lalique (ghostwit)
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“The sun’s risen.” Alexander looms above him, the high fronds and latticework of greenery like the millionfold joined arms of nymphs. His face, backlit by a bloody sunrise, is only a darkness, a rending, and his open mouth is nothing but an impression, as if Hephaestion had closed his eyes and waved his hand before himself, a swimming in that blackness. His eyelids waver, and he joins Alexander in that huge, moving dim, this other world.
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He wishes Hephaestion to take the taste of waking from his mouth, or to share it with him. Hephaestion’s tongue is superbly moist, slightly salty, and the sensation of it is slaking, listening to the slight rasp of their locked mouths lose its rattle, and convert to the gentle, sibilant suctioning of wetness to wetness, softness to softness. He tastes Hephaestion’s sleep, and smells himself on the man’s face, on his cheeks and in the raw scraping of Hephaestion’s close-shorn beard against his chin and jaw.
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Each day, he loses him, each day he is abandoned, each day Orestes fails to return his love; of what concern is that to him? It is his purpose--perhaps divine, beyond the omnipresence of fulfillment--to love Orestes: let him perish should he fail it.