Work Text:
21 September, 1777
Gilbert pulls Alexander into the aides' tent and Alexander lets him, dazy and half-drunk and still drowning in that river just a little.
They don't talk much as they shed clothes (Gilbert's body-warm, Alexander's water-cold), just little murmurs of comfortable? and just like so, petit lion and Gil, tonight I think I want and stolen kisses.
The cot creaks as Gilbert presses Alexander down onto it, bare and shivering. A kiss, another one, another, another, another, and Alexander's breath begins to heat as Gilbert fucks his mouth with his tongue.
"Pull my hair." He pulls back enough to press the tip of his nose to Gilbert's as the Marquis winds a hand into his rain-damp hair—
and yanks. Alexander chokes on a whimper as the pain shoots through his scalp, and follows the motion to bare his throat.
For a lion, he sure does like it when someone bites his neck. And, hot on the tails of that thought: Truly, George, you ought to use a firmer hand with Hamilton, Lee scoffs as he exits the tent.
And he'd seethed then, at the implication, at the slight against the General's character. But now, as Gilbert's long fingers fist in his hair and tighten, turning his body into a long unbroken line of tension, Alexander foggily thinks that, in this one thing, Lee was right.
"Impudique," chuckles Gil, up against Alexander's jaw, and Alex exhales a shaky laugh around a moan. "But you will have to keep quiet, chéri. You can do that for me?"
"I'll think about it." Alex smirks, and jolts when Gilbert nips at his neck. They both know not to be discovered.
"I am glad that mouth of yours is not at the bottom of the river. Now, retourne-toi."
Alexander obligingly turns onto his front, shuddering as Gilbert's hot hand palms over his ass and then reaches under, to stroke at his cock. He can feel himself leaking already, and Gilbert swipes his fingers through the mess.
A fair few minutes are lost to that, the slow-slick slide of Gil's hand over Alexander's cock and his lazy thrusts against Alex's thigh. When Alexander starts to fidget, though, Gilbert reaches for the little vial stashed securely under the cot.
"Now, this oil is quite cold. It may take a while to warm up," Gilbert teases, reaching around to toy with one of Alex's nipples. Alexander whines, squirming under Gil's fingers until he pinches and it turns into a yelp.
"Be good for me? Mon lion?"
The slick sounds of Gilbert warming the oil between his hands are torment. Alexander can't see him, only listen and think and shiver and shiver and shiver-
A finger presses against his hole, and Alex makes himself relax. Gilbert presses in, one knuckle, two.
It's not… good, yet, but it never starts that way. A little uncomfortable, stretching him open, but he yields as one finger makes room for two.
Gilbert shifts the angle, and his fingers start to brush Alex's prostate almost incidentally on every pass. Alexander makes a little noise in the back of his throat, and Gilbert kisses the knob at the bottom of his neck.
Alexander is such a dizzying mix of temperatures, fingers river-frigid while his torso burns hot against the cot. He thinks briefly about John; usually, it would be him fucking Alexander frantically post-battle, Gilbert swanning in later after the death-rush had faded a little from their limbs.
But John is in a mood, stuttering over his words and not quite looking Alexander in the eyes. So Alex, teeth chattering and lungs still seizing under the weight of the entire Schuylkill, had pressed up to Gilbert's side while everyone else was too busy using his miraculous return as an excuse to get shitfaced drunk.
The Marquis, eyes laughing and only a little tipsy, had looked down, brushed a kiss to Alexander's temple, and pulled him to their tent.
He does the same thing now, plush lips pressed everywhere they can reach from behind.
"Is John angry with me?"
Gilbert blankets him, draped heavy over Alexander's back to pin him down, to weigh him back into his own skin. "That was quite the fright given to us, non? John will need a day to calm, and then he comes back to us; do not fret."
Alexander spares another thought for John, curls a frantic cloud around his face as he clung to Alex and just as quickly pushed him away, even as he corrects, "Gave us a fright, Laf- oh!"
His sentence cuts off as Gil adds a third finger, twisting until he finds Alexander's prostate firmly.
"And the General, le pauvre, I have never seen him so sad." He lingers almost distractedly over the spot, ignoring Alexander's little whimpers.
"I'll- nh- thank you not to talk ah!-bout the General when- when you have your fingers up my ass, Gil- Gil!"
Gilbert removes all his fingers at once, and Alexander whines, the emptiness unacceptable.
"Détendez-vous," Gil purrs, biting at Alex's earlobe, and slides into him with a little groan. Alexander goes limp and takes it, shaking at the stretch, a punched-out moan climbing from his throat.
He's never found a feeling quite like it — the stretch of someone inside him, and the heat.
Gilbert fucks him slow, until he's half-mad with it, with the need to come. His cock leaks a steady stream onto the sheets, pressed torturously between his stomach and the mattress.
Alexander sobs. "S'il te plaît, s'il te plaît, Gil, s'il te plaît, j'ai besoin de-"
"Tais-toi, tais-toi, mon petit lion. Je sais ce dont tu as besoin," Gilbert soothes, drawing a hand across Alexander's shoulder. "You need to come, yes? But you also need to be reminded you are alive."
He's alive- he's alive- so alive he's choking on it, his cock aching as Gilbert pauses right over that spot inside him-
Alexander writhes, cocooned by Gil and rough sheets and he's so warm and the pressure on his prostate won't let up and-
"I need to be reminded you're alive too, petit," Gil coos, warm voice rolling right into Alexander's ear as he presses a kiss just below it. "To know you are not dead beneath the water."
"I'm alive, you can feel me, I'm right here, please, Gilbert, make me come, make me come alive-" Alexander forces out- he can't focus- he's too hot- too full-
"As you wish, bien-aimé," and Gil finally, finally wraps his hand around Alex's cock and strokes it once, twice, at the same time as he snaps his hips forward-
Alexander comes, wailing, face buried in the blankets. He clenches tight around Gilbert, who swears putain de merde and stutters his rhythm a couple more times before pulling out and coming all over Alexander's back.
"'M gonna hafta get back in the river'n get clean," Alex slurs, limbs loose and uncooperative. Gilbert lays on top of him for a couple more minutes before pushing himself up to find a clean cloth.
"You shall not!" He returns fiercely, wiping the cloth gently over the mess on Alexander's back until he is clean.
The cloth gets discarded, and Gilbert gets dressed again before curling behind Alex, an arm slung over his stomach. This, now, can be explained as trying to warm him in the manner of friends who are not lovers, à la Anglais. Neither of them fancy being hanged.
Alexander turns his face into the damp pillow, and falls into sleep.
He dreams of rivers, and hands pulling him out of them.