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Khatha slows the motorbike when he hears raised voices. The bike does not love the roads the further they get away from the main thoroughfares, but they’re chasing down a lead on a time anomaly that they hope will bring them eighty years forward, back to when they left, and it’s taking them towards the north. Khatha doesn’t remember much about this time the first time around; he was always focused on finding and isolating curses and above all protecting Chan’s body, eyes set on a different world than the one around him, but even he knew about the war. Radio and newspapers made things happening far away feel present. Still, in the city it didn’t touch him much. Yes, there were soldiers about but they weren’t really interfering with him. It mattered more outside of it, where partisans harassed travellers to try and stop resources going to Japanese soldiers and state-backed gangs did the same, trying to root out partisans.
Now, he’s more aware of the dangers, alert to protecting Dome who follows him, now, into all situations.
As they edge by the bend in the road, Khatha puts a hand on Dome’s arm, making sure he’s securely wrapped around Khatha in case they need to do a quick take-off. But it’s Dome who squeezes, arms tightening in shock as the scene reveals itself.
It’s Khatha. Khatha of this time and place, and he’s gotten himself surrounded by some angry gang. He doesn’t remember this from his own time, not particularly, which either means it’s unique to this version of the timeline or this particular incident wasn’t memorable enough. It wasn’t rare for Khatha to get into it with people who didn’t appreciated him trying to steal whatever cursed object they had. This group seems unusually focused and organised, though, and Khatha reassesses. Not angry villagers: instead it’s one or the other side of the war that this Khatha has managed to piss off. Well, that’s going to be unpleasant for him.
He twists the throttle in preparation to go by, not their problem, but Dome speaks into his ear. “P’.” He’s pleading. Khatha twists around to look at Dome, his eyes wide and frightened, darting over to the other Khatha who is running now, evading some optimistic potshots from the small gang. Dome is so deeply good. He can’t help but want to do something for this Khatha and Khatha can’t deny Dome, not anymore.
He sighs and unholsters the pistol on his thigh. It isn’t very accurate, not at this distance, but the other Khatha is running steadily towards the road, on a diagonal, head down. He leads the target, takes one breath, then another, squeezes on the exhale. Misses. He fires another in quick succession and this one hits; blood sprays from the other Khatha’s neck, a side impact that ripped the artery. He’d been aiming for centre mass, but again, the pistol is not that accurate. This Khatha jerks and crashes down into the low grass.
Dome, at Khatha’s back, makes a low sound.
Khatha kills the engine on the bike and pulls it to the far side of the road, into the brush. Dome is shaking a little, clinging close to Khatha. Khatha can’t look at him. A minute later, the gang lands on the corpse. There’s not many of them, maybe four or five and they’re too loud, adrenaline and inexperience driving them to excess—they’re not professionals. Khatha wonders if this is their first dead body. Thinks it might be, from the way they seem scared to touch it, milling around and pointing before tromping back the way they came.
Khatha doesn’t wait to approach the body, which is the type of overconfidence that kills, but not him, not for long. The corpse’s eyes are open, neck ripped apart. It’s stopped bleeding, and Khatha is careful of the pool of blood beneath the body, the sticky residue around the wound as he grabs the legs and starts to drag. If there was any doubt to whether there was any life left in it, the way it moves erases that; even unconscious bodies have some muscle tension, blood pumping to hold them in shape. This one flows over the twigs and grass and then scrapes and drags on the bumpy road, a steady sound almost like an ocean wave.
Dome rushes forward and Khatha puts up a hand. Dome falls back, hands clenched tight in front of him as Khatha keeps pulling. He’s not insensitive to it—this is his body that he’s pulling across the road. He stares down at his own dead face, the unseeing eyes, everything lax and flat. Has he always looked this ugly in death? Photographs and mirrors have made his own face ubiquitous, flipped and unflipped, but never quite like this. Khatha experiences a wave of revulsion disproportionate to the experiences of handling a corpse. Khatha is unnatural.
Khatha covers the body with a branch. It’ll give this Khatha a second to orient before he realises he needs to move with stealth and that can make all the difference. Then he checks his pockets; all of his money is still there—truly his attackers were amateurs. He thinks about taking some, about the difference it could make to Dome, a little extra cash they could use to get him a night in a bedshare, some added comfort, but he looks over his shoulder and sees Dome watching him anxiously and thinks better of it.
He gets out of the brush and goes back to Dome. Despite his best efforts, there’s blood on his hands, so instead of reaching for Dome to try and smooth out the upset angle of his shoulders, he reaches into their sidepack for the canteen, splashing water on his hands and rubbing. The smell of iron is in the air.
“Can’t we help him more?” Dome asks.
Khatha looks at him sideways. “He has more than us.” This Khatha has the monastery looking out for him, he has money beyond dreaming, he has a place to go, cavernous and empty. He and Dome, by contrast, have only what they can carry. Khatha wouldn’t change places with him for anything.
Dome makes a noise.
Khatha spreads his fingers; there’s blood in the knuckles. “We have to go. We’re losing daylight.”
Dome reluctantly nods and climbs onto the bike, body a reassuring weight against Khatha’s. Khatha kicks off.
That night they splurge on a guesthouse and Khatha can really clean himself. He sits on the stool, scrubbing off, rinsing. It’s interesting the way he experiences his body differently in this time. In the present they’re trying to get back to, he feels the heat more. Air-conditioning inside makes the heat outside noticeable, his body knowing it can be comfortable makes the discomfort worse. Same with cleanliness: he doesn’t feel as dirty here, even though as he washes he can feel the funk on his scalp and skin that they are sluicing away. Dome helps, pouring the bowl over Khatha’s head, one hand on his forehead to shield his eyes from the water, and still, somehow, Khatha feels like he’s drowning, eyes warm, throat thick.
Dome comes around Khatha’s front, and Khatha sees his hands are shaking. He grabs his wrist. “Hey.”
Dome’s lashes are wet. “We could have taken those guys in a fight.” That’s probably true. Dome curls his fingers. “P’ why couldn’t we help him more?”
“He couldn’t see you,” Khatha answers. He has an explanation ready to go, they shouldn’t mess with the timeline when they don’t understand if this is the same universe, this Khatha never met Dome before the present—many reasons. What comes out of his mouth instead, is the truth. “He didn’t deserve to see you.” Any version of Khatha understands curses and could easily have Dome’s presence explained. But Khatha didn’t want him to see Dome, because he wouldn’t see Dome, he’d see Chan. He’d see Chan and want Chan and he would be blind utterly blind to the real and amazing person that Dome was. Dome should never be seen as less than he is. Khatha struggles with himself. “He’s not a good person.”
“He’s you.” Khatha tips his chin up to look at Dome’s face, so kind, so generous with him, always.
“I’m me because of you.” Khatha changed because of Dome, and he put Dome through hell while he figured it out. “He didn’t—he doesn’t…” Khatha isn’t sure how to finish. This Khatha can’t become the person that Khatha has become and Khatha wants to protect Dome from what the least worthy version of himself would do out of ignorance. He couldn’t, the first time, but he had a second chance. He’s always getting second chances, with Dome, the chances he never had with Chan. He’s never deserved them, but he’s gotten them anyway, and it makes him a hypocrite to deny them to this Khatha, but he is one and he’s selfish too.
His chest is tight with all the apologies he can’t make.
Dome puts his hand on his head, fingers sliding into wet hair. Dome’s thumb brushes the edge of his forehead. “I don’t like watching you hurt.”
You should. “He’s fine.” The death would have been reasonably painless, Khatha should know, he’s had some bad ones.
Dome’s fingers grip in his hair. “P’.” His voice is so serious.
Khatha looks at him, really looks at him. Dome is so close to him, eyes locked on, focused on him. He inhales. Oh. Khatha doesn’t understand how he came to be gifted with this—someone who cares about him even after everything, even though… When Dome tugs, Khatha lets himself be pulled, head pressed into Dome’s stomach, wetness seeping into Dome’s shirt, bringing them together, and for the first time he truly allows himself to believe he is not alone.