Laertes lets out a happy little sigh. He'd be lying if he said there was no calculation in this--giving Lancelot tasks, drawing him on to nonsense and pleasure; reminding him that whatever befell his counterpart in another future, his fate is here and palpable.

But even so, his pleasure is unfeigned, sincere. He loves the sharpness of Lancelot's teeth and the warm solidity of his body. He loves the way his wet hair shines in the sunlight and the close friction of his skin.