[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.

Comments

[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."

[timebethine]

Laertes blinks. "What?"

[sagramore]

"Laertes! Crowley told me it was thee who found and salted the fountain."

[timebethine]

"Oh--that." Laertes shrugs. He would turn away, but that's surprisingly hard to do with both his feet stuck in the clay. "We were all of us fighting. I did no more and no less than anyone else."

[sagramore]

"My heart," reaching out to take his shoulder. "Fighting is fighting. Thy mind is like nothing else. Thou art as quick with thy thoughts as with thy blade, and I admire it. Thy curiosity serves thee so well. Thou shouldst be proud of thyself, though I know thou'rt not."

[timebethine]

"Truly, though, Crowley did the main part of the work," Laertes protests. "He thought to find the source of the creatures. He found the fountain. I only thought to find him, and to bring salt. It was a little thing that I did."

[sagramore]

"First of all, if you hadn't found him, he'd have been transformed into a snake showing off for Claudius all afternoon and done nothing useful at all. And secondly, he said the salt was important."

[timebethine]

Laertes stills. "This is important to thee."

[sagramore]

"Yes! Because I'm proud of thee!"

[timebethine]

The first, cold wash of dread recedes quickly; it feels as first that it couldn't possibly be true, but beneath those anxious waves is the stone-sure certainty that it is true. That Sagramore is proud of him, pleased with him. That to him, Laertes will always be unlike anyone else. Laertes raises a hand to fold it over Sagramore's hand on his shoulder, and he leans up to kiss Sagramore's mouth.

[sagramore]

Sagramore kisses him back ferociously, hauling him closer by his shirt.

[timebethine]

The ferocity is startling; Laertes yields to it, offers himself up to it, hands falling to Sagramore's waist to steady them on each other.

[sagramore]

"I think thee spectacular," urgently, when he draws back a little for breath. "I think thee clever and brave and thoughtful, I love thy curiosity and thy determination and the great depth of thy compassion, thy wonder and thine openness and thy love for thy fellows. I would tell everyone I meet how splendid thou art, I would boast of thee to God Himself. I wish thou hadst one mote the esteem for thyself that I have for thee."

[timebethine]

"One mote, then," says Laertes. He lets his hands fall to his sides. "I am proud that I remembered the salt."

[sagramore]

"Where didst thou learn that?"

[timebethine]

"From Crowley. He was describing--I can't remember what it was; some book or play about two brothers who hunt ghosts and other supernatural creatures. To destroy a ghost, they must first find the body, then salt and burn it. It seemed like nonsense to me, until we were fighting the dead."

[sagramore]

"That's what I mean," fondly, but just as Laertes has promised to spare him too many compliments at once he supposes it's only fair to do the same; Laertes looks so uncomfortable at the idea of his own greatness.

[timebethine]

"Well." Laertes steps back to stamp down some unmixed clay at the edge of the pit. He's blushing just a little at the edges of his face; his hair hides most of it. "I'd rather a husband who sees my every deed as praiseworthy than a husband who can't be pleased."

[sagramore]

"As thou shouldst." He returns dutifully to treading the mixture.

[timebethine]

Laertes can't help laughing. By now, the texture of the clay is starting to smooth out again, sand and alumina thoroughly mixing, water helping them flow together. "Gracious in victory, as always."

[sagramore]

"That's the reason I avoid tourneys."

[timebethine]

"The rewards for sparring are better," Laertes teases.