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Kinn always looks most at ease, settled in a patchwork of blue hydrangeas and white peonies.
He drops all pretense, letting his arms hang loose around Porsche, who is relaxed against Kinn's chest, fingers tracing idle patterns up Kinn's arm.
They’re tucked away, hidden behind a cluster of trees. The world feels hushed here, their voices carrying and dropping on the breeze. Kinn lulls in the soft pressure of Porsche's cheek pressed to his collarbone, catching Porsche's shoulder as Porsche shifts gently, eyes half closed, a lazy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"You wanted to meet over something," Porsche reminds him gently.
Kinn sighs, tipping his head back to look up at the canopy. The hand that is tangled in Porsche's hair slips down to his neck, fingers brushing lightly over bare skin.
Porsche tilts his head back further, eyes opening a fraction of an inch, gaze lingering curiously on Kinn's face. He raises a brow slowly when Kinn finally meets his eye. His expression is expectant, like he knows what's coming next.
"The gods of the mountain have called for me,” Kinn tells him, softly.
Porsche stills at that.
He peers up at Kinn; his gaze drifts over the planes of Kinn's face, searching for signs of distress. When he finds none, he rests his head back down, settling into the crook of Kinn's neck.
It takes longer than it should for Porsche to find his voice.
"What did they ask of you?"
Kinn doesn't bother trying to hide his grimace. His lips curl upwards slightly. "The gods don't often send for me, unless they need passageway into the underworld."
"Right," Porsche agrees slowly, looking up at him again, "but you rarely gift it. So why call you now?"
Kinn closes his eyes momentarily, relishing in how Porsche tugs against his hand, seeking contact almost unconsciously.
"I am needed," Kinn finally answers, simply.
Porsche snorts out a small laugh. "You're quite sure of yourself."
"They're not asking for a passageway, this time."
Porsche blinks up at him, expression clearing into something neutral. "That's not comforting."
Kinn's grin turns sardonic, but his voice remains fond as he reaches down, cupping Porsche's jaw. Porsche smiles back, leaning up into his touch. It doesn't take much coaxing from Kinn for Porsche to turn his head so that Kinn can press gently down on his pulse point. His breath hitches under Kinn's touch; he lets his eyes slide shut, leaning into the pressure.
"It isn't meant to be. You know my nature better than anyone."
Porsche leans forward then, pressing his forehead against Kinn's, his breath warm against Kinn's skin. He stays silent for a moment, just taking in Kinn carefully—memorizing the curve of Kinn's lips, the dip of his throat.
"I know," Porsche finally murmurs, "but tell me anyway. I want to hear it from you."
Kinn exhales out through pursed lips. His eyes close, and he smiles faintly.
"The gods only seek me out, when they need me there to officiate the beginnings of a war.”
When the sun has sunk into the horizon, the sky turning a rich purple, Porsche finally rises.
Kinn is long gone by now, on a path to the mountains, the only evidence of Kinn's presence being the single, red dahlia tucked behind Porsche's ear.
Porsche reaches for the flower, absently tracing the curling petals. They glow softly beneath his fingertips.
"A storm is brewing," Pete muses, as an easy greeting. He's plated in armor, his helmet tucked under his arm. The wind shifts and the trees whine, sending a chill down Porsche's spine.
"You're not the first to say that.”
“Well, I'm the messenger, so take it from me.”
Pete plants himself cross-legged on the forest floor, arms folded over each other. He watches the clouds churning overhead. Rain has begun to drizzle again, but Pete doesn't seem bothered, merely watching it fall.
"How have things been?" Pete asks finally, eyes still trained upward.
Porsche thinks of his planted lands. Of the harvests they bring forth. His vegetation that has survived for years to feed mortals; the greenery thriving and beautiful under his care.
Porsche thinks of the mountains—of the gods who took up residence there. How they were bolstered with delusions of their power. How they were so fragile in their rage and greed.
He thinks of Kinn, being called away to the mountains.
Porsche sighs, leaning back on his hands.
"Things have been good," Porsche decides after a while, looking at Pete, "harvest should be abundant this year."
Pete glances toward him, lips pressed into a thin line. Porsche looks at his fields, at his trees, at the rainwater dripping from the leaves and branches.
"That's good,” Pete acknowledges.
"It is."
There's a pause between them, one punctuated only by the sound of falling rain. Then Pete shifts, reaching down into his armor, pulling something out. In his hand is a small pouch. He holds it up as he turns, holding it out towards Porsche.
"Here,” Pete says, “take it.”
"What is it?"
"Take it, take it!" Pete insists, with an open palm, "for you, and Ché.”
Porsche looks between the pouch and Pete, then reaches out slowly. He takes the pouch, careful to keep it away from the ground, and opens it. Inside it are two small pieces of carved stone, both nonsensically carved. They color to a warm amber, a deep groove running through the center. They glimmer with a light of their own.
“Porsche, I didn’t come here just to catch up,” Pete says.
"I know," Porsche murmurs, clutching the pouch, "but I’m trying to stay hopeful here."
"The gods," Pete says carefully. He hesitates, then continues, "they've been talking amongst themselves, more than usual, lately. They're... angry, about something. It might be best to stay out of their way."
"More than usual?"
"Maybe." Pete shrugs. He's staring out into the forest, eyes unfocused. "Maybe not."
Pete pauses, frowns, then goes quiet. After a moment, he nods. "You take care of yourself, and don't do anything stupid."
"You know me—"
"Porsche, I'm being serious," Pete interrupts, giving him a pointed look, "if I see any signs of trouble, I'll send someone to check on you. If either of you ever need me, just call—crease those stones into your palm and call me. I'll find you.”
Porsche stares at him. He can hear the rumble of thunder in the distance. It seems much closer than it did earlier.
His heart sinks into his stomach.
"You'll get caught up in all of this, if you choose sides in their war," Porsche says quietly.
"I'm their messenger—I'm already caught up in all of their wars," Pete answers easily, but his expression tightens.
Porsche opens his mouth, but Pete shakes his head, waving a dismissive hand.
"Don't argue with me, I won't listen," Pete says firmly.
Porsche looks down at the piece in his hand, turning it over in his fingers. Porsche takes a breath, letting it go, and tucks the pouch beneath his shirt.
“Thank you, Pete,” Porsche says at last. His voice sounds far away.
"Of course," Pete replies easily.
Pete stands, clapping a friendly hand onto Porsche’s shoulder as he walks past, walking off into the storm.
Porsche sits and looks up at the sky.
Lightning flashes behind the clouds; thunder rolls across the valley. Then another crack of thunder, and another, followed by an almost constant rolling rumble.
Porsche waits until the thunder fades before he rises to his feet. There's a strange weight to his chest—every step he takes is weighted with apprehension.
He knows the thunder is a direct consequence of whatever it is that’s occurring up on the mountains, but Porsche can't imagine what could make the gods angry enough to summon a tempest.
Porsche closes his fist around Pete’s gifted pouch.
(Though he doesn’t know where to direct it towards, he sends a silent prayer for Kinn’s safety.)
He rises to his feet, heading deeper into the forest, following the faint voices of the forest.
No matter how feather-light his movements were, Ché would never be able to sneak up on Porsche.
Even when Ché conspired with the forest nymphs to catch Porsche off guard, even when Ché ran through the seedy moss of the forest where no floral could bloom, Ché had the easiest tell—
—a trail of chrysanthemum, sprouting no matter the state of the soil, in the wake of Ché's footsteps.
Porsche stops at the edge of a clearing. He humors Ché for a minute, before calling out, "north!"
Behind him, Ché's voice carries through the clearing.
"West!"
"Northwest as a compromise," Porsche posits, cheerily.
Ché steps out, his face lighting up when Porsche opens his arms wide, and Ché launches forward, wrapping his arms tightly around his brother. Porsche wraps his arms back just as fiercely.
"We can't compromise on northwest," Ché tells him, muffled against Porsche's shoulder, "I hid myself to your north."
"Did you, now," Porsche replies. He rests his chin atop Ché's head.
"Sounds like you’re doubting me," Ché muses.
"Never," Porsche assures him, teasing.
Porsche pulls away, but keeps his hands on Ché's shoulders.
Porsche studies him. "You look tired."
"I took the longer pathway home," Ché reminds him, brushing off the comment with ease, "Tankhun wanted to travel down the scenic route, and Arm doesn't know that we found a passageway that isn't blocked by mountains anymore, so he couldn’t refuse."
Porsche blinks, remembering. Kim had taken extra care to lay down a protected path between the underworld and Porsche’s vegetation lands, so that Kim could ensure Ché’s safety when Kim couldn’t accompany Ché himself.
Ché laughs, and nods towards the direction he'd come from.
"Come on," Ché says, tugging at Porsche's wrist, "there's something important you should know."
Porsche raises an eyebrow, but allows himself to be pulled along. He falls into step beside Ché as they make their way down toward the riverbank, where the water flows peacefully, rippling against its rock bed.
Porsche's got an inkling of what Ché wants to tell him, but he waits.
When they reach the banks of the river, Ché slows. His eyes narrow, as though he's struggling to find words. He takes a breath, exhales slowly.
"Kim's worried," Ché starts, carefully, watching for Porsche's reaction, "he won't outright say so, but he's—we've been hearing things. New souls have been showing up at the gates more often than usual."
Porsche's silence goes on for too long, until Ché's stress is palpable.
Porsche finds it in himself to ask, "what kind of things?"
Ché hesitates, as though he's not sure how much he can reveal, then says, reluctantly, "the new souls have been restless. Some don't even want to be reborn, they just wander. I've been trying to expand the wandering fields, but—well, I still haven't figured out the right soil composition yet.”
Ché lowers his eyes to the ground, digging his heel into the sinking soil. “I can’t understand them—the souls haven’t been making sense lately. They’re scared, but I don’t know why.”
Porsche considers this information; the silence continues as he sits there, lost in thought.
Ché waits patiently, until he realizes that his brother isn't going to respond. Finally, he huffs.
"You don't look surprised," Ché observes, frowning.
Porsche shakes his head and chuckles humorlessly. "I'm not surprised at all," he admits quietly, staring at the river. "Lately, the weather's been... disruptive. There was a storm last night. Wind patterns have shifted.”
Ché sighs and turns toward him. "Have you—"
"Kinn came by," says Porsche, softly.
He doesn't need to elaborate further for Ché to understand; that much is clear, from the way Ché's jaw clenches.
"What did he say to you," asks Ché, voice tight, eyes locked on a spot just over Porsche's shoulder.
If it were anyone else, Porsche would have read Ché's tone as a slight against Kinn, but he knew better of his brother. Ché was just redirecting his stress and exhaustion.
Besides, Kinn had always been kind to Ché, offering him protected passageways to the underworld if Ché ever requested. It had been a long time since Ché had been wary of Kinn's intentions, towards Porsche or otherwise.
Porsche reaches out, gently places one hand atop Ché's clenched fist. “He was called to the mountain, Ché. He came by to inform me, that’s all.”
"That's what I was worried about," Ché grumbles, "Tankhun won't be happy that Kinn didn't inform him of that. Kim's already annoyed with the mountains."
Ché exhales, and drops his shoulders. “Pete dropped by to speak to Tankhun, though. They think that storms could be some sort of—well, of—”
"A warning, from the gods," finishes Porsche, slowly.
The air's been swirling around them for the past hour, charged and thick with the threat of an impending storm. Ché shivers against its sting.
Porsche lets out another shaky breath, long and drawn out.
(“There’s no need for you to worry yourself, though,” Porsche hums absently, a bit later, as he weaves a final vine into an intricate floral wreath, "that hellhound of yours won’t let anything happen to you."
"Kim's hellhound," Ché corrects, ducking in embarrassment, but he looks pleased nonetheless.")