[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."

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[timebethine]

"I put them back!" Laertes protests, still perusing the shelf. "These two have only been here some two nights or more." He conveniently elides the other twenty or so books that have definitely been here much longer.

He plucks out a bound volume of World's Best-Loved Love Poems and thumbs through to a bookmark. "Sit," he says--then he glances up, and sees the collar at Sagramore's throat, and his grip slackens on the book. He feels breathless and dizzy, speared through with a bolt of love and gratitude so keen that the pain of it approaches the physical.

He recovers himself. Sagramore didn't want to make a fuss of this, and neither will he. He only settles himself in the armchair in the corner of room, and waits.

[sagramore]

He crosses the room, all ease, and drops lightly to the floor at Laertes' feet, settling with his back against the chair, so that if Laertes wants to touch his head or his shoulder it's an easy reach.

[timebethine]

He does, immediately, burying his hand in Sagramore's hair and combing it back and forth. "'Let me not to the marriage of true minds / admit impediments,'" Laertes begins, letting the warmth of his joy bleed through in his voice.

[sagramore]

To be honest, he drifts a little. It's easy to listen to the cadence of Laertes' voice and let the actual content fade. He feels settled, anchored, as if the hand in his hair is as inexorable as gravity, and he has no need to move or think or do anything but listen and wait to be bidden.

[timebethine]

Laertes drifts, too, working his way slowly through the book as he smooths down Sagramore's hair. He reads him You are the beautiful half / Of a golden hurt; he reads him I am yours as the summer air at evening is / Possessed by the scent of linden blossoms.

It is a long time before he startles as though waking from a doze. "Christ, the baklava!"

[sagramore]

Sagramore starts in turn, and then begins to laugh. "Ah, Christ-- come on, let's see if it can be saved."

[timebethine]

Laughing, as well, Laertes dashes back down to the kitchen with every expectation that Sagramore will follow.

The kitchen doesn't smell of smoke, for a mercy, although the scent of caramelized dough is sharper than Laertes would like. He sweeps the oven open, revealing the only slightly scorched surface of the baklava. "The syrup might still save it," he says hopefully.

[sagramore]

Which he does. He doesn't think to undo the collar; it feels as comfortable as his own clothes, and anyway he doubts they'll run into anyone in a place this big inhabited by so few people, and anyway he doesn't entirely care at the moment.

"The syrup will save it," confidently, leaning over to look. "It's worse for it to be too soft."

[timebethine]

Grinning, "Ah, thou wouldst know." Laertes picks off the only large, obviously burnt bit, then cuts through the (satisfyingly flaky) dough and pours the rest of the syrup over the pan. "Thou canst have the first taste. Spare me not--if it's a burnt say it to me plain."

[sagramore]

"If it's burnt I'll ruin thy spirits," he agrees cheerfully. "Just absolutely crush thee." He snags a piece and takes a bite, which causes the pastry to crunch and get little bits everywhere, including in his beard.

[timebethine]

Laertes laughs and levers up a piece for himself, letting syrup run down his fingers. He bites into it. "Well," he says around a mouthful of baklava, "At least it's not too soft."

[sagramore]

Sagramore laughs. "It came out very well. It's supposed to be like this. A mess of a thing."

[timebethine]

"I begin to suspect thou likest a mess," Laertes teases.

[sagramore]

"Thou wilt have all my secrets from me, sir."

[timebethine]

"Here's one for today--what was thy favorite food, when thou wert a child?"

[sagramore]

"In Hungary we have a plant called paprika. The fruit is made into a powder and put in very nearly everything." The mansion deigns not to translate paprika, which is helpful, since it's just Hungarian for pepper. "When she could get away with it, my nurse would make me something called halászlé, which is a soup with a great deal of paprika in it. It's spicy."

[timebethine]

"I'll learn to make it," Laertes promises. "And thou wilt school me until it tastes as fine as thou rememberest."

[sagramore]

He laughs again. "And thee? What did Laertes like as a child?"

[timebethine]

Laertes laughs, a touch self-conscious. "Marchpane," he says. "Honey cake with apricot jam--even sweet, thick cream."

[sagramore]

"Sweets to the sweet," he teases.

[timebethine]

Laertes bumps his elbow. "And spice to what? The hot?"

[sagramore]

"Christ have mercy. I did invite that, and even so it offends me." Just to be sure Laertes knows he's joking, he presses a quick kiss to his temple.

[timebethine]

"I deserve it," says Laertes solemnly, but he can't quell the mirth in his eyes. "What thinkest thou? Should we keep our bounty for ourselves, or share it with our friends?"

[sagramore]

"With Lady Tress at least. And Nina."

[timebethine]

"And Queen Janet, and Claudius--and Jasin?"