"Will they remember me?" his lover asks languidly, their bodies still heavy with satisfaction, yet clearly entirely serious.
Sword-calloused fingers tangle gently in golden curls, grey eyes admiring the way they look fanned out in his lap. He's tempted to kiss lips that are currently pursed in thought. Instead he smiles, keeping his voice soft enough that it won't reach the guards outside the tent, "Of course. They'll sing your name alongside that of Achilles, long after we're gone."
"Yours, too," comes the prompt reply. "My Patroclus."
"My Alexander..." Hephaestion whispers and leans down to steal a kiss after all.