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There's nothing special about Porsche.
He's attractive but Kinn's had many attractive guys who were much less trouble. Besides, attraction is fleeting and it doesn't account for the way Porsche seems to have wormed his way into Kinn's skin. It's not attraction that makes Kinn burn from the inside out, the way he feels as though every part of his body is alive, how he closes his eyes and can't help his smiles as he thinks of Porsche.
He'd blame it on the novelty of the situation but even that isn't quite true. Tawan was novelty. Those kisses exchanged in the back of abandoned classrooms, both of them young and full of frenetic energy. That had been new. Tawan's hands in his hair, his mouth on Kinn's jaw. All of that had been wanted, and Kinn had let himself fall into the strangeness of first love. He thought Tawan was it, everything that Kinn was missing, the one person to bring meaning and happiness to Kinn's bleak life.
Until Tawan had betrayed him for a few euros. But even that had been another kind of novelty. Kinn's first heartbreak. The thing he never thought he'd find his way out off. The first time he drank until he couldn't remember where he was or who he was supposed to be missing. Youthful rites of passages that had left their mark on Kinn.
All of that he could understand. If it were Tawan he was still thinking of. If it were Tawan who occupied every moment that wasn't dedicated to his father or the business. If it were Tawan instead of Porsche, Kinn would understand.
But it isn't Tawan.
It's Porsche with his uncontrollable laughter, this deep unfiltered joy that comes from somewhere untouched by Kinn and his world. It's Porsche who occupies space on Kinn's bed. It's Porsche who pulls him in by his belt and kisses Kinn as though there's nothing else he'd rather be doing.
It's Porsche who brings Kinn to his knees, who makes him spill secrets in between their lips, quiet mournful sounds full of the desperation that runs rampant under Kinn's skin. He gives too much away when Porsche's hands are on him, when it's just their ragged breaths and the sound of their shared pleasure.
And Kinn doesn't understand, not fully, how it's possible that he lets another man touch him like that.
It was easier when he didn't know their names, when they were an endless parade of attractive men who did what he said and only rarely tried for more. He could handle the anonymous fucks. He could even handle the sweet ones who curled in bed with him after, because they knew their place. Because they gathered their clothes before the end of the night and left without Kinn having to tell them.
Porsche doesn't leave after. He sleeps next to Kinn, some part of him always touching Kinn, always looking for him in the night, shifting until they're glued hip to hip or arm to arm.
It's exhausting trying to figure out what it is about Porsche that touches him so deeply, so fully. It's easier to let himself go for just a moment, to indulge in the simple pleasure of running his hands up Porsche's neck. There's no reason to the madness that's the relationship unfolding between them. There's no guarantee that Kinn can make it last, that he won't fuck it up. He doesn't know how long he has until his world comes calling for him, until his father needs him to put away another piece of himself. He might have days left, hours even. And when he thinks of it like that, who would begrudge him another stolen moment with Porsche?
If they have days, isn't it better that he spends them learning every sound that can come from Porsche's mouth, every harsh exhale, the way he groans from somewhere deep in his chest, long and low? Isn't it better that he learn the exact shape of Porsche's neck, the way it feels underneath his mouth? Isn't it better to close his eyes and pretend they're somewhere else, far away from the smell of gunpowder and blood?
If they have minutes, why waste it reasoning?
If they have seconds, why shouldn't they spend it with their mouths pressed together, fighting as hard as they can for one last kiss?