lanselos_du_lac

Laertes gazes into his eyes, so near a shade of hazel to his own. There is gold in them, and honey-brown, and a warm brown like molasses; there are tiny threads of moss-green and the green of patina on copper. Laertes could gladly spend a day finding all of the subtle hues in Lancelot's eyes. He traces a knuckle over Lancelot's cheekbone, marveling at the way the sunlight illuminates his skin. "As I love thee," he answers. "My heart, I love thee so dearly."