[Closed Post: A Pit of Clay]

[timebethine]

Laertes has settled on building a cross-draft kiln--but for that, he'll need to fire bricks, and to make bricks, of course, he'll need clay. He's finished sifting the clay he'd dug from the shore of the lake, and now all that remains is to get it into a state that will bear shaping and firing. The tool room had a couple of bags of sand and a smaller sack of bauxite alumina ready for use; those will help the kiln bricks to withstand the great heat of a long firing.

It's a grey day, and the scent of clay is rich in Laertes's nostrils. Smells always get stronger right before he has a migraine, and a part of him wants to call off this whole project and hide in bed to wait out the impending ache--but he isn't hurting yet; his vision isn't starting to shimmer yet. The wind off the lake is bracing, redolent with the rich, spice-and-rot scent of fallen leaves.

There's time enough to pull off his boots and socks, roll up his jeans, and dig in.

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[sagramore]

Sagramore has been summoned for this task at his own insistence and he arrives after a few minutes with a thermos full of coffee and several sandwiches in his day pack in case Laertes has neglected to eat. Since Laertes indicated this was going to involve stomping he's wearing his jeans again (they're short enough in the ankles that he won't have to cuff them) but he's at least wearing a shirt that fits this time, a sage green button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his curls tied back out of his face with another ribbon.

He stands for a little while just watching Laertes with a smile playing on his lips. Then he puts down the things he's carrying and starts unlacing his boots.

[timebethine]

"Green suits thee," Laertes laughs. There's a decent-sized pit dug close to the tool room, half-full of red clay; Laertes is in the process of pouring in a heavy paper bag of sand as Sagramore arrives, and he waits only long enough to finish the pour before going to Sagramore and kissing his cheek. "What hast thou brought? Coffee?"

[sagramore]

"And lunch," flipping open the pack. "Hast eaten yet?"

[timebethine]

Laertes's guilty look might be answer enough. "My thanks," he says. "What hast thou brought?" And he's poking around in Sagramore's pack before he can reply.

[sagramore]

He's become accustomed to this by now, and rather than answer he puts one boot aside and starts on the next. The sandwiches are thick slices of pot roast on buttered brown bread, and slightly squashed from the trip over, the melting butter and gravy drippy, and they smell amazing. He did remember to include napkins as well, for what good it may do them.

[timebethine]

The sandwiches smell almost too good; Laertes's empty stomach clenches, and a wave of dizziness comes over him. "Best of men. May I?" he asks, but he's starting to take out a sandwich already.

[sagramore]

Sagramore looks up at him and laughs. "They're for thee," bumping his shoulder against Laertes' thigh. "I know how thou art."

[timebethine]

"It's the finest gift to have found a man who knows all of my faults, and who brings me meals anyway." Laertes crouches at Sagramore's side to start in on a sandwich; big gouts of gravy and melted butter seep out the sides and flow down his chin, and he groans in pleasure. "This is incredible," he says as soon as he's swallowed. "Didst make this?"

[sagramore]

"I assembled it. That's my great talent, assembly." He retrieves a napkin and offers it, grinning: his whole heart feels swollen and tender at the sight of Laertes covered in gravy (he loves how much Laertes loves food, which has always been something of an afterthought to him, a necessary chore of living. A body needs sustenance. Laertes doesn't just cook or eat because it must be done, but because it's an existential pleasure, and it makes Sagramore care more too, makes him want to think about what flavors would taste good together and what foods arouse memories and what things Laertes would enjoy eating or making. It's an entirely new approach for him, and he loves it).

[timebethine]

"Well," Laertes laughs as he takes the napkin, "I'll soon have cause to call upon thy skills. This clay must first be mixed, then shaped into brick, then fired, then built into a kiln. There's much to be done ere our Tress gets her first misshapen cup." He dabs at his chin--then he takes another bite, and a fresh spurt of gravy immediately undoes his work.

[sagramore]

A snort of a laugh. "I'm at thy command, sir."

[timebethine]

"Couldst thou throw in that little sack by the door, and the bucket of water? I'd meant to do it, but my hands are--" a besandwiched gesture "--otherwise occupied."

[sagramore]

"Easily." He unfolds to his (now bare) feet, not without dropping a kiss to Laertes' brow first, and goes to get the sack of bauxite alumina.

[timebethine]

The sack is smaller than the sand, but still big enough to be heavy, and Laertes would be lying if he said he wasn't eager to watch Sagramore stoop and haul. He finishes off his sandwich and licks his fingers clean before making recourse to the napkin; his gaze is frankly appreciative.

[sagramore]

Since he came here he's become stronger than he used to be -- he does a great deal more with his body now, mostly in service of Laertes' passions, and he eats better and he sleeps more restfully -- and he lifts the sack onto his shoulder with greater ease than he would have a summer ago. It still takes effort, but his body bends to the task with its usual grace as he carries the sack over to Laertes' pit.

[timebethine]

Once Laertes has cleaned his hands and face, he comes over to carry the water to splash it over the mixed clay and sand and alumina. He grins up at Sagramore, a little mischievous, all delighted. "And now, all that remains is to mix them well." And he wades into the pit, sinking into the slurry up to his ankles. The sensation is absolutely filthy; clay squashes between his toes and sucks at his feet as he tries to pull free. For a moment, he almost overbalances--his arms go out, steadying--and then he catches himself.

[sagramore]

"Christ," Sagramore says, with a rather melodramatic groan, but he steps in after Laertes, his feet disappearing into the mixture. "This is the most efficient method, is it?"

[timebethine]

"Better than with our hands," says Laertes, grinning. "I'll wash thy feet for thee, after. Or, an thou fear'st not the cold, we could swim."

[sagramore]

"I, the cold, fear?"

[timebethine]

"Thou wouldst brave the snow naked, and never complain," Laertes laughs. It's more fun than he'd thought it would be, after the first textural surprise; the resistance of the clay makes his muscles burn in a satisfying way that's quite unlike running or fencing or swimming. He rakes Sagramore with a glance--green really does suit him, bringing out the warm tones in his skin and eyes--and says, like a menace, "Now I'm imagining thee naked in the snow. It's a fine thought."

[sagramore]

"Is it? Not very impressive, I'd think." He's beginning to get into it, too, and not look quite so much like a dog walking funny because there's something weird on its paw.

[timebethine]

"There's no more beautiful man than thee," says Laertes, earnest, voice like a lance. "Nothing I would more like to look upon. Every time I see thee, my breath stops, and my heart clenches in my chest like a fist." Then, with a wry little laugh, "And now I've spent my one word of praise, so I'll say no more on it."

[sagramore]

Sagramore flushes. "Thou'rt wise to say such things when I'm mired and can't flee from thy compliments."

[timebethine]

"Perhaps, one day, I'll bind thee hand and foot and force thee to listen while I sing thy praises," says Laertes. "Or wouldst thou hate that too much to bear it?" The texture of the clay is starting to turn under his feet; he can feel the sand and water incorporating, turning the clay rough and pliable.

[sagramore]

"Christ, there's no one like thee." And then, suddenly, as Crowley's words come back to him, "And no better than me when it comes to slipping the praise thou'rt due. Thou didst not tell me thou wast our savior."