His lips taste of salt, from his tears, from the nearness of sea spray as they'd crossed the water to the ruins. The Fool is motionless at first, eyes wide, lips soft but still under Fitz's. Then his fingers curl in Fitz's hair and he tilts his face, accepts the kiss, warms to it, to the comfort of, just once, being held like this by the one he loves. The one he has always loved.

Even if it is pity, it is more than he will ever have again.

"Fitz," he breathes at last when he draws back, just enough so that their lips touch, "what are you doing?"