*dies* Uhhhh, it's not smut or anything (or even anything sexual at all). I never write smut. >>" Just random characterization. Wonder if it'll fit into an LJ comment... finding out!
Fight me.
No.
Fight me.
No.
Kazama—!
No.
Pause. Then:
Pound pound pound pound FIGHT ME DAMN YOU I’LL BREAK THIS DOOR DOWN IF I HAVE TO smash kick smash smash, click, and open—
and then Jin’s standing there looking out at him, leaning against the frame of the door—
—and Hwoarang stares at him, just for a second, mostly in shock, before he’s able to tear his gaze away. But a second is long enough—long enough for the exhaustion to register, the exhaustion that Jin’s managed to conceal in every part of his body except the anger lines, the worry lines, the light-dark-maybe half-circles under his eyes that he can’t erase through sheer force of will. He looks, Hwoarang thinks, staring at the splintering, uncarpeted wooden paneling on the floor outside Jin’s apartment door, like a man who hasn’t slept in a week. Like a man having—maybe living—a waking nightmare.
He looks weak.
Hwoarang hates it.
Jin doesn’t notice.
Hwoarang hates that, too.
Weak, weak, weak. Weak! How the fuck could this guy have beaten him—how could he have let this guy beat him—
You again…
Jin’s carefully neutral voice cuts into his thoughts, and Hwoarang suddenly regrets it all, regrets trying to track Jin down before the tournament began, regrets coming here, regrets demanding a fight, regrets even looking up at Jin—especially since
Yeah. Me. Again.
in a what-you-gonna-do-about-it-punk tone is all that he can salvage from the millions of possible responses blaring at ragespeed through his head. He hears Jin sigh quietly, a noise of resignation, and he looks up, glaring his anger into the pair of carefully unreadable, impossibly guarded dark eyes that meet his own.
They tell him nothing, but he’d been expecting that.
Fucking Japanese.
And he’s almost been expecting the next part, too, when Jin prompts, in a suddenly tired voice that sounds like he’d much rather run and slam the door in his face,
You wanted to fight me.
because Jin, for some reason, Jin, of all people, has always known exactly the right thing to say to tilt Hwoarang off the edge of slightly pissed-off into raving fury.
Yeah, he fucking wanted to fight him. Yeah, he wanted to win. Yeah, he’d been chasing Jin around for over a fucking year, wanting and training his ass off for that rematch that he’d been denied for so long. And hell fucking yeah, did he want to take Jin’s fucking face and grind it into the dirt—but not like this, not like this when Jin obviously couldn’t concentrate, when he obviously wouldn’t get a match with Jin at his peak—who the fuck, what the fuck, did Jin take him for!? Not like this when he couldn’t fucking face the same fighter he’d fucking lost to, not after seeing him like that, not like this when something else—something more important, comes the bitter thought—was distracting the son of a bitch of a bastard from Hwoarang’s moment of triumph—
The same son of a bitch that’s passively, blankly, watching him swearing like a lunatic in Korean now, not understanding a word and apparently lost in his own damn thoughts again.
no subject
Fight me.
No.
Fight me.
No.
Kazama—!
No.
Pause. Then:
Pound pound pound pound FIGHT ME DAMN YOU I’LL BREAK THIS DOOR DOWN IF I HAVE TO smash kick smash smash, click, and open—
and then Jin’s standing there looking out at him, leaning against the frame of the door—
—and Hwoarang stares at him, just for a second, mostly in shock, before he’s able to tear his gaze away. But a second is long enough—long enough for the exhaustion to register, the exhaustion that Jin’s managed to conceal in every part of his body except the anger lines, the worry lines, the light-dark-maybe half-circles under his eyes that he can’t erase through sheer force of will. He looks, Hwoarang thinks, staring at the splintering, uncarpeted wooden paneling on the floor outside Jin’s apartment door, like a man who hasn’t slept in a week. Like a man having—maybe living—a waking nightmare.
He looks weak.
Hwoarang hates it.
Jin doesn’t notice.
Hwoarang hates that, too.
Weak, weak, weak. Weak! How the fuck could this guy have beaten him—how could he have let this guy beat him—
You again…
Jin’s carefully neutral voice cuts into his thoughts, and Hwoarang suddenly regrets it all, regrets trying to track Jin down before the tournament began, regrets coming here, regrets demanding a fight, regrets even looking up at Jin—especially since
Yeah. Me. Again.
in a what-you-gonna-do-about-it-punk tone is all that he can salvage from the millions of possible responses blaring at ragespeed through his head. He hears Jin sigh quietly, a noise of resignation, and he looks up, glaring his anger into the pair of carefully unreadable, impossibly guarded dark eyes that meet his own.
They tell him nothing, but he’d been expecting that.
Fucking Japanese.
And he’s almost been expecting the next part, too, when Jin prompts, in a suddenly tired voice that sounds like he’d much rather run and slam the door in his face,
You wanted to fight me.
because Jin, for some reason, Jin, of all people, has always known exactly the right thing to say to tilt Hwoarang off the edge of slightly pissed-off into raving fury.
Yeah, he fucking wanted to fight him. Yeah, he wanted to win. Yeah, he’d been chasing Jin around for over a fucking year, wanting and training his ass off for that rematch that he’d been denied for so long. And hell fucking yeah, did he want to take Jin’s fucking face and grind it into the dirt—but not like this, not like this when Jin obviously couldn’t concentrate, when he obviously wouldn’t get a match with Jin at his peak—who the fuck, what the fuck, did Jin take him for!? Not like this when he couldn’t fucking face the same fighter he’d fucking lost to, not after seeing him like that, not like this when something else—something more important, comes the bitter thought—was distracting the son of a bitch of a bastard from Hwoarang’s moment of triumph—
The same son of a bitch that’s passively, blankly, watching him swearing like a lunatic in Korean now, not understanding a word and apparently lost in his own damn thoughts again.
Kazama!