[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

[timebethine]

"Nay, I'm but a schoolboy copying his Latin out," Laertes protests. "I have no understanding of what I do."

[sagramore]

"By now I hardly believe thee. Baking is hard, I'll grant thee that, but cooking--" Sagramore shrugs.

[timebethine]

"Mm. A stew with lamb, then," Laertes decides. "Stew is a safe redoubt to which I may always retreat."

[sagramore]

"And couldst thou not do that with no book at all?"

[timebethine]

"Stew, ay," he answers. "I made that stew after thy fall with no book at all."

[sagramore]

"As I said. Thou wilt have writ thine own book soon enough. Here, these are done." He sweeps the chopped pistachios gently into the four-cup measure with the side of his hand.

[timebethine]

"Good," says Laertes, pausing to glance over them. The green color and the variety of textures are pleasing to his eyes. "Measure out each spice. This measure," he says, offering a half-teaspoon. "More or less of each as thy heart commands."

[sagramore]

"As my heart commands," he echoes fondly, picking up the little jars of spices, which are fortunately the kind with pictures as well as words on the labels, so he doesn't have to frown at tiny names. "This, the cardamom, is what I put in my coffee, except this is ground."

[timebethine]

"No wonder I like the smell of it. It reminds me of thy coffee." Laertes dips a spoon in the syrup, then tastes--then swears, because it's hot enough to burn his tongue. "Christ! Will I never learn patience?"

[sagramore]

"Thou hast generously taken my place today to spare me," putting the jar in his hand down and going to the sink for water. He hands Laertes a glass a moment later.

[timebethine]

"Thou art a balm," Laertes says gratefully, drinking. He takes the syrup off the heat, then retrieves the pastry dough from the refrigerator, testing it and finding the dough satisfyingly firm to the touch.

[sagramore]

By this time Sagramore has the spices mixed into the nuts, and he puts the measuring cup beside the syrup -- by himself, he'd be too impatient for a mise en place, but with together he finds it pleasing to be able to put everything Laertes needs at his elbow.

[timebethine]

It soothes Laertes, to have all things in readiness before they're needed; it soothes him, to know that he has Sagramore to shadow and squire him. With a quick, grateful kiss, Laertes begins rolling out the dough for the last time to cut and assemble in the baking tray. He's especially careful with the edges, making sure the dough is folded over to help prevent the butter from escaping. When the dough is ready, he starts layering thin strips of it with the spiced pistachios, one over the other, until both dough and nuts are spent, and then he brushes the top of the baklava with a little oil and puts it in the oven. "I hope thou art not bored," he teases.

[sagramore]

He's been leaning on the counter watching Laertes work -- he likes that too, the care with which Laertes fits the dough to the tray, brushes the syrup on, keeps the layers of pistachios even. Laertes is studious and intentional, for all he says he needs patience; it's one of the things Sagramore likes about him. Sometimes that intentionality trips him up like a briar tangle underfoot and Sagramore can see he's trying too hard to make things perfect, but then there are moments like this, when he's just focused on his work.

He is, Sagramore thinks, beautiful like a tapestry, subtle but full of intricacy.

"No, I'm indolent," he says lightly. "How long does it take?"

[timebethine]

"Three quarters of an hour," says Laertes, with a wry twist of his lips. As he washes the flour, cinnamon, and syrup from his hands, he says (as though it's nothing, as though it's of no moment to him at all), "Long enough that I might show thee thy present."

[sagramore]

"An thou wouldst," bringing him the dishtowel to dry his hands.

[timebethine]

Even that little service makes Laertes's heart swell with hopeless adoration. He takes the towel, then rises onto his toes a little to catch Sagramore's mouth in a kiss. "Come, sweet," he says, then takes Sagramore's hand to lead him back to Laertes's rooms.

[sagramore]

He follows, content to be led (every time they walk hand in hand he does fleetingly imagine someone seeing it and realizing how fortunate he is, that Laertes has no concern about being caught in the intimacy of it by anyone).

[timebethine]

(And Laertes might protest that men walk hand in hand often enough that it should occasion no comment--but no one who sees how he looks at Sagramore will imagine theirs a friendly intimacy.) "I ought to bring thee here more often," he tells Sagramore as he unlocks the door. "There's a table and chairs; we could eat, or play chess here. Or whatever thou likest."

[sagramore]

"I like anything thou likest, and thou wilt school me at chess."

[timebethine]

"Thou art too agreeable; I'll have thee r--listening to my poetry next," says Laertes. Inwardly, he curses the slip. He closes his eyes and decides to brazen through it. "But I brought thee here for a purpose. Give me leave to fetch it." And he disappears into the adjoining bedroom to rummage in the closet. His hands are shaking.

[sagramore]

He should let Laertes know he doesn't care about reading in theory and he isn't offended by hearing him say it-- but Laertes is already gone, so he just finds something to lounge against and wait.

[timebethine]

When Laertes returns, his hands are folded around a strip of leather. When he reaches Sagramore, he unfurls it into a collar--soft brown leather with a dull brass buckle, neat and unobtrusive, the kind that a man might wear as easily as a dog. "Thou needst not keep it, an thou dost not want it," he says, low. "I only thought it might please thee to wear it, when thou art my dog."

[sagramore]

Sagramore flushes, his unstudied ease evaporating, and takes it. "Didst thou make this thyself?" softly.

[timebethine]

"No," Laertes admits. "Thou knowest how the kitchens at times anticipate our needs--so, though never before has anyone here eaten a pistachio, though my recipe asked for walnuts, still we had pistachios enough for baklava, because we wished it. So it was, the morning after our game, when I opened my closet and found this waiting for me. As though this place knew that I would want it."