[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]

"That was like nothing else," says Laertes--low, fervent. "I love so well to be thine. I love thee with every thread and fiber in me."

[sagramore]

"Thou art magnificent. There's no task I set thee to that thou canst not do, thou splendid thing. Unmatchable." He strokes back Laertes' still damp hair.

[timebethine]

And ordinarily he would protest--it was a little thing he did; all he had to do was lie still and wait--but right now, he is flush with Sagramore's faith in him, and he accepts the praise as his due. "At times I let myself forget how much I want this," says Laertes, a little softer. He digs his fingertips into Sagramore's back, massaging in slow circles. "But when I have it, I want nothing else."

[sagramore]

"I love to give it to thee," softly. "I love to have thee shuck off all thy self and thy worry and be only mine, to let me choose all things for thee and use thee as I will. Thou art so good."

[timebethine]

"I feel it," says Laertes, just as soft. He lays a kiss beneath Sagramore's ear, light but lingering, almost prayerful.

[sagramore]

Sagramore smiles at him, and eases off him with a wince to lie beside him, gathering him into his arms.

[timebethine]

That wince puts a faint line of worry between Laertes's brows; he curls closer, touching Sagramore's cheek, asking, "Art well?"

[sagramore]

"Aye, well," pressing a kiss to his brow. "Between thy clay and thy prick I've been worked hard today." It's gently playful: clearly not any kind of reproach.

[timebethine]

"Thou hast. Poor man, worked to the bone to please thy husband! Hen-pecked--or is it cock-pecked?"

[sagramore]

"By a bold cock! But I'll permit thee to peck and crow. I know 'tis only thy nature."

[timebethine]

"Does it please thee, to be drawn into so many projects?" Laertes asks--not as though he truly doubts it, but as though he seeks reassurance that it's true.

[sagramore]

"It does." He brushes through Laertes' hair with his fingertips. "It doesn't suit me to be idle, really -- I like that thou art always after new things, and I like to follow thee to them, and I like that I can aid thee."

[timebethine]

"My dear helpmeet," Laertes says, still quiet. The ache is growing, expanding outward from that point behind his eye as though someone is inflating a bladder there; he makes a little sound of discomfort and buries his face beneath Sagramore's chin.

[sagramore]

"Let me get the light, and come right back to thee."

[timebethine]

Laertes nods a little, and lets him go. He's grateful that at least he's not managing both a migraine and that steep fall that comes sometimes after being owned; he thinks that the two together would surely crush him. He turns his head into the pillow, but it smells of soap so heavily that nausea bubbles up in his gut.

Sometimes, a migraine will be a low, rumbling headache for hours before it whips itself into a tempest--but today, the tempest is bearing down on him from a cloudless sky. He can feel it pushing at his brain, crowding out pleasure, making even the soft cotton of the blankets almost too much to bear.

[sagramore]

Sagramore turns out the lights and turns back to the bed -- he'd thought to clean them up a little, but seeing the tension in Laertes' body he decides against it. He draws the curtains at the window instead and then comes to the bed.

"Is there anything else thou needst first, or shall I lie with thee now?"

[timebethine]

Laertes shakes his head. The darkness helps. Right now, the migraine is more nausea than pain--but when the pain bears down, every slight shift in the light will send a spike of agony through him. "Wouldst clean me? It's not bad yet." He only feels like throwing up, and not like boring holes in his skull.

[sagramore]

"Gladly. Would it help to spend thee or wouldst rather wait it out?" He'd ignored this before, because when Laertes is being used it pleases him to have his own pleasure be so much an afterthought as to matter not at all, but now he's worried that it might be making things worse.

[timebethine]

"I don't think I could," Laertes admits. "I'd have thee save thine efforts."

[sagramore]

He nods and goes to the bathroom to wet a towel with warm water. When he comes back he sits on the bed beside Laertes, cleaning up his cock and thighs with a gentle hand. "Thou art good to tell me so plainly what thou needst from me."

[timebethine]

"Thou mother hen," says Laertes fondly--and then, barely pausing to steady himself on Sagramore's shoulder, he's staggering up from the bed and crashing into the bathroom to be sick.

[sagramore]

"Ah, Christ." He's not sure whether hovering will just make Laertes chafe, but he gets a glass of water anyway and goes in to check on him.

[timebethine]

By then, Laertes is cleaning his face; his eyes look a little raw and wet, but he's smiling. "That helped," he says. "It does sometimes help, to purge bile." He takes the glass from Sagramore and drinks in long slow gulps.

[sagramore]

"Jesu, at least there's that," the very gentlest humor. It's on his tongue to ask a dozen questions -- should they stay here or go back to bed? Does Laertes want more water? Would it help if it were water with mint? Would he like a cool compress? -- but when he's in the aftermath of a seizure and his head is pounding the last thing he wants is to try to gather his wits enough for answers. So he keeps his mouth shut and waits for Laertes, who after all has been through this before and knows what he needs.

[timebethine]

When Laertes has finished the glass, he sets it down beside the sink and moves past Sagramore to the bed again. There, he pushes the coverlet all the way down to the bottom of the bed and drapes the sheet all the way up to his head. He needs the extra screening from the light that seeps between the curtains, but the heaviness and heat of the coverlet are hateful. Once he's fully ensconced, he takes a few moments just to breathe through his mouth.