"Guilt?" the Fool repeats aloud, though whatever else he may have said is muffled as Fitz continues to speak. Gentle as can be, he presses up against Fitz's chest to coax him into a sitting position, so that they no longer lay twined so close together on the sleeping pallets.

Breathing room. Space to clear their heads. (To let his blood cool, some part of the Fool chides him.)

"I don't understand," he replies, his brows drawn into a furrow, and watches Fitz with open, trusting eyes. Loathe to completely be part from him, he takes hold of his hand and strokes a thumb across his wrist. "Tell me what eats at you so, Fitz."