[Closed Post: Baklava]

[timebethine]

Laertes delights in the many spices of the Mansion's kitchens--he lost several hours one evening just opening every bottle and smelling it, acquainting himself with the differences between cardamom and allspice, sage and bay. Today, he is intent upon celebrating those spices with a baklava recipe he's found, and so he's roped Sagramore into serving as his sous-chef. While Laertes prepares the dough to laminate, he sets Sagramore to chopping nuts up finely. "This recipe saith walnuts," he says, "but another hath pistachios, and a third one walnuts and almonds mixed."

Comments

[sagramore]

"In Turkey it would be pistachios." This is a good task for him, the kind that requires enough focus that he doesn't get bored with it.

[timebethine]

"Then so it must be," laughs Laertes. "Find thee enough pistachios to fill four cups, then mince them fine." He's currently working on layering dough, slathering on butter and then rolling, folding it over to seal the butter in. "This says to chill in a freezer between turns. Couldst open the cold box for me?"

[sagramore]

"As my master bids me," lightly. He leaves the nuts -- mostly pistachios, let it be said -- and wipes his hands clean on a dishtowel, which he then throws over his shoulder before going to open the refrigerator.

[timebethine]

"Am I thy master, even now?" Laertes asks lightly. He sets his dough on a baking tray and carries it over to balance on top of a shelf full of other foods--jars of jam, paper cartons of berries, meat in waxed paper--then elbows the refrigerator door shut again.

[sagramore]

"Always," bumping his shoulder before going back to the nuts.

[timebethine]

Laertes fixes his attention on the next batch of dough, rolling and folding, slowly creating the laminate layers that will go puffy and crisp when baked. "I have a gift for thee, when this is finished," he says, very casually, as though he hasn't been driving himself quietly mad over it for the last few days.

[sagramore]

Sagramore laughs, that pleased surprised laugh he has when Laertes unexpectedly charms him. "Even so?"

[timebethine]

"Even so," says Laertes. "It awaits thee in my rooms." Roll and fold; roll and fold; there's something meditative in this, too, that he thinks Lan Wangji might appreciate. "The door again?"

[sagramore]

"Thou wilt spoil me." He puts the knife down and goes back to the fridge.

[timebethine]

"Thou art soaked in honey; thou canst not spoil." Laertes darts a quick kiss to Sagramore's cheek as he brings over the second tray. "Wilt thou read me out the next step? I'm all over butter."

[sagramore]

He laughs. "Thee butter and I honey. It's almost Biblical." Then he hesitates. "Dost not remember it? Thou hast me at another task already."

[timebethine]

"Nay, I remember only that it hath a lemon in it."

[sagramore]

"Hm." The book is laid open on the counter, and he goes to look at it. He's found on numerous occasions that while he can see perfectly well into the distance, words on the page do not resolve without considerable squinting and effort, and he's largely not bothered with reading since he left Constantinople and had no princely studies to be pursue.

He spares a glance to see whether Laertes is actually paying any attention to him, and then bends to the page.

"The lemon peel, yes. And cinnamon."

[timebethine]

"Ay, what should I do with them?" Laertes scrubs his hands under the tap, soaping them generously to get the butter off.

[sagramore]

Since Laertes isn't looking, he picks up the book and holds it closer to his eyes, although that never actually works, and squints at it.

"Ah-- boil them together with honey and water."

[timebethine]

Laertes, however, glances back over his shoulder just in time to see Sagramore with his face buried in the book. "My heart," he says, "canst thou not see the words?"

[sagramore]

"For Christ's sake--" testy with himself, for being found out.

[timebethine]

Then Laertes wipes his hands clean and goes over to pluck the book from Sagramore's hands, tilting his chin up and kissing him swiftly. "Thou hast the most stubborn pride," he says. "Dost thou truly think I'd admire thee less for it?"

[sagramore]

Sagramore swallows several protests, one after the other. "I admire thee for thy reading," finally.

[timebethine]

"Then ask it of me. Let me be thine eyes." As he consults the recipe (make a syrup with the water, honey, spices, and lemon peel), he asks, "Is it only reading? Or anything small or close?"

[sagramore]

"I was," still with a bit of tension in his tone. "I'd rather listen to thee speak on what thou hast learned than set myself to it. --Aye, anything small and close, but there's little I do that needs precision; I can see the end of my blade."

[timebethine]

Laertes goes still, and sets the book aside. "I've offended thee," he says. "My apologies."

[sagramore]

"No, nay," the lift of his shoulders sinking. "I'm sorry. It's not on thee. Thou hast the right of it, it's pride."

[timebethine]

Then Laertes gathers Sagramore up in his arms and rests his brow against Sagramore's cheek. "Thou canst see the end of thy blade well enough to best me," he says, "and see my face well enough to praise me and make me blush. What matters it, if thou canst not see every stroke of ink or stitch of embroidery? It only gives me more to unfold for thee."

[sagramore]

"I won't be much help to thee in the kitchen." He closes his eyes. "Art thou never disappointed in me? I always think thou wilt find the thing thou canst not countenance and be done, or at least draw away."