Why, why, why had he done that? It had been horseplay, he reminded himself, just foolery, not done for the feel of Doomsday’s hand in his, the skin warm against his lips. He had at least resisted the temptation to describe Doomsday’s eyes as they deserved, although in fairness their deep brown was more than anything the shade of a cup of long-brewed tea, which probably wouldn’t sound any better than ‘bread’. The colour didn’t matter: it was their expression, the laughter and intelligence and occasional wariness, the life and light and just sometimes a flicker of something that Rufus could very
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