It sinks in, then, that Laertes has been 'thee' and 'thou'ing him for a while. Maybe he does like him on his own merits, and not just as Sagramore's friend? "Thanks, bro," he says, experimentally, and sets to work finding the right angle and lighting: first shifting the armchair itself, then turning Laertes' shoulders this way and that, tilting his head just a little with fingers at his jaw. He even cuffs his t-shirt sleeves, though he doesn't think they'll make the final cut; along with the collar and the combat boots it gives him a young, queer, slightly punk vibe that really works for him.

He doesn't dare touch the collar, though, even though with the angle of his head now he really wants the buckle in a different place—not out of prudishness or whatever, it would just feel disrespectful. "Can you just, um. Turn the—" he mimes at his own throat, fingers gripping and shifting left.