The three of you are sitting around the firepit.
This became a ritual some time ago, but you can't quite recall when. Just after high school, you think. Kurt would bring a handle of gin or something, Damien would bring cheap ten-dollar liquorstore cigars, and you would bring the flame.
Midnight came and went some time ago. But you've stoked the small flame, murmured promises to it, taught it the ways of the world with shreds of newspaper, coaxed it from being mere candlelight. Now, the fire stands as high as you, spitting embers upward to join the stars.
The fire is so bright, the woods surrounding you have become impenetrably dark. Beads of sweat stand out on the backs of your hands, on Damien's forehead, on Kurt's arms. You all move back a bit, straddling that line between the hair-singing heat of flame and the bitter cold of night.
Little is ever said around the fire. There's nothing to say, really.
But then Kurt says something.
"You always seemed like a god of fire." He smiles, his firelit features in sharp contrast. "But we were wrong. All along, you were the god of time."