[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]

"The stock was different from last time. Remember, it was a powder then and we mixed it with the water, and this time I found it ready-made."

[timebethine]

"Ah, then I hope there will be less salt in it! That stock was powerfully salty." While Sagramore finishes the soup, Laertes takes down a couple of dinner trays and lays out the bread around a pair of bowls.

[sagramore]

"I remember. I tasted it before I added it, I thought it was better." He sprinkles in the parsley liberally, gives it a stir, and goes to get a ladle.

[timebethine]

Once the soup has been served, Laertes takes up his tray. He lets Sagramore choose where they'll eat today--whether they'll take their meals to the café or head back to their rooms.

[sagramore]

Upstairs, mainly because it hasn't occurred to him that the cafe is a place that they could eat. Sagramore does detour to one of the bars for ice and more of the ginger beer they'd tried with the cointreau.

When they get back to the room, he clears some space off on the table for them -- now that their assignation with Claudius is over, they promptly have made a clutter of it again -- and sets his tray down. It seems like a special occasion, or at least an occasion where Laertes, having survived his migraine, deserves to be spoiled some, and he pokes his head into the closet where he's been keeping the drinks he wants to share with him (behind the many flouncy skirts that are still there from the last time they were generated. He comes back with a bottle of rhubarb and ginger gin.

[timebethine]

Laertes pulls up a chair and sits, but he looks up with interest at the new bottles. "Rhubarb and ginger? That sounds perfect," he says appreciatively. "Hast been saving new liquors to tempt me?"

[sagramore]

"I have." He reaches for one of the empty mugs and adds ice to it. "We need a cold box like the one in the bar up here. A little one, to keep drinks in."

[timebethine]

"I found a little one, but that I passed on to Enjolras for his café," says Laertes ruefully as he tears off a bit of bread to dip in his soup. "Thou art right; the drinks I like best, I like cold."

[sagramore]

As he begins mixing a drink for Laertes, "Where didst thou find it? I can look for another." He did pick the gin because it's the only thing he has in his stash that didn't need to be chilled first.

[timebethine]

"It was much like a kitchen, but with no oven or stove," says Laertes. "There was the small cold box, and one of those boxes that can warm food quickly--and a coffee machine and a toaster, but the toaster, Tress and I took apart."

[sagramore]

"Hmm. I can at least look. I did see Lady Tress with the toaster -- did the two of thee murder more than one? --Here."

[timebethine]

Laertes takes the drink and sips. "It's very good," he says, "although the rhubarb is too subtle for my taste. And she took one apart herself; the other, we smashed together. We wanted to know whether broken things would repair themselves." Another, longer sip. "They did not."

[sagramore]

"Smashed together," he echoes delightedly. "--It might be too much ginger altogether. I should have got plain effervescent water."

[timebethine]

"No, the ginger is perfect. It's a strong taste, but a good one. It was well-chosen."

[sagramore]

He starts to say flatterer, and then he doesn't. Instead, he makes his own drink, a little heavier on the gin, and says, "I'm glad."

[timebethine]

Then Laertes tucks into his soup in earnest, interspersing it with sips of his drink and pieces of bread. There's an intimacy to eating with Sagramore that he cherishes--the sense that they're a family, sitting down to a shared meal.

[sagramore]

Sagramore eats slowly, trying to taste every part of it in the way that Laertes has made him want to do, to care about this thing he's learned to do with his own hands. The lemon, the pepper, the rounder, less salty flavor of the stock, the bread, the gin. It matters more now. He likes that it matters more.

[timebethine]

After a few moments, Laertes reaches for Sagramore, right hand finding his left. He finishes the meal left-handed, and then slides his chair over to rest against Sagramore's shoulder.

[sagramore]

"Thou art a joy to me," he murmurs fondly. "Wilt sit in my lap?"

[timebethine]

"If the chair will bear it, ay." Laertes half-rises from his own chair, settling on one of Sagramore's thighs and leaning against his chest. The difference between their heights is not so great; seated like this, it's easy to kiss Sagramore's temple.

[sagramore]

His arms come to rest around Laertes' waist, holding him securely. "There, that's well."

[timebethine]

"I always feel so loved, with thee," says Laertes softly. "My dear man. Star of my fortune. Thou art so very good."

[sagramore]

"My heart, how could I do anything but love thee? Thou art the best of men and the finest of husbands."

[timebethine]

"Then we're well-matched, because if I had a thousand years to choose a husband, mine election would still light on thee."

[sagramore]

He laughs quietly and presses his face into the hollow of Laertes' shoulder. "A thousand years is a long time to meet other men," but he's teasing, and his arms tighten. "How dost thou, how's thy head? Wouldst thou rest again?"