[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

[sagramore]

"That's a pleasing thought. The bonfire, then, and bring our friends together to eat. We could ask everyone for a recipe from home, if they'd like, and share the making of it, or just the end result if they're not inclined to cook." He eases out of his jeans and starts his usual slow wade into the water.

[timebethine]

"I like it. Let's tell Claudius, or we'll forget all these fine ideas." Laertes beams as Sagramore moves toward him; although the cold makes his breath come short and his skin go tight and pebbled, the sight of Sagramore undressed does always heat his blood. "My star. Thou art magnificent."

[sagramore]

"How darest thou, we can manage a holiday on our own without being organized by Claudius." He takes a few steps closer, the water splashing around his thighs, and smiles instead of protesting the compliment, which he dearly wants to do.

[timebethine]

"Well--then it will be a surprise for him, too," says Laertes. "I know Danish foods well enough that I can make something from our homeland. Let him discover it with the rest of our friends."

[sagramore]

"We deserve a scheme of our own." He reaches Laertes, and reaches for him. "We'll have a great number of recipes to acquire, but I'll set myself to it."

[timebethine]

Laertes lets himself be pulled; there's little enough warmth here, but it blooms wherever their bodies touch. "A new and better form of errantry," he says, nuzzling his cold face against Sagramore's neck. "No object to it but the joy of our fellows."

[sagramore]

"That is probably the best quest I'll have ever been on." His hands slide down Laertes' back.

[timebethine]

Laertes presses up against him, shuddering, letting his hands settle anew on Sagramore's hips. "Thou wilt build up great strength in thy hands, working clay," he says. "Wilt mold me like earth between thy fingers."

[sagramore]

"Was that thy great aim all along, indeed? Nevermind Lady Tress, thou wouldst have my hands strong enough to bend thee--"

[timebethine]

"A happy accident," Laertes protests. "I had not thought of it until this very moment."

[sagramore]

"A likely story." He squeezes Laertes' backside firmly with both hands.

[timebethine]

Laertes hisses, rising up his toes to grind his hips against Sagramore's. "What would my master have of me?" he asks.

[sagramore]

He kneads Laertes' flesh as if he were so much clay. "I think I've had my fill of the cold for now. Come."

[timebethine]

Laertes would protest that he's barely started on washing his legs--but he's been given an order, and he will not disobey it. He lets go without withdrawing, ready for Sagramore to lead him where he will.

[sagramore]

He is, for all his protestations about preferring the cold, a little too cold now, and he's already decided they're going to finish washing up inside, even if that does mean tracking wet clay across the Mansion's rugs. He jerks his chin towards the lakeshore and begins wading back out again without looking to see whether Laertes is following.

[timebethine]

Laertes does follow, though, swift on Sagramore's heels.

[sagramore]

Once they get there he collects his clothes; he's dry enough to pull his shirt back over his shoulders without much effort, although he doesn't bother to button it, and then does the best he can with his jeans. Then he starts back towards the tool room, again with no look back.

[timebethine]

Laertes does the same, shimmying into his jeans and his shirt and hissing in distaste at how they cling to his wet body. He doesn't have time for his socks or boots, so he just gathers them up and stumbles after Sagramore across the grass. There's a thrill to being so completely ignored--to having his obedience assumed without question, to setting aside his worries and wants and just doing.

[sagramore]

His own boots, and his day pack, are still by the empty basin of the clay pit, and he says, "Get those," with a nod of his head before continuing on.

[timebethine]

Laertes shuffles his boots to the crook of his arm and picks up Sagramore's, then slings the day pack on and follows close behind--no more than an obedient shadow, a faithful page.

[sagramore]

From there he brings them back inside, with the predicted muddy footprints, and up to their rooms -- he has half a mind to go looking for the fancy baths, but the things he wants are all here. Once inside, he closes the door and turns to Laertes.

"Once you've put everything away, you'll draw me a bath and attend to me there. Understood?"

[timebethine]

"Ay, sir." Laertes bows, all deference--not even a hint of mockery or mirth. He settles their boots by the door and stows Sagramore's day pack (taking out the thermos first and placing it with the cups), then he puts their socks in the laundry hamper and immediately goes to draw a bath. There, he kneels by the tub and tests the water with his hands, seeking that perfect shade of warmth.

[sagramore]

In the meantime, Sagramore busies himself with getting one or two things ready, moving quietly around the room as he waits for Laertes.

[timebethine]

At last, when the bath is full enough (and Laertes has mixed in a little myrrh-scented soap, the warm and resinous aroma rising from the water), he comes to stand at the bathroom door with his hands folded neatly behind him. "Your bath is ready, sir."

[sagramore]

He steps into the bathroom and looks expectantly at Laertes to undress him.