[ 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]

But hell—he’s always hated waiting. And now, he’s still way too pissed off to go back and train, especially with what he knows Baek sabumnim is going to say when he figures out where he’s been—we didn’t relocate to Japan for you to visit your friends, take something seriously for once—even though it’s months yet until the tournament officially begins, and he does already take it more seriously than anyone can ever guess. Except maybe Jin. Especially because of Jin.

Fucking Jin.

The rain is cool against his skin, humid air rising from the street, when Hwoarang steps out of the nondescript apartment building—Jin’s found a good place to hide; the name by his apartment number even read Asano—and looks around to see the neon lights of downtown Tokyo already lighting the night almost more brilliantly than the day. It’s 9 PM, a Saturday, five months before the tournament begins, and the city seems more alive than ever, breathing rain-steam up at him, flashing its ads—inviting, with all the allure of a cheap whore under dim lighting, bright-red lipstick and a bastardized schoolgirl skirt she might have worn ten, twenty years ago.

Not that Seoul, or any city he’s ever been to, has been any different. Different whores. Different clothes. That's about all. He used to be a part of it, once, that teeming mass of darklit life. Then Jin—

Dragged him out of it, maybe—

Fucking—

Hwoarang curses, pulls his hood over his head, and starts down the street, ignoring the looks he keeps getting for speaking a language that isn’t Tokyo’s own, and ignoring the indignant protests of the pedestrians he roughly shoves out of his way. To hell with them. To hell with all of it. Fuck what time it is, fuck what day it is, fuck when the tournament begins or ends—it’s night, it’s a city, it’s raining and he’s pissed—

He’s going to find a fucking bar.