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Estranged Equals	By : Salysha Category: +S through Z > Tekken Views: 3336 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: Tekken and Tekken characters are the property of Namco Limited. This is nonprofit fan fiction.

Chapter List
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Whoah.... New editing tools on AFF. Wicked! Note that the previous chapter now contains additional paragraphs at the beginning, mainly highlighting the hundred and one things that went wrong between the pair of interest.

Chapter 3: Wintry Reception
The world was that much more a peaceful place in the morning. Hwoarang woke and wasn’t in a hurry to get up. It was still early. He lay down more comfortably and welcomed the calmness bestowed his way. He stretched languidly and pulled the blanket tighter over himself. It wasn’t very warm or superbly comfortable, but his position was livable. He felt infinitely calmer than the night before, though thinking back to it raised his heartbeat unpleasantly.
The room allotted to him had had nothing wrong on the outside, but an ill feeling had persisted from the start until he had found out that the trepidation had been for all the right reasons. It hadn’t taken long before he had figured out that he had been placed next to the new orgy-room-to-be. There was no cooling down after that, and there was no escape from the hell of mind that had ensued.
Whoever was taking the action and whomever with, he didn’t care. The manner of the action being taken he did not care about, either. Just because he was in the game did not mean that he wanted to hear about the bedroom life any more than before. He would not be made witness to anyone’s debauchery.
A faint knock came to the door before it was opened, letting in white shoes and a pair of red pants, followed by the rest of the knight in shining armor. “You’re up already.”
Steve moved to the foot of the makeshift bed before crossing over, which Hwoarang appreciated. He was thankful for small favors these days.
Steve grabbed something from his bed and straightened the sheets before hunkering down as Hwoarang cranked himself up. “Morning there,” Steve said, tilting his head. He was already dressed and looking like he had been up for a while.
“Morning,” Hwoarang said as he pushed himself to sitting, feeling oddly scraggly and unkempt. It had been a while since he had been the last to get up.
Luckily, Steve excelled in normalcy. That was a fresh breath of air to the recent events. “How’d you sleep?”
“Not too bad,” Hwoarang admitted. “Thanks for putting me up.”
Steve flashed a grin. “Anytime.”
Hwoarang took in his standing: here he was, camping out on another guy’s floor, amid a life that was not living up to expectations, and in a tournament that was not starting out as much. There was certain caustic humor to it if he really stretched.
After realizing that morning wasn’t inviting meaningful conversation, Steve straightened to his feet. “Hey, I’ll go hunt down some breakfast. I’ll see you later?”
“Yeah, you, too.”
Steve left the room and left him to set about the morning at his own pace. There was little point in doing other than following suit. Hwoarang picked himself up and started arranging his belongings for the day.

It took a couple of hours before the corridors filled up. Amid the earthen colors and claustrophobic hallways, Hwoarang found the room acting for a kitchen and made for a passing breakfast. Then, he moved on. The faces were familiar, and he grunted greetings when they were called for. Xiaoyu came over to him as if he were a friend and stayed around to chat. He did his best to slip out of the conversation as soon as he could, even though Xiaoyu’s disappointment was tangible and in no way did he feel good about deserting someone who emanated such desperate loneliness.
Anywhere he went and with whomever he talked, the fighters shared a common interest: they looked to exact revenge on Jin Kazama. Participation was not about dominating the toughest fighting tournament anymore, nor about controlling the full wealth of the Mishima Zaibatsu and its innumerable resources; this tournament seemed far more personal and much more malicious.
After listening to the rants of familiar fighters and a few he should have recognized and dismissing everyone’s inquiries about his motives, Hwoarang had finally had enough. He dismissed the company from existence and left for solitude. He wasn’t entirely successful in finding his own way; Steve soon joined him, keeping an eye out for him.
He acknowledged Steve with a wan grin, and Steve didn’t say too much, until he said quietly, “Wanna go find a gym?”
It was a winning suggestion, if any. He was down with that.

Hwoarang ended up doing his thing, and Steve his, but the companionable association did him good. He wasn’t entirely successful in thwarting past woes, but he came close enough. The intense training built his ability to focus to the point where he mustered enough enthusiasm to go rouse Steve. He dodged the amiable punch thrown this way easily and slapped Steve on the back not-so-amiably. Steve scowled, and he grinned.
The amicability carried over to the locker room, which remained empty of everyone but them. That was all for the better because he was ready to start thinking clearly. “Have you seen any lists?” He had no idea whom he was supposed to be facing first, and the lack of information struck him as odd. There should have been something.
“I haven’t seen anything.” Steve’s stance clearly said that he had been thinking about the same. “I guess it all comes down after the opening gala. Can you believe there’s actually gonna be one? Formal dress.”
“Oh, God.”
“No, foomal.”
Hwoarang finished dressing with one shoe in hand and weighed it thoughtfully. “I wonder how fast this flies.”
“Fight the urge, my friend,” Steve said happily, though he urgently had to retrieve something from behind the locker and break the trajectory Hwoarang had plotted. Upon re-emerging, he handily snapped the shoe Hwoarang lunged his way and threw it back with a lazy arm and a grin.
Hwoarang settled down to fix the shoe in place. “I should’ve said something; just meant to say that I’ll do a little scouting today and get out of your hair.”
“Naw, mate. Why won’t you stay? There’s enough room for both of us, and besides, I’d appreciate the company.”
“Thanks,” Hwoarang said, but he shrugged a little. He abhorred being caught in anyone’s generosity, and Steve was being generous. The room wasn’t spacious by any chance, even if the generous sunlight willed the mind to believe otherwise; it was minimal upkeep all the way, and not his for the taking.
“Seriously, you’re welcome. Think about it?” Despite the sincerity, Steve was prudent enough not to push the point further.

“This is killing me,” Hwoarang said steadily and tugged at his sleeve.
There was nothing wrong with his clothes. The show over dressing up seemed to be a question of principle rather than factual resistance, and Steve decided to call him on it. “Aren’t you being a tad overdramatic?”
“Murder,” Hwoarang declared.
“There’s no living with you. Come on,” Steve said and pulled Hwoarang by the elbow.
They had decided to go to the opening together. It was only a natural continuum to sharing a room for the time being. There hadn’t been a point to keep running: Hwoarang had gotten a mattress from his old room and thrown the place cutting wishes of good riddance. A day later, Steve had learned to let Hwoarang’s complaints flow steadily out of one ear and contribute with the occasional retort. They crossed under a massive Mishima Zaibatsu Opening Gala banner and entered the reception building.
The setting was magnanimous. There had been no expenses spared and no corners cut in making the setting memorable. Off the accommodation grounds and out of the city, the banquet grounds rivaled the famed beauty of the Mishima Estate. The festivities themselves took place indoors, in a pillared hall bordered with oriel windows. Their entrance was monitored; one particularly bedraggled man had already been denied entrance, and he stayed behind, hurling insult but too unsteady on his feet to make a dash past the bouncers. His slurs carried in, though, and Jin Kazama’s name was mentioned.
As the two made it inside, neither of them paused to survey the surroundings and see a flash of shining silver in the dark, along with the outline of a lit cigar. As Lee Chaolan sampled his fine Dominican, Kazuya could barely stand to be in his presence. Eyes firmly on the retreating Hwoarang, Lee closed his lips around the cigar and took a deep, sensuous draw. Kazuya looked at him in distaste.
“You are disgusting.”
Lee didn’t hurry removing the cigar from his mouth. Once he did, he said mildly, “Glass houses, brother.”
Kazuya remained as disgusted, but he couldn’t find a retort. He gave a nod to his associates and disappeared into the dark.
The setting was mostly Zen and, most assuredly, all Zaibatsu. There were little brooding touches to the otherwise light, old setting that never quite let the visitor forget his place. It could have been only his impression, though; Hwoarang was ready to buy that he was dancing the very fine line between usual compulsion and paranoia, and promptly decided his personal misgivings should take a backseat. Right now, there was a function to attend. There were friends to greet, opponents to antagonize, and a tournament to become familiar with. There was food for the mingling crowd, and informal socializing.
Steve spotted his training partners, Marshall Law and Paul Phoenix, and excused himself to join them, with Hwoarang’s willing leave. He had other things to keep an eye on. He gave a courtesy nod to Steve’s new pals, familiar faces as they were. No love lost there, even if no fight.
The turnout had been good, but not everyone was there. Most notably, the Mishimas were missing. Everyone knew who the official stars of the show were, but the Mishima associations had never kept the other hopefuls from reaching for the stars. There were murkier reasons why the clan heads, Heihachi and Kazuya, might not be making an appearance here. They were saving the big guns for the tournament and for Jin’s head.
Hwoarang exchanged a few words with whom he must, but then moved surreptitiously away from the open to somewhere where he could get his back against the wall and keep an eye on things. He didn’t have to wait for long. The ripple of conversation reached a plateau, giving way to the man of the hour. Hwoarang saw Jin for the first time in months.
Jin’s features were handsome and harsh, his comportment flawless. The black tuxedo on Jin was impeccable. Hwoarang was suddenly glad he had dressed up and brushed his black jeans and sport jacket self-consciously.
“Welcome to the Zaibatsu Opening Gala.”
The masses missed the nuances that were so obvious to Hwoarang. It was always “the company” or “the Zaibatsu.” Jin never spoke of the Mishimas, had never let himself be counted as one. Even now, with all the talk about him going over the edge, Jin still refused the acknowledgement. The corner of Hwoarang’s mouth quirked.
Jin was succinct, of few words. He hoped for a clean tournament, wished good luck on the upcoming matches, and bade everyone to enjoy the evening—all the while aware that the most ardent enemies had already been turned away at the door, but only the most ardent ones. He thanked the co-sponsors with all the right words. The contrast between the leisurely reception and the obvious danger in which Jin was putting himself was stark. His appearance was all about control, which never slipped. Jin smiled a wintry smile that died at his eyes.
Jin had been there to welcome the guests, but had since moved to mingle with the crowd. Hwoarang kept his distance. Being out of sight left him free to observe. There was a change that had been sudden and seemed out of place. Jin looked so . . . big. Bulked up. He was trying really hard to find a polite word for it. Hwoarang frowned and stared at the floor. It was then that that he realized why the flawless tux was stretching at the seams. Beneath the suit, Jin was wearing full battle-gear.
The realization and the sinister implications would have pulled him up short, but they were fleeting drips in the ocean. The anger that had lurked beneath was more imminent. It crept so effortlessly that Hwoarang barely acknowledged the buildup. The break-up had been the end. He had expected Jin to go back to girls, or start on them, whichever it may have been. Act as was expected of him. He had known there would be someone after him.
‏He had never expected it to be another man‏.
Hwoarang looked away and tried to calm himself, but as he looked again, the man was still there. He was not a bodyguard; Nina Williams played that part and watched Jin like a hawk from a small distance away. This man was not a bodyguard.
He and Jin were talking quietly, closely—intimately. Their heads came together close, and a private discussion was taking place. Jin’s token frown had smoothed to a neutral expression. Hwoarang looked at his company. The man was handsome, masculine. Carried himself well and with dignity. His clothes accentuated a toned, muscular body, athletic build, and taste. Upswept, wildly spiked hair. Pants and dress shirt that showed off his physique. European. Hwoarang’s mouth settled in a hard line. Age? Older than Jin—had to be—but he couldn’t get a reading. He wouldn’t have been able to guess.
Hwoarang forced himself to look elsewhere, but he soon turned to stare at the two men again. He forced himself to walk away from it and made over to the buffet table, but the food sickened him. From a distance away, Jin and the man cut his cornea like a laser.
Someone was talking to him, and he showed restraint by not smashing a plate into that someone’s face. He moved out of the earshot of the speaker, but the distracting noise strengthened. It was his own blood that came rushing to his ears and to his eyes like a thick, crimson wave. He looked again, and the man had finally left Jin’s side. He had finally managed to take a few precious steps away from Jin, leaving him momentarily to see to his host’s duties and talk to someone else for a change. The man didn’t even seem to mind being aside that much; he remained behind without further ado, content to be close by.
Someone was yapping by his ear, but the man glanced after Jin. Hwoarang pushed the plate off his hands and shook off the distraction. He made it to the middle of the floor in a few strides and charged a fist into the man’s face. “Dongseongyeonaeja!” Hwoarang spat.
His strike sent them man flying, but it didn’t keep him down. The man hit the ground back first and, just as quickly, he pulled up, covering his nose with his hand. He had been hit hard, and it showed less than it should have. From his conversation with Marshall, Steve saw the fight in the making and took off to intervene. While Steve started to struggle through the unmoving mass, the man was on his feet and, despite holding a red-covered hand to his nose, he faced the blazing Hwoarang with equal intent.
“Stand down, soldier. I said, stand down!” Jin Kazama had emerged to the scene, but he was not addressing Hwoarang. Jin’s focus and dark, brooding wrath were focused on the man. The man was immobile on his feet, though his disposition remained just as wired. Jin wrote him off without a second glance. “Get yourself cleaned up.”
The man took in his stand, until he clamped his hand around his nose even tighter and bowed at Jin. Hwoarang’s battle stance was ignored as the man lowered his fist and backed up before turning around and heading off. Jin watched him go, and then the dark, brooding wrath was all on Hwoarang.
Hwoarang’s arms ached with tension, but he did not lower them until the man was out of sight. Once he was, Hwoarang eased off his stance, and nothing more. Jin was close—closer than in months—dark and dangerous as he had always been. Hwoarang stepped closer until he broke the boundaries of personal space. He bent a trifle and sneered so quietly that no one else could hear him, “Tight pants don’t look too good on you, Kazama. You’re showing a bit too much.”
They were too close. Then, Jin leaned in, so close that his ear burned before he understood the words, “At least I have something to show.” Jin pulled back.
At that time, Steve finally pushed past the spectators and immediately placed himself between Jin and Hwoarang. Before Hwoarang had reacted, Steve was already pushing him back and steadily restraining him. Yet, Steve’s attention was on Jin. “You’re a rare kind of stupid, aren’t you?”
Hwoarang did not struggle past him, but Steve could feel the explosive tension of every muscle against his back and braced for an explosion. Another fury brewed at the front; his comment had singed Jin.
Whatever Jin had been about to say next never matured into words. Steve wondered about the sudden change, when the tension against his back was suddenly gone; Hwoarang had turned on his heel and taken off. From somewhere at the back of the crowd, Baek Doo San was striding into the scene. His remarks would not be glowing. Steve gave the last glare at Jin, who did not acknowledge him, and darted after Hwoarang.

The worst part of an adrenaline rush was the low that followed. Hwoarang was feeling the full weight of it, and that was how Steve found him, staring into the ceiling. Steve noticed peripherally how clean the room was—all the mess was his, and none was Hwoarang’s—but Hwoarang himself took the central spot now. At seeing him, Hwoarang glanced to the side and started hauling himself up from the bed.
Steve gave a faint grin, which was meant to be encouraging, but Hwoarang didn’t beat around the bush. “I’m sorry you had to get involved.”
“Like I cared,” Steve dismissed instantly.
“You should’ve just stayed on.”
“Nah.... There’s only so much dressing smart a man can take.”
Hwoarang didn’t show much of a reaction, but Steve got the impression he appreciated the effort. Steve took the opportunity to remove his jacket and loosen an extra button of his shirt. He tucked the jacket away and felt more liberated instantly. Hwoarang still hadn’t gotten more comfortable. He didn’t seem to be going anywhere, either, and after a brief consideration, Steve grabbed himself a rickety chair, pulling up his pants legs carefully as he took a seat.
Hwoarang spoke shortly, “It’s always like this. Just can’t get along. It’s nothing you should lose sleep over.”
“That wasn’t Jin you punched.”
“No.” Hwoarang even shrugged a little.
The explanation stopped there. Steve was waiting for more, but Hwoarang never continued the train of thought, settling instead on the oblique apology for the interrupted evening. Steve slapped his thigh lightly as though to give a beat for more talk, but there wasn’t more coming. Hwoarang settled back as he shifted in his chair. Hwoarang tried to brush off how he quickly took of weight from the other hand, but Steve saw the flinch. He thought of leaving Hwoarang be, but another line of thinking was nagging at him. Steve fidgeted. He knew he was getting worked up, but the acknowledgement didn’t help the agitation. Hwoarang wasn’t helping; he seemed content to have the silence continue to the end of time.
Steve kicked up, barely getting an acknowledging brow in response. He finally made his mind up. “I’ve something to say and—if it’s all the same to you—I’m just gonna say it. You don’t have to pretend so hard that you and Jin weren’t an item.”
The world stopped rotating. Hwoarang paled. “What?”
“I know you two . . . dated. Or whatever you want to call it.”
Ice sticks impaled his heart and made his blood run cold. “How?”
“Last tournament, when Jin went crazy and tried to kill you and you went back to that room you shared.... I went to check on you later, to make sure you hadn’t passed out or killed each other. I tried to knock several times!” There was a charged pause, and Steve finished with uncharacteristic lackluster, “Friends don’t sleep like that‏.”
Steve knew. Steve had known even before there had been anything serious. The rasp in his breath wasn’t a surprise to Hwoarang himself; it was caused by the weight so big on his chest that it bedimmed actuality.
“I didn’t figure you for gay. Either of you.”
Steve’s tone was neutral and non-accusatory. He was just asking. “Me, neither. Not sure I am, or he is.”
That had been part of the problem. They had not talked about it. Hwoarang was not sure he was, and he was not sure Jin was, in the end. They had just jumped right into it.
“If you’re gonna keep it under wraps, tone it down. More displays like that, and people are gonna start guessing.”
The words were harsh, but Steve was right. Steve was also wrong. “Nothing to guess anymore.”
Steve startled. “Really?”
“It’s over,” Hwoarang said, and saying it out was more painful than he had guessed. As long as he had kept it within his head, it had not been real. Saying it out loud made the difference.
“I’m sorry.”
That moment, Hwoarang realized what Steve was trying to say: that it did not matter, it did not make a difference to him, and it changed nothing between them. Steve was still there. Though he hated himself for the weakness, he felt grateful.
It kind of felt good to talk about this to Steve Fox. Steve couldn’t know how deeply personal this was, nor see any further meaning to it, but Hwoarang was unburdening himself of something that had been tearing him apart. At least someone knew and wasn’t cutting him off.

Dongseongyeonaeja is a Korean slur for a gay man.
Many thanks to Gypsie for the proofreading!
Published March 22, 2011.
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Estranged Equals