Laertes nods, then lies back against the blankets. He feels soft and light, as though he's no more than bones and eiderdown; need pulses at the base of his cock like a heartbeat. He knows that he must look soft-faced, boyish, infinitely touchable without stubble shadowing his chin; he knows that Sagramore sees Laertes as younger than he is (or perhaps sees himself as older than he is), and he lets himself go vulnerable and doe-eyed. It's only what every young creature does when it wants care--looks up at its elders with absolute trust and need.