Winter in Paris is always a bleak affair. Caught between a rock and a hard place Lawrence stares blankly out of the window of the Bentley. A privacy screen separates Feisal and him from the chauffeur, but so far it has not been needed because the prince has barely acknowledged him.
“I apologise.” Those two words do not come easy to Lawrence’s lips. He is a man of deep thought and decisive action, but speaking from his heart is almost impossible. So much weight bears down upon his shoulders from years of barbarism and tragedy that he is swamped by it at times.
“You left when you were most needed.” Feisal stares out of the opposite window at the murkiness of the outlying reaches of Paris. “We have no more to say to each other.”
Lawrence is angered by this petulant display. In one hour’s time his father will be buried and he won't be there to throw a handful of earth onto the coffin -- a small but rather significant detail in life. He missed his father’s passing and now he will miss the ceremony that goes along with it all because of his loyalty to Feisal and the Arab people. Prince or no prince, Lawrence does not try to talk Feisal around and when they arrive at the hotel he leaves him in the safe hands of attending servants then retires to lick his wounds.
The small suite of rooms is fashionably severe and the austerity suits Lawrence’s mood. Sitting in a wing backed chair, he pours a tumbler of whisky from the crystal decanter and seethes quietly. The knock at the door does not surprise him in the least. Putting the glass down on a coaster, he approaches the double doors and opens them to see, as expected, Feisal’s servant standing at the threshold.
“Salaam. Prince Feisal requests your immediate attendance.”
Lawrence is somewhat pleased that his presence is requested rather than demanded, but it would not do to show complete acquiescence. “Tell the Emir that I shall be delighted to accept his invitation... after I have dressed for dinner.”
The servant bows and departs leaving Lawrence alone with his thoughts. Whilst the bath water is running he attempts to telephone the family home, but all the lines out of the capital are busy. Even his fluency in French and purported influence cannot get him a blasted connection.
Sitting and nursing his tumbler of whisky, Lawrence forgets all about the bath and when he finally does remember, the water is almost at the point of overflowing. He undresses slowly and steps into the enamel tub, discovering that it’s hot enough to scald. This is exactly what he needs; the scars on his back open up, seeping out some of their accumulated hurt and he's finally able to relax a little. There's no hurry as far as he is concerned; dinner will not be served for almost two hours and Lawrence has little desire to spend time in the company of Feisal if he continues to wallow in that dark accusatory mood.
Once the water becomes intolerably cool Lawrence parts company with the bath and wraps a towel around his waist, shaving and drying off his hair as best he can. He chooses a formal dinner suit over uniform and gives his shoes a quick polish, wishing that he still had his batman, Morris, in attendance. This assignment as Prince Feisal’s interpreter has given him a chance to be away from the strictness of army regime, but there are some duties he has a bad habit of forgetting until the last minute.
The prince is staying in a suite of rooms which take up much of the top floor. They are, arguably, the best in the hotel, although Lawrence suspects that the French and British dignitaries would make a point of lording their superiority over the Emir, even through such a minor detail as room size.
Lawrence knocks politely and, when the door opens, he enters and approaches Feisal. “As-salam alaykum,” he says, bowing his head respectfully and wishing he was dressed in Arab garb. Things were so much easier during the war when they were brothers.
“Hello, my dearest friend,” replies Feisal, standing to greet him.
The prince dismisses the servants with a wave of his hand and pulls Lawrence into a fierce hug. “I have been a selfish man, Ned. You must forgive me.”
“Always, ha'bibi.”
They rest cheek against cheek and Lawrence remembers nights spent together in the desert -- restless, relentless nights when fear and insomnia led them to satisfy each other again and again ‘til dawn. Theirs has been a love affair of the heart and mind ever since, the shared desire to see independence for the Arab world forging a devotion deeper than anything physical could bring about.
“I failed. I was weak without you.”
“A fact I refute absolutely, knowing you as well as I do.” Lawrence takes Feisal’s hands in his and looks up at the man, seeing worry lines creasing the handsome face. “They duped you. They duped us all. They have been lying to the world for years.”
“I’m exhausted.” Feisal rests his forehead on Lawrence’s shoulder. “Too tired to fight for my people. The war is over and now the battle with it.”
Lawrence remembers how they fought side by side--territory taken back inch by bloody inch--and he will not let it be stripped away from them by a pack of Anglo-French wolfhounds.
“It will never be over until you are King of Syria and the Near East is free.”
“You are my strength.” As these whispered words leave his lips Feisal lifts his head, leaning in close and the two men kiss for the first time in years. Lawrence reacquaints himself with the taste of Feisal’s mouth. Money, mint and the bitterness of smoke pervade and it draws him back to clear scented air and nights spent under canvas -- the home that he longs for more as each day passes.
The kiss deepens then Feisal pulls back a little, taking Lawrence by the hand and leading him in through the open doors of the bedroom. “Here we can be whomever we wish to be,” he says with a warm smile as he pushes the dinner jacket from Lawrence’s shoulders, fighting with the bow tie and cummerbund. “I hate seeing you like this. You should be dressed in the clothes of my people.”
Lawrence agrees wholeheartedly, but he’s too preoccupied to answer. Reassured by Feisal’s words his hands wander greedily, freeing the man from his robes, thobe and ghutra cast aside until Feisal is naked but for a pair of thin white cotton trousers.
“If only it was as easy to see your skin.”
Lawrence chuckles, rather delighted by the frustration on the older man’s face.
“Shall I oblige, ha'bibi?"
“Please. I may have defeated the Ottomans, but this piece of material is an unassailable opponent.” Feisal tugs at the cummerbund.
Laughter eases whatever tension may have remained between the two men and their craving for each other intensifies until it’s almost palpable. Lawrence strips down to his undergarments at slow pace and it’s a sensuous feeling to have Feisal watching him in such a rapt manner, the tented cotton of his sirwal displaying, quite obviously, the degree of his desire.
“This is a luxury we have not experienced before.” Feisal lounges on the bed, beckoning Lawrence over to join him on the silk counterpane. “Come, sadiqi, let us put all politics aside for tonight. I have missed knowing you.”
Removing his undergarments Lawrence crawls up the bed, hands shaking with an urgent need to explore the expanse of beautiful skin at his disposal. Insinuating himself between Feisal’s legs, he unfastens the drawstring of the trousers and pulls them lower, dipping down and taking that curved and swollen organ into his mouth, remembering, with a sudden rush of self-belief, those heady nights spent pleasuring each other.
Feisal sighs with delight, kicking off the loose cotton trousers then arching up like a contented cat as Lawrence lavishes attention on him with slow, steady sucks and a soft lapping of his tongue.
Lawrence has never had a woman and nor does he desire one. His greatest pleasure comes from the taste and the feel of a man. He dreams of cock -- a column of flesh rising up from its nest of hair, thick and hot and explosive with need. It's a foible he tries to keep as private as possible for the sake of his family and is why he thinks of Syria as his home. In the Near East he can indulge his passions with princes and common men alike. There he is whole.
Curling his fingers around the shaft of Feisal’s erection, he squeezes tightly then rubs his thumb over the bulbous head that’s sticky with saliva and need. He buries his face against the soft downy sac, breathing in the scent of rosewater and maleness and running the flat over his tongue over wrinkled flesh until Feisal calls out his name over and over and reaches for him.
Cock presses against cock as they kiss deeply and lovingly and although Lawrence wants so much more, he knows that this is the limit of their sex. Rising up on both arms he rocks smoothly against the bigger man, their shafts gliding wetly and intimately.
They writhe together on the bed, bodies straining to reach climax, and when Feisal covers him--fingers mussing his damp blonde hair, white teeth biting at his nipples--the feel of that beard rubbing rough against his skin is enough to send Lawrence over the edge. He ejaculates with a contented sigh, knowing from experience that the night will bring with it plenty more pleasure. Twisting around, he takes Feisal back into his mouth and sucks hard and long, drinking down the bittersweet semen with a relish that comes from having regained someone who has been lost to him.
He loves this man with all his heart and all his mind, the same way he loved another years before this blasted war. And when this night is over and they return to being political allies it won't matter, because Lawrence is a man of his word. He will fight by Feisal’s side until the end.
DONE