[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]

"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.

[timebethine]

This office, Laertes could do quickly even when Sagramore wore tunic and hose; he is efficient in easing the unbuttoned shirt over Sagramore's shoulders and easing the cuffs over his wrists, swift in undoing the fly of his jeans and guiding Sagramore to step out of them. This done, Laertes takes the discarded clothes to the hamper and returns to await instruction.

[sagramore]

While he's doing this Sagramore does at least get into the bath of his own initiative, with a sigh of pleasure at the warm water -- Christ, it was cold in the lake -- and takes a moment to sink under and get his hair wet.

[timebethine]

It's seldom easy for Laertes to stand still--but somehow, the expectation of orders holds him arrested, comfortable and patient where he stands. His master will tell him, when Laertes has some further use to him; until them, his only purpose is to be ready, to wait, to be beautiful for his master's beholding. His breathing eases. He forgets his muddy feet and the lingering chill in his limbs and the mismatched cuffs of his jeans. If his master finds any of those displeasing, he'll say it, and Laertes will answer.

[sagramore]

He remembers belatedly the now-soggy ribbon in his hair, and takes it out. He had meant to direct Laertes to help him, but seeing him there, quiet and waiting, he wants only to watch him and be watched by him, and he reaches for the soap himself and begins to lather up his curls; he sits forward in the bath, his back bent in a smooth curve that ends at his shoulders, like the shape of a wave falling towards the shore. If he isn't specifically letting Laertes fuss over him, he tends to bathe efficiently, in and out as soon as he's clean enough, but now he lingers on the act of washing his hair, fingers gathering through, rubbing gently against his scalp. When it's enough, he drops beneath the water again to rinse.

He washes all the bits of clay from his calves and feet, and then beckons to Laertes. "Come here."

[timebethine]

Laertes takes a few steps forward, eyes alert, posture ready.

[sagramore]

"Get in."

[timebethine]

"May I undress, Master?"

[sagramore]

He laughs, mostly at himself. "I suppose so. Yes."

[timebethine]

Then Laertes slips out of his own clothes and sets them aside; getting them put away is less urgent than answering Sagramore's command. He steps into the bath, clay starting to sluice away from around his ankles even as he settles himself against Sagramore's chest. (The bathtub isn't really big enough for two, but that just makes the intimacy of it feel cozier.)

[sagramore]

Sagramore picks up the soap again and begins to wash him -- there's a care to it, but a distance, too. This isn't the intimacy between husbands, but a man taking care of his property.