Chapter 1: look at that man over there
Chapter Text
1915
ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚
Tabby had died. Run away from home. She had loved her brothers and her mother, but eventually she met the end of her life. A clever girl, a strange girl. Interested in the classical world, the histories. She preferred the company of a book, busying herself with her own education as opposed to finding comfort and companionship in her peers.
Perhaps another way that one could have described Tabby would be a reject. Socially, she didn’t get along with other girls, a certain disconnect. It was palpable. She didn’t concern herself with boys. True that every parent wishes for their daughters to keep to themselves: Tabby showed a concerning disregard for all of her typical gender experiences.
She had died in 1905. Soon after, T.E Lawrence, a 17-year-old boy soldier, joined the Royal Garrison Artillery at St Mawes Castle in Cornwall. He was short, strange, and had a softly spoken, mellow voice. But a hard worker and a clever lad. Often mistaken for being younger than he was. Lawrence tried in vain not to draw attention, but eventually left to pursue his own studies and to collect information on various historical sights, all before moving on to higher education.
There was something different about T.E Lawrence, hard to put one’s finger on; it was a strange otherness. Perhaps, he was just an odd fellow.
In August, after his Negev mission, conflict broke out. While there was immediate pressure to enlist, there would be a medical inspection. To say Lawrence’s identity and security would be compromised was generous. Thankfully, before much more suspicion was raised, Lawrence was summoned to the Arab intelligence bureau in Cairo by Dryden. And it was there he stayed safely, with his maps and his rooms and his too-large uniform that concealed his deepest secrets and shame until his world shattered once again.
It should have been him.
The telegraph stated what Lawrence had feared since the war had begun. His brothers- the two younger brothers that Lawrence cared for so deeply in his soul- were dead. Killed on the Western Front.
And where was Lawerence? In a room, Cairo. Barely comparable to the trenches. The Western Front was a noble fate, a fight for a man’s homeland. And his brothers had died that honourable death instead of him. Lawrence had wanted to enlist, even if he was born with the right anatomy, and even if he had been greeted as “good lad” for his childhood, he would haven’t been allowed in. Too short - a weak trait, it was a feminine trait. He was painfully aware of it. Just like he was painfully aware of his waist, his hips, his chest. He was thin, which accounted for most of the problems associated with a feminine body. There was little indeed that some bandages couldn’t account for. Most of the men’s clothing was big enough to solve the rest. But he wished that he were taller, that his arms weren’t as loose in their sleeves. That he still sat with the memory of being told to put one’s legs together. Proper men weren’t supposed to find that comfortable. Ironically, this comfort only sparked more discomfort at his differences. An emptiness, a hole that lay between. Lawrence was suddenly aware of his seat at the map table, his cushy seat. Surrounded by the other men who had noticed his absent stare. Lawrence had hoped he hadn’t made a noise or any other embarrassing reaction. He excused himself and wandered about the mess; the rest of the day moved as slowly and hotly. Sticky and warm, oozing between the hours. Lawrence felt himself drowning in the thickness of it. Stuck in between the pages of the book that were glued together. He couldn’t think of anything but his brothers, his poor family. He wished he could still return and grieve alongside them. How unfortunate to lose so many children. Tabby's
death had killed something in him; it had also removed the connection. Now Laurence was a bastard and an orphan.
☾⋆⁺₊✧
Lawrence was always a fitful sleeper. He awoke in the middle of the night and the early hours of the morning to write an idea down, to wander, or simply to lie for another hour or two unflinchingly at the ceiling. While in the desert, the nights would be cold, Cairo was hot. Always hot. He wished he could remove the long shirt he wore to bed. Back when Lawrence used to be at no risk of being disturbed, whenever he woke up in the midst of sleep, he always removed the article of clothing. He missed sleeping shirtless; perhaps it was being able to breathe after being bound for his entire waking life. Nonetheless, it was something he had to sacrifice on the off chance another party woke him.
Tonight, he couldn’t even drift to sleep, his clothing stuck to his back and chest. He felt the hair on his forehead collect the grime of sweat as the night went on. It was like being tormented with a fever of some kind. As the hours continued to pass by, he felt hunger crawl its way up once more. It had been a significant amount of time after dinner.
When Lawrence awoke the next morning, he found the grime of sweat sucking his clothing to damp skin. It disgusted him; he cleaned himself up, died off- you had to make sure to be dry for the bandages. And went downstairs. Being both short and slim, the uniform he wore hung more so off Lawrence’s body and seemed to be attracted to the floor instead.
He made his laps around The Mess before being sent back down to the nasty dark room where he idly painted maps- painted maps! Lord, he couldn’t do this anymore. Lawrence retreated to a washroom.
He gripped the sink, pressing his wrists into the cool surface. Wishing they were able to cut right through and take him away from it all. He kept his eyes focused on the water as it ran down the drain; he kept his eyes down. If Lawerence were to bring his eyes up to meet his own reflection, he- well, let's not think about that.
And was he just supposed to return?? To go back to water colours, to the maps? To newspapers. Lawrence had no combat experience, no fieldwork. Nothing. And why would he? Weaselled himself in through pure luck and intellect. Not because he was a soldier, not because of his nation, not- not because he was a man.
A man.
A man would have been on the western front, a man would have died with his brothers, and a man would be strong. Not skinny and weak. A man would be able to wander as he pleased throughout his quarters, wearing what he pleased. And a man would wear bandages only to nurse a wound.
His mother was right. Lawrence would disappoint the family; he had disappointed them. Second eldest, a young, pretty and witty thing that could marry well and receive a last name that bought honour instead of shame. Here he was with a false name, a false identity. And he was nothing. Nothing but a disappointment.
Chapter 2: will we survive to stay the same
Summary:
Lawrence finds himself caught in Deraa- once reunited with Ali he fears the worst is yet to come.
Notes:
timeline? what timeline?
Chapter Text
1917
Deraa
...
“You are a deserter”
Deserter?
Lawrence stood. Half-naked, his bind extended across his shoulders and had also been covering a fresh gunshot wound on his upper arm. In one hand, the Bey had pinched the end and had unravelled it up to his shoulder. Lawrence was frozen, paralysed with fear; he was going to continue unwrapping him, exposing him. Exposing his vulnerability, exposing his chest, make his fate much worse.
“No Effendi-”
He shook his head, tightening his shoulders upward, itching to bring his arms up to cover himself instinctively.
He continued, closer, closer, closer. Lawrence watched, any moment now and-
No.
Blindly, in terror, Lawrence yelped and launched forward. Kicking, lashing out. It didn’t matter where or how; he had to fight.
He was pulled back. Trying in vain to cover the cloth that was unwinding more and more.
A fist flashed and hit him. Lawrence reeled, his teeth catching on his own cracked lips and slicing the bottom open. Hot blood spilt out and rushed into his mouth. It stuck to his teeth; it stung painfully. It pooled into the crevices like blood hitting the desert floor.
A command was given to beat him. Lawrence was pulled to a board, his arms and legs splayed and pulled. Wait, his bandages, he was pulled upwards. His hair tugged painfully at his skull as a hand gripped it. A pocked knife was produced, and it started at his sternum and cut swiftly along. Again, and again. Until the bandages were sliced, split and pulled off, there he was, revealed. Naked.
Silence. Then a cough, echoing from the door. Two eyes peered out, gazing at the sight. Lawrence didn’t understand, but he could imagine what was being said. He was dropped suddenly, he covered up with his arms and stayed still. Breathing into the board, hiding his face. He wanted to die, he wanted it to be over, he wanted them to kill him. Just kill him.
The door clicked shut.
Lawrence refused to remember; he felt disconnected from his body. Like he was viewing the wall only through his eyes, and the men as they walked around him, the smiles on their faces, the feeling. The hot blood. Always hot.
He hoped that it was some dream. Something that hadn't really happened. But he couldn’t stop shaking. When it was over, however long it was, they presented him again. But he was deemed too disgusting; his face was wiped clean. The men went again, and when they returned, they picked Lawrence up and threw him.
The cold Arabian night shocked him; he hit the ground next. Mud splattering into his mouth and eyes. Here he would die. Here, hopefully, the ground would swallow him and hide him from all; his body would be untouchable, unperceivable. One with the earth. He waited for death. When it came, he hoped he would not watch what happened to the body before it decomposed. He knew already.
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Ali had been waiting for hours. He had heard shouting and commotion, and thought that perhaps that Lawerence had been kept there, tortured maybe. They couldn’t have known this was the man a bounty was put on, but. He was fair, pale blue eyes and straw hair. They would surely assume he was a British soldier.
Footsteps, inside.
He hid behind a pillar, men came out, carrying a body- no, carrying Aurens. Oh Lord.
They threw him down into the filth. He lay still as a dead man.
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Two hands gripped his shoulders; couldn’t he die in peace? He turned his head up to see a shadowed figure. He turned his head deep into the mud, pulled both hands in weakly to his chest and pulled in. He had been hastily reclothed from below, but he still hid. Grateful, in some way, for the darkness and the black mud covering his skin.
“Aurens?”
It was a trick.
“Aurens!”
Ali? No, he couldn’t reveal himself. If Ali found out, well, he didn’t know. Would be killed? What was the appropriate level of anger from him? Betrayal, yes. Would he also be disgusted? Surely, he would tell everybody. Then he would be killed, and they would spit and yell. What a shameful thing. What a horrid and shameful creature he was. As impure and as evil as his conception, as evil as his names. May God forgive him, if anybody was capable.
“Aurens, you must come with me. Now.”
He looked up meekly.
“Ali.. No-- please leave me here.”
“What are you saying??” Ali was whisper-yelling now, tugging on his shoulders. Knee deep in the filth.
“Just let me die. It's what I deserve, I beg. I need to die, Ali.
Silence.
“Ali?”
Two hands scooped under his knees, two over his back. Ali stood suddenly, flipping Lawrence and picking him up. He ran, holding him. He reached a stable, whether it was the one that the camels had been kept in was beyond Lawrence.
Ali spoke again.
“Dirt. Everywhere.”
He lay Lawrence down on the stone floor, and he rummaged around in a pocket for a rag. He paced around, looking for water. Finding none, he stood and looked at the man curled into a ball on the ground.
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Ali saw then, looking down at Lawrence, so small and meek on the ground. The beaten spirit of a man. His back was black and blue. The ridges of his spine were slick with blood. Long lashes that stretched from his collarbones to his tailbone. Bones, Ali realised, protruded and revealed the slimness of the figure in front of him. Tracing up his body, Ali saw that golden head of hair turned towards the ground, arms brought up, curled in front of his torso. He was still shaking. Mud dripping from his face and shoulders. He was going to catch his death if the infection didn’t get him first.
He went forward. Pulling him upright.
“Aurens,” He squinted through the dark, “-Aurens, move your arms. I will clean you.”
“No.”
“Your wounds will become infected, and then you will die-”
“Let me.”
With this, Ali took both Auren’s wrists in both hands and pulled down suddenly, preparing to clean off the mud that coated the wounds. But instead of a bare chest wounded and hollowed out by the crack of a whip lay something else. Aurens looked aside. Eyes open wide, staring outside: As if looking for an escape.
Ali was speechless. The rag lay limp in his hands.
It was Aurens who spoke then.
“Do you see? Do you know why you must let me perish? I’m no man..”
Ali considered this. He took the rag and wiped the mud off, revealing the pink underneath.
Slowly, he spoke. Choosing his words carefully, unable to avert his gaze.
“You say.. You choose your name; nothing is written. What is written is what you say. True, Aurens, you are no ordinary man.”
Aurens was shivering now. Ali stood, taking off his outer layer and tossing it at him. He then left to find water; the mud would need to come off sooner or later. And soon, Aurens would catch a fever.
Chapter 3: only you
Chapter Text
The journey back from Derra was quiet. Very quiet and slow. When they had reached the camp, Ali had wasted no time climbing from his camel and picking Lawrence up.
He was a mess, hastily bandaged and limp. Ali had run in and barked instructions for water, bandages, as well as what little medical supplies they had. Snow fell in great lumps on occasion, and the cold air was not merciful on the lashes. They hurried some of the army out, and Ali demanded that he tend to Lawrence’s wounds and debrief their findings- in private.
But first, a pale of boiling water was bought. It formed a damp fog in the tent, and as Ali placed it on the ground, he turned to speak.
“It is hot, as according to your preferences and needs.”
Lawrence sat, curled into the corner. He was humiliated and still in a state of terror. He did not know that he could trust Ali yet. However, he responded.
“Oh… Thank you.”
Ali sighed and placed a rag in the water and a towel in front of Lawrence. He beckoned for him to come closer, and hesitantly, Lawrence peeled off his dirtied clothes. Turning painfully for Ali to undo the makeshift bandages. He heard the man gasp again. In the light of day, the damage was starkly apparent. He carefully dabbed a bit of water, and Lawrence flinched away, doubling forwards and stifling a cry of his own.
“Can we- start elsewhere?” Lawrence murmured into his hands, “Just not there, Ali”
Ali placed the cloth back into the water and brought it around to face Lawrence. He placed one hand under his chin:
“Look at me. Come closer”
Lawrence felt Ali’s hand cupping his face and bringing him up into the light. A shiver shook through his body as the fever tightened its grip. Lawrence felt his eyeballs burning into his skull, a hot, sickly weakness. Despite the humiliation, pain, and execution that wracked his body, Lawrence opened his eyes and found himself trapped in the gaze of Ali. Two brown irises looking back into his murky blue ones. Ali glanced away quickly and wrung the cloth out. He carefully brought the streaming rag to his forehead and started to dab at a cut that cut across Lawrence's forehead. All the while keeping his face tucked into Ali’s rough palm.
Ali worked downward, as he wet the cloth and wrung it and cleaned. He spoke gently;
“We should not have gone to Derra. Look at you, wounded and ill. I understand you must proceed onward and lead your men, but this has done nothing for you. And look at this, hmm?”
Ali pulled the cloth away to reveal a dark brown-red stain soaking across the fabric.
“You- Aurens.. Please be careful. You could have been killed! Like any other man”
He Paused
“Your mouth, does that hurt?”
Lawrence hesitated; he hadn’t thought about the cuts and bruises on his face until Ali had pointed them out. He nodded slowly in response. Ali moved there, a cut had split his skin and lower lip, it had cracked and hardened in the winter air, blighted like a crop in a morning frost. Ali pressed the scalding rag to it, and Lawrence hissed behind his teeth and flinched out of Ali’s hand, but the man simply raised it again and steadied Lawrence by his cheek and carefully worked the dirt out.
His brown eyes glistening in the early morning light, a perfect stillness. The sounds of the camp were drowned out by the sound of Lawrence’s heavy breath. He leaned back, two arms shaking slightly with fever. Ali leaned in, against Lawrence’s chest, now fully exposed. They pressed up against Ali’s forearms and heaved with each rattle and gasp. Warm water slinked down Ali’s arms and down Lawrence’s body.
“There is dirt in there.”
“Pardon?” Lawrence choked out.
“Dirt, in the cut. I will have to get it out; I will need to be careful. Do not move.” Ali leaned in closer. Lawrence stopped breathing.
Ali then used the corner of the flannel to pick out tiny shards and pebbles. The laceration started to bleed again, flushing the rest out. Ali muttered something and pressed the cloth firmly against the side of Lawrence's mouth to ease it.
He met Lawrence's eyes again and held the gaze.
Lawrence had to get out of there. His pride was wounded, his identity exposed, and he had been violated and tortured. Was there any hope of returning to live as a normal man? Or an imitation of one? Was there ever a chance, perhaps, that he should commit to the act of ending his life, something he had considered many times before.
But at that moment, in Ali’s grip and gaze, he felt he had no other place to face but the man in front of him.
Ali was faintly aware of the partially naked man who was between his arm and shoulder at that moment. Lawrence was sitting with his torso open and his legs folded underneath. Ali fought to keep his gaze from wandering down to his chest; however, he found he couldn’t help stealing glances as he went for more water. Instead, as he tried to stop the bleeding, he locked eyes with him instead. Lawewnce breathed heavily and shook. If Ali could guess, from the fever.
“Come now,” He spoke, lifting the cloth, “may I continue?”
Lawrence nodded slowly, “Must I remove all the clothing?”
“If I am to clean you properly, then yes.” The words sounded too harsh coming from his mouth, but Ali stood and walked over to a sloped area of the shelter and soaked the cloth again. He turned to give Lawrence what little privacy there was and waited. He then took the cloth, and in great swoops he worked down until all the water was gone, and Lawrence was clean. By now the fever had worsened, and even after trying himself off, Lawrence was hot to the touch. This concerned him; he picked up Lawrence’s dirty clothes and went to leave.
“Where are you going!” Lawrence stammered,
“I am off to get you clean robes. These are damp and unfit.” Ali hesitated at the exit.
Lawrence lowered himself into the bed and covered himself with the blanket, neglecting the towel. He then curled into a ball and continued to shiver.
Ali was quick; he asked after any warmer clothing, but nothing would be of use for Lawrence. He got the robes washed and returned. Lawrence was pale, shivering, and clammy.
Lawrence searched inside of him for any way to ask that didn't sound so utterly pathetic. But in the end, all he could muster was “Ali, don’t go-”
Ali removed his outer cloak and his shoes. He carried some thin blankets and placed them on top of Lawrence.
“Are you cold?” Ali stood by the bed.
“Y-yes.”
“When you are better, I will light a fire. Not here.”
He bent down and pulled the blankets up further. Ali sat down next to Lawrence and started in the tangles of his hair. The warmth of that was enough for Lawrence to fall into a fitful sleep.
Ali couldn’t stop thinking about Lawrence, about his sex. It was a shock, a betrayal of sorts. But then again, Lawrence was different. Everybody knew that. Even so, he was beautiful, handsome. A perfect balance of soft and hard. Tanned skin fading to light pink, harsh lines from the sun becoming lines and curves. Bloodied knuckles and wounds across his back juxtaposed the perfection of Lawrence's hips and torso. Ali looked now at the figure sleeping near and found himself aroused most strangely.