Work Text:
12th December 1917 - Wednesday:
I have managed to free myself from the impossibilities of life and accomplish the desired. Gasim has been salvaged from the horrors of hunger, solitude, and despair. I do wonder now how some men relish their successes and grow addicted to them that they deem themselves separate from the rest of humanity; head held-up high while scorning the passersby. My father was of this nature. I do recollect a time where he whipped his servant fifty times merely for sleeping for ten minutes while he guarded the house. He held onto me with every strength that a fifty year old man could muster and asserted that I note his behavior. I stood there while watching and pondering, my eyes gushing with tears with each groan and whimper that the servant managed to disclose. At the sight of my—supposedly—feeble demeanor, father gripped the few hairs on the back of my head and demanded that I would stop acting in a womanly manner. I didn't understand him then. I don't understand him now. "To have sympathy for a pitiful slave is not the manner that I expect from my son—howbeit illegitimate he is—you will deliver the last ten whips." he grunted. I protested and attempted to elope from his bruising grip, but he silenced me with a single whip on my frail palm. I didn't understand the lesson that he was in the journey of delivering, and I never understood his violence towards his seven year old son. I felt such rage and fear within me at that moment—it shouldn't be possible for a child to feel such emotions so strongly—and I desired to assist the unconscious man in front of me but I descried my mother's silhouette at the opening of the door, her countenance emotionless despite the tears oozing from her eyes. She nodded, and I felt myself slipping away and forging myself to be the good son she always desired. I would have done anything at that moment to gain her favour; it is her love that I coveted for. I whipped the servant three times before father scoffed at my work and took the whip from my runty hand, he led me to the door and threw me in the arms of my mother before closing it. I dared to glance at my mother before burying my face in her bosom, but she withdrew from the touch and left me sitting alone in the hallway. If it were my father who liberated gasim from the arms of death, he would have treated ali and the other men as his servants, too consumed—in his mind—justifiable ego and hunger for superiority. I do not feel such way; the knowledge that the emotions that I possess at this moment would have angered my father makes me relish in them even more. I feel relieved—not content. I don't believe I'll feel contentment until I give ali and his people their rightful home.
I'll foolishly disclose the revelation that ali smiled at me today. He offered me his bed and I have slept soundly on it for the past two hours, my mind and body succumbing to the blinding agony and enervation that I felt. We have spoken, his gaze paid no heed to anything else during our conversation but me and I selfishly thrilled at that. I don't know the reason. He manages to make me feel significant in a way that I never knew. "Aurens is best." he said, and it was the first moment in my life where I felt such affiliation with my name. He was right, aurens is best. It will be my name. It's 1:35 in the morning at this moment; I can sense faraj dozing off every few moments before reprimanding himself to stay awake. He has yet to note my wakefulness, and I smile at his childlike manner before taking another glance at ali who appears to be sound-asleep on the other side of the fire. He—
"Lord aurens, you're awake!" My thoughts get interrupted by the gleam of relief in daud's voice as he approaches my laying form hastily. I put my finger in front of my mouth, ushering him to speak quietly as I nod my head to ali who appears to be stirring but has yet to wake up.
"Just aurens, no lord." I tell him gently but he shakes his head no and I feel myself chuckle as I face the innocent yet determind look on his countenance, "take your friend's place, he needs to rest." I instruct him, and he nods devotedly.
I readjust my disposition as my eyes roam over the words written before I proceed:
He and the others seem to harbour such a prodigious respect towards me, and I feel uncertain on whether I should bask it in or continue attenuating my value in the revolt. I objectively DO comprehend it, but how should one regard acclamation after longing for its presence his whole life, especially after finding it in the most unexpected of places. I have never imagined discovering tranquility in the sensation of sand meeting the pores of my feet while my body permeats the feeling and my mind elates at the ascertainment of being home. There's a devestatingly profound beauty in the sand dunes; the wind complementing its glory as it submits to the force. I don't believe I would mind residing in the unpredictability of the desert for the rest of my life. I failed to mention the everlasting beauty of the cosmos that appears to be intensifying in this landscape. I have always—
I notice shifting in my periphery and I glance away from my journal to ali who seems to have woken up. I do wonder whether his wakefulness was caused by the sound of my never-ending sighs and hums while I scribble away in the journal. I have been told by many that the moment I find inspiration from the circumstances that I fall into, I write as if the words are worthy of my utmost intentness; detaching myself from the physical world.
Our eyes meet. Ali's are concurrently exasperated and intrigued, and I sheepishly place the pencil in the journal before closing it, my eyes meeting ali's yet again.
"I apologize for the disturbance," I murmur as I find myself noting ali's countenance that alters to confusion upon hearing those words.
"Don't apologise," He responds as he sits up, rubbing his eyes while he signals at daud to fetch him a cup of coffee; pupils drifting over my resting form and the journal in my lap, "should i entreat the almighty for a miracle that makes you—for once—rest?" He grumbles as I let out a chuckle at the remark.
How should I make sense of what I feel? For the first time in my life I feel as if I'm truly experiencing what it means to be alive, finding beauty in miniscule things such as glimpsing at nadira as she quenches her thirst in an oasis. How can one close their eyes and rest when the allure of life sensually whispers in their ears at every breath they take?
"I did rest for six hours now," I remark as I smile softly at ali before I shift my gaze back to the words written, my fingers trailing over them as I smile to myself before closing the journal and gently placing it to my right, "should i entreat the almighty for a miracle that makes you—for once—not drink coffee the moment you wake up?" I jest, my tone mirroring ali's as he tilts his head and furrows his brows.
"Is this your attempt at humour?" He asks, squinting his eyes. He looks adorable. Daud remerges with a cup of coffee that he hands to ali before he stares at me in an inquisitorial manner; I shake my head no.
"I don't believe so, it's a harmless question." I shrug, failing to remain composed as I spot the sincere confusion on ali's features. I chuckle as I retreat to my earlier position against the saddle, my eyes peering at the marvellous night sky above. It's astounding how irreconcilable it looks from the scenery in england; as though the cosmos thoughtfully deemed the desert and its people to be worthy of pondering its elegance.
An idea formulates in my mind and I grin to myself as I sit up and clutch the blanket resting on top of me and hold the journal tightly to my chest. I stand abruptly and wrap the blanket around my person.
"What are you doing?" Ali asks bewilderingly as he spots me, and I cannot help but let out a snort. I feel as if I'm beaming; every cell in my body imploring me to sprint through the endless sand and open my arms to the universe.
"Seeking an adventure, would you care to join?" I declare, my eyes taking in ali's mystified expression before I start walking. Ali follows shortly after, his firm footsteps keeping pace with my hurried ones.
"Where is your wildering mind taking us?" Ali chastises, his eyes roaming over my visage and I'm certain that the glint in my eyes only further validates his assumption of my madness.
I inspect the sand dunes surrounding us and find the ideal spot to my adventure. I dash over to the crest of the sand dune that befalls to the right side of where we have taken refuge and settle there. I open my journal and rewrite the date on a blank page and start drawing; nonplussed as ferocious wind threatens to steal my blanket away but ali rushes to me and covers the blanket around me securely.
"You are mad." he whispers as he glances at my novice work, his hand resting on my shoulder before he takes a seat next to me and retrieves his hand while I continue my work.
I'm unsure of the duration of our quiet solitude. It might have been five minutes or thirty, but what I know for certain is that ali—even after uttering that I'm mad—remained in my company and allowed me to leisurely continue drawing the cosmos.
No amount of striving could ever capture the abiding magnificence of the scenery, the sand delicately being flittered by the wind while they briefly conceal the expanse of the milky way. I gaze at the illustration for a moment; it is discernible that it was made by an amateur artist, indeed.
"Would you like to see it?" I ask ali apprehensively, my body angled towards his. I don't understand the nervousness, I have never claimed to be a true artist nor did I ever impersonate one. Perhaps it has something to do with ali's astonished gaze interlacing with mine, "it is imperfect, of course—"
"Don't," Ali interjects softly. He's not wearing his keffiyeh and the wind is freely dishevelling his dark curls and I watch the motion intriguingly. I have not seen him this discomposed before. "Do you truly wish for me to see it?" He inquires timidly and I frown in confusion. I don't understand what he means. Why would I have asked if I didn't want to?
"Yes." I reply as I hand over the journal, my gaze falling on the night sky yet again as he inspects the sketch faintly. There's tension lingering within me as I await his critique. I don't understand why I value his opinion greatly even though we have only been acquainted shortly while detesting each other for the most of it.
"You're a fool, aurens." He rejoins and I hum in wonderment before comprehending his words. My eyes shift to look at him. He's clasping the journal softly while his fingers trail over the leather of the cover, a glint in his eyes and—I dare say—a close-lipped smile on his face, "do you sketch often?" He asks calmly, and I shift in displeasure. I do not wish to speak of my father twice in such a short timeframe, but here I am.
"It was a habit of mine when I was younger, but my father never wanted me to pursue it professionally and I didn't. I rarely make sketches of this type now."
To phrase it more accurately, I could have pursued it professionally if it weren't for the lack of funding from my father. He thought of poetry, plays, art, and any other type of profession that had no close relation to the sciences and military as fruitless. I was sixteen when I suggested to go to art school temporarily before I enlisted in the military. He locked me for a week in my chambers; I was thankful at the least to not have been reacquainted with his whip.
"It is impossible for man to sketch this vastness in its true captivation and mystique, but you have come close." I'm pulled away from my thoughts by the earnestness in ali's tone as he peers at the sketch before his eyes roam to my face. I'm awed by the gentlesness in his countenance; it feels as if I'm conversing with the true ali for the first time—well, the second time. He hands me back the journal—his fingers fleetingly brushing against the palm of my hand—before he looks away and stares ahead. I weakly compose myself and clear my throat.
What in god's name is happening.
"Thank yo—"
"Hush." Ali interjects and I frown yet again. I can't seem to understand what he is thinking but I let it go and simply gaze at the night sky as well.
"You are beyond lucky, sherif." I utter serenely.
"Why is that?"
"To have been fortunate enough to call the desert home and have this marvellousness as your view." I respond. Ever since I was a child, I found solace in the infinitness above; shining so openly and freely without any care of who might be judging each and every one of it. I have always imagined what it'd be like to be engulfed wholly by the heavens until no one can tell the difference between the stars and I. I would exist to my true self without any need of disingenuousness and the stars wouldn't reprimand me for it. They would embrace it—embrace me.
I never had a night sky that overwhelmed me with its intensity in the way this one does. Perhaps it's the rush of the latest events that are the cause. I have no clue in the world. What I know for certain is that my wish has—at last—come true. The cosmos and I are not separate in the way that we always were; the heavens are much closer to probe and love than they were before. I reach above with my hand, the wind causing it to flow back and forth and I submit to the force of the breeze without a thought; it is the night sky that holds my unmitigated devotion.
A meteor passes by and I feel myself exhale as the sharp line of light hastily trails over the sky before it disappears. This is what I were longing for—how could I have forgotten this? The revelation blinds my senses and I lay back against the sand and it feels as if the heavens are following my suit and never letting me be for a second as they descend lower towards my form.
I imagine my twelve year old self doing the same in the roof of our house but instead of the comforting sand that effortlessly swallows my laying self, it is the cold and solid concrete floor that I feel beneath me. I was accustomed to familiarising myself with the winter night sky during december the most. It wasn't every day that I saw what I wished for but the meteors were always there; a constant that I could trust and rely on. I had their company for five consecutive years before reality presented itself in the form of the pale and cold skin of my mother.
I selfishly do not mourn the memory of my mother's death in the way that I mourn the loss of this for twelve years. It dawns on me that I have been forcibly stripped from so much beauty for no sensical reason and now that I do have the liberty to soak it in, I hope to drown in it forever.
My eyes meet ali's who's observing me with features that I cannot discern. All I know is that his beauty unified with that of the cosmos forges the myth of infinite heaven into reality effortlessly and I wish—I wish—that I could utter that into existence. He takes one last look at my laying form before he lays next to me, our shoulders touching for mere seconds while he adjusts his disposition and clears his throat.
"You're extraordinarily strange," he murmurs languidly and I don't know if I should feel wounded by the remark or not, "this devotion that you uphold for the night sky is understandable but no one is fortunate to be living in the desert. It is endlessely empty and harsh."
"How so?"
"Look around you, el aurens. Rocks and grains of sand that seem to be stretching to nowhere and everywhere. I do not wish to speak in behalf of all arabs and I won't but most of us long for security. We long to be shaded from the callous rays of sunlight and not worry for a day on whether we'll run out of our supply of water and food before we reach our destination. It is not fortunate to be living in persistent unease."
"I never said it was, ali." I retort. It is not that I'm naive of the ruthlessness of the desert but it is irreconcilable to the horridness of what I have been forced to call home, "the desert is harsh, yes, but it is within its nature to be this way. Its savageness is pure because it isn't man-made."
Perhaps it is the tremor in my voice that made ali turn his head and glance at me. His features hold so much softness and openness within them; it feels as if they are insisting that I speak my mind and not question my frankness.
"We find it so necessary to mould stipulations that dictate how one should live, and it is absolutely stifling to find yourself incapable of abiding by them. If you're deemed unfaithful to the rules that society have set, you're told that your existence is an abnormality to nature and that you should feel shameful for being your true self. From the moment that I stepped foot in the desert, I never felt that way. The desert is pure. It is clean. This vastness beseeches one to simply be and never pretend. It doesn't legitimise quaint ideologies."
I will my hands to stop shaking. Ali's eyes have stripped me bare with their tenderness and I can't fathom gazing at them any longer.
"Look at the stars, ali," I mutter, "they're so free. They don't pay heed to us or any other onlooker. They're free. Don't I we deserve to feel that way as well? To live and feel and think in whichever way we deem right?"
My desperation seems to have struck ali so profoundly that he exhales sharply before he sits up and attempts to find my countenance in the darkness. I didn't realise that I was weeping until I glimpsed at ali's features that changed to one of startlement upon meeting my eyes.
Perchance it is the knowledge that I have never voiced my inner turmoil so loudly before that afflicted my emotional state so expeditiously, or it might be the everlasting dread that ali—out of everyone—will scrutinise my thoughts and think of me as an abomination and loathe me for my nature in the same manner that everybody else seems to do.
"Weeping doesn't suit you, hayati," I hear him say. The tenderness takes away my breath and the only thing that grounds me to the present is ali's gentle grip on my shoulder as his eyes plead the tears in mine to come to a halt, "Your eyes are suited for beautifying every speck of sand underneath you and every star above you. Your eyes are suited for disbelieving the impossibilities of life and executing the supernatural as if it were as easy as taking another breath. Your eyes that are as entrancing as the night sky you seem to worship with utter reverence are not suited for sadness—never for sadness. No more weeping, aurens, no more."
I have never in my life been unable to make sense of my thoughts. One might say that this belief is idiotic because there's not a person that exists in the world who hasn't experienced a moment so overpowering that they lost their senses and their ability to chatter, but it is in words that I found home. It is in words that I was as free as man could ever be. I should be frightened that this man that I have detested only days ago is the one who unintendedlly bestowed this loss that I find myself feeling apathetic about, but I'm not. If he were to speak to me like that always, I'll favour speechlessness forever.
I feel ali's hand that gently clasps my shoulder and squeezes it hesitantly and every part of my body and soul urges me to engrave his delicacy into my existence and bring his hand to my heart. He whispers my name again in the tranquility of the night and I hum in response, he opens his mouth to speak but I unwittingly interrupt his train of thoughts by the giggle that I voice when I see another meteor pass by in the night sky.
"We can never be as free as the stars even if we wish to, el aurens," he ruminates as he seats himself beside my laying form and contemplates the cosmos in a similar fashion, "but should that truly be a sufficient reason for someone to live in constant deceit? Think of it for a moment. In spite of the beliefs that anyone can have about the true meaning of human existence, this life is the only certainty that we have; we owe it to ourselves to do right by our dreams and desires because there is no grand assurance that you and I and anyone else will ever experience this existence again."
I find myself unable to utter a single word yet again and ali doesn't seem insulted by my silence. He lowers himself next to me and exhales while clasping his hands on top of his abdomen. The wind expresses itself in a manner more fierce than before and a voice in my head says that we have ought to take our leave from here and take respite in our earlier spot but something in me fears this moment ending.
I don't know for how long we remained in our gentle quietude. My gaze never lifted from the cosmos and ali's shifted between the night sky and I. Was he waiting for me to speak? I do not wish to speak. I don't know what to say—well, not yet.
"Aurens," He murmured, and I hummed but my pupils remained on the night sky, "have I offended you somehow?"
I furrow my brows at his words. How could he have offended me when he has spoken to me in a manner so genteel and with words that felt as if they were a gift from the divine granted only to ali because he is the worthiest of all.
"No." I hastened to reply, my fingers clutching the fabric of the blanket that ali ensured would engulf me so delicately.
"Why is it then that you do not wish our gazes to meet?" He ponders with a semblance of woe in his tone that evokes a deep ache within my chest. It causes me to disclose that hurting this man in any manner would be as if I were committing the gravest sin that humanity can ever do.
I forfeit in the face of my deepest desires and will our eyes to meet; the gleam of his hazel ones is spreading everywhere and the world seems to illuminate in a way that it never did before. I have never known that I would want to worship someone's eyes before.
Ali smiles and if it were possible for me to engrave that sight into my memory forever, I would. I find myself smiling back and perhaps I'm false but ali twitches as if he were pleading himself not to commit any offence.
"Will you speak of the stars again, ayooni?" He requests, and I smile so widely that the muscles of my face start to throb.
I look back at the sky again and I open my mouth to begin but another meteor passes by orion's belt and I giggle, "I love this so much, ali." I tell him and he chuckles as he fixes the blanket where it was swept away by the wind yet again; his hand lingers on my chest for a moment before he retrieves it and covers himself with his.
"I'm aware."
"You don't understand," I exclaim as I sit up and angle my body towards his, "if it were possible for me to speak to you about the cosmos forever, I would. There's always a course of change in our fate—new ideologies, new religions, new nations and in the developement of each one a looming disaster is bound to occur; atrociousness is natural to us because it always existed in our history, but even then we find ourselves seeking for beauty in existence and one perchance finds it in poems, art, books, and even though they provide comfort, there is no greater comfort than the sight of the heavens that are adamant in their need to shine. Humans may endeavour to actualize the delights of life but we are always tainted by our grievances even if they were of no fault of our own, but the stars are the opposite of that. They are the perfection that so many of us seek but never attain, and in their perfection there is utter innocence that fortifies their magnificence. They are utterly perfect, ali, and what is maddening to me is their unawareness of it," I babble wholeheartedly, "How it is possible to be this divine and not know of it?" I continue dramatically and ali laughs, a strange glint in his eyes that I prevail to make sense of but fail.
He sits up and I expect him to respond but he does nothing but gaze at my face as if he were to find the answers to all of his questions in it. I exhale as he gazes at me with the utmost reverence that is humanly possible. We remain like this for a minute or so before ali softly threads his fingers through the strands of hair that have settled on my forehead. His fingers brush against the top of my ear and I close my eyes and lean into the touch slowly as I hear ali take another deep breath.
"I was afraid, el aurens," He confesses, and I open my eyes questionably as his gaze sweeps over my entire countenance before settling on my eyes and he gulps before he continues, "when you went after gasim, I was afraid. If you didn't come back, I would have blamed myself for your death, I—"
"Don't you dare say that," I berate him loudly and his eyes widen in surprise at my tone, "I chose to go back. Why would it ever be your fault?" I question him perplexingly as I unconsciously take his hands and wrap them in mine; they feel cold and brittle and I feel the sudden urge to shield them in my arms.
"I didn't stop you!"
"Ali, I will murder you, I swear," I tell him admonishingly, "the only way you could have stopped me was to strap me onto your person and even then I would have resisted unless you rendered me unconscious. I chose to go back; it was a decision that I made and I am responsible for its outcomes. You'd be a fool to think yourself responsible for my death."
He doesn't speak for a while; his gaze locks on our interlaced hands and there's a frown on his face that I wish to erase but don't know how, "I will do that next time." He contemplates and I furrow my brows in confusion before I realize what he is referring to.
"What tells you that there will be a next time?"
"It's you, aurens, of course there will be a next time." He comments and I scoff in vexation before I separate my hand from his to hit him in the shoulder. He laughs at the action and I can't help but smile upon hearing it. I take his hands in mine again and I turn them to trace my fingers in the palm of his hands. The skin there is much softer than I expected and I feel ali shudder at the action as he raises his gaze to look at me while I pretend not to notice.
"Aurens."
"Hmm?"
"You're not an abnormality to nature, you never were and you never will be. Tell me that you know that." He presses firmly and I let out a shaky breath as I let go of his hands and avert his gaze but he takes my hand in his and squeezes before he traces my face with his fingertips and raises my chin so our eyes would lock.
I wish it were as simple as he desires it to be and if I didn't hold him in such a high regard, I would have lied to him and told him that I understand. My face must have spoken louder than my thoughts ever could because ali sighs deeply and caresses my countenance ever so softly as a look of despair appears on his. He regards me with a sweetness that is so overpowering that I feel myself pull away from his touch as ali's hand lingers in the air.
"Can we not speak of this?" I plead him timidly. He peers at me with a gaze akin to mournfulness and it makes me wish that I was residing on a quick sand.
"Alright," he agrees begrudgingly as we both look away from each other and I watch the sand as if it were the most interesting view on earth, "as long as it's established that I believe your view of yourself is idiotic at best." He resumes and I have the sudden urge to gather the sand that I am gazing at to throw it at him.
What aggravates me greatly is that he truly believes himself to be indisputable when he is the quite opposite. Perhaps it is the fact that we have known each other merely recently that causes him to be such a poor judge of my character and to barmily place faith in my goodness; I have the vicious need to prove him false but the wind is hefty and I don't find myself energized to fight against its force and speak. I don't utter a single word and neither does ali, the only thing breaking the silence is the sound of crickets that appears to be more resounding than before.
I remember the journal that is currently residing in one of the pockets in my trousers and I uncover myself from the blanket to take it out and skim through the pages before I settle on today's letter and recall what I wrote. If ali were to read what I wrote last, he would've been enraged and I would have enjoyed it immensely because I would have the opportunity to refute his beliefs.
I dare to glance at his direction and I find him already looking at me while his gaze shifts between my countenance and the journal. There's a certain despondency in them that I wish that I could abolish and I remember how ineptly I behaved earlier. Is he antagonised that I rejected his affection? It isn't that I do not desire it, it's simply that accepting this tenderness from him is tasking and I don't know what to do about that.
"I—"
"Why—"
We both say at the same time but ali swiftly pauses and grants me the opportunity to speak first. If it were in any other circumstance, I'm certain that ali and I would have argued extensively over this but the air is already too tense and neither of us wish for it to remain this way or grow worse.
"I apologize for earlier," I murmur quietly, "my behaviour was highly unbecoming. I don't necessarily dislike your affinity, it's simply that I needed a moment to recollect my bearings." I clarify. Ali doesn't respond for a minute or so as he peers someplace else with an expression that I don't know how to describe.
"That is not something you should be apologizing for, aurens. I will never dare to lay a hand on you without your consent." He mumbles softly as he fiddles with the material of his blanket, a strain in his voice that I detect but don't speak of.
I inspect his countenance. His curls have fallen over his forehead and there are wrinkles there as he furrows his brows in concentration. His lips are in a pout and he huffs every few moments while he ponders something.
The more that I observe this man, the more that I wonder what have I done to deserve his affection even if it were to last momentarily. I think of myself and I don't find anything that is worthy of him and perhaps it is pitiful to view yourself so lowly but it is in my nature to do so. I think of the words that he said earlier: hayati, ayooni—he whispered them as if he truly meant them and I'm frightened by that.
"What were you going to say?" I inquire and he looks up from what he was doing and I find myself floored yet again by the beauty of his eyes. If I allowed myself to express the extent of the adoration that I feel for them, we would stay in this moment forever. I feel an instinct that tells me to reach for him and hold him in my arms but I stifle it almost immediately as ali lets out another huff.
"I forgot." He murmurs. I don't know if he deliberately chose to lie so discernibly or if he is—simply—bad at the act. I nod anyway and let the silence linger a bit longer. Why is it that he feels so strongly about this? This inexplicable need to challenge all of my beliefs and deny my abhorrence as if he were to find heaven if he did so. It isn't necessary. I don't need him to do it and neither should he feel obliged to commit to it. I simply need him to stay here as long as he wishes to; forever would be ideal even though desiring that disavows the thoughts of the voice that lingers in the back of my mind.
It's maddening to me how much I desire him to get closer and yet also need him to stay away. Why doesn't he see what I see? Why is it that he doesn't understand that if the heavens above could speak and grant their enchantment to someone, it would be given to him in a heartbeat and I will spend the rest of my worthless existence to worship him. Why is it that he wishes for me to think of myself as an equal when he defies the beliefs of men and is so perfect that it makes my heart ache and my soul wail. Why should I ever allow such a being to adore me? Why would I ever deem myself worthy of him when I'm simply not?
The breath that I take next makes him look up and my hand twitches while he pays heed at the movement. I restrain my body not to reach closer and I wonder if it were possible for our souls to be connected by an invisible string because ali gets closer and sits in front of me; his hands never touches mine but his eyes seem to unravel me ever so delicately as he reaches for the journal that I'm clutching to my chest with all of my might. He takes it slowly and tucks it within his robes as he continues to sit idle and waits for me to do something, anything.
"Should I leave?" He calmly inquires, and if it were possible for me to get on my knees and implore him to never do that, I would. A shaky exhale leaves my lips and I can't find it in me to tell him no or yes; the voice in my head is howling for me to declare the latter but my body and soul yearns for his.
He doesn't say anything else as if he thought it normal to be in such a close proximity with another man while they remain still and let their inner turmoil take over. I crave to tell him to get even closer and touch me everywhere he can. I itch for him to reach inside my chest and seize my heart in his hand because it doesn't belong anywhere else except in his hold—It felt foreign within my body for the entirety of my existence because it could never belong anywhere except within ali's grasp. It will only find home there.
I breathe out as our eyes lock; his brows are furrowed in helplessness and his gaze travels over every expanse of my countenance but—always—finds my eyes at the end. I dare to reach out; my hand is trembling and ali doesn't move a muscle as if he were to be touched by the hands of god.
The skin of his cheek feels soft and heavenly under my hand and ali closes his eyes and leans into the touch instantly as if he were craving for it forever. The sirens are blasting in my head but I choose to ignore them for a moment as my finger trails over his cheek reverently. My thumb runs over his lashes as he exhales and I don't dare to let out a breath, his curls look marvellous up close and I find my hand trailing over their expanse as ali's eyes open and his lips part in a sigh.
My gaze travels lower and surveys his hands that are folded in his lap. I take them within mine and squeeze while ali continues to observe me dizzily. They feel much softer than mine ever did and they're slightly smaller. Our hands interlace and I watch the motion intriguingly while my heart beats so ferociously that I wouldn't be shocked if it left my chest at any given moment.
My thoughts are nearly rupturing from my mind and it startles me how ali doesn't dare to do anything unless I grant him to. He doesn't say anything when I bring his hand close to my countenance and let it caress the skin there as I move it ever so slowly. His breath hitches at the movement and I find his eyes that are sparkling with awe while he nods his head absentmindedly for me to continue if I wish to.
If I were to worship ali so gently for the rest of my being, It would've been my greatest honor to accept that offer. Why is it that nothing ever felt right in the way that adoring ali does? How is it that people spoke and lived in such proximity with this man without kissing the remnants of his footsteps and regarding his words as a soothing sympathy that one shall listen to in order to breathe? How will I ever pull away from his touch? How should I burn the raging desire that beseeches me to remain close and reach even closer to this man? How will my mind ever be able to govern my behaviour and let go of him when my heart and soul have already intertwined with his?
"Ali.." you're so beautiful, you're so magnificent. I wish to touch you and hold you and kiss you for as long as I can breathe. Ali, you're so beautiful and I want to weep in your arms and tell you that forever. The sparkle that seems to intensify when your eyes intertwine with mine is so addictive and I don't think I can live a moment again without it. Please, stay. Stay forever—stay always. I need you more than I could ever need the stars; I need you more than I need to be affirmed that I'm well. I need you, love, I need you to exist and breathe and smile and live. I need you, ali, I need you so pitifully that if the feeling was ever exposed to the world, everyone would mock me for it but I wouldn't care if you didn't. Please stay, ali, love, darling, roohi, please—
"Aurens?" He whispers and I realise that I have been gripping ali's hand that was caressing my face with a strength that was worrying. I let go of it but ali shakes his head and tsks as if he knew that I was doing it out of conviction but even then he doesn't attempt to interlace my hand with his again.
"We should go back."
"Speak to me first and then we shall." He protests and I have no clue in the world what he wishes for me to say. How am I supposed to explain to him that I'm frightened by the affection that I feel for him? It is engraving its presence into every aspect of my soul and making its way into my senses in a speed that I don't expect nor can I control. How should I explain that even glimpsing at his countenance overwhelms me because he's so utterly beautiful and I wouldn't be able to hold myself back from embracing him within my arms and soul.
"We have a long journey ahead—"
"Yarrab sabrak. Aurens," Ali grunts and leans closer. He inclines his face so our eyes could meet and when they do, ali releases a shaky breath and furrows his eyebrows questionably, "I don't need you to tell me what you're thinking. I merely need to know if you're well." He emphasises softly.
Define well, I wish to ask him. How it is possible for one to be caught in this entangled web of wishing to be loved and yet when it does occur, an inexplicable ache to reject it spreads everywhere? How do I confess to him that his tender affection is the biggest gift that I have ever received and yet it is also the gravest punishment that I could have ever been sentenced to.
"I am." I reply even when I have no clue what 'well' means. Ali doesn't speak for a while before he pulls away and inspects my countenance. I peek at him for a second and look away, my jaw tightening and breath fastening as if I were being closely watched by the lord himself.
"If you wish to leave, then we shall." He says quietly, the words being spoken felt as though they were being forced out of him. I don't respond but opt to stand up as he follows my suit and we walk ploddingly to where we have taken refuge while his hand brushes against mine every few moments. If it weren't for the fact that the sirens in my head are blasting so loudly that I can barely reflect upon what I see and hear and feel, I would have held it in mine and never let go of it.
Through the haze of the moment, I realise that my clothes that I've ordered faraj to wash are missing. Ali stops walking next to me and I stare at him questioningly as his jaw tightens.
"We'll discuss this tomorrow. Rest now, aurens." He says calmly as he scrambles to turn his countenance to one of indifference.
"I don't want to."
"Shall I sing you a lullaby, then?"
"Yes." I reply frenziedly in hopes that my 'madness' makes ali laugh. He doesn't say anything as he turns away but I manage to catch the close-lipped smile on his face as he rests against the saddle that I have now noticed are mine. I don't speak of it and neither does ali when I go to sleep in his bed.
I don't wish for this night to end in such a manner. My mind dwells upon the confusion and worry in ali's countenance due to my behaviour as I rest against his saddle and look at the stars. How should I verbalise that none of this is his fault? That I desperately need for him to regard me with such softeness forever even though my being fears it? How should I tell him that the only reason why I can never reciprocate it or even accept it is no fault of his without it sounding as though I were imploring him to pity me?
"Ali."
"Mhm?"
"I wish to tell a joke."
"I don't wish to hear it, your sense of humour is awful. Go to sleep."