That's a horrible summary I have out there, because the story line is much more complicated. Anyway, here it is, the sequel to "Wanderer", "Love Found" revived. Julia's story continues, but with a certain redhead to keep her company. This story was my first fic here on fanfiction, and it's being revised and edited since its original posting was atrocious; my writing style has changed immensely. Trust me, I was a terrible writer when I was fifteen. I've also shortened up the chapters so you guys aren't burdened with super long chapters. Though I'm not even close to being done with revising the whole thing, here's chapter one for my impatient readers out there. Also, though this is a Julia/Hwoa pairing, I'd like for you all to appreciate the writing instead of solely the pairings and characters. Lots of people on this site have forgotten to appreciate the quality of the writing nowadays and have limited themselves to pairings and nothing else. It's disappointing.

Disclaimer: As you all know, the characters in here aren't mine, they are Namco's, etc. etc. The quotes/song lyrics are also not mine, and belong to the artists/writers who created them.

"Don't you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you're not taking advantage of it? Do you realize you've lived nearly half the time you have to live already?"…

"…You can't get away from yourself by moving from one place to another. There's nothing to that."

- Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises

Chapter 1: Taste of Freedom

Hwoarang

The world flashes by in gasps of color, blurred scenery, whirls of chartreuse and neon yellow. The wind on the back of my neck, hot breath snarling in my ear, scrapes and pushes forward, wailing complaints as it carries the memories of places unknown. The grays of gravel dust rise as the road diminishes beneath the wheels of my bike, dust caking the mirrors. The sun, gentle, merciless, bronzes my skin, devours the red in my hair, throbs within my chest; the moon, quietly watching, keeps my secrets, sweeps away the sins of yesterday, soothes the scars and cloaks the flaws in shadow. The whines of a guitar in my ear, the taste of freedom, like maekju on my tongue, burning its way down my throat, setting fire to my body. Intoxicates. The pleasure is bittersweet.

This freedom is all I really need. I love inhaling this air, real, tainted, untainted, poisoned, pure. I love the feel of the road, long and endless and unexplored, echoing with unasked, unanswered, questions.

None of them ever saw it like I did. But to hell with them.

"Tie him down before he gets in trouble, Baek. He's too wild. Find him a girl or something."

Too bad they were all wrong; nothing can keep me still. I've left them all behind cowering in fear and doubt in their little cardboard boxes, abandoned them for this solitude and these blue skies, where the horizon melds with the earth and where every new day has a different story to tell. I never did like their fences; they have too many. Too mundane. Too many boundaries. I prefer to experience the stories (or make them happen) rather than listen to them and wonder in silence. No regrets, just go. Make life more exhiliarating, because what's the use of living if you don't risk everything? Why live in fear and caution? You only live once, they say, and I intend to take advantage of it as much as I can before time devours everything.

It is the kind of life Baek frowns upon, the kind of life I have made for myself in the past two years: fast, reckless, foolish, dangerous, turbulent, thrilling, liberating. Every day, every night, I hunger for more. I hunger for that taste.

I like how the alcohol trails fire down my throat and numbs the memories. I like to swear, feel the words bursting forth, no secrets. I love to fight, I like money and girls and sex and most likely every other thing that you probably don't. People either love me or hate me, there's no in between. Girls tend to like the wild boys anyway, and guys, well, most of the times they don't know what to make of it. I like being that imperfection in your utopia, that stain of red on your white. It shocks, it offends, so hey, my work is done here.

If you don't like it then fuck off.

I am a man of flaws after all. I am marred. But I like flaws. They tell me I'm still living, truly living, that there's texture to things after all, that I've moved beyond boundaries.

So don't tell me that this is all wrong; I don't need your so called wisdom. Don't look at me like I'm an idiot, like I need reigning in. While you're holed up behind your fences, afraid, obedient, I have lived and laughed a thousand times over. And I don't intend to change things.

"Aniyo, it's not that easy; he doesn't listen to me anymore. It is difficult, if not impossible, to tame a wolf." (a/n: no)

"Hola, Rafael. ¿Cómo estas?"

The old Hispanic man sighs wearily, wiping the sweat off his brow with a white handkerchief. The sun is merciless even as evening approaches, glares down in a final light of defiance before the moon usurps it. Rafe squints up at me from his seat on the rickety wooden chair, then flashes a toothy smile, wiping oil-slicked fingers onto his jeans.

"Bien, bien. Y a ti?" he answers. (a/n: Good, good. And you?)

"Eh, así así," I sigh, hands crossed over my chest. (Eh, ok)

Rafael chuckles, sipping his lemonade. "¡Carumba, Hwoarang! Are you telling me that your life is finally dying down to normalcy? Wow. Now that's something."

Rolling my eyes, I switch to English, knowing that, with my lack of practice, I'd just end up butchering the Spanish language anyway. "Oh shut up."

Changing the subject, I inquired, "So what happened to you then, huh? Why this solitude? From what I've heard, you've retired from Tae Kwon Do. Why'd you quit!"

He smiled, holding out his hands. "Well, just look at me! Soy muy viejo—I'm very old. My body doesn't function the same anymore."

I laughed then, patting him on the back. "I don't envy you, man. You're missin' out."

Rafe's voice quieted as he asked, "And what about you, Hwoarang? Why don't you compete anymore? You're more than good enough."

I didn't bother to answer. We'd been through this conversation before and both knew the answer to that question, both were aware of why I didn't bother to fight anymore, in tournaments at least. After countless defeats by Jin Kazama, that Japanese piece of shit, and after another wasted year in the military, I hadn't bothered anymore. The only reason why I even joined Heihachi's stupid tournaments was to get a chance at fighting his grandson, and after so many pointless years of defeat, why the hell should I train for the Iron Fists when I could be doin' something better? Besides, I needed a break.

I know it's hard to believe. Hwoarang, the fiery, tenacious, borderline fanatic fighter has decided to retire from Jin Kazama for a bit in exchange for one really fucking long road trip. I smirk at the thought, and kick at the gravel beneath my feet, a small cloud of dust rising.

The old Hispanic smiles again though there is no humor in his eyes. He hadn't liked the idea of me quitting, even after all those shameful defeats; he disapproved of people who gave up in general. Well, I'm not one to give up, but I couldn't stand it anymore. Too many rules, too busy with the gang, too everything. Over the past months, I'd just realized how much of life I'd been missing because I'd been too damn consumed with defeating Jin Kazama. And now, on this Montana road, in the United States, I am finally beginning to enjoy all that I'd missed. I hope, anyway. But that doesn't mean that I'd completely forgotten about the Kazama bastard. One day, if I do happen to encounter Jin again, I'll finish what we'd started. No rules, no ref, just fists.

My thoughts stray from Jin as I inhale the familiar smell of gasoline and solitude; I haven't been here in seven years. I'd just turned fourteen back then, if I remember correctly, and the little junkyard of a place was surprisingly soothing. Baek took me here once to visit Rafe on one of his business trips, and I'd been thrilled to see "real live blonde girls with blue eyes" and all those long, smooth white legs American men seemed to go crazy about. Well, to be honest, I saw my share of blondes, blue eyes, and long, white legs—and wasn't too impressed. So what. Korean girls are way better, I'd told Baek once, and he hadn't been able to stop laughing.

Anyway. Today I am here for gas, at Rafe's old car and motorcycle repair shop, slash gas station, slash a cluttered but somehow cozy little coop for an old Hispanic. Rafael Menendez and Baek had been friends since before Baek began to take care of me, and he's always been like another father to me. And, like his martial arts, Rafe never did anything half ass either. When I asked for something, he did it thoroughly—just like that wash job he gave to my bike, which I didn't really need. Maybe he's so nice just 'cause I'm Baek's student, maybe because he's just that type of guy, or just maybe because he'll be nice to anyone he sees since his shop is located in the middle of nowhere. Poor Rafe is the only sign of civilization for miles (perhaps that's why he's so loco, eh?). He'd been elated when he saw me drive up to his store: a familiar face, a remnant of his past, a link to Baek and all those times before when things were well and real smiles were worn.

And a failure. A screw up. A vagabond with only his bike and his legs to keep him going.

"So where you headed now?" he asked, wiping away a bead of sweat with the back of his hand.

Sighing, I replied, "Meh, no where, as usual. But you know, same old plan: have fun, street fight, party, earn a little cash, eat, sleep, live, go…the usual."

I didn't feel like going into detail. The Hispanic man didn't approve of my lifestyle anyway.

Old Rafe laughs softly. "Un rebelde, eh? You always were the rebel." There's a note of sadness and distaste in his voice, but I ignore it.

"Yeah you could say that, but why not? Enjoy life, take advantage of it. You're only young once so you might as well have fun."

"True, but that doesn't mean be stupid. You have to be careful, son. One day this 'fun' you call it will lead to danger. Some important decisions will come your way."

"Yeah? Like what, Grand Master?" I joke.

"You know, sometimes you mustn't be so reckless and outspoken. Sometimes we learn the most from silence and patience," he said calmly.

"Mhm…I agree…" I mutter absentmindedly. Whatever, Rafe. It's all a load of bullshit. I'd heard enough of it from Baek, and was tired of the old redundancy.

"Just think about it, Hwoarang. Before you throw my advice into the wind, like you did countless times before, I want you to think about it," he said softly, and I resisted the desire to roll my eyes. I don't take advice from anyone, even if it is my mentor's best friend.

"Tell me, Rafe, how your advice will help me. I'm dying to know," I mocked, but either old Rafe didn't notice or didn't give a shit.

The old man sighs heavily. "Well, you speak of 'screwing' girls all the time. Why not wait for the right girl to come along? Patience helps you find real love."

Snorting, I finally did roll my eyes. Love? What's that? And who really gives a fuck about it?

"…then maybe you'll stop being so damn careless and enjoy what life has to offer you."

"In case you haven't noticed, I already am."

"You know what I mean, Hwoarang. Besides, perhaps with love, your loneliness won't be such a problem anymore."

Turning to glare at him, I snarl, "Hey, my life is perfectly fine, old man. I prefer to be alone."

Rafael raised a gray eyebrow my way, but did not say anything more. We both knew that was only half of the truth; the Hispanic knew he'd hit a soft spot—and I hated it.

"I always could see through your lies, Hwoarang. I know how lonely you've grown on the road. No mother to hold you, no father to teach you about being a man, no woman to—"

"Stop that. I don't need to remember," I muttered irritably, turning away. I've tried for a long time to push the truth away, and Rafe just went right along and pulled it all out again.

"Yes, you do. I know you try to forget it all, bury it away into that stone heart of yours, but it's useless; the hole will never be deep enough, Hwoarang."

I look away, my mouth dry.

"It is the past that molds us into the creatures we are today, Hwoarang. If we don't mend the mistakes, then there can only be bitterness and regret in the end."

"Be quiet. I already know what I have to do, and I've already 'mended' my mistakes."

"But with love—" he tried, but I interrupted him yet again.

"No! I can take care of myself, and I don't need some woman to mess up things. You should know by now that commitment ain't my thing," I interrupted.

"Who says you need a woman forever? All I'm saying is that you should wait to experience love first before hating it so. Trust me, it will change things. It's different from what you look for in girls, Hwoa," he explained.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I grumbled in response.

"…it is better to have loved briefly than to never have loved at all," Rafael retorts, "Are you familiar with the saying?"

"Screw the saying. That's for the lonely and the desperate."

"And you are not lonely?"

"Nope."

Rafe laughs, a dry, mirthless sound. I listen to him, watch his shoulders shake, the hardening of his eyes, sun-beaten hands clenching into fists, and I know I've upset him. One thing Rafe hates more than failures are liars. But hell, I don't care. People should just let me live my own life and mind their own damn business.

This real love is a load of bull. After all, women are good for nothing except for a nice fuck once in awhile, and the hot ones do make great eye candy. Otherwise, women mean nothing to me, and, along with that, the ridiculous emotion Rafe keeps droning on about. It's merely a distraction, a weakness. I didn't come all this way to find "love."

"Hwoarang, there's much more a woman can offer you than sex."

"Yeah like what?"

"Find that out for yourself."

"I don't think you even know what you're talking about, hombre viejo," I smirked.

"I know exactly what I'm talking about. It's just that you refuse to listen."

Sighing, I didn't say anything to this comment, and instead gazed longingly out into the road.

"Look, Hwoarang," Rafe sighs after a moment, "I haven't many years left on this earth, and I want to tell a man how to be better. I want him to learn that life is not just about street brawls, sex, and easy money. That life in Korea is over, Hwoarang. It's time to move on, do you understand?"

"Sure I do! Now will you stop?"

He peered up into my face, knowing that his attempts to reason with me were futile, then looked away again. "All right, Hwoarang. But just remember that Baek, and maybe even your father, would have told you the same things. I'm just here to remind you."

I become silent at his words.

The Hispanic man tilts his head skyward, inhaling deeply. "I smell a thunderstorm coming. Every storm brings something new with it; it's a time of change."

Overhead, a white crane glides by, and I admire the way it seemed to disappear into the smoke-gray clouds, the sunlight dancing off the tips of its pale wings.

Remaining silent, I remember my father, Jahalang Lee Sun, and my mother, Sundok. I remember them vaguely, since the bad memories overpowered the good. Uhmah wasn't stunning, but she was still pretty all the same, and since she was my mom I thought her to be the most beautiful woman. I remember how she used to sing lullabies to me before I went to sleep, the soft Korean melodies soothing me to slumber. As I close my eyes I can still feel, faintly, the feather-soft caress of her hand across my brow. I can still hear her gentle voice as she spoke to me of the dawn, of her day at work, of petunias and books, of little things, trivial, yet it was only her voice and her love that mattered. I used to listen then.

Then there is my father, Jahalang, a tall, imposing man with strong hands and small eyes. At a glimpse many are intimidated but he was loving, gentle, and treated my mother and me well. He could be stubborn sometimes, arrogant, self-pitying, but he loved me and I didn't care about his flaws at the time.

When I was only ten my mother abandoned my father and me. All she'd left us was a brief note explaining her absence, and I wondered why she'd even bothered. She'd run off with a man named Hyuga Tsumiyo, a fucking Japanese. Hell, my mom didn't even know how to speak Japanese! The bastard must've known Korean then...anyway, they'd met at my mother's work and decided to hell with us, to hell with her young son and her devoted husband, to hell with the old. To hell with love. Let's see some excitement, let's sleep with a stranger, let's forget all that we used to know; I guess Tsumiyo was just that great in bed.

Mom was no longer beautiful. She was a lie, a fake; she was a woman who'd seduced me into loving her. She was a flaw, and her blood ran through my veins; I was tainted too. I hated myself for a long, long time during those months, for I was ashamed that such a traitor was part of me, ashamed that even though she'd hurt me, deserted me, I still missed her, longed for her touch and her lullabies. Some would say that because I was young that type of reaction was expected; I was only ten after all. But that's not true. I was weak, dependent; I vowed never to be like that again.

When my father discovered the truth about what a two-timing bitch Mom was, he sank into a deep depression. On the contrary, I turned to bitterness and anger; I'm not one for tears and all that melodramatic shit my father loved to wallow in. At this time Tae Kwon Do and Baek's guidance helped release the rage, the pent up emotions that distorted reality, and without it I think I'd be slightly insane. Mothers who leave their children do that to you.

The next month Jahalang didn't come home and had left a note stating he'd gone out to find Hyuga Tsumiyo and Uhmah. He also claimed that he'd find me a new mother, as if mothers were objects that could easily be replaced. I hated those damn notes, those little pieces of paper, the black hangul characters jeering, twisted; they came to me twice, those notes. And twice, I lost someone.

Nothing made sense in my ten-year-old mind. I was shocked and outraged at my father's lame, feeble attempts at mending the tears in our pathetic little family, but I realize now that he had been desperate. Jahalang had had absolutely no idea what to do to make his son happy. I believe that my father really did love me then, though he had a hard time showing it.

When Dad didn't come back for several months, I was taken in permanently by my martial arts instructor, Baek, and I never saw my father again. Over time I started to forget his face. Now that I think of it, Jahalang was never really there for me, but that doesn't change the fact that I still love him. At least he hadn't betrayed me. At least he had tried to help his son.

Then, when I was nineteen, Ogre attacked Baek. I can still see his crimson blood on my hands, hear his voice as he faded away…and now he's lying in a white hospital bed somewhere, alive, but alone and comatose…and I hadn't been able to do anything to help. When Baek was attacked I didn't think I could love anyone anymore.

Ever since I was fifteen I was supported by my gang members. They were there to guide me, got me through most of the rough times, offered their fists and legs for protection, and some good hard maekju to numb things up when there was nothin' else. But it still wasn't the same. They never could understand, but I don't blame them. They weren't my real family after all, and that, at the time, was all that I really wanted. I guess it's nothing like the ties of blood, the real thing, you know? It all comes down to that in the end. Eventually, I abandoned gang life and moved on, fought in the tournaments, and ended up here, in the U.S., where nobody knew me and it was my turn to cause the pain, my turn to forget. (maekju is beer)

It's a shortened version, edited several times, but there it is, my glorious past.

My thoughts return back to what old Rafe had mentioned about girls and that shitty love crap. Usually, I won't turn down a good night in some stranger's embrace; there's nothing wrong with a nice fucking once in awhile, but there's never any love attached. Love is nonexistent for me. It is merely a thing, a word—like my mother. It means nothing, gives me nothing; I've given up on it ever since my mother left Jahalang and me. Nothing can come of it except pain and hardship, betrayal and deceit. I can thank Sundok for teaching me that.

That's all she is to me now: Sundok, a mere name, a whisper of something that shouldn't have been. An illusion. Life is full of damn illusions.

This "real love" as Rafe calls it is one of those illusions. For some it does exist, and it's hard to find, I know that much at least, but hey, I'm not looking anyway. Sometimes, I admit, a small part of me longs for it, or at least for a nice, genuine friendship. But that wolf in my stomach, that part that hungers and craves for the sky and for that open road, says simply, to hell with it. Sex and fistfights, that's all I really need. Well, maybe a little rock music and alcohol on the side to liven things up once in awhile, but that pretty much sums it up.

As for the past…ah hell, fuck the past. Why should it matter when you've got the present right under your feet and so many colored possibilities? Rafe says it is the past that makes us who we are today, and maybe the world agrees with him and maybe he's right. Well you know what the past has made out of me, Rafe? A survivor. A fighter. A man who moves forward, a man who finds strength from pain, a man who has learned that dwelling on the past and waiting around leads to no where.

Why be careful? Why mourn yesterday? Why linger on things that have already happened when there's always tomorrow to look forward to?

Every day the sun rises, so every day you get a second chance to start it over. It's a road made up of second chances; I can never have too many of those.

But second chances with sarang ha? Well, you already know the answer to that one. (a/n: love)