[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]

He's gentle, but not cautious, moving Laertes where he wants him and expecting him to be pliant for it. He washes Laertes' chest, his limbs, all the mud and clay on his legs; he pushes him forward to soap up his back and then cups water with his hands to rinse him. He takes his shoulders and guides him under the water to wet his hair, and then washes that too.

[timebethine]

Even before Sagramore pushes his head beneath the water, it feels as holy as a baptism. It's strange, to feel at once holy and no more than an object--as though Laertes is a relic, just a few fragments of bone with faith wrapped around them.

[sagramore]

The silence, with only the splashing of water and their quiet breathing, is strangely tolerable, even pleasant, considering how little Sagramore typically enjoys it. There's something about being with Laertes that makes it seem easier, and not just a space for his thoughts to run wild in. He sometimes forgets, when he's gotten to be a dog for a long while, how much he also wants the opportunity to take control over Laertes in turn. It's good not to think and to cede his body to Laertes, but it's equally good to be entrusted with Laertes' body and mind, to be, as he told Claudius, responsible.

Once he has the last of the soap washed out of Laertes' hair he runs his finger along Laertes' jaw, rough with late afternoon stubble. "Turn around now," before he leans over the side to get his shaving kit, where he'd put it while Laertes was out of the room earlier.

[timebethine]

Laertes turns obediently, settling on his knees. His expression turns briefly curious when he sees the shaving kit--he wonders whether Sagramore will ask Laertes to shave him, or to submit himself to be shaved. Either could be a kind of pleasure; he thinks that he would like as much to serve as he would to be groomed and tended.

[sagramore]

He begins with Laertes. There's a particular bar of soap he tends to use for shaving and he has that to hand too; he dips it in the water and works up a mint-and-cucumber-scented lather, which he spreads on Laertes' cheeks and chin, along his jaw.

[timebethine]

Laertes smiles a little while he's being lathered, then lets his face fall to neutral once it's done. He doesn't want to make any inconvenient grooves for Sagramore to navigate--but even so, his expression is all trust, all adoration.

[sagramore]

In this case the remove actually helps -- he's shaved his own face an infinite number of times, and he knows it so well he's fairly sure he could do it with his eyes closed, or blind drunk (he may even have done, once or twice), but it's a different thing to shave Laertes. He takes out the straight razor from its case, holds Laertes' chin with his fingertips, and begins.

He works slowly, listening to the scrape of the blade on skin, alert to every movement or sound Laertes might make.

[timebethine]

For Sagramore, Laertes can be stillness itself. He moves only when Sagramore tugs him one direction or another. He makes no sound at all, except the steady, slow rush of his breath through his nostrils. As the sediment settles around them, Sagramore may notice that Laertes is fully hard, but he doesn't seem aware of it himself; all his attention is bent on Sagramore's face, as focused as Sagramore's own.

[sagramore]

He takes note of it, but doesn't let himself think about it, all his concentration on the task at hand. His hands are perfectly steady as he moves Laertes' face to either side, or tilts it up to shave his neck.

[timebethine]

And that makes Laertes's breath come short--the blade at his throat, and the steadiness with which Sagramore wields it.

[sagramore]

"Good," he murmurs, drawing the razor against the soft and vulnerable underside of his jaw, along the ridged line of his windpipe. "Good."

[timebethine]

Laertes's lips part, but no sound comes out. He is good; there is nothing between him and the praise. He is good, because Sagramore has called him good, and Sagramore is the fixed point around which the universe turns. Happiness unfurls and floats in the sea of him, like cloth in water.

[sagramore]

Finally he finishes, and rinses the blade of the razor in the water before setting it aside. He lifts water in his cupped hands to wash the residue of soap and tiny, fine hairs, so light brown they're almost golden, away from Laertes' face. He pats his skin dry with the smallest handtowel he could find, and then takes a little aftershave lotion in his hands and rubs it in, with gentle circles of his fingers.

[timebethine]

An inward part of Laertes preens at this care--he must be so beloved, to be attended to so tenderly. He must be so good. Sagramore, the best of men, has chosen him for this. The world seems to refract a little, hazy at the edges, the bathroom lights shattering into a thousand colors as though broken upon the facets of a diamond.

[sagramore]

"Good," he says again quietly. "Get up and dry off now."

[timebethine]

Laertes eases himself up from his knees--his thighs and calves burn; he had almost forgotten the strain he's put on them from kneading clay--and then steps out of the tub and takes down a towel. He dries himself, hair to shoulders, stomach to legs, enjoying the quiet pleasure of his own hands roughly working terrycloth over his skin. When he finishes, he looks up at Sagramore and smiles. He hopes that Sagramore was watching. He hopes that the sight was pleasing to him.

[sagramore]

He had been, leaning on the side of the tub, his gaze soft. Now that Laertes is dry and clean, he hauls himself up in turn, dripping, and unstoppers the bath so it can drain. He's been above water so long his hair is starting to dry, the curls damp and tight, and he doesn't bother toweling it off, just his body, perfunctory.

"How's your head?"

[timebethine]

It takes a moment for Laertes to surface enough to answer--to recognize that he has an answer; that the halo around every light signifies something meaningful. "Well, sir. But it may not be well, in an hour. Less, perhaps."

[sagramore]

"Long enough to be used, or no?"

[timebethine]

"Ay," says Laertes, soft but urgent as an avalanche. "Use me, sir."

[sagramore]

"Bed," with a nod towards the other room.

[timebethine]

Laertes pads into the bedroom and seats himself on the edge of the bed, ready to rearrange himself however Sagramore should choose to have him. He looks up at Sagramore; his expression is expectant, inviting.

[sagramore]

"Lie down. I'm going to fuck myself on you. I don't want you to move or speak or touch me, but you may look at me. Do you understand?"

[timebethine]

Laertes nods, then lies back against the blankets. He feels soft and light, as though he's no more than bones and eiderdown; need pulses at the base of his cock like a heartbeat. He knows that he must look soft-faced, boyish, infinitely touchable without stubble shadowing his chin; he knows that Sagramore sees Laertes as younger than he is (or perhaps sees himself as older than he is), and he lets himself go vulnerable and doe-eyed. It's only what every young creature does when it wants care--looks up at its elders with absolute trust and need.

[sagramore]

"Good," again. He pumps the bottle of lube once or twice and begins opening himself up -- efficiently, not a man showing off for his lover. He's only planning something quick to take the edge off, the use of a favorite toy for a little pleasure before moving on to something else, and there's no need to make a production if it.