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The sky is dark when the bitterness between them finally boils over.
“I had not thought of it when I met you.”
The last word is almost spat, but Lawrence is too numb to flinch away now. He doubts he could. Nothing hurts him that way anymore, nothing at all. Yes, nothing! Nothing can break what’s already shattered– nothing at all, not anymore…
No, that is not true. One glance at Ali’s face, at the piercing concern in his friend’s eyes, and he would weep as he has not weeped since Deraa. One word, and he could be tempted to commit madness again. In truth, Lawrence of Arabia is a weak man.
And that is why he does not turn, even when he hears Ali’s footsteps pause.
“You have tried very hard to give us Damascus,” Ali tells him, though it’s hard to tell whether his tone is accusing or gentle.
“It’s what I came for.”
There is another silence, as if Ali is still trying to decipher his lies, to find some kind of truth in them when there is none. Silently, Lawrence prays that the Harith will be wise and leave. There is nothing left to stay for– only the hollow shell of an illusion, already used and discarded by everyone else. What is left is unusable, or at the very least unfit to be used by a Sherif. Leave, Ali. Leave, for your own sake.
Yet it is panic, not relief, that seizes Lawrence’s heart when Ali gives up at last. The Englishman tries futilely to keep his eyes focused on the papers in front of him as a sharp pain grips his chest. He neither deserves nor dares to look upon his friend one final time, but his traitorous body refuses to remain still.
After a brief struggle, instinct wins out and Lawrence whips around.
“And then,” he calls out. Stay.
Ali pauses, and for a moment Lawrence dares to hope. “...it would be something.” We would be something.
“Yes. Much.” But not today.
Ali bows deeply. Now, at the end, there are no lies between them. Thank you for everything, my friend. Take care.
Helplessness washes over him, and Lawrence can only lift one hand in a pathetic imitation of a farewell. I have given you nothing, he fails to say. But I wish you the best. I hope you can understand.
In that fleeting second, he is certain that Ali does understand, and their eyes meet beneath the shadows for one final time. Goodbye.
Then the moment passes, and Lawrence can only stare at the papers in front of him as Ali, his Ali, strides away from him and into the night. No, not his. They are strangers now, Lawrence reminds himself as Ali recedes further from view. He does not deserve anything more from the man who had already given him far too much.
There is a sense of finality in the sound of those methodical steps, and Lawrence realizes quite suddenly that everything is truly over now. At Deraa, there had been Ali to drag him out of the mud when he could not walk. In their cave, there had been Ali to remind him to eat and sleep when he could not remember. At Damascus, there had been Ali to stay and comfort him when all went wrong. But when Lawrence inevitably leaves for England this time, there will be no Ali to soften the blow.
He may never see Ali again.
The thought makes him want to throw up and cry at the same time. Well, perhaps he is already crying, Lawrence registers dimly as moisture clouds his vision. He did not know it was even possible for his eyes to produce tears anymore. They sting, and his fatigued body heaves with the effort of breathing.
Air. Lawrence gasps. He needs air. Now.
Standing up makes his world tilt nauseatingly, but the pain of movement is a welcome one. A reminder that he is still alive. Ignoring the protests of his body, Lawrence stumbles out the door and into the stinging coolness outside. For once, there is nowhere that he must be, no next destination that he must conquer. So he simply stands and stares ahead of him, fingers clutching the ruined sleeves of his thawb, feeling the warmth seeping out of his body.
A trivial memory, unbidden, rises to his mind.
“In simple terms, some things simply retain heat better than others. That’s the key concept of this unit.”
The teacher motioned towards two glass flasks. One was filled with sand, and the other with water. “Now, what do you think will happen if I heat both of them for one minute?”
“Well, they’ll both get very hot,” a careless, straw-haired child named Anna had answered. “But I guess the sand might get hotter. Sand is always hot.”
Somehow Lawrence doubted Anna had seen much sand in her life– it wasn’t like there was any to be had within 70 miles of Oxford. But his attention was wrested away as the teacher lit a gasburner, gingerly picking up both flasks with tongs and holding them over the fire. After about a minute, the fire was extinguished and the students were allowed to gather around, told to put their hands near but not on either flask and feel the heat.
Naturally, no heed was given to instructions, and the children began poking and prodding at the flasks, goading each other to touch the sand and shrieking at the temperature. Lawrence had held the burning sand longer than any of his classmates, fascinated by the way the heat flowed in torrents from the vial to his hand.
The other children stared at him in equal parts suspicion and fear. Some thought he was showing off. Others were simply concerned for the wild-eyed boy who never seemed to have any sense of caution. Little Anna looked sympathetic. “Jesus, Ned. You’re going to burn yourself.”
“Not today, Anna.” He smiled wryly and handed her the flask. “Look, here. It’s already cold.”
A hint of suspicion remained in the girl’s eyes, but it was quickly erased when her pale fingers came into contact with nothing more harmful than cold, dead sand. “How?” She’d demanded. “It was glowing when you picked it up!”
The teacher chuckled. “Sand is not one of the things that retains heat well. It can become hot very quickly, but it can lose its spark just as fast.”
Lawrence sighs and takes a few steps forward. He had never been obedient, even as a child, and only now did he see his foolishness in holding on to that scorching, volatile sand, wondering if the heat would last long enough to burn. The professor was right, he thinks.
Night in a desert land really is cold.
It is also quiet. Usually. Tonight, however, Lawrence doesn’t seem to be so lucky, and he hurriedly throws himself behind a column as he hears voices rising near him.
The first comes in an untamed drawl that Lawrence could recognize anywhere. Auda. “He is your friend?”
“Take your hand away!” The second voice is much less controlled, and Lawrence barely has a moment to register that something sounds off with Ali’s voice before the two hurl onward in clearly agitated conversation.
“You love him,” Auda insists suddenly. Wait, what?
“No, I fear him!” Ali snaps.
The words sting a little, but they are justified in their anger, if that is the feeling that clings to Ali’s speech. Lawrence finds the sentiment surprisingly easy to accept.
Auda does not. “Then why do you weep?”
Could it truly tears that muddle the Sherif’s speech? If Auda is to be believed, Ali is crying. And in front of the Howeitat, no less. It is a sight that Lawrence can not imagine, even as he shifts to get a better view of the two.
“If I fear him,” Ali starts, voice cracking with pain that Lawrence foolishly wishes he could ease, “who love him… how must he fear himself, who hates himself?”
I… who love him…
Lawrence’s world screeches to a stop. There is much to unpack there, too much for his already heavy heart, but all of it is unimportant because Ali says he loves him, and maybe Ali fears him too, or maybe he only said that to confuse Auda, but he can figure all of that out later because–
Ali loves him.
No, surely he must have misheard. Ali is a wise man, wiser than Lawrence ever was. He’s never let himself fall for the golden idol’s lies, not even when Lawrence had tempted everyone else with promises of gold and land and victory. No, Ali had always known the real Lawrence. And the real Lawrence is… well, a mess. He almost laughs as he looks down at his bloodied hands and soiled clothes. There’s nothing to love.
And yet. It was almost believable, when he really thought about it. Hadn’t Ali always been by his side, watching over him?
And he– he really has been blind, hasn’t he? To think that it was indifference and disappointment that Ali had felt when they began to argue first in Aqaba, then before Deraa, then in Damascus, when it had been none of those things. Couldn’t you see? He was afraid to lose you. Hope, hope that he does not deserve, blooms in Lawrence’s chest. Oh, you fool. He wasn’t the one who needed to stay. You were.
“Take your hand away!” The Harith is shouting now, raw emotion– sharper than the blade he draws– slicing through the night air. “Howeitat!”
Lawrence does not hear anything that is said afterwards. Ali is running away, and in his heart, El Aurens knows he has one last destination to chase. This time, he vows, it will not be to conquer.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Truth be told, Ali is not entirely sure where he’s headed. Normally, Lawrence would be the one to dictate their direction with a flourish of his stupid compass and an unquenchable well of overconfidence. But Lawrence has lost both of those things now, and Ali feels lost.
There is a fountain. Perhaps he ought to sit, before he makes a fool of himself and cries again– it would truly be embarrassing to be seen so vulnerable twice in a single night. The stone is cold, and Ali clutches his knife a little tighter. He hasn’t been so wary of his surroundings since he was a small child– but then again, one only ran into such a situation like this once in a lifetime.
There is a sound behind him.
May the wrath of God befall Auda and nine generations of his descendents.
Ali groans and nearly bangs his head against the fountain before spinning around to confront his pursuer. “I swear to God, Auda–”
Blindingly blue eyes stare straight at him.
Instead of a smugly grinning Howeitat, there stands El Aurens, and the first thing Ali can think of is that even the war could not make this man less beautiful.
The expression on Lawrence’s face is uncertain, but for the first time since he returned from Cairo, there is a little of his old fire behind those eyes. “I did not know you to blaspheme, Sherif.”
Ali huffs, stepping away and wiping fiercely at his tears. “I did not know you to care, English.”
“No,” Lawrence sighs, suddenly serious. “I haven’t done very well with that, have I?”
“No,” Ali agrees.
Silence.
As always, Ali is the one who can not hold in his thoughts. “Why are you here, Colonel? We have nothing further to discuss, I think.”
“I–” Lawrence looks a little helpless at that, fumbling with the loose ends of his keffiyeh. His next words come in a rush, and he reaches out to grasp Ali by the sleeve. “I think I’ve made a mistake, Ali.”
Annoyance rises in the Sherif, threatening to spill over. “Coming to Arabia? I believe you’ve made that abundantly clear today, Colonel.”
Lawrence flinches at the title. “You misunderstand,” he whispers, expression genuinely pained.
“What is it, then? Have you come to mock me personally as well? To tell me to my face what you have already told all of England?” Ali hisses, wrenching himself out of Lawrence’s grip. “You are many things, Lawrence, but I did not count cruel among them.”
To his surprise, the Englishman looks taken aback, blue eyes glassy. “Not cruel, even after all I’ve done?”
Ali resists the urge to simultaneously slap him and caress him. “No. You may fool all the rest of them into thinking you have become cruel and barbarous, Colonel Lawrence. Or Bentley will do the job for you,” he remarks with a watery laugh. “But I do not think you truly are what they say you have become.”
“Am I not?” Lawrence asks, almost childish in his hope. But the expression falls from his face as quickly as it came. “No, Ali, I am. Look at me. I don’t even know what to say anymore. I didn’t think any of this through. You’ve been so good to me, and all I’ve done is betray all of you. You of all people should be worse to me, Ali– it’s what I deserve.”
Ali thinks this is probably a good time to cut in, but Lawrence plows on relentlessly. “My mistake wasn’t coming to Arabia. None of this is Arabia’s fault. Arabia is beautiful. But I’m not, Ali, and I’m afraid I’ve soiled it, but I can’t bring myself to leave.” He takes a shuddering breath. “And after what I’ve heard tonight, I don’t know if I want to, and that frightens me even more.”
Everything Ali is prepared to say dies on his tongue. “What do you mean?”
For a moment, the famed T.E. Lawrence looks more like a schoolboy caught misbehaving in the hallway. “... I may have… overheard you and Auda.”
Ali freezes. Allah is determined to kill him one way or another today, it would seem. He stares up at Lawrence, utterly trapped. “What?”
“I didn’t mean to.” The words pour from Lawrence like a flood, barely coherent. His eyes gleam feverishly. “I didn’t think I could ever be scared again, but I was so afraid when you left. It was like I was dying again, Ali, I felt so alone. And then– I was outside, thinking, when Auda came up to you. I thought you were mad at me, and I was so glad for it. But then– but then you said you loved me, and– and– oh God, Ali, I’ve been so mistaken–”
“Lawrence.” A firm hand on his shoulder cuts off the panicked speech. “You have no obligation to respond to what you ought never to have heard. Do not think of it. I expect nothing of you.”
If possible, Lawrence looks even more hurt than before. “I know.” He glances downwards, swaying, and Ali realizes that something is very wrong. “I know you don’t expect anything of me.”
There’s a muffled sob, and he collapses gracelessly upon the fountain. There’s a moment of sheer horror as Ali fails to process the sight of Lawrence, his Lawrence, shivering in a heap of soiled white robes. Then instinct takes over and he’s kneeling beside his beloved, reaching out to touch his face.
“Aurens? Aurens!” Goddamnit, Aurens. Ali shakes him almost violently, and Lawrence starts, blinking rapidly. Ali feels his heart twist at the sight of his friend lying pliant and shivering over the cold stone. “Aurens, you must rest tonight. I will get you water and a nurse.”
“I don’t need a nurse,” he protests weakly, clinging to Ali's robes. “I need to tell you something.”
“It can wait.” Anything can wait when you are unwell.
“This can’t wait.” Lawrence inhales, as though steadying himself for a battle. When he speaks again, his voice is full of conviction, and it is the man, not the idol, who touches Ali. “Ali, I thought I didn’t deserve you. I still don’t. But that doesn’t change how I feel about you. And when I heard what you and Auda said– well, I couldn’t leave Arabia without telling you. ”
Wait, what?
If Ali’s ears did not deceive him, Lawrence truly was crueler than he had thought. Right when he had resigned himself to a life without the constant presence of the burning sun that was T.E. Lawrence, Ali found his traitorous heart being pulled back. Lawrence, love him? Lawrence, who loved nothing but the Arab cause, not even himself?
And yet. It was almost believable, when he really thought about it.
“Please say something, Ali,” Lawrence begs, pulling him back to reality. “Anything, really. Hate me if you wish, but don’t ignore me.”
“I think, habibi,” Ali says slowly, watching the hope bloom in those beautiful ocean eyes, “I think we should talk about some things.” He gestures to the place beside him. “Would you like to take a seat, Aurens?”
For the first time in a long time, the exhaustion lifts from Lawrence’s face, and it is a truly beautiful sight. “I would like that very much, Ali.”
They sit side by side, and talk.
Ali and Lawrence stay like that for a long time, saying what they ought to have said for many nights before this. The wind brings an icy chill and the fountain’s stones make for an awfully uncomfortable seat, but Lawrence is smiling softly in the moonlight, and neither of them feel cold at all. They don’t move even when crimson rays of light begin to filter through the courtyard and somewhere in the distance, Ali can hear a rooster’s crow.
The conversation drifts aimlessly between them like the desert wind. They do not need to rush anymore, to speak like words are as scarce as water. Here, they have time, and they have each other. Ali is filled with a sudden gratefulness to God for giving him the time to tell Lawrence that he does not want gold, or castles, or any of the things that Lawrence has given his sanity to bring to the Arab nation. He doesn’t want Lawrence’s apologies, his heroics, his speeches. What does he want? Anything, he tells Lawrence. Anything, because all he truly needs is Lawrence by his side, beautiful and imperfect and brimming with kindness. Ali knows Lawrence won’t believe him today. But his eyes are a little lighter, a little less troubled, and they have taken the first step on their long journey together.
Lawrence is leaning against Ali now, tired but unwilling to let the conversation end. There’s an almost peaceful look in his eyes as he asks, suddenly, “Do you remember what you said to me on the beach at Aqaba, Ali?”
Ali grins, plucking up a wild blossom from beside the fountain and gesturing grandly in a mocking imitation of his past self. “Garlands for the conqueror. Tribute for the prince. Flowers for the man.”
Lawrence giggles, leaning over to snatch the wildflower. “I’m still not a conqueror.”
“No.”
“I’m not a prince, either.”
“No.”
“Am I a man, Ali?”
Finally, finally, Ali reaches to pull them together. “You are El Aurens,” he says. “My Aurens.”
“Then you are my Ali,” Lawrence challenges, voice soft and hopeful.
“Yes.” Ali smiles, cupping Lawrence’s cheek and closing the last of the distance between their lips. “Yours.”
Lawrence tastes like ash and sand and vaguely like sour grapes, but somehow it feels clean. Ali can still feel the desperation in the way Lawrence clings to him, and he runs his hand gently through the locks of blonde hair. One day, he knows he’ll be able to soothe his love’s worries with promises and reassurances. For today, he kisses Lawrence with reverence and feels the other man relax into his touch, and that is enough.
Both of them are breathless when they pull away. And maybe Ali’s crying a little, but so is Lawrence, and it’s not perfect at all, but they don’t need perfect today.
Then suddenly, Lawrence is laughing, and Ali is almost afraid that he’s having a fit of nerves again. But this laughter is bright and free and when he looks at Ali again, those blue eyes are shining like the waters of Aqaba. Clean. “My God,” Lawrence breathes, hands clasped together, “I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you. Thank you.”
And what can Ali do but take that heedless, golden man in his arms and kiss him again? Let other men carry the weight of the world for a day. Today, Ali lives for one thing alone.
“Ana bahebak,” he tells his lover gently. “You are loved. Do not forget it, Aurens. Even when you are trying to single-handedly fight the entirety of Europe. Even if what happened with Damascus happens again. Do not forget that you are loved.”
Lawrence smiles, brighter than the sun. “Then I guess I’m lucky you’re here to remind me.”
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
They are not like sand, Lawrence decides. They are Arabia, and Arabia is not sand. The British do not understand Arabia, do not understand its flowery script and unbending faith and lush oases.
For them, it’s a burning, fiery furnace. But Lawrence knows too much to ever think such a thing. Even in the scorching desert, with sands that have swallowed up far more blood than Lawrence cares to think about, there is so much beauty.
Such as the man standing next to him.
“And apparently Auda was betting with the children on whether or not you’d leave, and that’s why he was following me,” Ali fumes, pouring water rather aggressively into his waterskin. “And then, he had the audacity to try and swindle them with– Aurens, are you even listening to me?”
“Hmm?”
“Aurens.” Ali rolls his eyes, putting on a fake scowl. “I did not think you would tire of me so quickly.”
“I’m sorry, Ali,” Lawrence smiles, not sounding sorry in the slightest. “I was just thinking about how beautiful you are. You’re like an angel.”
“Blasphemer.”
“You love me.”
Ali blushes– actually blushes!– at that, and Lawrence can’t resist kissing him again, just because he can. He doesn’t think he’ll ever need water again as long as he has this.
“Stop fooling around and pack your things,” the Sherif grumbles, shoving his companion lightly.
Lawrence only laughs, spreading his arms out wide and nearly tumbling over backwards. “I don’t need anything,” he declares. “Other than you, that is. I’ll always need you.”
“It will be a long road ahead,” Ali warns him. “And there will still be many dangers, especially if we are traveling alone. Dangers, Aurens– sometimes I think you don’t know the meaning of the word. It will be difficult if you aren’t prepared.”
“No, Ali.” And for the first time in what feels like eternity, a daring grin spreads across Lawrence’s face. “It’s going to be fun.”
Ali rolls his eyes again and looks to the heavens. “Be patient with him, God.”
But even as he says it, he’s smiling at the stubborn, reckless, fool of a man that is his beloved.
Somewhere out there, he thinks God is smiling too.