timebethine | [Closed Post: En Garde]

Lancelot turns and smiles to see Laertes. "Good morning, sir. I would."

Then Laertes passes the second blade over for Lancelot's inspection. In his hands, it's immediately clear how much of the weight is sheath--the rapier is astoundingly light, after a longsword, and answers almost too readily in Lancelot's hands. "I thought we'd try a weapon I've the mastery of," says Laertes, "since thou didst thrash me roundly with a longsword."

"Ah, thrash is strong. Thou didst hold thine own." He draws the rapier and holds it out, testing its weight and balance. He looks back at Laertes. "Show me a little of the form?"

"It's fought high and far--about chest-height, at near the full extension of the arm," says Laertes, drawing his sword and dropping neatly into en garde. He has a dagger sheathed on his other hip, and something in how he holds his back-stretched hand communicates that he's used to wielding the dagger in it as a parrying weapon. "The rapier's best as a thrusting blade; it will cut, and cut like grief if the edge is sharp enough, but it hath not the mettle to hew armor or bone. The aim of it is to score a touch upon the opponent's arms or breast."

Lancelot looks him over, then sets aside the scabbard and moves to assume the form, copying Laertes as best he can. "Very well. Show me the thrust."

Laertes makes his offer low and slow, toward Lancelot's gut rather than his back; he's alert to how Lancelot will answer it, already planning out his counter-parry and riposte.

He follows his instinct and works to deflect the thrust by striking the blade away; it's not very well-balanced, and comes a little too fast, as he's still adjusting to the lightness of the blade itself.

And there's the counter-parry, circling deftly back under Lancelot's blade to graze his abdomen. "Touch," says Laertes with a smirk.

"Aha," he says, laughing a little. "I see-- well done."

Laertes's smile softens. "The style of bladeplay favors delicate passes--I've watched master fencers trade above twenty moves with their blades never straying from a circle the size of thy fist, and each one was as dire a threat as any o'er-eager lunge. A fight with a rapier is subtle; it moves more like a dance than like a march."

He resets his stance and says, eagerly, "Again."

And this time, Lancelot will see the full flower of Laertes's skill--Laertes knows the physics of each thrust and parry intimately, the fulcrum-point of each sword; he knows where best to begin a counter-parry to flick Lancelot's blade away as though it were only grass. Lancelot can't commit to a thrust but Laertes is already there, anticipating him, answering in a rhythm of parry-riposte. Laertes moves them around the training yard with light and easy steps, all the while smiling like a sunrise.

Lancelot is smiling, too, engaged and happy to experiment -- unafraid to take a risk, which is occasionally a bit dangerous, but even with as little practice as he has with the rapier he is skilled enough to watch himself. And, of course, he is a quick learner of anything to do with his physicality. He learns through experimentation and also in watching how Laertes moves, what he does with his blade and footwork. Laertes definitely has the edge on him, and Lancelot won't be approaching his level of skill any time soon, but the whole thing is (he finds) gratifying.

And when they've lost count of touches (Laertes thinks he had near twenty when the number slipped from his grasp), Laertes will sheathe his blade at last with a burst of laughter. His cheeks are apple-round and flushed like damask roses. He's sweating, shining, breath just a steamy plume on the cold air. "Sir," he says, "thou wilt soon overtake me with the rapier, and then I'll have no reputation at all."

"We all have reputations to maintain, sir," he replies, laughing as well.

"And thou the perfect knight--but I know thy secret weakness," Laertes says lightly. "Legend reports that thou canst be beaten at pinball."

Lancelot gasps then does his best to look mock-scandalized, "Who hast told thee such falsehoods?"

"There are no secrets in a marriage bed, and so thou wert betrayed," says Laertes mock-dolefully. A shiver goes through him as the wind picks up; his hooded sweatshirt isn't quite warm enough to keep out the stiff breeze. "Art thou finished here? Or wouldst thou go again?"

"An thou'rt ready to retire, so am I," easily. He retrieves the scabbard. "And I am sorry to say, but thy husband -- right though he may be that I am not the victor at all games of pinball -- is no great pinball player."

"A good thing that I set him no challenge for my hand, or I'd be unwed to this day," laughs Laertes as he starts back toward the mansion. "Now, tell me--what in God's name is pinball?" Sagramore, drunk as a lord and spilling out of Laertes's lap in every direction, had been less than helpful in explaining.

Lancelot laughs, "It is a-- well. A singular entertainment. I can show thee, but Grantaire is the expert."

"I'm at thy disposal; my only plans for today were to spar with thee and to make breakfast, since it's Tress's day for supper."

"Let us have some coffee, first, perhaps. 'Tis cold out here, though we've been active."

"Gladly, then--dost thou like Sagramore's Turkish coffee? I can make that for thee."

"I don't know that I've had that, exactly, but yes. I'd like that."

"It's very strong," Laertes warns. "And the grounds lie thick in it; I like it well, but thou mayest not."

Lancelot grins and shrugs. He says lightly, "Perhaps 'tis a time for trying new things."

"There's little I like better--Sagramore and I have started making cheese, if thou canst credit it! There's still some left; canst have it with toast and jam, an thou likest." He gets the door and holds it open for Lancelot.

Lancelot laughs quietly, "I can credit that. The two of thee have more projects than I can count."

"This one was Sagramore's idea--he knows I love nothing more than to learn a new skill." His eyes shine with delight at the chance to speak well of Sagramore. "I'll find out whether there are any Hungarian cheeses, and learn to make them. A part of him is rooted there, although I think he was often unhappy in Hungary; I want nothing more than to nourish that root until it blooms into something joyous." They head into the kitchen, where Laertes takes down the cezve and starts preparing the other coffee things.

Lancelot smiles at him -- the clear joy they have in one another is touching. It gives him a kind of hope. He goes to lean against the counter and watch Laertes' preparations.

"If anyone can figure it out, 'tis thee, I'm certain."

Laertes flaps a hand at him. "Go to--there's bread in the box. Do thou put it in the toaster" and here Laertes indicates the stainless steel toaster on the counter "and push down the lever, and we'll have toast with cheese and jam for breakfast."

"Aye, very well." He immediately and rather cheerfully sets to his task.

Soon enough, Laertes has a pot of coffee ready; he pours it out into a pair of small, intricately painted blue ceramic cups, then fetches out the herbed chèvre and a jar of marmalade from the refrigerator for the toast. "I take sugar in my coffee," he says, "but Sagramore likes his plain. Wouldst thou have sweet, or bitter?"

Lancelot considers, "Bitter-- an I like it not, I will add in sugar."

Then Laertes passes him a cup, and doctors his own with half a spoonful of sugar before cupping it in both hands and sipping.

Lancelot takes his and sips -- he finds he likes it just as well as the coffee that is sometimes in the café. He settles onto a stool near the counter, looking pleased & tousled.

Laertes can't help sneaking grins at him as he begins spreading cheese and marmalade over the toast that Lancelot has made. "Thy humor's improved in the last weeks," he says. "I'm heartily glad for it."

"Is it so noticeable?" This is, largely, a joke. He sips his coffee.

"It is. Ought I to lay this miraculous recovery at Susan's feet?"

Lancelot smiles, bright and immediate, which is as good a confirmation as any. But he says, "Susan, yes. But not only Susan. Thou hast been a good friend to me. Thy husband has, as well, in ways that never fail to surprise me."

"He hath an instinct for what's needful, and the generosity to answer that need," Laertes agrees, grinning. "A thousand times, I've found myself wanting some small thing--sugar, or my coat, or a good scent for the bath--only to find that he's seen my need before I did, and provided it."

"I do not think I have earned his friendship," a little more quietly, "but I am grateful for it. He is a good man."

"Friendship isn't earned--it's a gift, freely given," says Laertes firmly.

"That's as may be," with a kind of gentleness. "I know I was unkind to him at court. I did nothing to endear myself even in my own time. I can only imagine I was worse, later on. He has been generous in letting me be someone different, here. He had no cause to help me, except that he is a fine man, who loves people as best he can."

"He is, and I love him for it. There was never a finer." Another long sip of his coffee; he slides a plate of finished toast over toward Lancelot. "Thou couldst do worse than to take his example."

Lancelot takes up the toast, "I have been taking his example. Worry not."

"Oh?"

He flushes, chuckling a little, "Aye. He has counseled me well."

Laertes laughs and finishes his coffee. "Then I'm glad of it. It does my heart good to see thee flourishing, and I hope that his advice will only speed thee to happiness."

Lancelot sips his own coffee, covering a pause, and then says, "May I ask thee a question?"

"Ask," says Laertes at once. "I'll answer."

"Thou'rt a good friend to me," he says, with a frank look, "and I am grateful. I had few friends at court and here it is different. But I did say to Sagramore that I think I try thy patience. He said 'twas not so-- I doubt him in that. Is it so?"

"No more than any other man," says Laertes, after a moment's pause. He looks down at his empty cup. "I fear there is little patience in my heart, and at times I'm cruel because of it. I always repent it when I am. I'm sorry that I've been cruel to thee, sir. I like thee very well, and thou deservest better of me."

He smiles softly, "Thou hast been nothing but kind to me. I did not ask because I am hurt, but because I know I am not an easy person."

Mirth crinkles the corners of Laertes's eyes. "Nor is Greek an easy language, but well worth knowing all the same."

He laughs a little. "I know naught of Greek. But I would learn to be a little easier, an I might do so."

"Needst not. I'm a very hard man to love--and harder now than I ever was before," says Laertes. "I'm impatient, disorderly, intense where others might welcome ease ... and yet I've found such love here as beggars description. Those who love me, love me not because I'm easy, but for all those defects of character that grow monstrous in my imagination."

"It is different with thee-- it is easy to come to know thee, faults or otherwise. Thou'rt open."

"I've learned to be," says Laertes. "If that's thy wish, then I hope thou mayest as well."

He smiles a little, nodding as if this answer satisfies him. After a moment he says, "I admire thee. Thou'rt bright, and brave in ways I am not often brave."

"What ways are those?" Taking a piece of toast, Laertes bites into it and chews. The flavor of the cheese is more subtle than the chèvre he's pulled unthinkingly from the refrigerator; it provides a good base for the sweetness and tang of the marmalade.

"In seeking new things and ideas, in making new friends. That is hard, for me."

"Why, hard?"

"I am used to few folks understanding me, or enjoying my company. I have never thought much about making friends, until here."

"And new ideas?"

"That's been a bit of adjustment as well," with a little chuckle.

"Ay, but not all of them have been curses of truth or the restless dead." Laertes tips his head toward the refrigerator. "There's one idea that's greatly improved my state. My marriage is another."

"Aye, and the idea of thy marriage has been, I think, a boon to me as well."

"Oh? How?"

"Well," this is careful, a little cautious. It's one thing to discuss this with Susan or Sagramore; with Laertes he sometimes feels he'll take a turn and there will be a cliff he was unaware of.

(It's not, he realizes, that he doesn't trust Laertes -- more than he doesn't trust himself to read the conversation correctly.)

"For one, the notion that men may marry, and love openly. For another, that one may be in a marriage and have other loves without causing hurt."

Edited (somehow i hit enter, oops!) 2024-01-05 18:52 (UTC)

Laertes breaks into a huge, flashing grin. "That's well, then," he says. "Learning those things has brought me great peace and pleasure. If it could bring thee the same joy, then I'm happy--I'm so happy to hear it."

Lancelot smiles, relieved that Laertes has heard this as he intended.

"If only I can learn skill enough to make good use of knowing, perhaps that will be so."

"Hast cast thine eye on any of the men here, then?" Laertes teases, with a little lift of his brows.

"Ah, well, perhaps."

"Then perhaps I will wish thee the joy of him."

"Only perhaps?"

"If no man has caught thine eye, then there's no joy to wish with him."

"I see," chuckling. Then, after a moment's consideration, "I am fond of Grantaire, but I know not of any interest he may have in me."

"Good," says Laertes encouragingly. "He's a fine man. Fond of games and jests, but there is a heart of adamant in him that loves without surcease. Dost thou mean to try thy suit with him?"

Lancelot flushes, laughing again and shrugging. "I could not say. I am still understanding how all of this works. Not only with men, mind you-- wooing anyone is something of a mystery to me."

"To me, as well--I'd never wooed anyone, before I came here," Laertes admits. "But I've had great success with being direct, and answering a no with kindness and respect."

"'Tis difficult to be direct when one isn't even quite aware of what one wants."

"That's true--hast thou any idea?"

"It's another thing that is sometimes difficult for me, but I'm starting to, I think, yes."

"Then thou couldst do worse than to ask for it."

"I suppose that's true."

With a last, quick quirk of a smile, Laertes finishes his toast and starts preparing the other pieces. They'll probably need some accompaniment, he thinks--eggs, maybe, or berries. Berries will be less work, but eggs will be heartier. "Eggs, or berries?" he asks.

"Eggs," he says, decisively. "Berries are not enough for most."

"Very good. Canst cook an egg? Or wouldst thou have me teach thee?"

A trifle sheepishly he says, "I'd appreciate the lesson."

"Eggs were the first thing I learned to cook--Sagramore taught me, when we met," says Laertes, grinning. "It's easy for me now, but at the time, I was very impressed."

"I don't doubt he can cook eggs impressively."

"To begin--there are many ways to cook an egg. Canst scramble it, boil it, poach it, or fry it, and there are many ways to fry an egg, depending on how soft thou wouldst like the yolks to be. To scramble means to mix white and yolk together, then to cook it into curds; to poach is to boil it without its shell. How wouldst thou like thine eggs?" Laertes asks as he takes a carton out from the refrigerator.

"Let us scramble them, then." He gets up and comes over to the stove.

And if it feels warm and domestic to be cooking with him--well, Laertes mostly cooks with Sagramore and Enjoras; of course it does. He shunts that aside and takes down a mixing bowl. "Help me crack in some eggs," he says as he sets bowl and carton between them. "About eight or ten in total." Laertes also snags the compost bin and brings it close to dump the spent eggshells into it.

He sets to work, a little awkwardly at first, but soon enough he relaxes.

And once they've broken all of the eggs into the bowl, Laertes mixes in salt and pepper, then goes to the refrigerator for a little milk to add in. "The milk gives them height and--" the sign for fluffy "--softness," he says. "Wilt heat a little butter in a pan for me? The butter's also in the box."

"Aye," he says agreeably, going to find it. Once in hand he finds a pan and starts to set everything up. "How much?"

"A little less than a finger's thickness," says Laertes. "And then turn the pan until the butter coats the bottom." He takes up a whisk and starts beating the eggs fiercely.

Lancelot does all of this carefully; he's a little surprised to find it's somewhat soothing watching the butter melt and coat the pan.

Laertes can't help smiling a little to watch him. Already, Lancelot looks more at ease in his own skin than he had only a month ago. "That looks good," he says, and steps in with the mixing bowl held in both hands. "Now, I have only to pour and stir. An thou do not stir, and let it cook flat, thou wilt have an omelette. Canst put anything in it--cheeses, meats, vegetables--and then fold it up inside the egg."

Lancelot steps aside, though not quite as far as he otherwise might. "Thou canst show me the method."

Then Laertes tips about half of the egg mixture into the pan and grabs a metal-ended turner; while the eggs hiss and bubble into thick yellow-and-white curds, he scrapes them up and stirs.¹ As soon as the last of the whites have gone from translucent to opaque, he serves up the eggs onto the plates with toast. "Thy turn, now," he says, once the pan's been cleaned out. "Remember what thou hast learned."

¹ I feel the need to clarify for anyone who is currently reading in horror that this pan does not have a non-stick coating, so it's fine to use metal utensils on it.

"Very well," reaching to take the turner. "Do we need more butter?"

"We do, else the eggs will stick to the pan." He places the turner in Lancelot's hand.

So he reapplies butter and then does his best to repeat what Laertes has shown him. He does a reasonably good job -- again, this is an area where simply repeating an action and its timing are all that's asked of him.

All the same, Laertes claps his shoulder when it's finished and passes over more plates to have eggs put on them. "Hast done well," he says. "There, now that thou hast learned eggs with toast, thou canst charm any fearful, shy man who wanders into thy kitchen."

"Oh?" He laughs, "Knowest thou any such man here?"

"Not anymore; I've long since thrown off shyness."

"I cannot believe thou was ever shy," portioning out the eggs.

"I was--and even now, a part of me fears greatly to be too familiar," Laertes admits. "There are many I would open my heart to, and gather to me as my dearest friends ... but I've been too long brought up to the habit of circumspection. It's easy to make shallow friendships, but to make such friendships as I would have feels like climbing Mount Olympus."

"Ah," thoughtfully. "Time was that even shallow friendships felt a great challenge to me. Folk liked me or they did not. Nothing much to be done about it. Here, I find it different."

"Good." Laertes starts loading up plates onto the tray, then makes Lancelot a brief but graceful bow. "I'll to my work, then. My thanks for thy help in preparing the meal."

Lancelot bows back, "I thank thee for thy time and teaching. Be well, Laertes."

[Closed Post: En Garde]

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