Chapter Text
To be fair, it doesn’t start with the news of Jin’s death.
It actually starts in the bloody and terrible aftermath of the fifth tournament, in that strange state of half-comatose brokenness that his rival had left him in following their match. During those three days of silence, he was not where he should’ve been, and his mind – whatever of it had even remained at the moment – was far elsewhere, spinning worlds to life with an imagination he hadn’t known himself to possess. Three days of searching, of wandering and wondering and trying to understand. Three days of trying to wake up because something just wasn’t right. Three days of Jin being there, by his side, speaking to him like he hadn’t done in years.
No, it doesn’t start with the news of Jin’s death, but Hwoarang wouldn’t know that. He doesn’t remember what happened before, during those three days, only what is happening now.
And what’s happening now is that he’s losing his mind.
“Kazama!”
His first breath of the morning catches in his throat, potentially killing a scream that he hadn’t even known was coming, he can’t be sure. It’s possible. Judging by his sweat-soaked T-shirt and inexplicable need for oxygen, it’s probably a little more than that.
The heinously early hour staring accusingly at him from the clock face only confirms his suspicions, and he groans, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. 3:19. Too late to be going to sleep, too soon to be starting the day. A perfect hour to entertain wishful thoughts of finally chasing his nightmares away. He could just bury himself back under his blankets and hope for a miracle, but he has to be reasonable about something in his life. There’s no chance of him getting back to sleep right now, not like this. Not after that.
Not after yesterday.
He huffs an angry breath, pushing himself out of bed and padding silently out of his room. The apartment is dark and quiet, even with the sounds of a sleepless city outside – he’s used to all of that by now, so it fades into the background, white noise that makes it all that much easier to discern something unfamiliar.
“Hwoarang?”
He freezes, a chill running down his spine. All that much easier, indeed. His first instinct is to look around, which is bullshit. He knows better. He is more alone than he takes any joy in being, but that evidently has very little bearing on elements of non-reality.
“...are you alright?” A soft voice asks, and Hwoarang suppresses a sigh, tense posture collapsing as he admits defeat once more. As if everything else wasn’t enough, there’s also been...this. This...shit.
He doesn’t have a better word for it than that, not really. Not when it doesn’t make any sense, not when it won’t stop, certainly not when it implies such dangerous things. The fact that this is happening at all is bad news, but the fact that he hasn’t put a stop to it is even worse.
“If you can’t sleep, some tea should help.” Jin’s voice says quietly, and yeah, he doesn’t have a better word for this at all.
He can’t remember when it started, especially when it got this bad – from the moment he’d met him, Hwoarang had been unable to go too long without hearing Jin Kazama’s voice. At first, it hadn’t been all that strange. He’d remembered their initial fight with vivid clarity, recalled his few words with rapt attention, the way his deep baritone had spoken the short sentences that would seal Hwoarang’s fate forever. He’d known it all so well, so to hear Jin’s challenge, Jin’s quiet affirmations, in his mind every now and then was totally normal. It had served to motivate him at the time, had given him something to strive for when all he really wanted was to get revenge on the world that had taken away what he loved most. He’d needed Jin’s voice talking to him – he’d needed Jin.
That theme had persisted in the aftermath of the third tournament, and Jin became his most important companion on frozen stakeouts and unsavory missions alike. In the years that followed, his voice had eventually dwindled to a whisper, lost under gunshots and bullet shells and running rivers of blood that stained the interior of his mind red, red, red. He was tired, and Jin’s voice wasn’t enough anymore. He needed something new to fight for, some other reason to remind him why he was alive.
(That’s what he’d thought, but when he’d learned about the fourth tournament, the loudest thing he’d heard had been Jin promising that they would fight again.)
A brief silence had followed this period, first because he couldn’t take it and then because he didn’t need it. Baek had come back into his life by this point, and his voice was infinitely more important than Jin’s, unfinished rivalry notwithstanding. His master’s presence, real and constant, had helped him focus, had made him whole again for the first time in years. By the time the fifth tournament had come around, he’d known he was ready for anything.
He thinks, perhaps, that that’s when everything changed. He’d defeated Jin, and Jin had...well. Jin hadn’t been entirely honest with him, but realistically, that wasn’t his fault. He doesn’t know how he feels about it, although he can’t bring himself to be as angry as he would like to be. He can’t blame Jin for any of it, even if he was wrong. He doesn’t know what that means, what any of it means – all Hwoarang really knows is that when he awoke from his coma after being nearly killed, Jin’s voice had since returned.
Jin’s voice had since returned, this time with a mind of its own.
Hwoarang’s hands are steady as he steeps the tea, but he can’t stop the uncomfortable sensation from rising in his gut. It’s hard to function when everything is so far off-kilter. Sure, he’s as stubborn as they come – all the more so, if his master is to be believed – but even he knows when to admit that things are running off the rails. Sometimes. It’s all relative, in the end.
He knows this is different. He’s not stupid – reckless, sure, maybe ill-suited for subterfuge if it involves using fancy language and manipulation, but he’s not stupid. He’s well-aware that something is terribly wrong, he just can’t quite pinpoint what the hell it is. Maybe if he’d had more time to think about it with a clear head, he could have.
With things now being the way they are, though, it’s unlikely that his mind will be ready to settle down anytime soon, let alone be set for thinking with a clear head. He has a hard time doing that even when things aren’t shitty.
As if on cue, his gaze tracks to the kitchen counter and the mess of papers covering it. Newspaper clippings, magazine articles, official documents, anything he could get his hands on, legally or otherwise. Scribbled notes, phone numbers, leads and dead-ends and disappointment manifested.
(Jin Kazama, Jin Kazama, Jin Kazama.)
From the moment he’d regained consciousness following the fifth tournament, Hwoarang had become resolute on three things. One. To devote every last breath in his body to his master, because like hell he would find someone who gave that much of a damn about him ever again. Two. To beat Jin Kazama’s ass (devil or human, he’s not picky at this stage in the game) to hell and back, just to prove a point. And three. Find Jin Kazama.
The last one has proven to be easier said than done.
A quick study of the newspapers only restates what he already knows: following the fifth tournament, Jin assumed control of the Mishima Zaibatsu and immediately began driving its and his own reputation into the ground. Some of the more recent editions cover the coup d'état that went down, and newer stories still tell the tale that Hwoarang had not liked one bit: that Jin had gone missing.
At the top of the haphazard pile, staring him right in the face, is the worst one of all. The one he’d just gotten yesterday, the one that had stolen the breath from his lungs and the strength from his legs and even now threatens to shatter the mug of tea in his hand.
Jin Kazama is dead.
Hwoarang swallows, turns away. Takes a sip of the tea he made, a customarily bitter brew that Baek used to give him after he had nightmares. The tea that a dead man had suggested he make. He’ll finish this, then go back to bed. He should go back to the dojang tomorrow – it has been a few days, after all, and that’s not like him. He supposes he should be grateful that Baek is giving him space right now. Why do you suppose that is, hm? God, this shit is bitter. Is chamomile or whatever that stuff is that normal people drink to relax too much to ask for?
Hwoarang shakes his head. Bed. Go to bed. This is the kind of shit he can look at in the morning. Things would be easier that way, but for all his convictions, sleep does not come for a very long time.
“Hwoarang!”
His spine snaps into a straight line on instinct, seemingly without any input from his brain whatsoever. Thoughts, gnarled and heavy, flee instantaneously at the sound of his master’s displeased voice.
Shit.
Hwoarang casts a nervous glance in Baek’s direction, internally wincing at the disapproval on his face. Great. Spacing out during training has never been a good thing, but given the current circumstances, it’s just downright rude. Baek has been kind enough to be patient with him about all of this – Hwoarang owes it to him to buckle down and get it together.
“Yes?” He ventures, resisting the natural urge to crack a sheepish and wholly inappropriate grin. His master gives him A Look that makes his back stiffen even more.
“Your form is lacking. You’re terribly unfocused today.” He says, and Hwoarang’s face burns with shame. His master doesn’t deserve this. Hell, he doesn’t deserve this.
“Sorry.”
Baek shakes his head, exasperated without any of the usual good humor. Hwoarang can see the indecision on his face, the unspoken questions addressing the weight that currently rests on his shoulders. He would really rather avoid talking about his problems at this point, but that requires two things, and Baek keeping his silence on the matter – at least for now – is one of them.
The other, of course, is that Hwoarang should then behave accordingly. If he doesn’t want to talk, then he can’t let it affect his everyday interactions, especially not the moments he has with his master. Training requires focus, and if he doesn’t have it, he needs to find it. The time for being distracted by the past is long gone. If he still needs a moment to work through all of this (to think, to dream, to mourn), then he needs to do it on his own time.
“Shall we try again?” His master is asking, a little gentler now, and Hwoarang nods vigorously. Interest. Focus. Intensity.
“If I do well on my drills, can we spar?” He hints, adding a color of his usual fire for good measure. Baek gives him one of his patented Almost Smiles in return, and Hwoarang counts that as a victory. This is fine. This is all he needs. He doesn’t have to let all that other shit weigh on him here.
He has to try, at least.
His table is a warzone.
What little of it that exists is, as it has been for days, covered in papers. If he had a free wall and some tacks, it’d all be up there, with the strings and stuff like in those crime shows. Like a detective. Like an obsessed person. Like someone who knows that the person they’re looking for isn’t fucking dead and if they could just find them, then everything would be okay.
As it is, though, he can’t fucking find him. Not that one day is really enough time for anyone to spread that sort of information, but still. There has to be something. Any indication of where he was when it happened, any sign of a location or a directive or fucking anything that would offer a clue to Jin’s whereabouts.
It’s starting to get to him. Like it’s really starting to get to him now. If this keeps up for as long as the rest of his Jin-related issues have, he’ll go absolutely insane within no time flat. Maybe he already is insane. That would explain the quiet but ever-present sound of Jin’s voice occasionally telling him to take a break or go to bed.
Thing is, he can’t take a break. He just. Can’t. There’s too much at stake here. That realization hits him every time he looks down and sees Jin’s picture staring up at him from one of the pages, black and white and serious as ever. The solemn, almost gentle softness is gone from his perfect features, replaced instead by a firm conviction with dark intentions. His brow still holds that same determined slant, but it’s misguided now, a fire on the verge of suffocating itself with the weight of its own goals. Hwoarang hurts when he looks at him, but it reminds him of all that he can’t afford to lose.
“All” being Jin Kazama.
He can’t be gone. He just can’t be. Wouldn’t that be too easy? Wouldn’t that be unfair? He has to find him. What the hell else is he even alive for?
“Fuck.” He says aloud, then decides that merely saying it isn’t enough. “Fuck!”
He slams a fist against the table, trying not to haul off and fling all the papers to the floor. That won’t solve anything. He hates it when he ends up thinking like that, but he’s found himself doing it more often than usual lately. The futility of this whole situation has robbed him of his personal autonomy, of his drive, his ambition – everything is about Jin, now, and his own life is just a means to that end.
...maybe Jin’s stupid voice is right. Maybe he does need a break. He pushes away from the table, needing to distance himself from all his current frustrations. Some tea would probably help, even if the brewing process itself is more relaxing than the beverage itself at this point. He feels a little guilty for wasting his master’s special blends on shit like this, but he’s getting desperate.
On his way to the other side of the kitchen, Hwoarang stops short, suddenly realizing that a very distinctive smell is already permeating the air. Confusion hits, then trepidation – what the hell? A quick rounding of the counter reveals that yes, there is a mug of tea there already, steam still curling in the air. He stares at it for a long time.
...did I make that?
He can’t remember. He really can’t remember. Maybe he was so caught up in the routine of slogging through bullshit that he made it without realizing it...? Like...on instinct? Maybe? Hell if he knows. It’s there now, though, so he may as well drink it. Hell, if he’s this out of it, he may as well call it a fucking night, just finish the tea off, take a shower, and hopefully (hopefully) pass out.
Maybe.
The scream does not get caught in his throat this time, and he is jerked into wakefulness by the sound of his own terror resonating through the darkness. Sweat soaks his skin, his clothes, tangled sheets sticky and clinging – his whole body shakes, wracked with leftover tremors of fear and exhaustion.
3:27. That god-forsaken middle-ground hour again. The sound he makes is low and broken, miserable and just a little too wounded for his liking, but he can’t take it back now. Gods, he’s sick enough of this to cry about it. If he had the energy, maybe he would.
As it is, though, all he can really do is just lay here and stare at the ceiling. Try to catch his breath. Go through the usual pathetic and stubborn routine of hoping for more sleep before having to give in to reality and resign himself to the inevitable suffering.
Hwoarang’s gaze shifts to the window, the curtains there muting the glow of the lights outside. The room is bathed in the usual dim gray, dark enough to sleep but just light enough to see once his eyes adjust. The shapes of what little he has are visible to him from here, inanimate and silent, closer to sleeping than he’ll ever be. Bag, bookshelf, lamp, Jin, dresser –
He chokes, scrambling backwards into the wall as he registers what he thought he just saw. Can’t be happening. He forces himself to keep his eyes shut, unable to look back just yet. (What would he do if he saw him again?) This can’t be happening to me. He bites his lip, counting to ten.
When he finally opens his eyes, no one is there. The end of his bed is clear, save for a uselessly wadded blanket. No odd shapes, no strange sensations, no achingly distinctive silhouettes – nothing.
Of course not.
Hwoarang knows that he must’ve imagined it, but it doesn’t help him get back to sleep any faster.