Lancelot, Gawain.

Gawain had a loud, snorting laugh, the kind that came from the belly and doubled you over. He seemed to be having trouble breathing, the insufferable idiot, his blond head down as he half-stood bend in half with both hands propped shakily on his knees. He teetered dangerously on the packed earth of their training space, threatening to crumple between gales of laughter.

For his part, Lancelot's glares went largely unnoticed. Gawain waved his axe ineffectually at him, pointing out Lancelot's most embarrassing defeat: he had been left with no weapon when Gawain had knocked his sword out of his hand and firmly into the highest wood beam where it now hung above them, far out of reach.

"Perhaps it would be best if you started using two," Arthur suggested from his place in the shadowed benches, his tone betraying the amusement he failed to contain.

Gawain collapsed, wheezing. Lancelot swore.