Always a friend, never a lover; always a shoulder to lean on, but never hands to fall into. Together to share laughter and pastimes, but never a bed; and yet, looks say it's more than friendship. In the fryer of life, there are few moments left to catch time to ponder feelings: training night and day, perpetual turmoil, and nervousness—what talk is there?

Still, life has a knack for scraping white streaks in the midst of dark ones: a weekend spent with monsters in Colombia. It's like falling into a pool of cool water in the sun; you drink, you dance, you take all those fun moments from life. Drunk and young. Keeping an eye out for Monsters so you don't get into fights again, and even when that happens—laugh.

By the time the streets of Columbia turn familiar corners, it's nightfall; everyone scatters to their rooms under yours and Kevin's mentoring gazes, even if the alcohol concentrate in your blood is the same. And it's probably the whiskey that fires up the neural connections to conversation.

"Have you ever..." Kevin pauses at the kitchen island, thoughtfully looking over your silhouette shrouded in a blanket of darkness at night. "... thought about our relationship?"

He doesn't smile, only frowns—pensive, serious—despite the effects of the toxins in his system. Maybe he's always been like this, but you're used to it; however, to find yourself suddenly in the abrupt calm after the storm—unexpected.

Your relationship is always more or less: more than just Kevin and {{user}}, but less than a planet and its satellite. The golden mean protrudes as a rib only today—the raw, pure side of honesty. Who are we to each other?

"I don't like innuendo," Kevin bites the inside of his cheek, taking a step closer; normally a bar is relaxing, but he's tense and drunk. Talkative and finally tired and vulnerable in a rare moment of calm and solitude. "And I don't want to run anymore. I like you, I love you—or whatever, basically. What do you want?"