This is not the Claudius whom Laertes first met, when he came here--a schemer towering with indignation, trying to aim Laertes like a cannon and make him fire of his own accord. There is no angle that Laertes can divine here, no advantage to be seized.

Claudius looks defeated. He looks as though, for the first time since he was a child, he has met a weight that pretty words cannot lighten.

He is not asking for much, and he is asking it as directly as Laertes could wish. He wants only the comfort of something steady and predictable--a shared meal, pleasant company, someone he can touch. Normalcy, amidst the wrack of grief.

Laertes traces his thumb over Claudius's knuckles. "I will," he says.