FIC: "King of Air" (1/1)
AUTHOR: Mistress Marilyn camelotslash-2 at qwest.net
DATE: October 24, 2004
FANDOM: "Alexander" (2004 movie)
PAIRING: Alexander/Cleitus (Colin Farrell, Gary Stretch)
DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'em. They belong to Warner Brothers Pictures, to Oliver Stone and the respective actors of the movie, and to the ages. This is a work of a fan, done for no remuneration save the satisfaction of the work.
WARNINGS/RATING: NC17. Slash (male/male), rape.
BETA: CharlieMC (thanks, as always!)
DEDICATION: To Gary Stretch for stealing nearly every scene he was in!
AUTHOR NOTES: In ancient days it was all about penetration. There was no straight or gay; it was about being 'impenetrable' or 'penetrable.' This is the fascinating aspect of Alexander's life that holds us slashers in thrall. Was he or wasn't he?

He wept. For some time he stood looking at the human cost of his quest, and he couldn't do anything but weep -- loudly, convulsively. He was still covered in the mire of Gaugamela, his clothing, skin, hair and even his eyes blurred by the blood and shit of dying men. He didn't feel the wound in his thigh; he only felt the wound in his heart at the sight and smell of his horrific victory.

What would his father have thought had he been here this day and seen the remains of the killing field? He, Alexander, had done what Philip never could have.

Darius' vast army had been defeated. And Darius himself had fled.

As another sob racked him, Alexander realized he was weeping, too, at the frustration of having the cowardly Persian leader slip through his fingers. Darius should have been his this day! He should now be looking into the smudged eyes of the Great King, seeing the recognition in those eyes of his terrible defeat at the hands of one considered a mere boy.

How he had longed for that moment, now robbed from him by the ineptitude of his old general. Why hadn't Parmenion been more bold? Why had he allowed himself to be cut off?

But Alexander could not allow himself to blame Parmenion for his failure. Today, everything rested on his shoulders -- the death, the suffering, the failure to capture Darius. And they would not find him bowed by this heavy burden! Once his pain was spent, he would move on.

On and on.

Alexander waved his guards away as he entered his tent alone. Water had been prepared for him, and he stripped off his armor and tunic, reconciled to the long task of washing away the dirt of battle.

"Sire?"

He looked up. The young physician stood in the entry to his tent, carrying the instruments of his trade. Alexander had denied his attentions earlier.

"May I dress your leg?"

Alexander looked down, remembering his own wound. "Yes. I need to clean myself."

"I'll do it, Your Majesty," said the man, and his eyes reflected his honor at being allowed to carry out this important business.

Alexander, suddenly weary, sat on a stool as the physician washed him. "It's a clean wound," the man reported as he worked on the leg. "Is the pain great?"

Alexander shook his head. "It's nothing."

"May I wash your face, sire?"

For the first time, Alexander smiled. "No, I'll do it. Thank you. Ask them to bring me wine."

The man left, and Alexander bent over the bowl of water, scrubbing at his face and hair. When he glanced up he saw his reflection in a polished metal mirror across the tent. He looked incredibly young and fresh, nothing like the king and general he had become. He sighed and shrugged, then stood up and walked naked across the tent, nodding to the servant who entered with a tray of food and a jug of wine.

"May I help you dress?" the young man asked.

"No. You may go," Alexander answered, pulling on a fresh chiton.

Alexander sat down, poured himself some wine and picked at the food, not hungry.  Then he looked up again as his cavalry commander, Cleitus, entered.

"Do you not announce yourself before coming into my tent, Cleitus?"

"I'm Cleitus," said the man, grinning. "And you're still the pup I used to carry around in his dirty diaper, trying to hold you on a horse."

"No, Cleitus. I am not still that child."

Cleitus searched the tent for another goblet, then poured himself some wine and sat down next to Alexander. "Think whatever you want. You will always be that boy to me."

"I wish to be alone," Alexander said, watching the vulpine face of his father's former favorite. "This has been a long day."

Cleitus took a noisy gulp from his cup, then wiped his mouth. "Alexander, today was a gift from the gods. Tonight we should all be drinking in Hades, not licking our wounds and celebrating the greatest victory the world has ever seen!" He bent over his cup and drank again, his dark hair falling into his eyes. "If only Philip could have been here!" he whispered.

"My father was not here," Alexander said angrily. "And had he been, we would not be celebrating now. This victory was mine, Cleitus -- the strategy was mine, not his!"

"My, you've gotten arrogant, haven't you?" Cleitus said with a smiling mouth and angry eyes. "Shall I now call you Pharaoh or Great King? Perhaps I should lie down on my gut at your feet, afraid to look directly into that pretty face of yours!"

Alexander set aside his cup and stood up. "Get out of my tent, Cleitus. Now!"

Cleitus rose slowly, his eyes challenging Alexander. He shook his head. "No. Call your guards and have me removed, if you wish . . . Or perhaps Hephaistion waits inside," he added, cocking his head toward the entry to Alexander's bedchamber.

"I told you I wanted to be alone!"

"He never seems far away, does he?"

Alexander felt his eyes well up. Surprised, he shook the tears away impatiently. "Hephaistion is not in my bed, Cleitus! He is not here tonight, and he was not here last night."

Remembering how much he had wanted Hephaistion to stay with him on the eve of battle -- how he had all but asked it of his friend -- Alexander now found his thoughts difficult to control. Cleitus seized on his hesitation.

"If it's a man you want, why not ask for one?" he said. "Why wait for that insipid boy? He's not even a good fighter!"

Alexander moved away, recognizing the poison of Cleitus' affection for him and jealousy of Hephaistion. For years he had side-stepped Cleitus' clumsy advances; now, it seemed, he would have to plan carefully if he were to once again avoid the man without completely offending him.

"I'm in no mood for this conversation," he said. "I want no one with me tonight."

Cleitus stood watching him, not moving. "And yet," he said finally, "Here I am."

Sensing danger but attempting to appear unconcerned, Alexander turned his back to Cleitus and pulled open the flap leading to his bedchamber. "See yourself out," he called.

For a few moments, there was silence. Then a roar broke behind him and Alexander was tackled. He went down on his face on the large bed, a weight bearing into his back. He struggled to find air, turning his head to free it from the bedcovers. Strong fingers went around his throat, choking him into insensibility, and for a moment he heard a wind in his ears and then saw blackness.

When he came to his senses, Alexander found himself naked on the bed, prostrate, his pelvis propped up with a pillow. It took a moment for realization to set in, and when it did, he started to struggle, remembering the wolf-like visage of the predatory Cleitus who now had him pinned on his face.

"Let me up, Cleitus. You'll die for this offense!"

Behind him, he heard Cleitus laugh. "Then I die happy," the man said. "I had planned on dying today, anyway. Better to do it with empty sacs between my legs!"

Alexander felt the soft bed depress under him as Cleitus bore down on his backside. "Open to me, beautiful young prince!" Cleitus said. "I promise I can give you more pleasure than your pretty friend ever did!"

Alexander let his limbs relax for a moment, gathering strength to use his arms and legs to topple the now panting Cleitus. His wounded thigh throbbed, but he ignored it, concentrating only on the muscles he would need to accomplish the task of upending his potential rapist. Cleitus' fingers were digging into the flesh of his hips, roughly pulling his cheeks apart to open wide the chosen orifice. When he felt Cleitus lunge forward toward penetration, he sprung up on his hands and knees, throwing up his head and bucking like a wild steed. Cleitus cried out but didn't totter, thrusting in at the exact instant Alexander reared back. The searing pain froze Alexander's escape attempts, and he immediately went limp, knowing that to continue to fight would mean more pain and perhaps injury.

"I'm surprised . . . at how tight you are," Cleitus said between grunts. "I would have thought this more familiar."

Alexander squeezed his eyes shut and willed himself to stay calm and continue to breathe deeply. Anger and exertion would only serve his attacker, and instead of spirited resistance, he wanted to reward Cleitus with indifference. If the man were intent on having him, let him find Alexander no more responsive than one of the corpses littering the wasteland of Gaugamela!

"How well . . . I remember this," Cleitus said. "Lying across his pillows on my face as you are now." Cleitus breathed rhythmically as he pumped, evidently finding enough air to continue to talk. "Your father once found me fetching, when I was young and untried and unblemished by battle."

Cleitus had been Philip's boy! How many times had Alexander heard it whispered, not really believing it. Cleitus seemed too rough and forceful by nature. Alexander had believed him impenetrable.

How many years had it been since he, himself, permitted penetration? His mother had warned him about it -- his father had constantly harped on it. "Take boys, of course, Alexander," he had said. "But never be one! You will be a king someday, and to the man you served as a boy, you may never lead as a king!"

How wrong his father had been. Although he had once allowed Hephaistion this liberty -- desired it, if the truth be told -- he had never received less than respect and loyalty from his friend. Hephaistion was his most devoted follower. And even if he wished the two could still enjoy the comforts of the bedroom without the constraints of Alexander's royal obligations, he was content in the knowledge of Hephaistion's love.

If it were Hephaistion and not Cleitus who now plunged inside him, would he not be pushing back with fervor and even joy? Would he not open gladly and allow his own rivers to flood their banks? Would he not cry out with encouraging words to incite even further assault?

Alexander knew he would. In fact, this release would be just what he most needed on the night after such a terrible battle.

Despite himself, Alexander's thoughts of Hephaistion and his need for absolution of the senses stirred the fire banked inside the young king. Cleitus' thrusts were now less unwelcome, his energy contagious. Alexander found himself infused not only with Cleitus' rigid flesh, but with the man's unrelenting passion, as well. His heart began to throb with excitement, and the pain of his wound and his battered anus seemed to abate in comparison to these new sensations.

Like a seasoned war-horse, Alexander responded to the insistence of his rider, driven forward by both the pressure of Cleitus' legs and his own lust; he threw back his head to suck in air, nostrils quivering. He wanted to whinny like a charging steed.

There could be no denial of his acceptance of Cleitus' invasion. He was like a vanquished city, happy now to open its gates to avoid further destruction, waiting to learn what advantage could be gained by acquiescence. Whether the man cared enough to notice, Alexander's posture and positioning had changed enough to allow for his own pleasure, to make way for the strokes that would best incite the pressure and powerful tension that led ultimately to the deepest discharge. Alexander swallowed his great pride with every gulp of air and labored on toward the final outcome, hoping only that the athletic Cleitus would have the strength and fortitude to stay to the end.

Alexander's passion had become a hot, driving wind across the desert, searing his lungs and reddening his face. He bucked and shuddered, sensing imminent release. He cried out with relief as he felt his insides give way, completely oblivious to the spurt of seed that erupted over the mattress.

Behind him, Cleitus, too, found completion. Strong fingers dug into Alexander's waist as his hips were pulled upward. Cleitus then stiffened and coughed out his finish before dropping over Alexander.

Alexander lay still under Cleitus' weight, feeling nothing but the throbbing in his chest and his bowels. His physical deliverance seemed to open some channel leading to emotional emancipation, and he wished fervently that Hephaistion were with him so he could confess how much he had longed for the closeness they had shared in their youth -- how he didn't care if it were seemly for a king to be another man's boy; he would gladly accept his friend's seed until the day he died.

Behind him, Cleitus ran a hand through Alexander's tangled hair. "So pretty," Cleitus said. "Golden little god. That's what your mother always said. And now, finally, I have you."

Both Alexander's spine and his will hardened beneath Cleitus. Despite his momentary acceptance of physical release, he was the man who had just finished conquering the Persians -- the greatest civilization on earth! He was the king. And he had been forced to comply to another man in a way no king could allow.

"Get off me, Cleitus. You forget I am your king!"

Cleitus rolled away, grunting. "I forget nothing," he said, yawning into his hand. "You will never be a king in my eyes. Philip was my king . . . Philip, whom you had killed . . . You are only a king of air."

Alexander rose up on his knees and looked down at the man beside him. "You dare accuse me of my father's death?"

Cleitus closed his eyes. "I'm tired. Let me sleep."

"I will see you punished for this, Cleitus. I promise you that."

Cleitus yawned again and then sat up. "I won't get any rest here -- that's clear." He pulled himself to his feet. "Don't try to pretend you didn't enjoy yourself, lad! We both know better."

Alexander shook with fury. "Cleitus, you tread on dangerous ground . . ."

"Always."

Cleitus stood at the end of the bed, looking down at the crouching king. The two men, one angry, one weary, stared at one another. Alexander watched in surprise as Cleitus' eyes filled with tears.

"I thought you were owed to me," Cleitus said. "I saved your life today."

Alexander nodded. "And for that I'm grateful, Cleitus. But not for this. Never this."

"Then forget this, if you can. If you can't, you had best kill me. Because, believe me, I won't forget. I'll remember this night every time I look at you." His smile was tired. "I'll remember the way you came," he finished crudely.

Straightening, Alexander cocked his head. "I won't kill you or have you killed, Cleitus. But I won't forget this offense to me. And I'll find a way to make you pay for it, despite your service to me and my father."

Cleitus laughed and turned away. "Then do it! You have the balls. There's only one payment for the fucking I just gave you. Your father certainly knew what it was! Do you?"

Pulling aside the flap, Cleitus walked out. Alexander lay down in the dim light of the tent, suddenly lonely and cold. Shivering, he rolled himself in the covers, ignoring the blood staining them.

He had no stomach for punishing Cleitus. The man clearly loved him, despite his protestations. Somehow, he had always known of Cleitus' love, however uncomfortable it had made him. He had also been aware of Cleitus' jealousy and suspicion. Now he would have to find a way to reconcile his own royal pride with the humbling memory of his submission to the man who had once been his father's boy, and to prove to that man that he was indeed his king.

He hoped he could do it.

The End