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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
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Chapter 2: The Red Room

Hwoarang woke in the morning while Jin was still fast asleep. He snuck his things in quiet and slipped out to dress in the bathroom, which was tactfully placed in the corridor for everyone to enjoy.

When he returned, Jin was sitting on the bed.

“Hey,” Hwoarang greeted as he went to stuff his things away.

“Morning.” Jin’s eyes caught the rays of sun that danced in through the curtains. The sun was up, and he would rise, too. The thought was not agreeable any more than it was disagreeable, and, belatedly, he wished it would mean something; that the night and the day would matter and shake through this indifference. He didn’t register how Hwoarang was regarding him silently.

Two years into this moment, and this wasn’t how Hwoarang had imagined their meeting. It should have been in the ring, on the streets, anywhere with their gauntlets on and spirits undaunted. He had thought that time had stood still despite his two years of military service and one tournament and maybe some muscle around the bones for the both of them, but as he looked at Jin, he realized that wasn’t true.

What startled him... no, “startle” wasn’t the word. The thing he noticed was how tired Kazama looked. The hell did you do to yourself? He hadn’t seen it in the dark: hadn’t really seen much of Kazama then or cared to look, but now, Hwoarang could trace the listless trail Jin’s gaze was taking and see the fatigue. What happened to you? The change since two months ago was staggering.

Then, the events of the night came back to him in a surge of aggravation, and he realized with a touch of embarrassment that he was reading too much into this. That wasn’t how they were supposed to meet, and this was getting too weird. It must have been the lack of food that made him see things. Kazama was probably the type that couldn’t stand nightly wake-ups; it ruined their whole day if that happened. Hwoarang, on the other hand, wasn’t the type who took well someone taking over his room and... sodomizing it to ruin. Speaking of which.... “Hey--” As Jin turned, Hwoarang concluded that he had been dreaming; there was nothing wrong with Kazama, and he had been hallucinating, “--thanks for letting me crash.”

Jin leaned ahead and stretched his neck. “It was nothing,” he said placidly.

“Em... I was testy last night. I--,” Hwoarang ran a hand through his hair in embarrassment and tried to find the least humiliating words to apologize. “--I snapped and... This place... it’s....”

There was humor in Jin’s voice when he replied, “I know. It’s bad.”

“Yeah, right.” Before he even realized it, they’d shared a grin. Hwoarang shook out of it. “Do you mind if I leave my things here? Just until I find a new room.”

Jin nodded. “I don’t know if you can find anything. It’s getting crammed here.”

“I’ll try, anyway. It can’t be that hopeless.” Those sounded like the famous last words, but Hwoarang brushed the foreboding aside and bundled his belongings by the wall-side. “Hope that’s not in the way. And it’s temporary.”

“Not at all. It’s not a bother. Hwoarang,” Jin said as Hwoarang was about to leave, “who was it? Last night.”

That stopped Hwoarang in his tracks, though he tried to conceal his reaction. The pause he kept was a fraction too long before he answered quietly, “Don’t worry about it. See you later.” He inclined his head; Jin automatically responded in kind, and Hwoarang vanished.

This was getting odd, Jin concluded as he slapped the blanket tiredly. Time to face the day and see the tournament started. That thought sharpened him up; the second-rate arrangements and the fellow competitors’ indiscretions were minutiae when the stakes were high and he himself on borrowed time.

--

“That’s the Red Room!” Lei Wulong said gleefully and chortled in a way that Hwoarang was quickly growing to hate with every cell of his body. He dug into his omelet and wished the violence he inflicted upon it would somehow reflect on the Hong Kong detective, who was laughing so hard his ponytail shook.

“The Red Room,” Marshall Law repeated thoughtfully. That caught Hwoarang’s attention; to date, he hadn’t been sure if Law spoke any language at all. “Hi-yah! Hyah!” was all he’d ever caught, and now it baffled him to hear a perfectly pleasant, thoroughly American voice echo Lei’s words before yielding an short chuckle as a favor to an old fellow competitor.

They were at the kitchen, where the groceries had been restocked overnight. To shoot the breeze, Hwoarang had voiced his concerns over his room being converted into an orgy arena, just as he’d left it to go jogging himself. He didn’t mention he’d been gone for quite a while, doing a little introspection and training, fending off the sleepless night; that was private, and that was not a cause for anyone to assume he was running a brothel or had given ownership of a decent room--probably the only one in this indecent house--with a nice, big double bed.... He stopped at that thought with a visible jerk.

Lei, after he’d rubbed enough salt in Hwoarang’s wounds, had regained his composure and seemed quite pleased with himself. “The younger generation doesn’t even know about the tradition, do you?”

“No,” Hwoarang said shortly.

“I think it started with the second tournament,” Lei mused, and his voice took a reminiscent note. Hwoarang stabbed at his omelet violently and waited. “We’re pretty secluded here, right? You have the matches, but then the cameras go off, and you’re anywhere but home with nothing to do....” Lei proceeded to explain how the players, even when then lodging in hotels, tended to bundle up at the same ones. Always, tournament after tournament. And, without too much of a fuss over it, there was always that one extra room booked for whoever wanted it, and that’s where the players went to blow off steam, do the nasty, bonk....

“I get it. But my room wasn’t extra. It already had an inhabitant: me,” Hwoarang said tersely.

“And now it has several.” Lee’s voice was so friendly, Hwoarang just begged in his head that they’d have a match at one point. Just for Lei, he would show off and kick him across the arena, ponytail and all.

“What happens at the tournament stays at the tournament,” Marshall said quietly. He didn’t share Lei’s laid-back amusement, nor did he seem too keen on the subject, but it was clear he was in the loop.

“Always. And it’s always the same ones, too. Twenty years later, nothing’s changed. Let me guess. It was--” Abruptly, Lei sobered. “Know what? It’s not important. What do I know,” he said lightly.

Jin Kazama had entered the room. He didn’t miss a beat to absorb the silence and deduce his arrival as the cause.

“Did I interrupt something?” Jin’s voice was glacial, and he looked around, night-like eyes blazing from behind the dark bangs. There wasn’t a trace of tiredness in his being.

“Nothing important,” Lei said, and this time, his voice conveyed forced friendliness, which met a cold, forbidding wall that was Jin. He nodded to Hwoarang. “You should find a new place.” He excused himself with a light bow and left with Marshall.

Jin’s eyes traced their step sharply without a word. Deceitful cowards had been talking about him behind his back; did they take him for an idiot? Jin himself was surprised at the ire he felt: one that bubbled overwhelmingly. As he exhaled, it felt as though his breath caught a raspy tone. At the same time, he knew he was overreacting, and belatedly become aware that Hwoarang remained in the room.

“Jin. They weren’t talking about you.”

The agreeable tone was so alien that Jin just stared at Hwoarang, and the harsh look didn’t abate from his face. Hwoarang wasn’t put off.

“Hell, I don’t know what the fuck they were talking about. Some shit about tournament traditions....” Hwoarang caught in himself in a nick of time. He was slipping into cursing every second word again, and it was beginning to grate on him. He hadn’t been around people for too long, couldn’t find the words. Assembling an AK-47 in ten seconds, that was another matter.... He had to put his mind elsewhere; he couldn’t think of that now. He rubbed at his forehead.

“It didn’t seem like that to me.”

“Who knows what Lei’s problem is? He’s from Hong Kong...,” Hwoarang said and shot Jin a look.

“An excuse,” Jin said, but he flashed a look of amusement, and his posture relaxed.

“Maybe.” Hwoarang nodded. “They’ve new food here. Definition of ‘food’ debatable.”

Jin scanned the cabinets and even the fridge. “No rice?”

“No.”

Their eyes met briefly, and Jin was the one to say it this time, “This place is--”

“Bad. I know.” They couldn’t resist exchanging grins this time. Hwoarang rose and discarded his plate and the food that had gone cold. He nodded sideways. “The cereal should be people-food.”

Jin cast a skeptical look at the package, but took it then with a sigh. He was used to the Western menu. He replied with a noncommittal utterance to Hwoarang’s parting words that he’d go look for a place to stay and settled by himself in the empty kitchen.

--

Hwoarang was practicing with a heavy bag at the gym, when a voice sounded from his side.

“Nice punch, but the kicks need work.”

He detached from the practice easily and faced the grinning blasphemer. “Steve Fox,” he remarked and bowed.

“You know I’m no good with that.”

“What’s so hard about it?” Hwoarang reproached, but he pulled off his gauntlet, and they exchanged strong handshakes. “Steve.”

“Hwoarang. Good to see you.”

“My kicks need work? How about yours; learned any yet?” Hwoarang said as he fastened his glove back on. He didn’t bother to disguise his smirk.

“Har har.” Steve ignored the follow up-question, “Any at all?” and watched as Hwoarang launched lazy kicks at the bag, which quivered at the impact. He managed to put on one glove in record time, but struggled with the second one.

“Need help with that?”

“No, I don’t need help. The damn wrap’s gotten all weird,” Steve said under his breath and pulled his hand back out. He straightened the entangled hand wrap, retied it carefully, and launched for another try. It was these damn sparring gloves; he’d been punching the bag for a couple months now, and it was always a different set of rules with the gear.

“I’ll help.” Hwoarang steadied the bag and turned to him. “Princess.”

Steve’s flush showed all too easily on his pale skin. “It’s the gloves...,” he said wanly before stretching out his hand in resignation.

Hwoarang examined the fasteners. “Damn, this is weird....”

The mumble warmed Steve inside just a bit. “So, where are you staying? Get a decent room?” he asked to shoot the breeze.

“Working on that...,” Hwoarang muttered. “Fox, the hell kind of--”

“The red one. Told you these were weird.”

“You can say that.... No, had problems with the room. Looking for a new one.”

“I’d offer, but mine’s not that roomy. But if you need...?”

“No, no. Thanks. I’ll find something.... There!” Hwoarang said triumphantly. “How’s that?”

Steve felt the gloves. “Perfect. Thanks.” He threw an experimental punch at the bag Hwoarang had been abusing and his eyes widened. “What kind of a sordid bag is this?” He tapped the side, and the leaden bag responded by staying motionless.

“Custom-made. You like?”

“That’s... just not right,” Steve said with a shake of his head.

“Too much for you?” Hwoarang asked with a sideways glance.

“Ha.” Steve concentrated for a barely perceptible time and landed a hook with knockout power so impressive that Hwoarang automatically took a step back. As the bag flung back toward him, he demonstrated a kick of his own, sending the bag right at Steve. Steve sidestepped the blow almost impossibly. When the bag flung back, they stopped it together; Hwoarang on one side, Steve on the other. They looked at each other: Hwoarang’s leg was reaching for the sky, and Steve had a fist on the bag. Grins formed on their faces.

“A spar?” Hwoarang asked. He remained still, showing no strain despite the taxing stance.

“You bet.”

Simultaneously, they released the bag and pounded their knuckles together.

--

“That was a nasty hook.” Hwoarang’s words were muffled by the running water and directed to the wall, but Steve made them out fine. The other option was that Hwoarang had just said, “You suck.”

“Uppercut.”

“Wha--” Hwoarang sneezed and sent drops of blood flying on the tiles.

Steve winced at the mess, but he couldn’t help himself. “Uppercut, not hook. They don’t even look the same.”

The next words Steve didn’t care to hear. Eventually, Hwoarang straightened up and held his nose to the rags, which were turning varying shades of pink and crimson. “Goddamm dose.”

“Shouldn’t you hold your head upward?” Steve tried, but that earned such an appalled look from Hwoarang he wanted to sink through the ground. Hwoarang even removed the rags to get his message through.

“You don’t know a goddamn thing. I don’t want that shit running in my pipes. Oh, for Chriss--” Hwoarang brought the stained towel back on his face and tried not to get mad. Cold water and soaked rags didn’t stop the nosebleed, the rags didn’t contain it; what next? Should he calm down and wait it out? Ludicrous. Eventually, as the men stood glaring each other, the bleeding did stop. Hwoarang tossed the rags away and tapped his nose with some fresh paper. He found only few traces of blood and, satisfied with the result, declared the emergency over. “It was a good punch.”

“Cheers,” Steve said. He did feel slightly guilty, though. He was lucky for a boxer to have nosebleeds next to never, and he hadn’t expected to deal damage onto others. “Uppercut.”

“They feel the same,” Hwoarang said. He didn’t sound too mad, as he first bent down and immediately pulled back up again, bending his knees instead and wiping the droplets off with a towel. When finished, he pulled back up again and raised a brow at Steve. “And am I supposed to know what they are called? Name even one of my moves.”

Steve drew a blank, and Hwoarang demonstrated a kick. “Name this. Or this.” He tried another one, a distinctly different one that went high up.

“A kick. Another kick.”

“You suck,” Hwoarang said blithely.

“I know. Sorry.” Steve’s tone was equally jovial.

“You couldn’t even aim at somewhere less important, like internal organs? You had to go for the nose.”

“Pretty boy.”

“Princess.” Hwoarang slapped him hard on the back and gave him a quick grin. “Until next? I gotta clean this up.”

Steve agreed, and they wished each other good luck with the tournament. Just as Hwoarang had bid his goodbye, Steve called to him. “Hey.”

“Hmm?”

“What are they called? The moves you showed?” As Hwoarang exited the room, Steve heard his response and grinned despite himself. They were “kicks.”

--

After unwinding with a spar, which had been rudely interrupted by a knock on the nose, Hwoarang set out to find a place to stay. He found nothing: every corner in building complex was occupied right down to the proverbial hole in the ground, which was Mokujin’s. Not everyone had arrived yet; there had to be more competitors than he saw in the area. Some rooms were empty but reserved, but Hwoarang got the feeling that some fighters had simply been placed elsewhere, or they had decided to pay up and find their own accommodation.

At the end of the day, Hwoarang found himself back at Jin’s room and accepting his invitation to stay. They argued about the bed, but Hwoarang was adamant that the floor was his. He felt uncomfortable enough to be accepting the hospitality as-was, even if Jin was nothing short of gracious and they both in decidedly better humor than the night before. It still felt like he was breaking the unwritten rules by bunking with Kazama and crowding his space like this, but since he didn’t seem to mind, Hwoarang decided he shouldn’t, either.

Huge thanks to Gypsie for the proofreading!

Originally published January 9, 2009.
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Intimate Rivals