Their pallets, pushed together, should provide them enough space to roll apart and fall asleep when exhaustion finally comes to call. For now, the Fool wants to feel the reassuring strength of Fitz's arms around him, the dark head of hair tucked beneath his chin, the chafe of stubble against his skin. He breathes out and allows himself the freedom to encircle Fitz's shoulders and back with his arms, to card his fingers through that dark hair; to touch, as he'd rarely been permitted to before.

(Fitz seems to crave it, too, some part of him realizes. The realization gives him pause, fills him with some inexplicable dread, some premature loss--)

"Fitz," he murmurs quietly, his eyes on the stars overhead. "In your time... what am I to you?"

("I will never desire you," the Fool remembers those biting words so clearly, even now, and he cannot put them out of his mind.)