[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]

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."

[sagramore]

"Nay, nay, nay, none of that," turning to catch his other hand. "Thou hast not harmed me."

[timebethine]

Laertes is fairly sure that Sagramore would say that whether or not he had been harmed, but he lets that touch be mending, if Sagramore wants to mend things. "I'll be more careful with my tongue," Laertes says.

[sagramore]

"Well, there are better uses for it." He kisses Laertes' temple and gives his hand another squeeze. "It's all right."

[timebethine]

Laertes kisses his cheek in answer, and then just leans on him a little, hoping that the closeness will serve as an apology where his words can't.

[sagramore]

Sagramore says nothing, but when they reach the kitchen he gets the cookbook with the soup recipe down from the rack over the microwave and flips it open, and then goes to the refrigerator to get out ingredients in a companionable silence.

[timebethine]

Laertes isn't really up to making a true recipe--he just takes out flour, thick yogurt, and salt, and dumps about two parts flour to one part yogurt in a bowl to mix and knead. The action calms his nerves a little; he wishes he didn't feel shot through the heart whenever he says something foolish, but there's nothing to be done about it now. While the dough rests, he takes down a pan and flicks on the burner to heat it.

[sagramore]

He has a little more space to think as he cooks, his reading glasses perched on the end of his sharp nose (they do slip down a little when he's moving around a lot, as he is now), and he realizes that although Laertes' words did hurt, it's not a lasting hurt. If Mordred had said it, he knows it would have cut into him deeply, and if Laertes had said it three months ago it would have stayed sore, even knowing it was thoughtless -- but now it just feels like a glance. He knows it wasn't meant to wound him. He knows Laertes isn't disgusted by his sickness. It's all right.

As the broth simmers he adds orzo and then begins chopping parsley. Since they began cooking together, he's gotten confident with his knife skills, and he chops quickly and smoothly, using both hands.

[timebethine]

It's quick work to split the dough into four pieces, and to fry them up and set them aside; the good smell of browning bread joins the scents of broth and parsley. When he's finished, when the mixing bowl and the pan are washed and put away, Laertes goes to wrap his arms around Sagramore's waist from behind and make it hard for him to finish his work.

[sagramore]

"Hello!" in tones of delight, as if Laertes' presence were a wonderful surprise. "Fancy meeting thee here."

[timebethine]

"What an unexpected pleasure! I'd been hoping to better acquaint myself with thee," says Laertes, and he slides his hands into Sagramore's pockets to pull him closer by the hips.

[sagramore]

"A happy coincidence. I wasn't sure when we'd cross each other's paths again." He leans back against Laertes.

[timebethine]

"Ay, it's been so long since last we met." Laertes leans up to kiss the side of Sagramore's neck. "Dost remember my name?"

[sagramore]

"Hmmm. A Greek name, if I don't mistake me."

[timebethine]

"Ay, a Greek name," Laertes agrees, with a little nip to Sagramore's ear like a reward.

[sagramore]

He laughs; it sends a quick involuntary shiver through him. He absolutely does not remember anything else about the origins of Laertes' name, though he does try to see if absolutely anything remains from the tedious classical education of his childhood. It does not. "A handsome name," he says instead, hoping that will make Laertes laugh.

[timebethine]

"Sweet man," says Laertes--admonishing, but laughing, laughing--"if thou canst not remember my name, how wilt thou scream it in ecstasy?"

[sagramore]

"I'll grant thee that could cause a problem--"

[timebethine]

"Call me any name, and I'll answer it," Laertes laughs. "Only look me in the eyes, that I'll know thou meanest me."

[sagramore]

He turns around in Laertes' arms to meet his gaze. "I could mean no one else."