8:50h.

Kenji vaulted the hedge and darted past a large clump of burning ash falling from the fouled skies above, the dull grey clouds illuming the dark sky with orange light, a bitter contrast to the remembered ideal of blue reflected water. He darted to the bench, huddling briefly as bright ash brushed his exposed arm with acid, painful with yellow agony.

He sighed, rubbing at the fresh sore on his flesh, pulsing with hot red before he drew an oft-used tube from his bag, and spread the herbal creme absently over the wound, the blue stain sinking in and cooling the blister. He watched his injured arm morbidly, then sprawled his long legs on the bench, slumping against the clear protective wall.

So he didn't want to be thought of as a fag. It wasn't that he felt anything was wrong with homosexuality, and he even despised the word, but he wasn't gay, and thus felt he shouldn't want that negative stigma. Kenji frowned, something unwilling about the statement. He wasn't gay. But he contradicted himself when he said that, yet acknowledged that he *cared* for Max. Even the thought of the long-haired boy brought up steady strength within his chest. Kenji closed his eyes, tired eyelids slipping gratefully over dark blue eyes.

If he liked Max, that thought almost allowing an unknown smile t slide over his thin darkened lips, didn't that mean he was gay? He knew he truly liked Max, that his attraction was real, that conclusion was no great surprise. He simply hadn't considered the natural consequences of his romantic feelings. But what exactly were his feelings? An unconscious wrinkle spread between the dark crest of his brow.

He was attracted to Max, on a purely base level. He cared, and as much as Max would hate him for it, he felt romantic attachment for the American youth, although settling with a platonic version of his desired intimacy.

A bright pang slipped between his ribs, a forbidden tsunami of vocabulary flooding his mind, paining him. Kenji's eyes burst open, unseeing from within icy confines, crystals blinding before his pupils.

Love.

That most sacred word, the unfurled infant emotion only now within him, thus, in the frozen grasp of his thoughts, was dooming him. A soft whimper dripped from his rouged lips, a sorrowed mourning. Lust was nothing new; Kenji could have dealt well enough with such a base emotion, but love? Love defied every self-control the painted student could impose, melting off any restriction to pursuit.

Kenji bit his lips, the blue of his eyes darkening the soft tears gathering on his thickened lashes. Max would hate him for loving. He was so afraid of homosexuality, especially any display towards himself, that he could never even tolerate Kenji. Kenji sniffled, a strange tearing with each beat of that pulsing organ within his breast. He could not stand rejection from his beloved.

One course of action lent itself to his feverish mind, alight with the unfamiliar blaze of such strong affection. His icy silence must be kept. In such, he reasoned, cool logic again overtaking his mind with cold familiarity, relieving him, he who had never truly felt any strong emotion until the realisation of a few minutes past. If Max had not confronted him about the unconscious behaviour dictated by his heart, then continuing in quiet love, unspoken to the chestnut-haired youth was acceptable. Thus their friendship could be maintained, and Max would never know.

The contradiction of his mind and his heart sorrowed the calm Japanese student. His head lolled back, pressing his forest of hair into the thick polymer wall. A bitter moan of denial flowed from his mouth, then a soft, tentative touch brushed his outstretched legs.

Kenji's eyes flew open, his body jerking back against the shelter wall, one knee slamming up to his narrow chest. He blinked at his startled companion, and his throat caught, his mouth suddenly dry.

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