Warnings (count for all): Arthur/Gwen, implied (vaguely) infidelity, broken hearts (in a future this fic does not approach).
Notes: Um, yeah. This has lived in a notebook of mine for a while, masquerading as original fiction before I gave in and accepted that no, it isn't, and I might as well just write Lancelot's bit and be done with it. So I have. Drabbles, really, except I do not do well with word limits. So just pretend they're a hundred words each, if you would? And no, I have no idea what the title means. Hope you enjoy. Peach.

Doubts.

i. Arthur

He's always loved her hands: the long elegance of her fingers, the clean curve of her nails, the simple beauty of them. She doesn't have perfectly smooth hands, though; she has worked for her living. Calluses build on her fingers, and the skin on the pads of each of her fingers is worn. He hands are lived in, worked in. He loves the story her hands tell, of the life she has lived, both before and after he came into it.

Mostly, though, he loves how they look against his skin, the rich warmth of hers against the cooler paleness of his. He loves the contrast, dark against light, the way their fingers lace together, one then the other.

Sometimes, he thinks he'll break when they let go.