[Closed Post: Caught]

[timebethine]

Laertes is in love. He's in love, and he's carrying his whole heart tucked into his coat, held close against his chest. The pup wriggles and squirms and makes little noises that to Laertes's ears are more curious and interested than distressed. "Soon, pet," says Laertes softly as he undoes the lock on the door to his and Sagramore's rooms. Then, louder: "Sagramore! I've brought a friend for thee!"

And he pulls the tiny puppy out of his coat. It blinks ice-blue eyes at Sagramore, then gives an amiable bark.

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[sagramore]

"My heart. It's all play. Perhaps we should be clearer about when play begins and ends, I had no idea thou didst not know."

[timebethine]

"Or at least--when we might have faith that we speak from the heart, and when we might doubt." He meets Sagramore's gaze. "Art thou playing, when thou callest me master?"

The broth is slopping everywhere. Szarka's entire face is covered in chunks of bread and meat. She has never been so happy in her entire tiny life.

[sagramore]

"There's a part of me that would be glad to have thee as my master all the time and always bend towards thy service -- but I like to be thine equal, too, and stand beside thee as thy husband. So I do try to call thee master only when it's part of a game."

[timebethine]

"Ah." There's a little pang, at that, like a child's at realizing that fairies are only stories. (There's another, deeper pang, at realizing that he doesn't know what's a game--whether the tattoos on his arm mean they're a family, or whether that's just another game they play.) "I'm sorry, my heart. I think I was just swept away in it."

[sagramore]

"Laertes," softer. "What's that look?"

[timebethine]

A wry little smile. "Only ... remembering how new this is to me, and how little I know."

[sagramore]

"Didst thou want to be my master, or me thine, all the time?"

[timebethine]

He hesitates, then reaches for Sagramore's chain. "I thought that was what this meant."

[sagramore]

"Ah." He's quiet for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "Let me draw a distinction for thee. This reminds me always of what power I give thee, and how glad I am to trust thee with that power, what covenant we have between us that no one else shares. When I'm melancholy, or I want to be reminded that thou hast chosen me to be thy dog because thou lovest me and thinkst me good, I have that promise here, like a ring," touching the chain himself. "It marks me, and I want that mark. But that's different from the way it feels when I lie at thy feet or lick thy boots or rut against thy leg at thy command. That's the game."

[timebethine]

For that, Laertes has to pull him close and kiss him, swift and eager with relief. "That's what I meant by it, too," he says. "Not that at all times I would command thee--but that I've always chosen thee to command. That thou wilt always be my dog when it's in thee to be a dog."

[sagramore]

He kisses back warmly. "Aye, then, that I know and would have be so, in my very soul. Is that also what thou wouldst have of me?"

[timebethine]

"It is--and I thought it to be true, but then--I doubted." A smaller smile. "I'll hold fast to this, and know that anything that contradicts it is said in play."

[sagramore]

"Good man. I'm sorry I gave thee cause to doubt me -- I forget, too, that thou art new."

[timebethine]

Szarka's managed to polish off everything in the bowl; now she's licking eagerly at the broth that's spilled over the floor, determined to consume Every Drop. Laertes can't help grinning down at her. "Am I so skilled in the arts of love already?" he teases.

[sagramore]

"So skilled!" He laughs. "Thou art like a seasoned lothario; how could I think otherwise?"

[timebethine]

Laertes laughs, but he does have to ask--"Art saying that in play, or in truth?"

[sagramore]

Sagramore's expression softens a bit -- he can't help being sincere. "Thou hast learned so much and so quickly since thou camest here. Thou hast always pleased me, but thou art more skilled, more bold, more generous than thou wast to begin. I called thee my student once but thou art beyond that now, thou art a tradesman in the work of lovemaking."

[timebethine]

"Then thou wilt be my masterwork," says Laertes, folding Sagramore's hand in his own and squeezing. "Now, please save our daughter from herself; I'll fetch a towel."

[sagramore]

"Godspeed," bending down to scoop Szarka into his arms again. "I'd better take her out after this."

[timebethine]

Szarka, for her part, has been all but exhausted by the immense labor of Dinner, and she tucks her chin into the crook over Sagramore's elbow and looks up at him with innocent ice-blue eyes. Her entire face is festooned with wet breadcrumbs and shreds of chicken.

Laertes, meanwhile, gathers up the bowl and sets it in the sink, then fetches a dishtowel and mops up the carnage.

[sagramore]

"Was that good?" he asks, slightly sing-song. "Art thou surfeited? Art thou content, my love? Wouldst thou go out and see the snow with thy fathers?"

[timebethine]

She yawns and settles in, unbothered by the suggestion; once Laertes has squared away the towel, he comes to crowd in on Sagramore's side. "Her teeth are so small," he says, hushed and wondering. "So sharp!"

[sagramore]

"Aye, she'll chew on everything soon, if not already. Thou'lt want to keep thy boots out of her reach."

[timebethine]

"We'll need something she can chew, then. As thou say'st--to redirect her." Laertes moves on ahead to get the door for Sagramore, holding it open so that he doesn't have to free a single finger from Szarka's tiny body.

[sagramore]

Sagramore carries her out, nestled close; once they're outside he sets her down on the cold grass, where she sits, looking up at him expectantly.

"She can't really control her bowels at her age, and she has no training whatsoever yet, so this is really just optimism," he tells Laertes. "We'll see whether anything actually happens."