Again, his wrist is caught. Again, he does not pull away. This time the Fool watches Fitz's face with rapt attention, his pulse a swift and fluttering thing under the touch of his fingers. And then his lips, warm against his palm, his skin warm, the chafe of stubble rough, and the Fool catches his breath audible.

There can be no misunderstanding his meaning now. Somehow, that makes it all the harder to believe, all the harder to trust that it is happening, that this is not some wild, juvenile fantasy that he'll awake from at any moment--

"Tell me that you want me," he pleads softly, taking a fraction of a step nearer to the warmth of Fitz's body. He can't look away from his dark eyes. "Don't touch me out of pity, Fitz, I could not bear it--"