That casual sir shivers through him, more than he thought it could. The plainest of titles, one that could be spoken from one fellow-student to another -- only given because Laertes chooses to give it to him, not because of an accident of birth. (It's better than my lord right now. My lord would make him think of Galahad pale and naked, flinching away without even the blankets to cover him, and the uncrossable distance between them -- Claudius isn't thinking about that.)

He stands, slowly, carefully -- it wouldn't do to let Laertes imagine he's standing to escape -- and leans across the table to touch Laertes, not his smile yet, but his cheek. "Wouldst thou be undone by me?"