Chapter Text
"Will I live, doctor?"
Socrates lifted his head from his stew. Alcibiades' voice was faint, raspy and slow, and he had never been happier to hear it.
"Most likely" he set his bowl and bread aside and scooted closer to where his tent-mate lay, on the stack of both their matresses.
"Good." Alcibiades hadn't opened his eyes. He looked unnervingly pale, even in the warm light of their poor, beaten-up lamp, which he had hurled in anger not once, but twice during the campaign. Socrates reached out and touched his forehead. His skin was cool, finally, and tacky with sweat and grime.
"How are you feeling?"
"Horrible" Alcibiades croaked, and opened his eyes. They shone, lively as ever, and immediately turned to Socrates, who set his palm on the side of his face, stroked his right eyebrow with his thumb. "How long have I been asleep?"
"Do you remember anything?"
"Nothing past the doctor"
Alcibiades had passed out shortly after the doctor had cleaned and stitched the wound on his thigh. That was an ugly, dangerous gash, and he had lost so much blood that Socrates had feared he was holding a corpse at one moment. The worst, the doctor said, was the rock that had dented his helmet. Many were the men who didn't recover from injuries like these. Alcibiades didn't even have a proper bruise to show for it, but whenever he had woken up afterwards he could only grunt unintelligible half-words, whine and hide from any source of light. When Socrates tried talking to him he had seemed agonized, so he had taken up silence, and scolded anyone who was making noise too close to their tent. Alcibiades only got up twice, only during the night and only managing to stay on all fours, long enough to piss and be forced to drink water. He had refused all food, which worried the doctors. But, they said, give him time. And time, Socrates could give. All the time he had until the generals had finalized negotiations, and the army inevitably started to head back.
"You've been out of it for three days."
"Three days?" Alcibiades' eyes grew wide. "How..."
"You got hit on the head very badly"
"I remember..." Alcibiades made to sit up and groaned in a high-pitched, pained way. "Poseidon, I ache everywhere."
Socrates wrapped his arms around him and helped him sit upright. He seemed winded, and from the way he shut his eyes, Socrates could guess he was nauseous. He kissed him on the temple, over the injury and his coarse, matted curls.
"Water" Alcibiades whispered, leaning into Socrates slightly, sounding almost panicked, bringing a hand up to his head.
Socrates let go of him tentatively and crawled over to his stew, brought it in front of Alcibiades' face.
"Drink from this."
Alcibiades gagged like he was about to throw up.
"No! No, the smell!" He let go of his head to push the bowl away, and socrates caught him by the wrist before he could spill it over both of them.
"Alright, alright" he said hastily. "No stew. Do you want some bread?"
Alcibiades shook his head, then winced and hissed. "Just water"
"Alright. But you will have to eat something soon, do you understand?"
"Later" Alcibiades had gone back to holding his head with one hand, while the other was gently supporting his injured thigh where it was stretched out awkwardly. Socrates looked briefly down. The bandages had already been soaked with blood. The wound kept opening.
"He's very young, his leg will heal just fine" the doctor had told him this morning, socrates remembered as he rummaged for Alcibiades' waterskin. The blood still was frightening. The other doctor had said that he had been incredibly lucky. A little deeper, a little to the side, and the injury could've had bled him to death within minutes. The dead man who attacked him had only missed the killing blow by a couple fingers' width.
"Here" in the present, he handed the water to Alcibiades, who moved very carefully and slowly. The lamp flickered as socrates sat back down next to him and Alcibiades winced again.
"The light hurts" he said after he had gulped down half his filled waterskin. Socrates worried it would make him sick, but said nothing. "I need to lie back down" he sounded like he was in pain, too.
"Here, let me help" Socrates supported his upper body, lowering him to the matresses again. He made to pull the blankets over him but Alcibiades stopped him with a weak hand on his forearm. "I'm too hot" he said, his eyes closed again and his brow furrowed.
"Hmm, you are indeed." Alcibiades laughed a little, which raised Socrates' spirits. "Your fever has dropped." He explained, and took the excuse to stroke his face. The stubble on his cheeks suited him nicely. It had yet to fill out properly, socrates thought that would take a couple years more, and he looked towards that future with something very much like selfish impatience.
Alcibiades quickly fell asleep, and for the first time in three days, socrates decided things were going well enough for him to spread out his himation and properly sleep for the night as well.
---
"Am i worth risking your life for?"
Socrates looks up from his shield's broken strap.
"If i give you an apple, will you ask me what fruit it is?"
Alcibiades makes a funny face, and Socrates knows he's thinking hard, because he doesn't reply for a few long moments. Enough for Socrates to go back to his attempts to fix his shield.
"Did you save me because it was the right thing to do, or because it was me?"
Socrates gives him half a laugh.
"I would indulge your need for your ego to be stroked, only because you're injured." He sets his shield down and shifts in his seat to lean towards Alcibiades. "But I care too much about you to lie. It was the right thing to do." He observes closely each tiny change in Alcibiades' expression. He can almost smell the disappointment.
"I see." Alcibiades even turns away from him a little, as much as he can without jostling himself too much.
"If a soldier next to you had gotten injured on the battlefield and enemies were circling him like vultures, wouldn't you also defend him, even if he wasn't a friend?"
"I guess..." Alcibiades is thinking again and Socrates tries to supress a smile. "But the battle was fierce. Nobody would've blamed you if you had left me."
"Only I would've blamed myself."
"I begged you to go."
"I remember."
"If I had been someone else, would you have listened?"
"I admire your persistence." Socrates chuckles.
"It's hope." Alcibiades murmurs, sulkily.
"Of course."
"Won't you answer me?"
"I don't know the answer." That's the simple truth, and Socrates sees that Alcibiades understands from how he nods.
" I owe you my life now."
"Don't make it sound like a bigger deal than it is. I'm sure if it hadn't been me, whoever was closest to you would have done the same. It's part of all battles."
"You killed seven people over me."
"And a peltast nearly got me." Socrates supplies. Then he considers how honest he's being with himself and sighs. "I would've done the same for any other. But I survived it because it was you."
Alcibiades turns and blinks at him. His eyes search the entirety of Socrates' body as if there's a lie somewhere to be found by looking.
"You underestimate yourself." He says at last, rolling his eyes and his head away again, wincing. "Seeing you fight- I don't think you'll die in a battle."
"There you go pretending to be an oracle again." Socrates mocks.
"Well maybe I am. Still, I have the biggest debt to you."
" You owe me nothing." He means it.
They find themselves staring into each other's eyes. It feels like they're fighting for something, though neither moves a muscle.
"I owe you way too much, Socrates." Part of Socrates wants to agree.
"Careful. Lest I take advantage of you." He jokes instead.
"Please take advantage of me" the needy tone goes right through him, like an arrow. He manages to hide it, barely.
"With your current state it wouldn't be so difficult anyway."
Alcibiades grunts.
"You're torturing a dying man, Socrates."
"You're not dying." Socrates picks his shield back up. Perhaps he has to go to the armorers, he doesn't think he can fix it himself. The leather might need to be entirely replaced. He focuses on that, rather than the way Alcibiades' exposed shoulders are bruised and scraped from his armor- his father's armor. He hadn't had time to get his own yet. He hadn't even properly wrapped up his training when they left. Socrates had yet to figure out who he had bribed and how, to be allowed to come along.
"I could be. Wounds can fester."
Socrates shoots him a look that says "that's enough" and Alcibiades dropped the pitiful act.
"Will you help me wash?" Alcibiades asks after a while.
"The doctor said no washing for ten days."
"I don't care. I stink."
"No washing." Socrates finally managed to pull out the entire leather strap from his shield and sets it aside.
"Surely a simple wet rag or a sponge won't do much damage if we're careful."
Socrates considers this. He considers that it's better he's there to supervise, rather than risk Alcibiades trying to bathe alone or with the help of the slave boy he's brought along and hurting himself.
"Fine. I will help, but you'll be nice and obedient and won't make it difficult."
"Promise." Alcibiades beams at him, and Socrates doesn't trust him, but he sighs and calls the boy to bring them warm water and some washcloths.
--
Getting Alcibiades to stand up is difficult. He's in quite a lot of pain, Socrates knows, but he endures and hides it admirably well. He does reek of battle and stale blood and sweat, and he leans his entire weight on him as Socrates helps him to a badly-made chair outside their tent.
Some of their neighbors perk up when they see Alcibiades and come to greet him and wish him well as Socrates peels off his short chiton. It has soaked up the smell, and he asks the boy still hovering next to them to check if Alcibiades had any clean ones left in his bags.
"Alcibiades, how are you?" Aristoboulus is a tall, lanky man, gray before his time. Socrates knows him vaguely. They had been schoolmates, once.
"In pain" Alcibiades grunts as Socrates gathers all his hair into a bun, to keep it out of the way. Maybe he will comb and braid it for him, later, if he doesn't ask the slave boy to do it. His curls are dull and full of tangles.
"I can imagine." Aristoboulus squats down in front of Alcibiades. Socrates squeezes the excess water out of the washcloth he's holding, and starts working on Alcibiades' neck and shoulders. "What did the doctor say?"
"That I'm doing well." Socrates rubs him a little too harsh over a bruise he hadn't noticed, and Alcibiades hisses.
"Be brave. I had to get some dried blood off." He strokes his cheek to soothe him. At the edge of his vision, he sees Aristoboulus' lips press into a dissatisfied thin line. He used to be one of Alcibiades' lovers. One of the first to leave him when he had become too much, had soared too far above them. Yet, it was obvious he still harbored feelings for him. And Socrates wasn't interested in sharing his prize right now. He corrected himself mentally as he worked, and blamed the rush of nearly loosing Alcibiades for these possessive thoughts.
"A mason's hands are undoubtedly too rough. Let me play the part of your slave again. I've missed it." Socrates can't help glaring at Aristoboulus, who is now kneeling down, looking right at Alcibiades' eyes and ignoring him pointedly. He seems about ready to start begging.
"You know my tastes too well, Aristoboulus." Socrates' soul soars in the highest, brightest heavens at the irony dripping from Alcibiades' tone, even with how weak his voice still is. "I like it rough, and you have always been too much of a wanna-be aristocrat."
"I merely-"
"We've been through this." Alcibiades suddenly cuts him off with the authority of a general. Socrates can almost see him, in a decade or so, commanding armies, and his skin breaks out in goosebumps. He focuses again on his work, and takes pleasure in how he gets to wash Alcibiades' chest while Aristoboulus watches, his lips almost invisible with how tightly shut he keeps them.
"And people are watching. Stop embarrassing me. You're worsening my headache" Alcibiades shifts back into a languid tone, and Aristoboulus gets up and marches away.
Some others come and offer their wishes for his recovery, but Alcibiades' mood has soured, and they can probably sense it. Nobody lingers. Socrates can tell the morning light and the sudden change of pace had been too much for him.
He finishes washing Alcibiades' legs, that had so much dried blood on them that Socrates had to ask the slave to change the water twice. He lets the washcloth fall onto Alcibiades' lap.
"I'm sure you can do your crotch yourself." He offers over a shoulder as he makes sure to put some distance between them before Alcibiades can protest. "I'll go wash and bring you fresh bandages"