It comforts the burdened

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/43056456.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandom: KinnPorsche: The Series (TV)
Relationship: Porsche Pachara Kittisawat/Kinn Anakinn Theerapanyakun
Character: Porsche Pachara Kittisawat, Kinn Anakinn Theerapanyakun
Additional Tags: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Introspection, why
do i love them so much, How Do I Tag, Soft Kinn Anakinn
Theerapanyakun, Sad Porsche Pachara Kittisawat, One Shot
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2022-11-13 Words: 2719

It comforts the burdened

by tiredfairycake

Summary

Porsche knows that Kinn knows. After hours spent touching each other's bodies, growing
familiar with each and every scar and birthmark littering their skin, how could he not?

Porsche wants Kinn to know.

Notes

I was listening to "death, you are more cursed then me" by illneas (great poem!) and got so
inspired to write something! And well, I'm a sucker for sad boi porsche in love so this got
written.

English isn't my first language so I'm sorry for any mistakes (and I was a lil tired when
writing and reading through opsi). Please let me know if I can improve anything. Thank
you!
(iihhhh my first posted fanfic tihi)

TW: Reflecting about self-harm. Please don't read if it's triggering! Stay safe

See the end of the work for more notes

Porsche knows that Kinn knows. After hours spent touching each other's bodies, growing familiar
with each and every scar and birthmark littering their skin, how could he not?
Porsche knows about the thin line of scar tissue behind Kinns ear, having discovered it while his
hands were tracing Kinns face, wanting to get familiar with the shape of his face. Of him. He
knows about the three moles forming a line stretching over the skin of Kinn’s left ankle.

Knows the fluid but dominering way in which Kinn moves, the way his eyes crease and his face
lights up when he smiles, knows the tiny freckles dusting the otherwise silky smooth complexion
of his hands, the way his skin pulls over his bones, the way his muscles flex.

Porsche’s pretty sure he knows more about Kinn’s body than he does about his own. Kinn has, as
any man in his line of work is sure to have, his fair share of scars. Bullets have left behind white
and bumpy patches of skin, knives leaving long, clean stripes. His knees bear old scars from a
childhood, though not many.

Porsche knows all of that, so it’s obvious Kinn knows about the ragged scars littering his inner
thighs. Lines formed by shaky hands and whatever sharp object Porsche could find at the moment.
Some of them line up, but most are at random. Cut in different directions, different lengths. Many
with a wider middle, the knife having been pressed down more. The wounds had been dragged
open by shaking and bloody fingers.

There’s no way Kinn doesn’t know about them. Must have known from the first time that they
slept together in that hotel room. At the moment, Porsche had been too drugged to care or even
think about the marks, but the day after it was all he could think about, but Kinn never said
anything about it.

But there was a chance that he didn’t know after that time. It was dark, sweaty and filled with
different kinds of desperation that guided their actions. Maybe he found out about them the second
time, or the third, Porsche couldn’t tell.

But Kinn knew about them. They were quite noticeable. Not so that they could be seen in alleys
during quick fucks or in changing rooms, he had made sure of that. The myriad of scars,
crisscrossed and hollowed and wrong in so many ways but still holding a filthy value, was
contained to the inner flesh of his thighs. Somewhere no one would know. But now Kinn knows.

Still, he doesn’t question them. Porsche knows he had ample opportunities to see them, having
spent a lot of time kissing and biting all over his thighs. Porsche knows and knows but Kinn never,
ever mentioned them. There was one time Kinn had pressed gentle fingers into them, gazing at him
with something Porsche couldn’t identify but was so overwhelmed by that he had to look away.

He hadn’t cut in a while, so there wasn’t any real reason for Kinn to bring it up, right? It wasn’t a
problem anymore. It was all in the past. He was over it.

Right?

(He wasn’t over it. Wasn’t sure how to get over it. Sometimes his skin still itches to feel the cold
bite of metal.)

Kinn never asked him about any of his scars, actually, just as Porsche never asked about his.
Sometimes when they lay in bed, curled up and satisfied after a couple of rounds, the dim shine of
the moon or a lamp they hadn’t bothered to turn off casting a gentle light over them, Kinn shares
some of the stories of his many scars. He talks about business meetings gone wrong, training
yielding results as well as leaving their memories.
Porsche's favorite story is about the scar on Kinn’s left knee. One evening when Porsche had been
having a rough time, the fast and stressful ways of his new life catching up to him and losing a
fellow bodyguard, Pear (she had had dark, short hair and wide eyes, he wondered how her eyes
looked like when she was shot-), who he had been sort of friends with (sometimes they sat in the
garden together when the sun was setting, the air stagnant but tranquil, both needing the others
company but never mentioning it, never mentioning it, it's too late now-), Kinn had become quite
the storyteller as he combed his fingers through Porsche’s hair.

He told him about his mother, which is something he rarely does, and his eyes had a forlorn look in
them, softening with the pleasant, wild winds of a childhood lived but long gone. Kinn told him
about the little excursions his mother would take him too, and how once his shoelaces had gotten
caught in the opposite shoe when he was running towards her, causing him to fall over in quite the
dramatic way.

Reminiscing about the past was hard for Kinn and Porsche understood that feeling all too well. The
scar was faded and barely visible, but it was there. Sometimes Porsche traced it with his fingers
and even though he couldn't make it out by touch alone, it felt pleasant.

Porsche told Kinn about a few of his own scars in return at moments. Having been forced to grow
up the way he had, he had gained experience in the form of jagged and ugly wounds that turned to
scars. But he never told Kinn about his thighs. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, but he didn’t know
if he could.

He had contemplated the thought as their relationship turned from a passionate, volatile fling to
something much deeper and profounder. He loved the other man and wanted to lay his soul bare
for him, but it was hard. That meant exposing the innermost deepest parts of him, and that was
more difficult than when he was juggling school, work and raising his brother.

One time he tried. The words were heavy in his chest and mind but when they reached his tongue,
the heaviness of them made him unable to form them, far too heavy for his mouth to form.

Being with Kinn meant being vulnerable. Kinn’s firm hands made him feel vulnerable, as did his
precense and heavy eyes and soothing voice and- No one had ever seen him as unshielded and open
as Kinn had, but that part would be so much easier if it was only physical. Growing up, he had
dedicated his body to hard work and stressful hours to make ends meet and keep the debt collector
at bay, but his mind was his and his own.

He was no stranger to using his body to stay afloat, to being made vulnerable by heavy fists and
judging eyes. But where he couldn’t do anything about the physical state of him, which often were
painted in blues and greens, he guarded his thoughts and essence more than anything.

Those were his and there was no way he would ever let anyone take those from him. He kept the
stormy and unstable pain from Chay, wanting his brother to not have to worry about him more than
he already does. With Chay, he only showed him the good parts, keeping the rest buried and
hidden. It was all worth it of course, but he couldn’t help but feel lonely. Couldn’t help but feel an
ache he knew would ease, even if just a little bit, if it were to be shared with something other than
the burdensome silence.

With Kinn, he could share a part of that. Often not voluntarily, the other man having a certain way
to draw things Porsche kept hidden up to the surface, naked and cold. But he didn’t mind it as he
thought he would. It felt nice, in a way. Porsche was fairly sure Kinn knew the way he functioned
better than Porsche himself did. But still, the blemishes branding his inner thighs were his and only
his and he wanted to pretend that that was the case.

It wasn’t though, was it? Not any longer. Kinn knew and Porsche was so sure he knew just why
and how but he never addressed it as he did the many other things. Kinn had confronted a lot of the
less than pretty issues Porsche had, either during fights or during more private times, but never
about those scars. Hell, Porsche wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest if Kinn wanted to allow
Porsche the illusion of having that part of him just to himself. Porsche wondered if he would love
Kinn more if that was the case, but he wasn't sure he could love the other more than he already
did.

Porsche knows Kinn knows. Kinn knows that Porsche knows that Kinn knows. No one of them
ever mentioned it. It makes Porsche so, so relieved to not have to talk about it. He treasured that
broken part of himself. Cradled it in muddy palms.

He doesn’t want to dirty Kinn with it. Doesn’t want to acknowledge that Kinn knows that part of
him. That grotesque, uneven part of him. Kinn is by no means unfamiliar with the cold, filthy
harshness of the world. Porsche knew Kinn had seen worse, done worse to others. Knows he had
starred despair in its weeping and tangled form and walked away without another thought.

Porsche knows all that but still, wants to pretend Kinn’s hands aren’t stained in dripping red. Wants
to keep the small pieces of innocence hiding in the other man’s smile safe and sound. Wants to
keep him as clean and free from Porsche and his tarnished pain as he can.

But he also wants to pour all of it over Kinn, watching it mix with the blood and dark water
clinging onto him. He wants to paint Kinn in all of Porsche’s colors, pure and impure ones. Wants
to watch how their fragmented spirits blend together. Become one. Never knowing where Porsche
ends and Kinn starts. Wants to dip his own hands into everything Kinn is and display proudly the
stains it would leave for the world to see. Or just for Kinn to see. That would be enough.

Sometimes he sees the underlying conversation in Kinns grounding eyes and can’t help the tinge of
disappointment each time it passes and it never gets mentioned. Kinn isn’t going to mention it. So
Porsche has to. He never makes a conscious decision to tell him, but something in him shifts on a
sunday afternoon.

Porsche and Kinn had managed to get some time free, so they snuck away with a basket filled with
pastries and fruit to a tiny meadow just on the edge of a forest an hour or so away from the
compound so they could pretend for a while they were just normal people having a normal date.
They never mentioned the sentiment, but the sweet and slow brushes of their lips in tender sunlight
spoke of a longing for something they never would know but would always keep close to their
hearts.

Then it started to rain. It wasn’t a light drizzle, no, it was a viscous downpour of the heavens. The
sky wasn’t weeping for them, never for them. Maybe it wept for the life they could have had. For
the what ifs. (He could imagine it easily. Meeting Kinn in a normal world. Going on regular dates
in parks and buying food in markets bustling with people, introducing him to his brother and
parents, growing old together-).

A crawling part of Porsche had felt desperate when his image of a still, warm outing got washed
away with the shower and Kinn, obnoxious asshole but oh so beautiful, seeing right through him,
had lifted another Khanom Tum to his mouth and said “You know, I’ve always wanted to fuck you
in the rain”.

They threw away the blanket when they returned home, dirty, wet and so happy, and Porsche was
left with a want to entwine his soul with Kinn’s and never be alone again. They could never have a
regular life, but being with Kinn, it was enough. It would always be enough

Being honest and open about his feelings and experiences weren’t Porsche’s forte, by a long shot.
Neither was it Kinn’s. As a result, their relationship had its ups and downs. It was untamable and
destructive at the same time that it was comforting and wonderful. They made it work. So as they
always did when one of them had something on their mind, they fucked. They conveyed in their
desperate actions words they could never speak.

But Porsche had a goal that required actual conversation. He wanted to start learning how to get
over it, wanted it not to haunt him anymore, wanted to hold Kinn’s hand along the way. Wanted to
explain to Kinn.

He has never loved any other person more than he loves Kinn. Didn’t know it was possible to feel
the things Kinn made him feel. Loves him more than he loves himself. He didn’t know where the
hate had turned to love but it did and he wanted the man he loved more than anything to know.

(He wanted to be comforted, to be told it was okay. Wanted to be cradled and loved and cared for)

Porsche knew he had been a bit off the last few days, and Kinn noticed, because while Kinn often
pounded into him hard and selfishly, he was nearly painfully gentle and his touches were loving
and soothing. When Kinn comes inside of him, he uses the hand he wasn’t supporting himself with
and places it almost reverently on Porsche’s left, inner thigh. His thumb strokes his scars and
Porsche breaks as he comes.

Tears start brimming and when his eyes meet Kinn’s full ones, they pour out of his eyes and flow
down the side of his face (just like the rain on that afternoon had done). A thousand words were
swirling inside of Porsche's head but every time he tries to speak and explain to Kinn all the things
he so badly wants to tell him now but he never could before, his voice gives away, replaced by
tearing sobs and needy breaths. Kinn shushes him with more understanding than Porsche knows
what to do with, and holds him in his strong, caring arms.

He wants Kinn to know. Know it in the way Porsche wants him to, know it from his words, not
from anything else. He wants to tell him about the nights when the only control over his body he
had was the lines he drew with sharp blades and a grieving heart.

Wants to tell him about the pain burrowed deep within that he sometimes forgets exists because it
had become just another part of him, just as his hands or voice were. How he used to let it out, hold
it in his hands and just feel it, acknowledge that it was there and cry, and then lock it up again in
the void inside of him

(How he still does)

Wants to tell Kinn about the deep calm he had felt when he pressed the blade into flesh the first
time, the control he felt. How his pain took physical form, and how that physical form was so much
easier to handle.

The shame Porsche felt after, but the relief that was strong enough to keep him doing it every time.
 How he hates looking at the scars, hates touching them, but how he feels so loved when Kinn trails
them and kisses them. He wants Kinn to know all of that, wants to taint Kinn with his desperation
and shame and pain and everything that he is and ever will be, and then fuck him in the rain as the
water washes all of it away. So he does.

Porsche lays his entire being, body and mind, bare voluntairly in a way he has never done before
and he is so afraid but Kinn’s soft lips pressing against his skin and fingers in his hair makes it
okay. When he opens his eyes in the morning, he feels tired and not complete, but less shattered.
He's colored and cared for. It's enough.

End Notes

Thanks for reading. I would love to hear your thoughts!

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