[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]

"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.

[sagramore]

Sagramore sits on the bed beside him, with his back against the headboard. "All right to touch thee?"

[timebethine]

The lump under the sheets nods.

[sagramore]

He reaches over and begins rubbing at Laertes' scalp with a gentle, firm pressure, beginning at the back of his head where it meets the neck, which is where his own headaches are worst after a seizure, and then letting his fingers move upward slowly, inexorably, in small circles.

[timebethine]

The pressure helps. The pain (and it is setting in now, that dull hot tight feeling like an iron brand being pressed slowly into his brain) doesn't go away, but Sagramore's touch seems to redistribute it, to spread it thinner over Laertes's head. The touch at the back of his neck is especially good; there are moments where it cuts through the aching, like a sunbeam finding a break in the clouds. Laertes sighs and gives into it.

[sagramore]

He'd half-expected his hand to get tired at some point, but it doesn't, as if his store of energy is endlessly renewing when it's for Laertes' sake. When he's massaged the whole of Laertes' scalp he comes back to that spot at the back of his neck, which seemed to please him the most.

[timebethine]

Laertes drifts, caught somewhere between pain and sleep. The touch anchors him. It feels like it holds him on that borderline, not yet fully sunk inside the pain, although it worsens until he wishes he could weep.

In time, he gathers himself enough to murmur, "Lie with me."

[sagramore]

"Mmm," roused from the meditative quiet he's slipped into. "Yes, of course." He eases down beside Laertes.

[timebethine]

"Thou hast helped me," says Laertes, turning his back to Sagramore to nestle into the bow of his body. "It would've been worse without thee."

[sagramore]

"I'm glad." He arranges himself around Laertes and his sheet. "May I hold thee, or will that hurt?"

[timebethine]

"Please," says Laertes, his voice just a breath.

[sagramore]

So he slips his arm around Laertes' waist, holding him against his chest, and presses a kiss to his neck.

[timebethine]

Laertes isn't sure how long he lies like this. He thinks he sleeps a little; by the time he opens his eyes, the light seeping in through the crack in the curtains is dim and sunset-orange. The pain isn't gone, but it's receded, pushed back to the edges of his consciousness instead of occupying his every thought.

[sagramore]

Sagramore is in the same place, still holding him, so tired of his own thoughts it's painful but unwilling to leave Laertes' side.

[timebethine]

"My star," says Laertes, turning in his arms and folding him close. His gratitude is also not an enormous, overwhelming weight--and it strikes him then that he is coming to expect Sagramore to be there for him. That what was once precious and rare has become common, and lost none of its preciousness. "Thou hast done so well by me."

[sagramore]

He nuzzles Laertes' neck. "Is it any better? Can I bring thee anything?"

[timebethine]

"It's better now. Only a little ache." As though to prove it, his hand wanders over Sagramore's ribs, seeking out any jut of bone or tuft of hair that can occupy his fingers.

[sagramore]

"Hm, good." He smiles at the touch, his gaze soft.

[timebethine]

"And thee? Art thou well?" Now his questing fingers track down Sagramore's spine, circling the island of every vertebra.

[sagramore]

"Well, aye. Thinking we should eat, if thou canst stomach it."

[timebethine]

"I can," says Laertes. "What wouldst thou have? Something simple to make that lies lightly on the stomach, for my part."

[sagramore]

"That soup thou madest last month, with the lemon? Didst like that well enough to have again?"