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“And then --” Cities could sink into the sand and rise again in the time it takes Lawrence to reach the end of his sentence. “-- It would be something.”
The end of them, after a fashion.
Ali grows cold in the midst of an unthinkable goodbye. He doesn’t hear himself speak but, out the door and into the darkened corridor, he feels the sting of tears on his cheeks, scorching like the desert sun. Remnants of the light of Lawrence, he thinks and prays that it doesn’t all fade away. He could not bear it. Something in him has cracked open. Auda, of all people, notices the spill.
You love him.
No use denying it. Ali loves and fears in turn and neither outweighs the other. It is not fear of wanting another man, which pales in comparison to the immensity of the want itself, but fear of what Lawrence has lost along the way. He’s an echo of the man that had rescued Gasim in the Nafud.
Love isn’t to be discarded or repressed, not when one’s fallen hard and fast into its grasp. Ali knows that much. Lawrence does not. Therein lies the problem.
He leaves Auda and his talk of new tricks alone, allows a shuddering breath in the shadows. Damascus is not quiet but it is dark and for now, that’s good enough for Ali. The tears won’t stop. If anything, there is something monumental to the despair likely to swallow him whole. Politics. Ali can’t care for politics when he feels he’s got no country, when the revolt had not been the glorious togetherness of a people that have stood divided for too long, when Lawrence isn’t--
Lawrence isn’t by his side.
That’s what it comes down to. His loyalty cannot lie elsewhere. Lawrence’s love had consisted of a slow drawing down of blinds and somewhere along the way, very little has been left for the outside world. From the moment they’d first spoken of chosen names, Ali has come to understand what is written for him though. This farewell leaves its own marks.
It’s a rustling in the night that stops Ali in his tracks. He grips his dagger but does not move, pure instinct caught in his throat.
And, somewhere underneath apprehension, hope blooms.
Few things do, around these parts.
“Wait.”
One word, accented and softly-spoken. Lawrence does not fumble nor trip over unnecessary apologies, insincere in the late hour, but he stands his ground. In-between two worlds, he’s fair and blue-eyed and still clad in the clothes he’d been given. He’s a mirage glinting in the moonlight. Ali expects him to vanish as soon as he blinks.
But they are not drowning in the heat of the desert and Lawrence is no fantasy.
Ali’s hand lingers on his dagger. The bare bones of comfort. He wouldn’t, of course, not with Lawrence, but there is much to be said about familiarity, foreboding as the moment is. Half an hour ago, he would’ve said anything. Anything. Now, Ali finds himself cornered.
“You've been crying,” Lawrence says, distant and awkward, more man than hero. The English, Ali has heard, hold no great regard for sentiment.
Perhaps he’s learned too much from his companion. There’s nothing gentle about the way Ali wipes at his eyes, a meaningless protest against a barrage of tears with a movement that’s practically wrenched out of him. His cheeks burn and he’s glad not to share Lawrence’s pallor. His heart aches, still.
“It is no concern of yours,” Ali chokes out, voice shaking.
He’d thought if he’d just left in time, then-- Lawrence wouldn’t know the extent of it-- how deep betrayal had--
Fate is rarely so kind.
“No, I believe it is,” Lawrence insists and Ali could fall to his knees right there, a sherif at the feet of a foreigner, and sob. Instead, he turns away, gazes back into this night of the soul and tries to comprehend his own wretched heart. He cannot take another rejection, of that he is certain.
The warmth of Lawrence’s hand on his shoulder, abrupt despite the measured movements of a man unwilling to startle, nearly pulls him back to the very edge. Ali reins in any stray desires. He does not count on Lawrence walking the necessary steps to face him, the blue of his eyes no longer… dull. A glimmer of the man he’d fallen for, then. He doesn’t know where to look, what to do with the closeness he’s missed already. Lawrence, too, appears dumbfounded.
It’s not the closest they’ve ever gotten. It might very well be. Ali has never encountered anything like it.
“I feared you had gone already.”
Lawrence had once claimed his fear to be his alone. It is Ali’s, as well.
There is nothing to be said to that, though the street is still dark and empty and Ali forgets to breathe when Lawrence reaches out to wipe away a tear. A terribly tender gesture, that -- for once -- Ali considers dangerous. Fatal, almost. He thinks of the carnage at Tafas, Lawrence’s laughter, manic glee transfigured into visceral horror. Oh, god. Ali can forgive, he can mend and tend to the broken pieces of Lawrence, he can carry the burden of the blood-soaked hands if he would just be allowed to.
If his friend would just permit it.
“Lawrence,” he says, carefully enunciated, very nearly firm. It’s hard to tell where the pretence begins or ends.
“Aurens,” Lawrence corrects, smiling one of his bland, mild little smiles, the sort that must have put many a British officer at rest. A trace of something more shows beneath, an amusement at his own folly. He caresses the side of Ali’s face, gentle and absurd, and presses his lips to his.
For his part, Ali watches it happen and does not believe it, eyes wide and tearful. Lawrence kisses like he’s never once entertained the possibility before, clumsy in his desperation yet eager, the same determination he reserves for massacres and suicide missions alike.
His lips are dry, the ridge of a scar interrupts the perfect symmetry of Lawrence’s features and not for the first time in his company, Ali is quite convinced that he is almost certainly dying in the desert. Contrary to reason, he gives in to the mirage and kisses back, hands coming to rest at Lawrence’s hips, pressed up together and moonlit and not at all of this world. Ali’s eyes have fallen closed, screwed shut really, lest the illusion be shattered.
Again, Lawrence fails to disappear. They step back, breathing harshly. Ali would rather be struck by a sword than the grief on Lawrence’s face. Unthinking, he kisses him again. Lawrence melts easily into it, relieved, no longer tense with guilt.
Tonight, Ali knows he is exactly where he’s needed.
It is written.