Disclaimer: Don't own Tekken.

Oh, beloved Tekken fandom. *pats it* Dare I say, I've been terribly unfaithful. Inspiration dried up completely, and I couldn't sustain any work I started. I fell out of love with the canon, and looked elsewhere. But a friend of mine requested a Forrest piece, with preferably slash, and gave me a title to work with. Funnily enough, I felt some muse waddle back, but even then it didn't feel like my old spark.

Forrest is my favorite character in Tekken, and heaven be blessed, there isn't enough of the guy. This also deals with my Slash OTP. *is hit for cheesy expression* The style is connected drabbles.

For Salysha, who still powers love in my veins for this fandom, and her excellent, thoughtfully crafted work.

I hope this amuses somewhat.

Four times Forrest was kissed, and one time he kissed back.

Osculation

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The mistletoe hovers above them, expectant; awaiting the inevitable.

Xiao is a gentle pressure against Forrest's mouth. He pauses, wondering whether or not to shut his eyes…that is the usual, romantic style, surely…but the fairy lights strung above them illuminate her skin, shine in the liquid honey of her eyes; and Forrest, for a brief moment, is paralyzed.

Xiao giggles; bell like, high, sweet. Forrest feels a brush of tongue tease his lower lip, making him jolt.

The lights swim deliriously above him, a flock of agitated sprites, and oh god, he can smell her perfume; a blend of cinnamon and oak, coaxing his senses into relay. Her hair, a sensuous weight, cascades over the soft curve of her shoulder, and light, questioning fingers ghost over his jaw. Laughter dances in her eyes and Forrest feels his fears glide away, lost in the delicate sensations of her kiss.

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Hwoarang is a force of nature.

Forrest knows his martial art is about control. Steady, strong, timed; breathe, pose, strike, as his father would say. The art of being stone, perfecting every arch of the leg, every pound of the fist, every turn of the hip. His body was to be sculpted, altered, transformed; to be the servant to the master of battle. Forrest knew to be complete was to be composed, controlled, and discreetly lethal.

But he has never seen anything like Hwoarang.

Within Hwoarang beats a volatile, eruptive energy; his high kicks are erratic, whipping past Forrest's head in swelling bursts of air. Unpolished, his father would sneer, but all Forrest can see is the wild, sporadic beauty of Hwoarang's art.

He sees a little too much, for a foot knocks his jaw. It sends him sprawling to the floor, dazed.

"Idiot." Hwoarang appears unmoved, but there is a flash of concern, brittle and fleeting, in his eyes. "You were supposed to dodge."

There is blood, rank and metallic, on Forrest's tongue; he grins foolishly, getting to his feet. If his father knew about these secret training sessions, he possibly wouldn't be let out of the house until his fortieth birthday.

"It was a flunk," he shoots back, feeling the throb of a bruise blossoming below his jaw line.

Hwoarang leans back against the gym equipment, arms braced across his chest. His smirk widens.

"You seemed distracted."

There is a dull, hungry gleam in his eyes. His smile shows a little too much teeth.

Forrest's smile is watery, but his stomach is twisting in strange flip flops and as he turns to lift a weight, he feels the burn of Hwoarang's glare on his back.

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Paul reeks of the heady throttle of gasoline; of beer and sweat and oil.

Its New Years. Paul is a dead weight under Forrest's arm. The man is drunk, completely intoxicated beyond any reaches of human reason; not that he wasn't before, but it is amazing how a touch of alcohol can make everything a little worse.

Paul stumbles on uneven pavement, emits a strangled stream of curses and low chuckles, and systemically brings the younger man down with him.

Forrest is suddenly assaulted by rough stubble crushing against his mouth. He yelps in shock, and all he hears is the explosive, slurred howls of Paul's laughter.

He seriously hopes Paul doesn't remember that in the morning.

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"You should try it."

Forrest balks from the thin, bitter taste. Hwoarang smirks, throws back his head; takes a deep, heavy swig from the flask. He has one eye cracked open, observing the disgusted grimace of Forrest, and his lips quirk in mockery.

"Let me guess. Daddy doesn't like his golden boy touching anything nasty…"

"It's not as simple as that," snaps Forrest, half teasing and half angsted. His heart pounds as he remembers the taste, the smell, soaked into his father's clothes, lingering in the immersive darkness of bedrooms and lounges; split over packed suitcases and broken makeup.

Something flickers in Hwoarang's expression. He draws the flask away, purses his lips; stares, long and hard, at the darkness in his friend's expression.

"Can't really blame you there," he agrees, flinging the tin container into the gutter. "Tasted like shit, anyway."

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Julia is kind, intelligent, born of good morale and strength.

They share a drink together, Julia with lemonade and him with cream soda, as neither of them like alcohol. Forrest likes how the skin around her eyes crinkle in amusement at his lame jokes, how her lips curve in hidden serenity. She is wonderfully pretty, all clear skin and soft brown hair and light, hazel eyes. He nods at the right time as she speaks of her mission, and something raw, expectant, catches on the end of her smile.

As he walks her to her hotel, he buries his hands in his pockets and chats airily about life, asking non threatening questions. She answers with a lively wit, and they laugh together in the twilight of late afternoon. He doesn't once look at her figure.

Julia is lovely, maybe a bit too much so. Forrest wonders if people can fit each other too well, be too perfectly matched, too even in their opinions and missions and intentions.

Julia kisses him outside her hotel room. He is surprised at first, about how firm she is, how quietly assured and forward. She tastes sharp, crisp, alive; the tang of lemons. Her scent is that of freshly cut grass, and Forrest decides that yes, he likes that very much.

She breaks the embrace; there are two bright spots on her cheeks, and her eyes sparkle.

Forrest shakes her hand, promising to keep in touch. He leaves in the sweetly scented, comfortable air of the April evening. He shall miss her, for above everything else, she is his friend.

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Forrest doesn't know the flat faced, coarse looking youth. He seems to know Hwoarang though, and he says things, horrible things Forrest doesn't know about. Things about Hwoarang, about gangs, fights, Jin Kazama…and a man called Baek. The words are foreign to Forrest, and they ring, soulless and echoing, in his ears. Hwoarang knows about them; knows too much, it seems, and Forrest has never seen his friend crack before.

The man is sent flying across the street, and Hwoarang is on him in a second, and there is no art, no skill, no training in his moves. He rains punches down on the man's face; splitting his lip, caving in his cheek; Forrest fastens both arms around his waist, and it takes all of his strength to hoist his friend back.

He's whispering quiet words of comfort in Hwoarang's ear, rubbing his hands up and down his friend's arms. Hwoarang watches, eyes narrowed, as the weasel struggles to his feet. The man shoots an alarmed glance at the two men, then rips down the road; turns the corner, and is gone.

The silence that follows is heavy, suffocating, anchoring the two as they walk home.

"I'm bunking at yours tonight."

There is no question in his tone, and Forrest solemnly nods. He doesn't even think about his father.

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Steve Fox is a friend of his father's, which is strange, because he is far closer to his own age.

Steve Fox is laid back, brisk in his dealings, and is the last to take offence in any given situation. He's charming, fun to be around, and (thankfully) uninterested in money.

They spar together sometimes, away from the awkward down turning of his father's mouth, or Paul's too-brutal-to-be-fun play fights. Steve is spookily quick; his jabs precise, powerful, catching him off-guard.

Forrest is naïve sometimes. He knows he is, and all through the last few months from knowing Steve, he had wondered about the odd keenness in his friend's gaze. He just assumed, with a humble pang, that Steve was merely enthusiastic about meeting him.

Steve drop kicks him. Forrest waits for the crunch of his back against the dojo's floor, but arms catch, pulling him upfront. The fall, the almost impact, blurs Forrest's vision and he feels dry, testing lips against his.

He bolts backwards, out of Steve's hold. His eyes are wide, mouth hanging open in shock.

Steve runs a hand through his hair, and grins apologetically

"Sorry, mate. Just had to see if I had a chance or not."

"It's okay," Forrest splutters, and he finds it is all he can say at the moment. A silence stretches between them. Steve starts to frown, and Forrest finds he doesn't want to lose his friend's favor.

"But..." Forrest smirks, falling back into a battle stance. "I still want to see if I have a chance or not."

It's the right thing to do. Steve returns the smirk, and raises his fists in affable agreement.

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Hwoarang's mouth is on his; hot, wet, demanding. Hwoarang is heat, stone and spitfire, and Forrest breaks the kiss, gasping for air. His voice is strangely hoarse.

"I don't think…"

"Stop thinking, then," growls Hwoarang, and he braces both hands on Forrest's chest, pushes him down on the bed, and nudges a knee between his legs. Breath catches, high and fast, in Forrest's throat.

Hwoarang is kissing him again, colliding his tongue against Forrest's; the heat brewing between them is unbearable. Sweat trickles down Forrest's neck, his hair sticking to his forehead in clumps, and Hwoarang is now…oh god…tearing at his belt, and Forrest doesn't even want to entertain the thought of what his father might think of all this.

A low chuckle vibrates against his chest, and Forrest shivers from the sensation.

"You need to relax, baby."

No one has ever called him baby before, he isn't some girl, and Forrest has every intention of telling Hwoarang this fact, but the belt is slipped off with ease; a warm hand snakes into his boxers, and all rational thought flees his mind.

His hips buck into Hwoarang's touch; he arches his back, muttering benign curses under his breath, and Hwoarang once again sidles into view, smirk expertly applied.

Something snaps. Whether it is his resolve, his common sense, or just his sanity, Forrest doesn't know. Only, as he observes the turn of Hwoarang's mouth, the strong arches of his eyebrow, the crook of his nose, does something snap.

Forrest buries his hand in the shock of red hair; pulls Hwoarang down, and kisses him. It's sloppy, inexperienced, and so damn wonderful. Hwoarang smells of biker oil, cheap aftershave, chapped leather; his skin is warm against his, and Forrest can feel the throbbing pulse of his heart matching his. Something is swelling, intoxicating and full, in his chest; it's past the ache of arousal, or the flares of lust. It's a blend of fierce happiness and a vague sort of pain, but Forrest cannot get enough of it.

Hwoarang is delighted by this turn of events. He indulges Forrest for a brief moment, before dominating the kiss once again, taking in the clinical, clean scent of Marshall's dojo and the brusque smell of soap, which is all Forrest and nothing else. Forrest curls his fists into the grey of Hwoarang's t-shirt, as his aggressor takes to his neck, and Hwoarang isn't gentle. He feels the blunt nip of his teeth; it is tinged with carnality, and Forrest, too far gone, loses himself in it.

Forrest pulls him up and kisses him again, drugged by the press of their bodies and the taste of him…

Hwoarang slides his tongue against his, and Forrest moans; finally deciding to let go, to surrender, and he realizes that'll it never be to anyone else.