Lucien Enjolras

Laertes's heart aches as he sees this barren space, adorned only with that single painting. It doesn't look like a place where someone lives; it looks like a room arranged to be let, a brief stopping-place on a journey. He's spent enough of his time traveling that he knows that impersonal kind of furniture all too well.

As soon as the door's shut behind them, he starts to help Lucien undress--less like a lover than like a manservant, all deft, light touches.