; hadn�t even thought the vibrant man could be
so drained and down.
�I should get going. The flights aren�t going to book
themselves, and it�s a long way home,� he said and flashed a grin, even though
Hwoarang could only give a wan smile. Steve snuck a hand into the bed and
curled a fist around Hwoarang�s fingers. �Take care of yourself.�
--
On the fifth day, Hwoarang left the hospital with a slight
limp, supported by Baek.
Elsewhere, wondering what had gotten the woman
receding in a huff so angry, Jin Kazama rose from the ground,
as the fanfare started playing.

Hearty thanks to Gypsie for the proofreading!
Published March 30, 2010.
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Intimate Rivals