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DISCLAIMER: All featured Tekken characters are the property of Namco and not the authors.
Notes: Constructive criticism is welcomed!
Warnings: Eventual lemon parts, language & violence.
Chapter Thirteen - Dojo
By Aaronica and Orfik
Indubitably, Hwoarang's private dojo was unique with its glossy posters of women strewn over expensive sports cars, Gojira, Jimmy Hendrix, and other notable, popular movies and musicians. The auric sculptures of lions set on pedestals at its four corners were its true distinction, and the old padding on the floor was worn by the barefeet of the tae kwon do master that presently moved over it, one leg stretched in the air and kicking viciously at a 6 barred wooden dummy. Hwoarang wore a pair of blue gi matching the headband wrapped around his forehead, and his chest glistened with sweat in the sunlight streaming through one of the clearer warehouse windows.
Jin sat on the wall with his back to the windows so that he could feel the sun pour over his uncovered shoulders and soak into, encourage, and energize him. At first he had spent a short time in meditation to cleanse his mind and relax himself, as he always did, before training. Now, however, he was watching Hwoarang before he would ultimately rise and join him. Jin would begin as soon as he cornered and expelled a tiny, nagging, foreboding pinch at the corner of his heart; a sensation strong enough to survive even through meditation, lingering order to trouble him.
"Jin," Hwoarang started with a pant. He didn't finish, as he'd gritted his teeth and initiated a series of lightening swift kicks to his target, severely threatening the solidarity of the wood.
It was all right if Jin just wanted to watch; the fact that the Japanese was watching him sweat, pant, and stretch his body to its farthest limits gave Hwoarang the sort of high he got from sex. He liked it. But even his libido needed a gallon of fresh air, and so after he'd finished the maneuver he brought his leg down and bent over, hands on his thighs as he gathered breath. When he raised his face a bit he was grinning at Jin with crooked, moist lips.
"Do you want some water?" Jin asked.
"Nah. You know what I want." He licked his lips, stood up straight, and laughed. "When you gonna show me how to do that .. whirly uppercut thing? Or is that a family secret?"
Jin smiled to himself, and in the sunlight, in this improvised dojo, in the presence of that which was most important to him in the world, that nagging feeling began to seem utterly inconsequential. He rose quietly from the floor, gravity smoothing out the wrinkles of the drawstring gi pants he trained in; black cotton and relatively plain save the dyed flames that curled up the right leg, fading from blue to white. He curled and then relaxed his fingers, fastened below blue training gloves, each with almost a dozen round metal studs affixed to the backs of the hands.
"It's not something that would be taught to just anyone," he said thoughtfully as he came forward. Hwoarang needed water, so Jin brought him the plastic bottle. "...So it's good that you're not just anyone."
Hwoarang opted for the hand that held the plastic bottle; that was what he really needed, and he squeezed the glove. His eyes were a querying force when they bore into Jin's, and he asked with a mature sobriety, " .. it looks wicked." From the way the renju leader spoke, his mixtures of slang and such, the meaning behind the term's usage here was indistinct.
"You sure you can teach me how to do that?" In the uncertainty was also Hwoarang's recognition that his left hand would never be the same, and the right was never quite powerful to begin with. He took the water and raised the narrow spout to his mouth.
Bowing his head gently Jin tightened his gloves as Hwoarang drank. "I believe you can do it." Jin used the word 'believe' not to signify 'think,' but 'to have faith in.' He believed in Hwoarang. He paused a moment and sobered faintly. "How is your hand healing?"
"Eh," he covered, wriggling the digits on the hand in question dismissively and placing it along with the other at the base of his back. He stepped away before he arched in a light stretch and began checking the peg arms on the dummy for wear. He liked to replace them before they broke and gave him splinters, but the faint scars on his calves attested to his lethargic housekeeping.
"It's cool. I don't really need the left anyway, do I?" He slung a smile over his shoulder.
Jin knew of those scars intimately -- could probably point all of them out blindfolded, if it were necessary -- but the reason for them had never really crossed his mind. One particular marking on his own body had rid him of the habit of asking about those found on others'.
"No; I just wanted to know." Shaking out his shoulders, and having stretched earlier, he exhaled quietly, moving towards an area on the floor that was void of the dojo's mokujin. "I think this will be enough space; the technique takes up more room than you'd think by watching it."
"I can move Sooz if she's in your way," Hwoarang assured, wide-eyed with prognosticative awe already as he watched Jin 'scout.' He lifted the wood forthrightly and hauled it over to the lion facing East, setting it just beside the golden beast's regal maw.
Jin thanked him, brushing several fingertips back through the hair tickling his forehead. It needed to be trimmed soon. Then, a moment after guiding his body into stance, he began to move forward and down in the first rotation of the technique. His feet pivoted liquidly; his weight balanced itself fluidly; his arms drew in, poising themselves perfectly. And after the second rotation the Mishima scion surged upwards and off of the floor in a leaping upwards punch, the air about him crackling with bluish-white power. He landed on both feet, a satellite returning from orbit that settled again with the ease of a feline.
"Jesus." It wasn't that he'd never seen it before -- Hwoarang'd had dreams about that finisher. He just knew there was no way in Hell he could ever do it [as successfully. He could do anything, he was an outstanding fighter, but he wasn't to sure about all the crackling chi which made Jin look like an electrical current streaming through the air.] The Korean folded his arms across his chest and whistled.
"How about a step one, two and three?"
Jin was smiling when he returned to the Korean's side.
"Step one is focus, step two is weight, and step three is direction. Channeling your strength, balancing your body through the move and moving yourself towards your target are your three main concerns. First, I guess ... we'll start with the beginning stance..."
Padding behind Hwoarang he put one hand the man's shoulder and the other on the side of his waist to guide his body, with great care, into the proper posture.
"In the beginning your weight rests on your front foot thirty percent, your back foot seventy..."
Hwoarang pushed his body back against the Japanese's own suggestively, murmuring "Baek Doo San was never this hands on" before he put a serious effort into concentrating on distributing his weight as instructed. The smirk on his face lightened to curious and anticipating grin.
Later, Jin would certainly be pondering over the differences in the feel of situation as compared to that when he was learning it five years ago from his grandfather. ...It was much more pleasant with Hwoarang. Jin's face was relaxed and warm but full of thought, as he pondered how best to teach the move; he had really never taught anything to anyone before.
"Pivot your left foot slightly towards the right, since that's the direction the technique turns in." With the side of his own foot he gently pushed Hwoarang's into the proper--
Spinning about in a flash, his hands were raised, his shoulders were tensed and his eyes jumped quickly and searchingly about. But there was no one in front of him save a pair of lions and a training dummy.
Hwoarang placed his warm hand on Jin's shoulder, coming up to ask at his ear, "You all right?" His brow was inverted with the specifics of a concerned frown, and he cleaned up after Jin's own glances with a look at the searched places before he examined the Japanese closely.
As he dropped his hands he pulled a breath of sweat-tinged air through his nose to calm his pounding head.
"I'm sorry, I thought..." He trailed off with a mildly embarrassed look and then softly shook his head, drudging up a smile at Hwoarang. "I'm sorry. Do you remember what I showed you of the stance so far? Try to place yourself back into it as best you can."
Unconvinced, he walked over to get the water bottle and returned with it extended, placing his free hand on Jin's shoulder again and eyeing him with the suspicion of a worried lover.
"You can show me later."
"Are you sure?" Jin said, genuinely apologetic, as he reached dutifully for the offered water. That this was his own fault was something that didn't sit well with him, of course. He unscrewed the cap and took a swallow of water.
"Yeah, man," and he gave a half nod for emphasis, his face framed in the unclipped strands of bright hair despite the efforts of his headband. Hwoarang gave the muscular flesh beneath his palm a caring pat and then headed for a towel draped on the bench that held the water bottle.
Struck with a sudden idea, Jin let Hwoarang get four or so paces away. Then he ran at the Korean intent to sling his arms about him and tackle him to the mat, sprinting quickly through the distance between them, and quietly, too, but not as quietly as he was capable of. Maybe he hoped to surprise Hwoarang; maybe he hoped for a retaliating grab.
Hwoarang sensed it -- albeit it at an advanced stage -- but he didn't quite believe in Jin's friskiness enough to trust his senses and turn to counter. Instinct and skepticism conspired to only set Hwoarang in a position facing the Japanese, and widen his eyes once the momentum flopped him on his back on the mat, the air knocked from his chest. Instinct made the fall less painful; there was only a dull chafe of his shoulders.
" .. damn," he breathed. " .. how dirty!"
Sitting on Hwoarang's hips and grinning sunnily, Jin arched forward to kiss him.
"Loooove," he cooed.
"Don't .. " Hwoarang started as he was kissed, and raised his hands to the thick waist above him, his knees rising. " .. try to soften me up. That was low, Kazama." Straining his face upward to lick Jin's lips with his tongue, Hwoarang whispered. "I've gotta avenge myself now."
"Not like you didn't deserve it," Jin said, a warm face hovering very close to Hwoarang's, his hair hanging like a short, inky canopy over its features. "That and a lot more."
Hwoarang smirked. Then he erupted in laughter as he grabbed Jin tightly against him with arms that hardly rivaled the Japanese's own in power, but had enough strength to hold him through two rough rolls that terminated with the Korean on the top, like usual. He spread Jin's legs with his knee and knelt between them, leaning above to pin those aforementioned powerful arms to the floor.
"Hn. You're judging me now? Tell me what I deserve." His knee nudged upward as he brought his face lower, his warm breath felt.
Poor Jin was never very adroit at talking dirty. Squirming contentedly and trying to assemble a reply, whatever progress he made in doing so was both forgotten and unimportant a moment later, when from behind the Korean's back Bryan Fury drove a fist into Hwoarang's head with enough force to very effectively rob him of consciousness. As he began to slump forward the zombie was already plucking him off of the startled Jin with a shit-eating grin, dropping him to the side like a life-sized doll.
"Pretty shrimpy ain't she," he said casually around a toothpick, and as Jin was surging upwards to righten himself the ex-cop back-stepped smoothly. He struck the ex-cop in the leg with a furious sweeping kick and Fury stumbled mostly for show. He twisted his body to meet the charging Japanese with a hissing roundkick, and Jin blocked it-- which was the awaited and long enough delay for Bryan to draw his gun and fire. The bullet struck Jin just to the left of his breastbone and without a sound he slumped forwards onto the mat. The entire event couldn'tve taken five seconds.
Slinging his redheaded bounty over his shoulder, Bryan peered coolly down at Jin's body, nudging the boy's shoulder with the toe of his boot. He watched on as Jin reached groggily for his leg, fury blazing in his eyes, before finally giving a weak shudder and laying still.
"That's my girl," Fury complimented, turning away. He paced to the heavy front doors of the warehouse and left; the Mishima guards hiding around its perimeter, long since dead, posed little hazard. Two steps out of the building Fury lifted his head and scowled, squinting at the sun through his shades.
"Too fucking bright," he muttered in complaint, before continuing on his way.
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