Disclaimer: Seriously, is this even necessary? I've never even seen the Oliver Stone film, because I heard it was terrible. All characterizations are based on what I know about Hephaestion and Alexander (which includes a LOT of books, none of which I specifically remember at the moment.) Meh, let the lawyers handle it.
I've never written in this particular fandom before, so any comments, criticisms, or constructive advice is welcome. Without further ado: the story!
The night is dizzy; his head is heavy with wine and torchlight makes his vision splotch and spin. But he's happier than he's been in a long time; and Hephaestion is by his side, and his bones and skin seem tight with anticipation.
When Hephaestion's head begins to droop forward, he doesn't worry too much—it's late, after all; and the day was long. But then he doesn't wake up.
He still doesn't panic.
When he touches Hephaestion's forehead, it's hot, and slick with sweat.
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Alexander had first seen a crucifixion when he was sixteen years old.
It was a man only slightly younger than himself, accused of robbery. Alexander understood the logic behind it. He needed to be made an example of; he couldn't be allowed to get away with flaunting the law.
What he remembered most of all were the tortured screams and moans of the man and birds came down to peck at his flesh. He remembered the jeers of the crowd at the foot of the cross, and he remembered how, when the sun set, he was still not dead.
He remembered Hephaestion, beside him. "What a terrible way to die," he whispered, and Alexander clutched his hand tightly.
"It is nothing for you to fear," Alexander says firmly. "You won't ever die."
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He stays with Hephaestion that night. He crawls into bed beside his and presses his cheek to Hephaestion's neck, afraid that he will stop feeling the life beating within his throat.
He wakes up early the next morning to Hephaestion crying out in pain; a restless sleep filled with demons.
Alexander kisses him, and wipes his brow, and presses their bodies close together when Hephaestion shivers and moans.
For the first time since before his father's death, Alexander feels completely helpless.
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His wedding ceremonies lasted five days. They were elaborate and beautiful, and everyone loved the festivities.
Hephaestion joined in the celebrations, but watched with wounded eyes. Alexander, passionate in everything he did, began to doubt himself.
But Hephaestion said nothing. And Alexander certainly wouldn't.
So—though it made his stomach twist—he did his duty to Roxana, and lay in bed beside her afterwards. Her hand rested on his chest.
Once he heard most of the noise from the men die down, he slipped out, and went to Hephaestion, who was lying awake in his tent.
He watched Alexander enter silently, with a sad smile.
"I'm sorry," Alexander murmured, stroking Hephaestion's hair and kissing his jaw. "I need you."
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His finest physician stays beside them. He cuts Hephaestion's arms and shoulders and lets the blood drip into a bowl by the side of the bed.
Hephaestion cries out, but doesn't wake up.
Alexander clenches his fists and bites his tongue to stop himself from flying across the room and wrenching the knife from the doctor's hands. He wants to stem the flow of blood, he wants it to stop; Hephaestion looks whiter by the second.
But the doctor knows what he is doing, after all, and Alexander needs Hephaestion to live.
So he does nothing.
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Sometimes, when he was separated from Hephaestion (something that grew rarer and rarer), Alexander would think back to the first kiss they had shared, at Mieza. Alexander had been fourteen; Hephaestion, fifteen.
It stood out in his mind as the most perfect moment they had shared; innocent childlike purity; two friends; high with their own love and passion.
They were older, now, grizzled and broken from war and sadness. They loved each other no less; but Alexander remembered the ecstasy that had flooded him that first time, and wished.
They had been outside, after classes had ended, standing well away from their classmates. Alexander was sitting at the base of a leafy tree, still green from summer. Hephaestion had been crouched beside him, tracing patterns in the dirt with his fingers.
"Some of the other boys think that we—that we are—lovers," Hephaestion blurted suddenly, his eyes darting up to Alexander's face.
Alexander watched his flustered friend, amused. "And what do you say to them?"
Hephaestion turned red. "Nothing," he said. "It's none of their business."
Alexander laughed softly and tucked a lock of Hephaestion's hair behind his ear.
"Good answer," he said, and grazed the side of Hephaestion's face. "But you haven't told me what you think, yet."
Hephaestion's voice shook slightly as he answered. "Perhaps someday," he whispered softly.
Alexander laughed again and moved their faces closer together. "Why not today?" Hephaestion could feel Alexander's breath on his lips.
Hephaestion closed the remaining distance between them.
And that was what Alexander remembered the most.
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The third day, Hephaestion's eyes open.
Alexander is kneeling by his bedside and holding his hand, tracing the scabs and raw cuts on the back of his wrists, when he feels a faint stirring. He leaps to his feet and hushes the doctor and watches as Hephaestion struggles to burst into light.
His eyes, when they open, are filmy; bright and empty. Alexander claps in delight and kisses him firmly on the mouth.
Hephaestion smiles.
"Hephaestion, my dear Hephaestion," Alexander weeps. "Patrolukus, Philalexandros."
Hephaestion watches him blankly. "We should hurry to class," he says anxiously. "Aristotle will be angry. I don't want to upset him."
Alexander looks between the physician and Hephaestion, worried. He smoothes back Hephaestion's dark curls. "It's over," he says tenderly. "It's over."
"I mean it," Hephaestion continues, as though he hasn't heard a word. "We have to go." He struggles to pull himself up, and collapses backwards. Alexander catches his wrist and feels the pulse thrumming within. Too quick and too light; breakable.
"He doesn't know you, my Lord," the doctor says softly, before making his way towards Hephaestion to try some new potion.
Alexander clutches Hephaestion to him, and does not cease weeping until the moon is high in the sky.
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After Hephaestion was injured in the Battle of Guagamela, Alexander spent the entire night at his bedside. It was the first time in his memory that his companion had suffered such wounds.
The attending physician was completely confident that Hephaestion would live—but said that he might never walk. Alexander, barely holding himself back from panic, spent the day pacing the room, only occasionally watching Hephaestion.
Finally, he looked at Hephaestion to find his eyes open, watching Alexander with a mild curiosity.
Alexander let out a breath he had not known he was holding and spanned the distance between himself and Hephaestion in two strides. "How do you feel?" he asked anxiously.
Hephaestion winced slightly. "I'll be fine…will you stay?"
Alexander could only have one answer for Hephaestion. "Yes."
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He does not eat the fourth day, just stares at red spots emerging on Hephaestion's chest and arms and face, and pretends that he does not hear the murmurs of imminent death skirting around the edges of the room.
He even forgets, after a while, that it is Hephaestion who is slowly wasting away, and not himself. The grey, pallid face is a mirror, reflecting how he must surely look. And he feels as if he is dead; as if he is only a shade, damned to walk the earth.
When he dreams, he dreams of death, and it hurts as much whether Hephaestion dies, or him.
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Alexander liked to watch Hephaestion sleep.
His mouth fell open slightly, and his eyes squeezed shut as though he was squinting against the Indian sun. He curled up against Alexander's side, and his hair fell loosely into his eyes. His hands curled into fists, balled up against his sides.
And always the soft arc, up and down, of his chest.
And that was what Alexander looked for, when Hephaestion was sleeping.
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He spends the sixth day watching more blood pour out of Hephaestion, and of listening to each individual, shaky breath.
Death, for all the torture it inflicts, is remarkably monotonous.
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Alexander never gave up.
Neither did Hephaestion.
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Alexander breathes in time with Hephaestion. And a silence and a dizziness in his head tell him when it was over.
Hephaestion dies on the seventh day; and Alexander, son of Phillip, ceases to live.
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Hey, reader! If you've made it this far, what's stopping you from taking a few more seconds to tell me what you thought. Plus, I have a LARGE stash of chocolate which I'd be HAPPY to dole out to reviewers.