[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.

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[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?"

[timebethine]

"Perfect," says Laertes, with a swift kiss to Sagramore's mouth. (He's grateful for the water, earlier; his tongue doesn't taste of bile at all.) He stretches against Sagramore, then rolls out of bed and starts searching for clean clothes.

[sagramore]

"I didn't mean thou shouldst be the one to make it," laughing as he sits up. "I can read the recipe myself now."

[timebethine]

"I'll be at loose ends without thee--let me at least fry a little bread to go with it."

[sagramore]

"I suppose I'll allow it. How many are we cooking for tonight?" He finds clothes of his own, and reties his hair.

[timebethine]

"Ugh, just we two--the rest will have to fend for themselves." Laertes's hair is a wreck from being slept on wet; all of the curls that he usually combs smooth are coiled up around his face on one side, and the other side is flattened and cowlicked. He rakes a hand through the mess and drags a shirt over his shoulders.

[sagramore]

One of thing he loves about Laertes is his ability to collect together a group of people he loves and turn them into a sort of family, to care for them -- he's never felt anything but great affection for the way Laertes feeds so many people at once. At the same time, there's a very simple pleasure in the idea of them making a small meal for just each other.

"All right," warmly. He ruffles Laertes' hair back out of place and makes for the door, not bothering with shoes.

[timebethine]

Laertes follows close behind, a little unsteady on his (bare) feet but willing; he reaches for Sagramore's hand to fold it in his own as they walk.

[sagramore]

"Thou art so dear to me," fondly, squeezing his hand. "Sometimes I know not how I bear it."

[timebethine]

"What maladies dost thou suffer, from love?" Laertes teases. "Speak of thy symptoms; I'll be thy physician."

[sagramore]

He winces in spite of his best efforts, and says lightly, "That I'm even thinking of telling them to thee is proof enough that thou hast humbled me beyond all knowledge."

[timebethine]

Laertes freezes; his skin goes cold all over, and his gut feels like knotted iron. "I'm sorry," he says, stammering a little. "That was cruel. I--I cannot make it right. I forgot."