timebethine (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timebethine) wrote2023-11-24 09:52 pm
timebethine) wrote2023-11-24 09:52 pm
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[Interlude: Apple, Butter, Knife]
Laertes is enjoying a slice of perfect, caramel-drenched tarte tatin with vanilla ice cream--he's never had ice cream before, but the sweet creaminess perfectly complements the lingering tartness of the apples, and he's can already feel a new obsession brewing.
He'd spent hours with Galahad, and nothing had gone horribly wrong. He'd learned a few dozen signs, they'd made a delicious dessert together, and they'd parted ways as friends. The calamity he'd dreaded had not come to pass. A part of him worries at that little triumph as though it's a scab, trying to see if he can make it hurt by pressing on it: what if it all goes wrong next time? How can he be sure that this wasn't a fluke?
No, he thinks. I did something different this time. I didn't try to fix him, as though he must come to me whole or not come to me at all. I let him lead me toward what brought him joy, and he went their happily without my prompting.
He thinks back on that grey day when he'd been sure he'd ruined everything, when he'd stepped into the water to be alone with his thoughts and instead half a dozen people had found him. He hadn't wanted any of them to fix him, or even to acknowledge his melancholy. He had been most grateful to those who had given him the grace of quiet company.
He thinks of Galahad, silent, warm in his arms. A comfort that needed no speech.
His father had always handed down precepts as a way of showing love, as though there was no greater service than solving other people's problems for them. As though, once Polonius had told them how to mend their woes, continuing to have woes was a failure to reciprocate that love.
Maybe Laertes can love in a different way.
He'd spent hours with Galahad, and nothing had gone horribly wrong. He'd learned a few dozen signs, they'd made a delicious dessert together, and they'd parted ways as friends. The calamity he'd dreaded had not come to pass. A part of him worries at that little triumph as though it's a scab, trying to see if he can make it hurt by pressing on it: what if it all goes wrong next time? How can he be sure that this wasn't a fluke?
No, he thinks. I did something different this time. I didn't try to fix him, as though he must come to me whole or not come to me at all. I let him lead me toward what brought him joy, and he went their happily without my prompting.
He thinks back on that grey day when he'd been sure he'd ruined everything, when he'd stepped into the water to be alone with his thoughts and instead half a dozen people had found him. He hadn't wanted any of them to fix him, or even to acknowledge his melancholy. He had been most grateful to those who had given him the grace of quiet company.
He thinks of Galahad, silent, warm in his arms. A comfort that needed no speech.
His father had always handed down precepts as a way of showing love, as though there was no greater service than solving other people's problems for them. As though, once Polonius had told them how to mend their woes, continuing to have woes was a failure to reciprocate that love.
Maybe Laertes can love in a different way.