[ SECRET POST #036 ]

[grayout.livejournal.com]

⌈ Secret Post #036 ⌋

Warning: Some secrets are NOT worksafe.

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Notes:

Remember, if your secret from last week wasn't posted, resend it! I think there were one or two we missed.

Secrets Left to Post: 04 pages, 090 secrets from Secret Submission Post #006.
Secrets Not Posted: 0 broken links, 0 not!secrets, 0 not!fandom.
Next Secret Post: Tomorrow, Sunday, February 11, 2007.
Current Secret Submission Post: Here.
Suggestions, comments, and concerns should go here.

Comments

[grayout.livejournal.com]

Jin looks up, startled, and Hwoarang’s fists clench in anger once again as the odd, infuriating fact registers: the fucking bastard has just completely forgotten I’m here.

And just as Hwoarang’s about to call it off—more like blow it off—and say something like I-can’t-fight-you-like-this, or I’ll-come-back-later-and-you-better-be-fucking-ready-next-time, or nevermind-there’s-no-point-in-kicking-the-ass-of-pussies-go-find-your-balls-and-then-we’ll-spar, Jin says

I can’t, right now.

And then he adds,

I’m sorry.

and Hwoarang’s immediate, flaring response, all smartass comebacks instantly forgotten, is

Why the hell not!?

and an absolute silence falls over the hallway.

But Hwoarang can deal with silence. Better than Jin opening his damn mouth and—

Take the win.

—making him explode back into outraged, furious cursing again, in Japanese this time, things he’s picked up in the alleyways of Japan’s night life the last two times he’s been here—hell, making shit up as he goes—and he’s only encouraged by Jin’s eyes widening, narrowing, then hardening.

And then he finally gets it: a reaction that’s not calm, calculated, or like anything he’s been expecting.

You idiot—I might kill you—

I’m not that fucking easy—

You don’t understand—

You don’t understand—you think I’m afraid of—

You’re too damn proud—

I’m too damn proud—

And too stubborn to run the fuck away when you should—

Fuck you, Kazama, I’ll fight you all the way to hell!

And the way that curtain of dark, impenetrable emotionlessness re-closes over Jin’s face and the way Jin half-whispers

Exactly.

makes Hwoarang fall silent again, staring at Jin half in confusion, half in too-fucking-pissed-to-speak.

Jin avoids his eyes.

I don’t have time…

And Hwoarang knows that expression—or at least knows Jin well enough to know what that expression means—and it means that he’s not going to get any answers, no matter how long he stands there and argues, or how many direct damn questions he asks. He knows that expression, the one that tells him that Jin will say everything and anything but the truth. It’s pointless to even wonder.

Fucking Japanese.

You’ll make time, he contents himself with saying, you’ll make time during the next King of the Iron Fist tournament. And you won’t get your ass kicked by anyone else but me, once we meet in the end. That clear?

Sou, Jin replies, a one-syllable response that could mean anything from I-understand-completely to I-haven’t-fucking-heard-a-word-you-just-said—

—but it has to be enough for Hwoarang, because Jin steps backward and closes the door, and he’s left standing alone in the empty hallway, listening to Jin’s muffled, receding footsteps and the rain outside. But it is enough, that short, vague answer, because he saw that spark, the one of determination that he’s always seen in Jin, return at the mention of the tournament. He’ll be there, Hwoarang knows for sure. They’ll both be there. And whatever happens will happen.