A/N: In a fit of boredom I've written... a really pointless, lighthearted sort-of-romance-but-not-really and I'm kinda pleased with it and annoyed with it at the same time. Generally annoyed, but I'll edit this later. Comments, suggestions, and criticism that actually makes sense... all welcomed. And even though I know she'll never read this (because it ain't her thang. fanfiction. *sighs*), this one's for Mwimwi. Just because.

Standard disclaimer applies, y'all.

It all started innocently enough. Midway through the fifth tournament they were matched up against each other. The Blood Talon against this tiny, whiny Chinese girl with a penchant for pigtails and bubblegum. Of course he won. How could he not? She was fast, sure, but he was faster. She hit him quite hard in the jaw, actually drawing blood from the corner of his lips, but his kicks were more powerful, more vicious. He was almost sorry for using Axe Murderer on her, of all the people. He wasn't though. He was there to win, not to lose to some prepubescent toddler.

Three days after their match and one painful headache later he saw her again. Her dark hair in, you guessed it, pigtails, and her little body clad in a schoolgirl uniform and a hideous jacket reminiscent of a multihued, but dead, furry mammal. A haughty scowl graced her porcelain features and her hands were on her hips and he had a bad feeling that she was going to ask for a…

"Rematch," she solemnly announced, as solemn as one could manage whilst wearing a multicolored monstrosity of a straightjacket, leg warmers, and an itty-bitty plaid miniskirt. "I want a rematch."

He closed his eyes and counted backwards from ten, hoping that she'd disappear in a puff of pink smoke and leave him and his throbbing headache alone. She stayed. "Listen, Pigtails…"

"I have a name, you know."

"Listen, Xianghua…"

"It's Xiaoyu!" Hands tightly balled up into fists, her nails forming red half-moons on her palms.

"Yeah, whatever," taking a step back, readying himself for a mad dash to his motorcycle. "As much as I'd want to help you make a fool of yourself again, I won't."

"Oh?" she remarked in a contemptuous tone, raising an eyebrow. "And why wouldn't you?"

"Because I'm hardly a sadist. And unless you were a closet masochist…"

"Don't be sick, Hwoarang," she cut in with a scandalized expression on her face. Hwoarang gave an inward chuckle at the sight of her.

"I'm really not in the mood for this bullshit. So, if you'll excuse me…"

"We're not done here!" she yelled, pulling herself off of her feet and sprinting towards him, a kick to his left temple already visualized in her mind. He stooped down, effectively evading a surely unwelcome blow to his already injured skull and snickering loudly at the miss. Xiaoyu regained her posture immediately, on her tippy-toes and aiming a jab at his solar plexus. Yet another miss, another round of laughter from him, followed by the feel of leather around her wrist and she knew that, for now, she had lost. Again.

"Really, Sparkles," he released her and adjusted his glove. "Take a hint," he said as he slowly sauntered of to his bike, leaving her small, rapidly breathing self to fume over the encounter.

And thus a routine was born. For the next few weeks of Hwoarang's life she had become a common fixture. Whatever doubts he had of her ever developing a stalker-ish 'I'll shadow you to the ends of the earth' streak have all but vanished. She'd prattle on about how she'll vanquish him at last, how she'll crush him under the heel of her shoes (and she'd give him a meaningful look here, show him the purple of her unwashed sneakers and the brown patch at the tip of the left one. Blood. His blood from the tournament.). They'll fight and she would lose, and he would taunt her until she screamed and left him to do whatever he pleased. He would call her a different name each day. Yesterday she was Midget. Today, Barbie. Tomorrow it'll either be Jailbait or Fursplosion, depending on his mood and her outfit. He'll be obliged to crack an animal cruelty joke or two if she deigned to wear that fugly jacket again.

He'd never use her name. It was a schtick he had developed, one to signify how little she meant to him and how this routine, this bizarre battle between them both, was really a matter of no consequence. Xiaoyu knew of this, or at least had an inkling as to why he absolutely refused to acknowledge her by her true name and it all but fanned the flames of her ire. She persisted; whether because she really had a vendetta against him for beating her in the tournament or because she knew her presence in his life was a total bother, Hwoarang had no idea.

Still, annoying or not, he was used to it. And there was nothing much he could do about her.

He made his way through the sprawling district. It was a maze of neon lights: fluorescent green and red blinking the names of high-end boutiques and sex shops, orange and blue food stall lights hazy behind the veil of steam wafting from bowls of ramen and frying takoyaki, the inviting yellow glow of a karaoke bar where high school girls in their winter uniforms giddily sang the current anthem of the jaded, cheerful, dark, spunky youth. The streets of Tokyo had become too familiar, too boring, Hwoarang mused, as he stuffed a hand in his pocket and fumbled for a cigarette and the lighter, ignoring the mingled cacophony of bright street lamps and dim back alleys, loud car engines and silent, disillusioned workaholics on their way to clubs where under-aged teenagers flourished.

There was one thing, however, that he couldn't ignore.

"You!" The pitter-pattering of running feet reverberating angrily on the pavement, the blasphemy of a coat, and an accusatory finger. "What are you doing here?"

"Well if it isn't the perpetual twelve-year old," he whistled cheerfully, running his fingers through his hair. It had been a few days since they'd last seen each other and while those few days of silence were welcomed with open arms and bottles upon bottles of Red Bull, they had been nothing but mind-numbingly dreary.

He liked to think her constant presence was a nuisance. A necessary nuisance, but still a nuisance. Better this than nothing.

"You're one to talk," she scoffed, instinctively pulling her jacket tighter around her, making her look as if she was being swallowed whole by roadkill. "You're maturity incarnate. A shining example of responsibility and moral aptitude to the degenerates of today."

"Sarcasm. I had no idea you had it in you, my mini pinscher," he retorted, taking a long drag on his cigarette.

"I'm not a dog, you oaf!"

"Pygmy then, if you're offended," he replied smoothly, dropping the cigarette and crushing it under his boot. "As a pygmy, you could be anything! Whale, cat, mouse…" he fished out another stick from his weather-beaten jacket, only to have her grab it from him in a one swift movement. Xiaoyu grinned and teasingly dangled it in front of him.

"Give it back, creampuff," Hwoarang demanded in a cool tone, extending a hand expectantly in her direction. He knew she was trying to provoke him into fighting her, as usual. He wouldn't give her that satisfaction.

"I await the day when you'll finally run out of nicknames for me."

"Don't," Smugly.

"You haven't answered my question."

"Which is?" he asked, watching her face light up with curiosity as she placed the cigarette between her small lips.

"What are you doing here?"

He shrugged his shoulders and started walking again. "I'm out for a drink. And you know, obligatory dipshit move, I'm scouring for women."

"Ah." she exhaled, ambling alongside him. "Scour's not such a nice word to use."

"Exactly why it's an obligatory dipshit move," he explained. "Now, give it back."

"What kind of women do you like anyway?" she ignored the last sentence and continued playing around with the fascinating cigarette.

"Not twelve-year olds. Definitely."

Xiaoyu punched him lightly in the arm and rolled her eyes in exasperation. "For the last time, I'm eighteen!"

A quick onceover and he snorted. "Barely." Silence settled between them like the bitter cold seeping through her jacket. There was no wind, but she could feel the hairs on her arms stand rigid.

"What kind of women do you like?" she asked again, disrupting the silence and gazing at him with a childlike interest, her head bobbing up and down with each step.

"Y'know, Midget, I was just getting used to the idea of you shutting up for once," he quirked up an eyebrow and gave her a momentary glance.

"Don't," emulating the brusque tone he equipped a little while ago.

"Yeah, I figured," he kicked an empty can in his path and counted the many cracks on the pavement. "Me? If she's dumb, if she's pretty, if she's got a huge rack, I'm game."

"So…" she began, digesting his words in her brain. "Quiet, lollipop-shaped pseudohumans with pneumatic chests? Wow, such exquisite taste."

"And pretty. Don't forget pretty," he added flatly. "Now, if it's not too much to ask, I'd really want my cig back."

Xiaoyu stuck out her tongue and waved the cigarette in front of his face. When that did nothing more than elicit a low 'hmm' from him, she said, in a slow, deliberate way, "Fight me for it."

A tired sigh. "You know I don't have to," he snatched the precious stick from her grubby paws, ultimately crushing the thing in his hand but it didn't matter now. He raised his arm above his head and Xiaoyu began yelling again; the fact that he towered over her like a tree – all tall and thin and sturdy with autumn hair and warm brown eyes – did not help her at all. Seething, she tried to pull herself up to his level, reaching for the cigarette in his clenched hand, only to have his mug directly in front of hers.

The cigarette stick forgotten, she gazed at him, transfixed, confused and utterly conscious of the proximity of his lips to hers and paralyzed by the thought of it, by the warmth emanating from his body. He was no better at dealing with it. He felt good in a way, amused even, and absolutely horrified of what stupidity his impulsiveness might wreak. Her lips looked soft…

God forbid if he actually kissed her. Blargh.

Although if he ever did, he wondered, would he taste bubblegum? A part of him wanted to know, and a part of him wanted to pimpslap that morbidly curious part back to wherever planet it came from.

"Pigtails?" Hwoarang whispered abruptly, not moving an inch, fearing the thump-thumps of the rapidly beating mass of flesh in his thoracic cavity would be made known to Xiaoyu if he accidentally fell over her or something.

"Yeah?" The rush of blood to her cheeks evident under the street lamp.

Time to save face and salvage whatever comfortable normalcy was left from the situation. "You're cute when you're not in a bloodthirsty daze," There. Better to make himself sound unaffected and completely ice cool.

If there was any way for her to possibly resemble a tomato more and more by the minute… "I think…" Choosing her next words carefully. "… you've warmed up to the idea of me sticking around," Taking a stab at making herself look like the aloof ice queen that she wasn't and absolutely failing.

"Ha. Don't count on it." he supplied dryly, stepping back at last. He lied, naturally. He would have liked to think her constant presence was a nuisance. He would have liked to, but he couldn't. Not now, anyway. Not when he's morbidly curious, not when the thought of her around seems… nice.

"Well at least have the decency to say my name!" Xiaoyu pleaded silently, worn-out and drained from attempting to steal back that stupid… thing. She can't even remember what she had been trying to take back!

The slightly malicious smirk he beamed told her the answer before he said the words. "No can do, Tiny."

"Alright! Alright!" she threw her arms up in defeat. "Just buy me a beer or two and we'll call it a night."

"I think you meant a Shirley Temple. Or Sprite…"

"Oh for God's sake, Hwoarang…" She said, pulling him towards the shady-looking bar a few meters away. "I'll help you find your pseudohuman. I promise."

He couldn't help but laugh at the thought, letting her drag him to wherever she deemed was a suitable place for picking up random women. In any case he'll just ignore her suggestions,and will probably allow himself to be engrossed by the funny shape of her lips and let his slippery fingers tug on a random strand of her hair. They needed a new routine anyway. The last one was getting quite old.