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Dusk is falling when Hephaistion reaches the outer edges of Alexander’s camp. He already knows what awaits him there: a council with the Greek generals, long hours pouring over maps and letters. Tightening the reigns on his horse, he lets out a long breath.
What he really wants is bath. A warm one, preferably, with scented Persian oils to get rid of the all the grime—literal and figurative, because dealing with spies and traitors does something to one’s soul. He lets himself imagine, for the briefest of moments, his sore muscles sinking into hot water, a cloud of spiced steam rising, coating him, coaxing him into relaxation.
It’s a brief moment, and soon enough he’s shaking his head at his own thoughts. He supposes, however, that longing for a Persian bath and oils is about as tame as it can get when it comes to wanting Persian things.
There is a page waiting for him when he reaches the makeshift stables of the camp, there to help him dismount, and hopefully guide him to his tent for a quick breath of air before he is to meet with the war council.
Instead, the page shuffles close to him as soon as both of Hephaistion’s feet hit the ground, saying in a low voice, “The King wishes to see you, immediately.”
As he follows the boy, his mind methodically goes through the possible explanations for this summons. The men in the camp seem normal, no more weary or cheerful than usual. He searches for signs—whispers and stares, pointing fingers and eyes looking away—but there is nothing out of the ordinary. His stomach sinks as the idea of something more sinister afoot. A plot perhaps. Or, worse still, a plot involving Olympias.
The Greek guards at Alexander’s tent wave him in without announcement, a practice the Persian servants inside still scowl at. He wonders, fleetingly, if this is the tension that will be the end of them one day. Not an army in India, but this, the constant push and pull between the old and the new. It’s a fleeting thought he’s been carrying around more frequently lately.
He doesn’t have much time to dwell on it, however, as Alexander’s voice booms through the tent before Hephaistion has even take two steps inside. “Everyone, out!”
Hephaistion watches as generals stand up from the table where Alexander sits, pages scrambling after them, picking up scrolls and inks. They give him a quick nod on their way out. Well, all except Ptolemy, who gives him a sharp look instead.
Be careful, Ptomely had once said to him, that same sharp look in his eyes. Young and offended, Hephaistion had replied something to effects of giving up his own life to protect Alexander, eliciting a somber laugh from Ptolemy. Can you protect him from yourself? From himself?
Now, much like back then, Ptolemy walks out without another word.
Then Alexander is dismissing his own pages and servants, too. Unlike earlier, his voice is gentle as he takes Bagoas’ hand, saying, “You, too.”
For a moment, Bagoas looks stricken, on the verge of protest at this treatment. But another second and his eyes are downcast, following his orders by stepping lightly out of the tent, so graceful he almost looks like he is floating in the dim light of the tent.
It’s only the two of them and a servant girl, now. A quick glance over his shoulder tells him it is only the guards standing outside the tent now. Privacy, or as much of it as can be had in a war camp, is theirs, for the moment. Hephaistion waits.
Alexander isn’t looking at him when he speaks first. “I know dismissing Bagoas is a loss, he can be such a balm for the soul. But,” he stops speaking to catch Hephaistion’s eyes meaningfully. “There are things that are not for him to see.”
Smiling, he makes his way over to Alexander, now understanding the purpose of the urgent summons. “My King,” he says, eyes taking in the man in front of him, a portrait he wants engraved in his mind.
“Not tonight,” is Alexander’s quick response as he wraps Hephaistion in a tight hug. “Too many moons have passed.”
Alexander hugs him first, but Hephaistion holds on for longer. Too many moons have indeed passed. Too many nights dreaming about this, his hands on Alexander’s waist and more. Then Alexander turns his face into the crook of Hephaistion’s neck, planting a kiss there.
“Just a bit longer,” Hephaistion whispers, “just let me hold you a bit longer. Please.”
“Anything you want.”
Burying his nose in Alexander’s hair, he breathes in the scent of jasmine, fresh curls tickling his cheeks. And maybe it’s the smell or the tiredness what makes him say next, half jokingly, “What I really want is a bath.”
It’s a thought out loud that he is immediately embarrassed by. It makes Alexander pull away, regret almost washing over him except there’s laughter filling the tent. Joyful, sincere laughter, and he cannot begrudge any joy of Alexander’s. He would embarrass himself all over again to hear that sound again.
“My father would’ve called you a spoiled brat,” Alexander says, still smiling. He looks young like this. Too young, and Hephaistion wants to steal this moment from the claws of time, keep it all to himself.
“Your father would’ve called me much worse than that.”
Turning to the servant girl, Alexander says, “Whatever he says, it is as if I had said. Whatever he wishes for, it is as if I had wished for it.”
The servant girl is Persian, but she clearly understands Greek for her features morph into that disapproving scowl Hephaistion has forced himself to grow accustomed to, wherever his relationship with Alexander—the sincere, open version of it—is witnessed. Hephaistion does not wonder if Alexander notices. Much like any gesture on his soldiers’ faces, this, too, will be catalogued. This, too, will be later examined, a problem to be solved.
If Hephaistion were less secure of his position, he would worry the solution would be to get rid of him. But he knows deep in his bones that solution will never come to be. And isn’t that the problem? Isn’t that how Hephaistion puts his King at risk?
“Come now,” Alexander says, tugging his hand and his mind back into the present. He must catch something in Hephaistion’s eyes because next he is smiling charmingly. Hot, sticky syrup charm to melt anyone’s defences. “You know, upon reflection, I do not believe demanding a bath is at all a proper way to greet your King.”
Despite his thoughts, too many moons have passed since they were last like this, and Hephaistion cannot resist the sweetness of Alexander’s hand in his, cannot resist as he is guided to the makeshift bed. There, he crawls on top so he can kiss Alexander everywhere he likes.
“Tell me, my King,” he starts, following Alexander’s playful lead and moving down the bed until he is at the King’s feet. Taking his right ankle, he kisses it and asks, “Is this a better way to greet you?” He trails kisses up Alexander’s leg, over the tensing muscles in his calf, on the soft skin behind his knee, up to the sensitive spots in his inner thigh. It’s a path Hephaistion knows like the back of his hand.
“Marginally better,” Alexander replies, his tone still teasing and far too composed for Hephaistion’s present goals.
“Then I shall work harder,” he says against Alexander’s skin.
Knowing him since childhood, Hephaistion knows exactly what Alexander wants. Touching the skin of the man underneath him is like coming home. It does not matter for how long they have been apart, or how many other rooms they have slept in, or how many other lovers they have taken to bed, this skin underneath him is his true home. The smell of it, the taste of it, the way it feels under his tongue, these are things Hephaistion could never forget. Things he clings to in the eve of battle because there is no other choice than to come back alive, back to them.
His kisses leave a faint trail up Alexander’s legs, nothing that won’t be gone in the morning. Except for when he gets under the soldier uniform. There, he bites and sucks on the sensitive skin, finally drawing out the first moans from his King.
He whispers little nothings, barely audible to the two of them. About how he wants Alexander to see the marks when he dresses and undresses next. About how sweet he tastes, a gift from the gods, surely.
He gets the reaction he wants, quiet moans turning to whimpers as he lavishes soft praise, his fingers and tongue close but not close enough to where Alexander wants them. “I adore all of you,” he says, kissing the valley where Alexander’s leg meets his groin.
Even there, it smells faintly of jasmine, and Hephaistion suddenly wonders if Alexander prepared for this. Warmth washes all over him at the thought, and he cannot continue teasing anymore. He must know, by taste and scent, whether this thought is true. He must know, he thinks, as he licks the head of Alexander’s cock.
“Hephaistion, by the gods,” Alexander moans.
And, there too is the faint scent of jasmine. It makes Hephaistion greedy as he sucks, Alexander’s cock heavier and heavier as it hardens in his mouth. He tastes the saltiness of seed starting to spill, not fully reaching climax, but close to the edge.
He moves downward, hunting for jasmine flowers on his beloved’s skin. He finds it there, too, in between the perfect curve of his ass. Burying his face in it, he slips his tongue inside Alexander, giving him a moment to adjust.
“More,” Alexander demands. And it would sound sharp, an order, except then he adds, “please, my love.”
Not one to make his King beg, Hephaistion pushes deeper inside with his tongue, his grip firm on Alexander’s cock. He pushes his tongue in and out, sucking loud, wet kisses in between. His whole mouth fixated on this one spot until Alexander is writhing from it, fingers tangled in Hephaistion’s hair.
Alexander is close. He can tell by the way the curve of his ass tenses, the way his breaths are shorter, how he starts tugging on Hephaistion’s hair. He likes bringing him close to the edge like this, with his mouth on him. But he wants to see his beloved’s face when he reaches climax. He wants to know he is the sole responsible for this immense pleasure. Tonight, right here and now, only he gets to have Alexander like this.
He slows his kisses, moves upward again, aligning their bodies so Alexander can feel his hardness, too. Reaching down, he maintains his grip on Alexander’s cock, moving a bit faster now his leverage is better.
He turns his eyes on Alexander’s face and watches, mesmerised, as Alexander bites down on his lip, noticing how red it is already. “You make the prettiest noises for me,” Hephaistion tells him softly, thumb tracing the bruised lip, encouraging him to be less quiet, if only briefly, if only for the last stretch of this race.
“Love.” Alexander moans, arms around his shoulders and mouth so close it brushes against Hephaistion’s ear when he speaks, “I want you in me.”
Taking the vial of oil Alexander offers him, he spreads it on himself before reaching down behind his beloved. Hephaistion is not a jealous man, but in that moment, staring at Alexander’s lovely face, his pupils dark and blown out with desire, he wishes to be the only one in this world who gets to see him like this. Who gets to have him like this, sprawled under him, ready to be taken, wanting to be taken.
Alexander’s legs on his shoulders, he enters the deliciously warm space between his legs. It’s a shallow thrust at first before he starts moving steadily, a rhythm maintained between the two of them, two souls joined as one.
“I love you,” he says into Alexander’s curls, over and over, until muscles tense around him, and he isn’t coherent anymore.
Alexander stays wrapped around him as they regain their breaths. “I missed you,” he says.
And maybe it’s the heat lingering between them, clouding his judgement, because he feels bold enough to say, “I wish no man could ever touch you like this.”
The women, he understands. The eunuch, the courtesans, he understands. But somewhere deep in his heart, he aches at the thought of Alexander lying with another man.
“No man shall ever touch me like this, shall ever have me like this,” Alexander says, his hand soft but steady on Hephaistion’s cheek. “For you are no ordinary man, you are the other half of my soul.”
It knocks the breath out of him, to hear these words. To know himself to be loved and trusted is one thing. To hear a king say these words—his King—is praise and honor beyond anything Hephaistion ever dreamed.
He searches for Alexander’s eyes, smiling as he says, “I may never make a bet again, for all my good fortune has been dealt, right here.”