[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]

And that sparks an answering laugh in Laertes. "I can scarcely countenance that, the second time we met, I feared to be too familiar with thee. How much has changed between us!"

[sagramore]

"Jesu, and I was afraid to ask thee to stay after thou hadst fucked me. I thought thou wouldst want to be away after thou hadst got thy pleasure."

[timebethine]

"My pleasure is in being with thee--even in this," says Laertes. The arc of his arm takes in the clay pit, their muddy feet, the cuff of one leg of his jeans slipping down. "I like fucking thee well enough, but if I could never fuck thee again, I would still want to spend my days and my nights at thy side."

[sagramore]

"Thou art the most romantic of men," laughing; it's his turn to blush, and since his hair is tied back neatly he has no shield like Laertes. "Thou hast lured me out here so thou canst say the most beautiful things I've ever heard."

[timebethine]

"Had I not lured thee out, I'd have lain in wait." Laertes grins. "I like to make thee blush. It suits thee."

[sagramore]

"It absolutely doesn't, I'm too old."

[timebethine]

"Art not so much older than I am," says Laertes. "When will I be too old?"

[sagramore]

"Tch, thou knowest I have a separate standard for myself than all other men," lightly, almost teasing. "Thou shouldst not draw attention to it."

[timebethine]

"If thou didst meet a man like thee in all things--as handsome as thee, with the same hue of skin, the same curling hair, the same build like a good blade in the hand--tell me truly: wouldst thou not do all in thy power to make him blush?"

[sagramore]

"Thou'rt as bad as Socrates, wearing me down with thy questions." Now he's laughing again. "I would, I would, I'd be as troublesome to him as thou art now."

[timebethine]

"Hast troubled anyone new, of late?" It's getting difficult to tell what the texture of the clay is anymore, with his feet so cold; Laertes stoops to pinch a bit between thumb and forefinger, rubbing it back and forth to test its consistency. He has no basis for comparison, so this test does precisely nothing.

[sagramore]

"Not of late. I suppose my heart feels tenderer lately." He means for it to be equally light, but his tone doesn't quite come off.

[timebethine]

"I'm sorry. That was--I could have taken more care."

[sagramore]

Sagramore lets out his breath and shakes his head. "No, I-- it's well thou shouldst know."

[timebethine]

"I think we're finished here. Come, swim with me," says Laertes. It's the only way he knows to say, I see thy grief, and will not touch it unasked. "And I'll finish thy most excellent meal, and drink thy coffee, and then I'll be at thy service."

[sagramore]

"The best of men," he murmurs, and smiles at Laertes, before unsticking himself from the clay. The muscles in his legs burn pleasantly.

[timebethine]

"Thine own man," Laertes says, not like a correction but like a pledge. The sucking sound as he extracts his feet from the clay is obscene, but soon he's free of it, and gathering up the edges of the tarpaulin lining the pit so that the clay can be brought into the tool room. It's absurdly heavy; if the tarpaulin weren't so slippery, he isn't sure he'd be able to get it out of the pit at all. "Couldst lend a hand? I fear I'll have to drag it, else."

[sagramore]

"Nay, thou wilt do it all thyself or not at all," as he grasps one of the edges and hoists it.

[timebethine]

Between the two of them, they manage to hoist the heavy tarpaulin out of the pit and into the tool room. Laertes wipes a few beads of cold sweat from his brow. "We'll have to do it all again ere we can make any cups; this clay is destined for bricks. Hast thou lost thy taste for treading clay?"

[sagramore]

"Shockingly, I think I enjoyed that. Even the part where I couldn't leave and thou saidst sweet things about me."

[timebethine]

"Limed like a bird," Laertes laughs. "I'll have to pin thee down more often."

[sagramore]

"Thou knowest how to trap me. Shouldst have a care, though, thou canst be trapped thyself."

[timebethine]

"And was," says Laertes wryly. "Caught in mine own snare, forced to bear the full broadside of thine affection. A lesson in caution, truly."

[sagramore]

Sagramore grins at him, a grin that's frankly a little silly from the hugeness of his love, the great soft fondness and joy and pride that cluster in his breast at the sight of Laertes. "Alas for thee."

[timebethine]

And as always, that grin holds Laertes pinned, lashed down and vulnerable as Odysseus bound to the mast. He heeds that siren call; his fingertips brush back a lock of hair just barely too short for the ribbon. His heart is in his throat. "Sweet man, thou art my life."