t r i a n g u l a t i o n . ( p y t h a g o r e a n . o v e r d u b )

Triangulation (Pythagorean Overdub)
[by victoria p.]

Rating: General

Summary: Hephaistion and Bagoas share a little wine, and a little conversation.

Notes: Thanks so much to Louise Lux for providing quick and invaluable betaing, to hossgal for looking it over, and to Mousapelli for the usual handholding over AIM during writing. Written for Remix/Redux III: Reloaded from the original story There Is Truth in Wine by Baranduin

Date: March 19, 2005

Hephaistion misses Alexander. The sun is less bright, the camp emptier without his presence. Hephaistion doesn't resent being left behind while Alexander is off hunting Bessos again -- he will faithfully serve in whatever capacity Alexander needs him, and he'll be back to soldiering soon enough. He is surprised to find he misses it, as well, though perhaps he's just missing the simpler life of a Companion. But his skills are needed here at the moment, so here he stays.

Of course, loving who he loves, his life has always been more complicated than he might wish. For him, Alexander is enough -- has always been enough. And being loved by him is the fulfillment of Hephaistion's most deeply held ambitions, despite what others may believe.

But he is not enough for Alexander. The whole world is not enough for Alexander. Hephaistion knows this, and has accepted it for all the years they've been together. He'd just never expected to be replaced in Alexander's bed by a Persian dancing boy. It has taken some adjustment, perhaps because he has always needed and valued the physical connection between them more than Alexander did, though Alexander is loath to admit it.

Hephaistion has always known he would have to give way before a wife or three, and perhaps even a mistress, though Alexander rarely favors women as lovers. And he supposes that, in the normal course of things, it was to be expected that Alexander would one day choose a boy to be his eromenes. And the symbolism of Alexander taking Darius' favorite boy is not lost on Hephaistion.

He just never expected it to last as long as it has, to become a constant in their lives.

Hephaistion misses Alexander most at night. Even though they spend more nights apart than together these days, Hephaistion has never quite reconciled himself to the loss of Alexander's solid weight pressed against him in sleep, smelling of summer, of incense, of the two of them mingled together so closely he sometimes couldn't tell where he ended and Alexander began.

It's not as though he hasn't had opportunities of his own. The pages, the other men, the hetairai -- he could have whomever he chooses, if he so desired. But the boys are too callow, the men too openly ambitious, the women too soft for his liking.

He rises from the couch and prowls his tent, unable to settle when these thoughts plague him, as they have more frequently of late. He laughs at himself, pining over Alexander like a lovesick girl, when he has more of the king than any man on earth, leaving aside the current sleeping arrangements.

He does not question Alexander's heart, but he misses the fierce heat of his desire.

He takes a jar of wine from the table and is on his way before he has even realized where he's going.

In Alexander's tent, surrounded by Alexander's things -- where, perhaps, some vestige of his scent or presence lingers -- Hephaistion thinks he may find rest. And if not rest, perhaps a book to read, or the king's copy of The Iliad, so familiar and beloved of them both.

He raises the flap, and -- of course. The boy is there. He sighs in resignation and the boy tenses and turns.

"He has given me leave to read this," he says in his fluting voice, eyes wide with something akin to fear. Another sigh, this one internal. He and Bagoas have mostly kept out of each other's way, and Hephaistion prefers it that way, but there's nothing for it now. To retreat would be humiliating. He walks slowly into the tent.

"I did not dispute that," Hephaistion answers with a nod and an attempt at a friendly smile. To gain a moment to think, he kneels to pet Peritas, who thumps his tail happily at the attention. "I was thinking I might do some reading myself."

Bagoas glances toward the flagon of wine in Hephaistion's hand, and raises his eyebrows.

Seeing the object of Bagoas' gaze, Hephaistion cocks a brow of his own, because the boy is drinking wine, as well. Bagoas flushes, pink under the dusky smoothness of his cheeks. Yes, Hephaistion can see why Alexander keeps him -- he's a beautiful boy. But he will never be a man.

Hephaistion moves purposefully to the trunk where Alexander keeps his reading material. Since Bagoas has The Iliad, he takes The Myrmidons, recalling the time he and Alexander had seen it, with Nikeratos acting the part of Achilles. Reading it is not the same as seeing it performed, but he casts his mind back to that day in the theatre, to the way Alexander sat enthralled, gripping his hand so tightly Hephaistion had lost all feeling in it halfway through.

He settles across the table from Bagoas, pours himself a cup of undiluted wine, and unrolls the scroll carefully. He drinks slowly, unwilling to lose his head here, in front of Bagoas, and tries to immerse himself in the beauty of the play, but Bagoas' gaze, dark and full of ill-hidden jealousy, pricks at his skin.

He looks up and Bagoas looks away. Typical Persian -- all sidelong glances and honeyed words that tangle a man up until he can't tell east from west.

They repeat the scene a few times, and Hephaistion is reminded of the staring games they used to play as boys at Mieza, when he had been the only one who could withstand Alexander's glare.

Bagoas drains his cup and pours himself more wine, and Hephaistion realizes he is being out-drunk by a Persian bed boy. He wants to laugh at the absurdity, but settles for letting his mouth curve into a wide grin, not quite appropriate for the tragedy he is reading, and refills his own cup.

The silence has grown almost companionable when Bagoas hisses in what sounds like pain.

Hephaistion looks up. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Bagoas answers hastily, but Hephaistion can tell he's lying. A quick glance across the table, and the words jump out at him -- Achilles' inconsolable grief at the death of his Patroclus.

Ah.

The world seems to shift slightly, and Hephaistion understands, or thinks he does. There is only one Patroclus to Alexander's Achilles, and Bagoas will never be him.

"Do you want me to leave?" he asks, not unkindly.

"No, of course not," Bagoas replies, taking another swallow of wine. Hephaistion can admit to himself at least that he admires Bagoas' composure. He would not be able to seem so serene if their positions were reversed. He is startled out of his thoughts when Bagoas says, "May I ask you something?"

Hephaistion nods and takes another sip of wine, keeping his eyes on Bagoas' face, trying to keep his gaze from sliding away, to no avail.

Bagoas licks his lips and looks down at the scroll laid out before him. "At Troy ... did you and Al'skander really run naked around their tombs?"

Hephaistion laughs. "Always the little Persian prude, aren't you?"

"I did not mean that. I only wanted to know ..." Bagoas blushes again, and Hephaistion takes pity on him, remembering that day at Troy, the way Alexander had glowed with golden fire, as if he truly were the son of a god, and how warmed he himself had been by being asked to share in that glow, reflect it.

"Yes, we did," he says before Bagoas can continue. "It meant much to us to be able to honor them so." He cocks his head, rubs his chin thoughtfully. "My turn."

Bagoas nods and gestures with his hand for Hephaistion to go on.

Hephaistion takes another drink, and then a deep breath. "Why do you hate me? I have done nothing to you." After all, you're the one in his bed. He exhales with a little huff, laughing at himself for asking a question to which he already knows the answer.

For once, Bagoas holds his gaze, eyes open and sad, though his hands are a little unsteady when he pours himself more wine. After a long silence broken only by the contrapuntal whoosh of their breathing, Bagoas says, "I ... I try not to."

Another huff of laughter, and Hephaistion thinks he's kept most of his own bitterness out of it. "At least you're honest."

"Why do you want to know such a thing?"

Hephaistion sips his wine and lets it roll over his tongue before he answers. "Curiosity." He shrugs one shoulder. "We are both bound to him and must live our days near to each other. I would prefer that we were not ... outright enemies." He already has too many of those, stretching back to Olympias and forward to Krateros. It would be easier if there were one less knife aimed at him, so close to where his heart lives.

Fear flickers across Bagoas' face, and the boy has had enough wine that he cannot hide it quickly, nor completely. "My lord, I am not your enemy. If I've done anything at all to make you think so ..."

Hephaistion leans forward, intent on having this out in the open. "No, you haven't. But I cannot deny ..." He shakes his head. "It is not always easy to see him with you," he says softly, almost to himself. He closes his eyes now; he's said too much. He leans back again, crossing his arms over his chest, and changes the subject. "Quite convenient for you, wasn't it?"

And now Bagoas is irritated enough -- or, perhaps more honestly, drunk enough -- to allow his irritation to show. His voice is slightly slurred when he says, "Convenient? What was convenient?"

Hephaistion shrugs and sets his cup down. One of them needs to remain sensible, and it's a role he's used to playing for the king. "Well, to go straight from Darius to Alexander. Not a bad life."

Bagoas' voice is low and bitter when he speaks, a tone Hephaistion has never heard him use before. A tone perhaps no one has heard him use before, outside the confines of his own head. "You know nothing of my life. My lord." He bites the words off with the precision of someone who knows he is drunk and is trying not to show it.

"Stop it. I'm just Hephaistion. And I know you were taken from your home at an early age and terrible things were done to you. But you can't deny that you've done well for yourself in spite of that and that your masters have been pleasant to you."

Bagoas closes his eyes and goes silent, his face tense even after all the wine. Hephaistion realizes he is reliving some unpleasant memory when he begins to speak, still in that low, hard tone.

"My masters? Oh, yes, I have had kind masters. So kind that my first master in Susa, once I'd turned twelve, sent me out every afternoon to be used by his clients as they would. Though you are right. He was kind. The ones who beat me in addition to using me ... he never sent me back to them. Though I suspect it was a question of having the merchandise in good working order ... a twelve-year-old boy covered in welts would not bring in so much gold. Yes, he was very nice to me. I would kill him if I could."

Hephaistion feels a chill; he has never thought about what it must be like to be a child stripped of all protection, to be a slave, to be a eunuch. To have no control and no freedom.

The boy has some iron in him after all, tempered and tested. This then, Hephaistion thinks, must be what Alexander sees.

Alexander often sees that which is hidden from everyone else.

Bagoas sits with his neck bent, his breathing ragged, as if he has just run a race or fought a battle. Perhaps, in his own way, he has.

Hephaistion considers reaching out a hand, but it would probably not be welcome. Finally, he says, "I'm sorry. I did not know."

Bagoas shakes his head, though he keeps his eyes fixed on the ground. "It does not matter."

"I think it does. We could do something about this. You have only to tell Alexander the name of this man and where he is." If Bagoas asked, Alexander would raze the man's house, possibly the entire city. He would never see the irony.

Bagoas looks up then, his eyes wide and dark. "No! You must not."

"He doesn't know?"

"No! I have only told him my first master was not a good man. Do not tell him, I beg you."

Hephaistion gives him an understanding half-smile. "I will not. But why did you tell me if you have not told him?"

Bagoas' voice is still low, but now he sounds young, like a boy taken too soon from his family, and made into a slave. "Perhaps I hoped that we could be closer."

Hephaistion raises his eyebrows. "Or perhaps the wine is strong, especially when it's nearly undiluted."

Bagoas laughs, then, and Hephaistion with him, and the sound is only slightly edged with bitterness.

Bagoas rises, and returns The Iliad to its gilded casket beneath Alexander's pillow. He stumbles a little, and Hephaistion reaches out to help him.

"I'll see you to your tent," he says, putting a steadying hand on the boy's arm.

"That's not necessary."

Hephaistion laughs again, softer this time. "Oh, but it is."

"Why?"

"Alexander would never forgive me if something happened to you and I had been able to prevent it. He loves you very much." Hephaistion still doesn't quite understand, but he's closer now than he was before.

"Does he?"

"Oh, yes. He speaks of you all the time to me."

Emotions flicker across Bagoas' expressive face, unreadable in the lamplight. "Let us go, then," he says softly, slumping a little, the fight gone out of him. "It is late."

Hephaistion walks him to his tent, an arm around his waist, his arm across Hephaistion's shoulders. This part of the evening is familiar, even if all that came before was rather strange.

He deposits Bagoas on his bed, kneeling to remove the boy's shoes, and Bagoas says, "Thank you. You are kind."

Hephaistion rises, embarrassed at playing nursemaid to a eunuch. He busies himself with the water jug, placing it on the table next to the bed. "Have some water. It will help." He turns back to Bagoas, wanting nothing more now than to get back to his own tent. "Can you undress?"

"Yes, of course."

Hephaistion sighs in relief. At the entrance to the tent he turns back and says, "I will not tell him, I swear it to you on the love you and I bear for him. Sleep well." He doesn't wait for a response.

When he is back in his own tent, another cup of wine in hand, he files away all that he's learned this evening, and when he sleeps, he is a little easier than he was before.

***

Alexander returns two days later to find them both in his tent, Hephaistion helping Bagoas with his reading.

Hephaistion smiles, the tension in his shoulders he hadn't realized he was carrying easing at the sight of the king safely returned.

"Welcome back," Hephaistion says as Bagoas hurries to Alexander's side.

Alexander nods at Hephaistion, and lets Bagoas begin the process of undressing him for his bath. He closes his eyes and relaxes as the boy takes the weight of cloak and cuirass from him, and though Hephaistion feels a small pang of jealousy as he leaves them to it, he tells himself it's all right. They each serve Alexander in their own way. Bagoas is just another thing Alexander must have, and Hephaistion will always make sure Alexander has what he needs.

end

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Disclaimer: This version of these characters is based on Mary Renault’s The Persian Boy. This piece of fan-written fiction intends no infringement on any copyrights.