[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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[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?"

[timebethine]

"My head is better, now," says Laertes, and he nuzzles Sagramore's hair. "Wouldst thou read to me in bed?"

[sagramore]

"I'd be well-pleased," giving his waist another squeeze.

[timebethine]

It humbles Laertes, how infinitely loving Sagramore is--how he always makes Laertes feel cherished and respected; how impossible it is to doubt the depth and sincerity of his affections. How he hasn't held himself apart from Laertes's love since that night when they chose to stay with each other, except when he's tried to shelter Laertes from his pain. "Let's spend tomorrow together," he says. "Me, and thee. No one else but we two."

[sagramore]

"Yes. Jesu, that sounds wonderful. I'd have thee be the world entire."

[timebethine]

"And thou my world; thine arms my horizon." He leans down to kiss Sagramore soundly, tasting of ginger and lemon, his hands cupping the precious curve of Sagramore's skull.

[sagramore]

Sagramore kisses him back fervently, his eyes drifting closed. It's impossible how easily Laertes does fill up the whole world, eclipsing everything with his warmth and sweetness -- he's so good, he's so earnest and beautiful and tender, and Sagramore's heart aches, as it often does, with gratitude for him. Laertes has changed him and is endlessly changing him, and as much as he's been afraid of those changes he's glad of them. He hitches them a little closer, letting there be nothing except the kiss.