Work Text:
Sometime after 1000 AD
Somewhere in the mountains, along the Sichuan-Tibet Tea Horse Road
The smell is distinct. The peppery, smoky aroma of roasted eggplants, stuffed with spices. Yao also smells the earthy rain that hammers around him, making the ground shake. He stirs. It is cold. His body hurts.
“Ah, he wakes,” says a familiar voice. Kabir’s teasing lilt rouses him more than the scent of food. Yao blinks, his foggy vision sharpening on the crumpled texture of stone. It takes him another moment to realise he’s lying on his back in a cave. His body is cushioned by damp bedding. He recognises the madder red of a carpet Kabir had acquired from Roshanak a century ago. It’s the same floral print, the same narrow indigo borders that Kabir likes because it's his colour, the same old repeating bird motifs in onion-skin yellow. Yao doesn’t know why he knows these things about a carpet that doesn’t even belong to him. He just knows a lot of useless information about Kabir, he supposes.
“Hello?” And now Kabir is looming over him, brow darkened with concern as he palms Yao’s forehead. “Ah, you have a fever. Delirious, I presume. It shall pass. But you will have to eat.”
“Hmm?” Yao wants to shut his eyes. Whatever happened before…he doesn’t even remember. But he’s with Kabir now, which means he’s safe. He can sleep, if he so wishes.
If Kabir will let him.
“Up.”
The hand that was feeling his temperature is now looped behind his shoulders, forcing him vertical. Yao groans, trying to convey in one short noise everything from stop it to I’m all right to I’m not hungry anyway. It doesn’t work. Kabir’s idea of love is rather grandmotherly. It can be conveyed best only through a hot meal. And, like a grandmother, he won’t take no for an answer.
Kabir props him against the cave wall, gently brushing aside his hair. His hands are cool, the kind of soothing cool that is only palpable to fevered skin. “Touch me again,” Yao demands faintly, when his fingers leave his face. Kabir lets out a soft, breathy chuckle.
“I always love hearing you beg for me,” he teases, but his hands return, like a breeze on a hot day, caressing Yao’s cheeks. “You are flushed,” he says. “Weakened. It is to be expected. You died twice.”
That catches his attention. Yao finally makes himself focus. He blinks, grabbing onto whatever details he can: the shadows of the cave, made blacker by a softly burning campfire. The assortment of utensils, bedrolls, and jute bags. At the lip of a cave, a mule stares quietly at the rain. The night sky is red with it.
“What happened?” he mumbles, wiping his face. “I don’t remember…”
“Do you know where you are?” Kabir straightens, going over to the fire so he can retrieve the food. It is indeed eggplant, roasted on an open flame, cut open down the middle so it is nearly halved, and stuffed with ginger, turmeric, garlic, and a spice blend that probably includes mustard, cumin, and fennel seeds. Along with this, a simple yellow dal.
“I don’t have rice,” Kabir says apologetically. “But the dal will be good for your throat.”
Yao squints, accepting the food without protest. He has no appetite but he knows it’s going to help. “The last I remember, I was on a horse.”
“Uh-huh,” says Kabir, taking some dal in his own bowl. It’s strange to see him eat his food without any rotis or rice. He doesn’t usually go a day without his favourite staples. “Yes, sorry. Your pony died. You don’t seem to remember. I will tell you.” He sighs. “You were on some kind of trip over the Tea Horse Road.”
Oh. That sounds familiar. He trades with Tibet a lot. Tea and ponies, mostly, but other things too: paper, jade, gold, even salt. It’s another branch of the Silk Road, and Yao travels its expanse often enough to avoid problems. It’s a difficult journey, naturally, but he is immortal and he has done this before. So usually, he doesn’t get lost.
“Well,” says Kabir, “you must have lost your way. Because sure enough, I felt you cross into my borders.”
The word borders is a little muffled as he chews. And in reality, too, Yao likes to think that the idea of borders is a little muffled for them anyway. Especially in this stretch, which is full of harsh mountains and bad weather. It’s too much to squabble over each grain of earth as if it even matters. The people in these parts, roving bandits and villagers, don’t see sharp boundaries anyway. So far away from their biggest cities, it’s easier for Yao and Kabir to let their guards down.
So when Kabir says borders he doesn’t mean a literal line in stone. He just means, close enough that I got worried for you.
“I thought you were coming to visit me! You know I like surprises,” Kabir quirks a smile. “But no, you just got caught in a landslide and died. By the time I found you, you were waking up, but then you were also very sick, so you died again. We—” he gestures to the mule— “walked for ages to find some shelter. But when you ask the land for help, the land provides. That’s what I find. So we came upon this cave, just as the storm began to intensify.”
“Thank you,” Yao whispers. His throat is dry. He realises he hasn’t had a sip of water in days, probably weeks. Kabir, apparently reading his mind, produces a small waterbag made of animal hide. It’s a miniature version of the mashaqs carried by bhistis on long, hot, dusty roads. Yao twists open the mouth of the bag and takes a grateful sip. He can’t stop. The water is practically icy on his fevered throat. He drinks until he drains the bag. He is thirsty still, lapping up every last drop.
“Good thing it is raining,” says Kabir, taking the mashaq back. “I’ll fill it again after dinner. It will be raining for hours.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh, yes. Somehow, I just know.” He glances at the storm outside the cave. “Sometimes I feel it will be raining forever.”
“You like the rain, though.”
Kabir nods. “It provides reprieve from the endless heat. So of course, I like the rain. But I’m cold now.”
How serendipitous. Yao sets down his half-eaten food and opens his arms. “Well, it’s good that I’m burning hot.”
“Like an afternoon sun,” Kabir laughs, agreeing. He scooches closer to Yao, then lifts the bowl to Yao’s lips to encourage him to continue eating. “You must regain your strength. Or else I’ll have to keep you here with me.” His voice is full of suggestion, and if Yao were healthier he would have flirted back. But he smiles, wan, tired, and relieved that he was found by someone who loves him. He takes a sip of dal, lowering Kabir’s hands by patting his wrist. Kabir frowns. “No, you need to finish this, Yao. Have you eaten anything since leaving Tsering’s house?”
Yao doesn’t remember, which is probably the same as having gone hungry. He doesn’t say anything before Kabir clicks his tongue, disapproving. He tears a piece of the eggplant with his hand, and offers it up for Yao to eat.
Yao revels in the quiet intimacy of it. His hot lips brushing Kabir’s fingertips, the weight of a morsel between them, the way their eyes sear into each other. It’s like a kiss, but more life-sustaining. It feels older, something so integral to being human that it makes Yao’s heart ache—he wishes, oh, how he wishes he were human. This is how mothers feed their children. This is how children feed each other. A heartbeat in a bite of food, dancing on the tip of a loving hand, meeting the mouth, over and over, seeking entry at the doorway of breath.
Something stings in Yao’s eyes. The first tear rolls down his cheek suddenly, and Kabir starts, lips parting in a surprised ‘o’. “What’s wrong?” he asks desperately, wiping his hand on his woollen shirt. “Don’t cry. Please, don’t cry. Are you hurt? Are you in pain?” He sets the food down again and pulls Yao into his chest.
Yao doesn’t know why he’s so overought. Nation Death is brutal on the body and the mind, and especially the spirit. Nations often have strange reactions to returning: bouts of insensibility and confusion, illness, emotional outbursts. Dying twice, coming back twice, in such a short time, makes it hit harder. The fact that Yao doesn’t remember what led up to it all, probably doesn’t help. He likes to see himself as analytical, intelligent, steady in the head. So it is disorienting, to wake up in a cave, racked with illness, and with no idea what led him here.
He tries to think back, tries to remember—his hardy mountain pony. She was pregnant, he realised that while he was already en route. The bitter cold, the torrential downpour. And then…it goes dark. The sky, and his memory. He must have been with a larger group of merchants. He never makes this trip alone, precisely because it is so dangerous. It must have been night time. The storm must have been relentless. And as Kabir says, maybe, just maybe, there must have been a landslide, too.
“She really died? The pony?” Yao weeps. “She was with child.”
“I’m sorry,” Kabir whispers, holding him tighter.
“I should have noticed sooner. I should have done some due diligence. How could I not have known?”
“It happens.”
It is foolish, Yao knows, to get attached to an animal. They live even shorter lives than people. And unless it is a true bond, unless they can share their immortality with their pet, there’s no choice but to deal with the heartbreak. And nations have no control over that. “It was my responsibility,” Yao says miserably. “I can’t remember what happened, but I clearly got lost, and maybe I’d been lost for weeks, or months, or—”
“Well, you have been found,” Kabir reminds him, and his lips brush Yao’s hairline. “In some twisted way,” he adjusts their bodies so Kabir is leaning against the cave wall and Yao is pressed against his chest, “I’m glad that we found each other, even if it had to be like this. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you.”
Yao hums in exhausted agreement, eyes sliding shut. Kabir is cool and soft and warm at once, like a downy blanket during a deep snow. His heart still hurts, but the pain is somewhat lightened. He always forgets his troubles around Kabir. “We must do this more often,” Yao says sleepily. He means, meet, break bread, and then maybe break a bed. But Kabir misinterprets.
“Are you planning on getting lost more habitually? Shall I give you a map?”
“Oh, quiet,” Yao huffs, feeling Kabir’s rumbling laugh erupt from his chest and spread across their bodies.
“You need to finish eating,” Kabir reminds him, unwilling to let it go. But Yao blinks, and cuddles into him tighter, placing a tender kiss on his jaw. Kabir sighs again, though it is not annoyed, but fond. He idly strokes Yao’s arms. “Yao, please,” he insists, “I don’t have any medicine to make the fever go down. I only have food.”
“I’ll be fine. I have you now.”
“Oh, you are so dramatic.”
Yao smiles, though he wonders if Kabir can see it, since his head is pressed sideways, in Kabir’s chest. “Count to a hundred,” he requests. “And when you’re done, I’ll wake up again and finish dinner.”
“You promise?”
“I promise,” Yao swears, shutting his eyes again. He can feel Kabir relent, a heavy, exasperated breath collapsing his lungs. Then Kabir swallows air, the pillow of his chest rising gently as he does, and begins:
“One, two, three…” His voice is so soft it’s almost inaudible against the rattle of the rain. It is just loud enough to be a lullaby, and Yao finds himself pulled into a desperately-needed nap. Eventually, Kabir will get to a hundred. Eventually, Yao will have to wake up, finish eating, and deal with the guilt of a dead pony and the unrelenting storm of Nationhood that weighs so heavily on him tonight. But between four and ninety-nine, spoken above Kabir’s protective arms, he can rest, and it will give him strength for everything else.