"Beloved--" the Fool has time to breathe before he's caught in that kiss, and there is no hesitation in it this time, not tentative fear of rejection, of being pushed away--of waking up. They're both dreamers, here, and this is their dream. Let them dream together.

He leans his slighter form against Fitz's, the contours of their bodies fitting together neatly; bits of flint from the same stone finding their partners at last. (Perhaps one day, they will carve a dragon together--)

Though his fingers tremble, he brings Fitz's hands to the fabric of his cloak and shift, a clear invitation to remove the fabric that covers his skin. He breaks the kiss long enough to request softly, "Take me back to the fire, Fitz, I would be warm if--"

If? When. He almost laughs.