The moon is reaching its peak in the night sky, its silver light playing in the curls of the fog surrounding the high, white walls of the museum. Its halls are dark and empty, silent except for a pair of soles clicking against the marble, echoing off the arches and ceiling into the halls and corridors.
But here, in this room, they cannot be heard yet. Dome is lying on his bed, his body unmoving and his breath even, his face relaxed and slack as he's deep in slumber. Khatha looks at him from where he's sitting, perched on the edge of the mattress. He's been looking at him for hours.
Katha has loved him before, many times and with many different faces.
He's met him as a soldier, a fisherman, a maid, a peasant, and the son of a king. This time, he inhabits the body of a boy with strong brows and a pretty curved nose, tall, lean, handsome, a little impish, maybe. It doesn't matter to Khatha, because he still just sees him, no matter what face he wears or what body he walks in. He has lived so many lives, dying and being reborn again in countless shapes, but Khatha would recognise him everywhere. It's the pull he feels when he sees him, age-old and familiar, taking hold right behind his navel: warm golden light clashing with terrifying certainty, relief with fear, lightness with dread. He knew even before he saw him, felt the return of his tether before their eyes met. And he knew for certain when he saw him carrying white flowers, because the first time he died, Khatha buried him with a branch of baby's breath laid on his chest underneath his cold, unmoving fingers. Now, he holds them each time he returns.
In all that time, during all those lives, Khatha only lived one. His is endless after all. People often think that's his curse, immortality, the pain of being dragged back from the afterlife through brimstone and glass, each time more ragged, each time more excruciating than before, because the more often he cheats death, the harder he clings to him, his claws burying into Khatha's skin and lungs, tearing the flesh off his bones before he escapes him. But Khatha's true curse is this: remembering, in excruciating detail, every tender moment, every gentle touch, and every loss.
He never remembers. His curse is the bereavement of forgetting.
There's a light knock on the doorframe, and Khatha is ripped from dwelling on the past, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder to find Triphop hovering in the entry and keeping a polite, respectful distance.
"How is he?" Triphop asks, his eyes on Khatha and obviously pretending not to notice the way he's sitting too closely by Dome's side, his face trained into neutrality.
"He's still sleeping," Katha replies, trying to make his voice sound steady, casual, and less agitated than the turmoil in his chest indicates. "He really knocked himself out this time. It's been almost a day, and he hasn't woken up once."
"You shouldn't be so stern with him," Triphop tells him calmly, his back straight and his hands politely clutched behind his back, but the knowing look in his eyes betrays any formality. "He has to get used to this life and learn his powers. If you want him to trust you, a gentle word might be wiser."
"He has no regard for his own safety, and he doesn't even understand why. I need to make sure he keeps his powers in check, lest he'll-" Khatha stops himself, pursing his lips and shaking his head. Triphop knows; of course he does, he has to. He knows that Khatha walks this earth as long as he keeps finding Dome, and that Dome will be tied to this world as long as Khatha walks it, unable to leave it behind and rest.This is their fate: to find each other, love each other, then lose each other, so each of them can live forever. Neither of them knew the price they'd have to pay when they wished for an eternity together under the moonlight.
"He can't know until we recover all the artifacts," Khatha eventually continues, the quivering of his voice betraying him. "It will disturb the balance if I'm not strong enough to keep them in check." And he won't be once it happens, because the grief will consume him once more until he's begging for the relief of an eternal sleep that will never come.
Dome sighs in his sleep, still unaware and unburdened, wrinkling his nose and twisting his face into the pillow to escape a strand of hair that seems to tickle the tip of his nose.Without thinking, Khatha reaches out to brush it away, his fingers sliding over the soft skin of his cheek and into the long, silky strands on the crown of his head. He lingers there, feeling the warmth of Dome's body under his fingertips and the way it seems to seep into him, filling up the empty cracks inside of him with mellow gold.
Dome's eyes flutter open then, his lashes brushing against the high points of his cheeks as he blinks and looks blearily into the darkness. The moonlight reflects in his eyes, a flash of silver in his iris that seems to break the illusion for a moment, and Khatha catches a glimpse of the man he knows, or knew, before he's gone again just a blink later, and the boy whose name Dome borrows is back.
Khatha's hand flies back into his lap as if burned by a hot iron, and Triphop chuckles behind him before his retreating steps echo into the depths of the museum once more, a door falling shut somewhere in the distance.
"What happened?" Dome murmurs, his eyes finally finding Khatha's in the shadows. He's been out for a day, but he barely seems fazed, and he doesn’t seem scared. There's unbearable trust in his eyes as he quietly waits for Khatha to explain to him why he's lying here again, his gaze open and clear where it rests on him.
"How many times do I need to tell you not to touch the artifacts?" Khatha snaps, harder and colder than he meant to, but he needs to shield himself somehow. "You cannot control them, and you'll only hurt yourself." The truth is that he's scared, and he worries, and he won't admit it out loud, but each time Dome faints in his arms, he breaks and fractures more. But he can't let him know, not yet.
"I just tried to protect you," Dome replies, and the anger evaporates.
"You don't have to protect me. I can't die, remember?" Khatha reminds him, gentler this time because he knows that the memories Dome cannot recall compell him to do it. But it's the very thing that makes Khatha's heart grow so heavy now that it seems to clog up his chest and throat.
"But it hurts you to be brought back to life," Dome says, matter-of-factly, with his face unwavering. He's always like this: fierce and determined, with an unfathomable strength that Khatha has no defense against.
"It doesn't matter," he replies quietly, begging against the unbeatable odds of an eternal, unbreakable curse that Dome will not ask any questions and will just remain unaware this time. But he never does. Khatha won't receive such mercies.
"It does to me," Dome says, and Khatha's heart swells and cracks all at once.
"Why?" He asks, and he knows the answer, yet his heart still yearns to hear it, even if he knows it's the beginning of the end.
Dome raises his head from the pillow, his hair falling back into his eyes and casting shadows over his cheeks as he slowly sits up. He leans forward, his eyes never leaving Khatha's, and Khatha sees him clearly now - not the boy whose skin he's wearing but his lover, with his dark eyes and cherry lips, the curiosity on his face that turns impish when he laughs, the high cheekbones he's kissed so often, and the dimple next to his mouth that deepens when his lips quirk up in a smile. He's so close now, his breath ghosting over the skin of Khatha's cheek as he looks up and contemplates him, with his eyes wide and wondrous.
"I don't know," he says after a long moment, his voice breathy, soft, and unsure. But recognition kindles in his eyes as his brow furrows, and he tilts his head to the side, regarding Khatha with something so painfully close to understanding.
Khatha's chest tightens until his breath is caught. It's over as soon as he remembers; it always is, that's how it works. Dome remembers, and he falls, and the cycle begins, or maybe that's how it ends; Khatha was never quite sure of it. All he knows is that it's inevitable. He often thought he should stay away from him, simply ignore this pull, and let him live a life cycle without Khatha dooming him to an untimely death. But he can't. He's not strong enough, can't resist, and he'll fail anyway, fate conspiring to bring them together no matter how far he runs.
Dome's hand comes up, slowly reaching out until it rests on Khatha's chest, his fingertips coming to lay next to where his heart is drumming into a crescendo now. They slip beneath the silk of his shirt, and the moment his touch finds Khatha's skin, he gasps, and his eyes widen, and Khatha feels the burning heat of tears in his eyes.
"Don't be a fool," Khatha whispers, taking Dome's hand and wanting to push it away, to get up and slam the door shut behind him, to run and never look back. But he's spellbound by him, bound to him, and he knows he cannot escape, so he laces their fingers together instead, holding his hand against the heart that is eternally beating because of him.
Dome speaks then, and Khatha needs to close his eyes when he whispers against his lips. "I know you."
Yes, Khatha has loved him before, many times and with many faces. And each time they meet, he knows he will lose him, being left behind for decades, sometimes centuries, with nothing but his memories. And this is Khatha's true curse. It's not the pain of immortality. It's the burden of remembering him.