In the midst of the whirlwind of information she needed to get off her chest, Genesis had also temporarily abandoned her primary reason for seeking him out. Despite the fact that she still knew so little about Manon and the mountain she called home, she had a rather confident idea of what she meant to @Isildur, and she could not have in good conscience omitted any details of something that had involved her family or might involve them in the future. That was not to mention that the Bluffs were now home to Gwynevere as well, a force to whom she was bound by blood and a sisterly fondness that, in the end, very few things could shake. Even a rough paw.

"So it was a...misunderstanding," he muttered to himself. Her ears fell back as she peeked at him through the tops of her eyes. A misunderstanding, her thoughts echoed back to him. In a way, it had been, if only in the sense that neither of them had expected to cross paths under the circumstances that they had.

Just as quickly, she perked up again as his tone took a shift and his attention turned toward her limb. Her own expression easing into a smile, Genesis offered a playful sigh of resignation at his words. "That's okay. I could stand to look a little bit tougher, anyway." Her smile widening, she relaxed fully in his grasp--a silent invitation for him to do his worst. (Or was it best?)

Where her gut had initially been fluttering with anxiety, now it did so with a strange sort of excitement that almost felt...sinful. Her desire for help was genuine, but under the suspense of his interrogation and his frantic grip upon her limb, Genesis was curious to see if there was any finesse behind his healing touch and how it compared to her own. Especially if it meant he might be touching her just a bit longer.

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The tension seems to dissipate, heart-stammering ceasing and hard truths swallowed. Isildur would lose no sleep at night, at least knowing his friends are safe, but seeing Genesis hurt and hearing Manon's home had been threatened is enough to send any loyal knight stumbling over his own sword. That is what he's chalked it up to, at least. Though he can find no reason to explain why he's so eager to jump to their defenses than he is any other inhabitant of the Hollow.

He's ignored it, and resigned to ask his father about such strangeness and warm-cheeked novelty, but he knows he's prolonging the discussion.

Isildur's feelings felt little when the rest of the world was intent on warring with itself.

Yet, he cannot stop the way his heart lurches in his chest as her hand lingers atop his, resigning herself to his care—almost expectant. It begins to beat with a different rhythm, something warm and inviting but just as mounting. He fights every urge to pull away, to afford a moment of clarity where he's otherwise ruled by his heart rather than rational thought. He's here to heal her, after all, right?

Right, he answers himself aloud, allowing his hand to fall away, grieving the aching emptiness it leaves in its wake. I'll be right back.

He's gone for no longer than a few moments, but the walk is sobering.

When he returns, poultice already chewed to a pulp, his mind is alight with nothing but the task at hand. Only once he's certain he's got the right consistency, he extends his paw forward once more, hoping that once she's put her hand into his that he might not feel that strange, creeping heat again.

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Their minds were the same. Even if they moved at different speeds and with different levels of control, Genesis was fairly confident that she could guess at the thoughts swirling about behind @Isildur's intense gaze--because, no doubt, they were eating away at her just as relentlessly. And deep down, she had a feeling they both knew that too. Or if he did not, she hoped to convey through her touch, and the way she relinquished herself to his, that he was not alone in whatever turbulence his mind was experiencing.

It was everything in her power to allow his withdrawal as he left her in search of his herbs. As she waited there, alone, the silence and coldness of his absence became too loud, and she sucked in a deep breath both to finish untying the knot in her stomach and to fill the stillness in her ears.

Had she been wrong to tell the nervous man about what she had seen? What if she had brushed the challenge aside only for them to hear later that Manon's home had been dismantled? What if she had seen the young healer there, recognized her, and scorned her for keeping quiet to the man who so clearly cared about her? And Gwynevere. The sisters' relationship was complicated, but it worked. That phantom of a woman was harsh, blunt, and hotheaded; she made her points using a commanding presence and a heavy paw. And little Genesis...listened, because at the end of the day, that was how she had gotten by. By living in the shadows of her and the rest of her littermates.

Until she had earned these scratches.

As much as she was coming to embrace and adore this newfound independence, and the respect that came with it, Genesis still had a lot to learn in the way of tact.

When Isildur eventually returned with the prepared poultice, she relished once more in the subsequent warmth that shrouded her. She greeted him with a silent glance before blinking downward to his extended paw. Raising her own, she resumed her position, sliding it into place over young, still-uncalloused pads. Another deep breath, but this one she tried to mask with words, made breathy and unsteady as they clashed with the ringing that had returned to her ears.

"So...what's in this poultice?"

art by moogle

The feeling returns almost instantly, and Isildur knows he’s in trouble.

He’s thankful that he can focus his attention on the task at hand. It is much easier getting lost in his interests than trying to combat the strange affection that creeps up his spine and deep into his belly. It is a revolution of warmth and nerves that leave him both uncertain and nervous—and beguiled.

Like Manon, similar, yet different. He is so certain of his feelings for the Dieudonne princess that he never considered why Genesis would make him feel the same.

The same, yet different. Same, yet different. He repeats it in his head like a mantra while his hands carefully press the poultice into her scars, embracing the excuse of methodical work to explain the distant look in his eyes.

So…what’s in this poultice?

He blinks, prying himself from his warring thoughts and lifting his gaze to hers. Endless, vivid blue—like the sea he has often neglected to travel to often in his adventures.

Turmeric and rosehip oil, he replies with a level of easygoing casualness he does not expect. It will stain your fur, however.

A bright yellow, in fact, like a beacon. Far less hidden than the scars she now bears under plumy white fur. He wonders if perhaps he’s done her more of a disservice, for the poultice would need to sit over the course of days to offer any glimmer of working.

I’m sorry, I should have asked. I was—

—thinking of you, he wants to say. Mother, have I been thinking of you.

—I can wrap it, if you wish.

He’s close, now, too vividly aware of how the walls of their small cavern seem to be closing in. He can feel the warm fan of her breath across his cheeks, can smell the warring scents of turmeric and her. And he fights every urge that beggars otherwise, held in check by the innate feeling of wrongness, that he might be taking advantage of her willingness to get so close despite her wounds, seen and unseen. So he does what he does best—he bites his tongue, he forces his double-crossing mouth shut—

I could—I would— He reaches his free hand up, raising to cup the side of her cheek. When he can’t find the words, he lets the distance close between them, a once-endless chasm shut with an agonizing, uncertain slowness; and if she does not pull back, he would press his mouth to hers.

---

@Genesis

Table by cala & art by blumalou

Unbeknownst to @Isildur (or perhaps not), Genesis' composure also hinged on the seemingly idle task of mending her marred limb. However, they did not share the same luxury of...busywork. This whole time, he had been able to repurpose his restlessness as productivity, but she--at his mercy--could only observe and follow the measured and careful motions of his paws. But then her question came, followed by a noticeable shift in his attention, and she was compelled to break away from even that, her gaze peeling away and trailing up his silhouette to meet his.

It was difficult not to when his form occupied almost her entire field of vision.

"Turmeric and rosehip oil," he replied steadily. "It will stain your fur, however."

Of course, he said this as her already yellowed arm lay cradled in his paws.

The young male stammered out an apology, but his words seemed to come off his tongue as absently as they fell on her ears. Genesis was listening, of course, reciprocating with an accepting shake of her head and a steadiness to match his. "It's"--her throat rippled with the briefest swallow--"it's all right."

Yet, her meek smile had begun to flicker, subtly, almost like a weak flame, fragile and under threat of being snuffed out by even the slightest changes in the air. And with every passing moment, she felt the air around her dissipating, the space around her...shrinking, as the corner of her vision saw his paw lift to her cheek. As her own stained grip closed further around his other arm and more and more shared breaths passed between them.

Genesis' family had never seen the love that Isildur's did. She and her siblings had seen their mother's love and affection for what they were, sure. But the bonds she was forming here, out from her mother and kins' protective, near possessive noses...they stirred feelings in her she had never before encountered and was hardly beginning to understand, with those between her and Isildur proving to be the strongest and most confusing--oscillating between anxiety, a desperate desire to please, and (somehow) absolute confidence and comfort.

And all of them spilled out into her kiss.

At first, it was as it had been in the Labyrinth when she had split their herb find with him. She could feel her pulse in her ears, the heat of her blood rushing to her cheeks, her limbs going weak and numb in her nervousness. However, something about that moment now felt incomplete, for as their lips touched, every knot of tension in her body and conscience seemed to fall slack and unravel.

She raised her free limb with a gentle ease, practically losing her paw in his mane as she attempted to wrap it up in a lock of hair. A silent plea for him to allow his lips to linger on hers for just a little longer.

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He should know what to do, but he doesn't. Mother knows he's had enough talks and more than a few examples of the way his family loves so freely, so unafraid. But there's a stammering in his heart that he cannot name and a nervousness that creeps alongside the warm, blinding joy. His lips are on hers and for a moment, brief and brilliant, he feels as if everything is so blissfully right.

And then reality, cruel and sobering, washes over him.

He's kissed her—is kissing her. And when his eyes fling open and he wars with the idea of pulling away, he catches glimpse of her alabaster hand reaching for his mane, tangling her fingers in his hair and urging him not to break free. And he would be a fool not to comply, to himself and to her, though he cannot help but feel traitorous to her trust.

She came here to be healed, not to be kissed.

But her lips are softer than he dreamed they would be. She is warm and all-consuming. And he is helpless. And he—

He stained her fur.

It is bright yellow and unmistakable, a reminder of his lack of consideration, of his breach of trust. Certainly, she's just entertaining his absurd behavior out of pity.

He pulls away, reluctant but firm. Gasping, aching. Wanting, but holding back—Mother, how he wants to fall to his knees.

Genesis, I— he gapes, wide-eyed. Mother forgive me. I didn't—I shouldn't—

—have kissed you, is what hangs in the silence.

I shouldn't have betrayed you, is what he wants to say.

All she asked for is a healer.

All he wants is her.

---

@Genesis

Table by cala & art by blumalou

At last, Genesis thought she had answers, although for what she still had to sort out later. All she could tell for certain was that when @Isildur touched her, she craved more, and as she kissed him, she wavered between feeling like she had scaled the wall blocking her from clarity...and like she had landed before a new one hidden right behind the first. It was infuriating, but it was progress. Any of which the pale woman was eager--no, desperate--to make.

But then he pulled away, and suddenly, it was as if the first wall had closed in on her, leaving her trapped between them with no real view of a way up, over, or out.

His recoil was neither slow nor sudden, but it shocked her all the same, leaving her with hitched breath and her clean paw curled against her chest as she tried to read the scrambling of emotions that cycled through his features. She swore she could still feel his long strands wrapped around her toes.

"Shouldn't have...what?" Partly attempting to help him form a full thought, partly attempting to gather enough information to form one of her own, her words were uttered just above a whisper. Any louder, and she might have let him in on the guilt and dread that had begun to overtake her. Shouldn't have kissed me? "Why not--?"

Genesis stopped herself, unsure she wished to know the answer. To her, the nature and abruptness of his panic was...unexpected. Unwarranted, after all that they had shared up to this point. Her stained arm had not even occurred to her as a second thought--it was part of the trade, part of being blessed and cursed with such tediousness as white fur when her gift involved plants of all colors of the rainbow and earth.

To her, she had somehow managed to misread him. Misread the situation. It seemed so obvious, now, realization flickering across her face and sending all color from her skin. "Is it...because of her?" she swallowed. "Did I...get between...? I didn't mean to--" Genesis had to force her mouth shut then, as untrusting of it now as she was when she had tried to explain to him what had happened to her to bring them here.

art by moogle

Shouldn't have...what? she pleads as he guiltily pinches his eyes shut. Why not--?

Why not? he wants to gape at her. Because you're my friend, and I have all but ruined it. Instead, he wills himself into silence, hyper-aware of the fact that she's hardly pulled away. He wars with the urge to pull away further, knowing that the longer he remains this close to her the more his resolve begins to crumble, and the more he would drive a wedge into the chasm he's already placed between them.

They linger in a harrowing, heavy silence for what feels like ages.

His face is turned down with shame, his ears flush against either side of his mane, his eyes watching the fingers still half-tangled in his too-long hair. Oh, but what he wouldn't give to disappear from this very moment, to take himself back to just a few moments before and leash his traitorous heart.

Is it...because of her? He blinks. Did I...get between...? I didn't mean to--

Manon, he suddenly recalls. With her, it was easy—he's loved the Dieudonné princess since they were kids. With her, there was never any room for doubt. Manon was not the sort of woman who would let anyone walk over her, and would not have allowed Isildur into her heart if she was not certain.

What he felt for Genesis was not lesser or greater but different. Distinct in such a way that he mistakes it for infringing upon her trust, warping their friendship into something she never asked for.

He loves her, too.

Too much to let it destroy what they already are.

It's not because of her, he exclaims. Suddenly, hyper-aware of how loud he is, he whispers: It's me.

He sighs.

You're hurt, and all I can think about is kissing you.

Saying it aloud is sobering, grounding. He pleads with his gods that she'll understand just how ridiculous this all is, and laugh it off.

You fought with your sister, and all I saw was a girl I want to protect.

How very selfish of him. To yearn to have been there to defend her when she was already more than capable. How slighted would she be to hear his admission?

You want a shoulder to lean on, an ear to listen, a friend. And I— he pauses, swallowing. I want you.

He lowers his head, averting his gaze, his composure entirely saturnine.

I should go.

---

@Genesis

Table by cala & art by blumalou

Like @Isildur, she too wished to rewind time--not just to the moments preceding their kiss but to just before she had ever approached him altogether. They could have shared another innocent moment like they had in the Labyrinth, one filled with clumsiness and fits of giggles. With him taking a turn to practice his skills on her while she sat and watched and told him all about her siblings, some nice and some not so nice, and how she had been excited to see any of them even despite the flightiness that Gwynevere's intensity had revived in her. With news of the Bluffs challenge delivered less nervously knowing Manon and the rest of her pride were still intact. With them acting upon their intermingled breaths as one passed the other an herb.

Given any other circumstances, she realized, she still would have kissed him.

Which only deepened her hurt and confusion as he averted her gaze, leaving her questions hanging in the air. Her chest was still with hitched breaths, her paw still clutched to it as clinging to his fur suddenly felt...inappropriate. Genesis still struggled to put distance between them in their tight space, but part of that was because she was too tense to move herself. She watched and waited, blue eyes flitting about in an attempt to read the emotions etched into his face.

"It's not because of her," he blurted.

Genesis leaned back some more as he continued, much quieter and more measured now as he spilled details of the war being fought amongst his many urges and desires. The more he rattled off, the more she scolded herself for not knowing or recognizing any of it sooner--not that she could have been expected to do so. After all, she had never known romantic love, and they were both but budding friends in the same field of profession. Or so she had once thought.

Despite her heart's constant thrumming in his presence and her overwhelming need to see and make him grow, smile, and laugh, somehow she had struggled to make sense of it all until now. Until the lasting echo of his breath on her lips had made it clear to her exactly where they stood. Or, at least, where she wished for them to stand, now that she knew just how much he wanted.

For a moment, her voice was lost on her, but she could feel time running out to formulate anything coherent, and she knew that no amount of fawning would fix what words at least might. However, that they had been so deeply unsteadied by their entanglement was dizzying, and she was unsure she would be able to right herself in time to say something without him thinking those words calculated. Fabricated.

He turned away from her, and she paled. "I should go."

"Please, Isildur...." But alas, it was all she could manage once his name sounded off her tongue. Wait...

We could be all of that.

-vague exit-

(506 words)

art by moogle

His confession leaves him breathless. Why is he breathless? Isildur is wide-eyed and mouth-parted, struggling to find any excuse to leave before she can speak and he's forced to endure the consequences of his actions. But rather than dejection or beratement, he is met with, at first, silence. Harrowing, aching, empty silence. The look on her face tells him everything he needs to know, despite hie crude and skewed interpretation of it.

Isildur believes he sees regret. Disbelief. A myriad of things with none of them being acceptance.

Why? he thinks, for is love not supposed to be simple? Isn't it supposed to be fluttering hearts and batting eyes? Had it not been this easy with Manon from the moment he met her?

Perhaps it's too fast, too soon. He's been too pushy, reading all of her tells wrong. She cannot control the way her touch makes fire bloom beneath his skin, or the way her stare makes his heart stammer in his chest with an inconsistent, but not unpleasant beat. None of this had been her choice.

Finally, finally, she speaks.

Please, Isildur....

But the wait lingers on her tongue, and they've left the door cracked wide enough that he slips right through. His lips pull into a deep-seated frown, before he shakes his head, and ducks out of the door.

As much as it pains him to do so, he needs space to think, to pick up the pieces of the friendship he's certain he's crumbled with his foolish, foolish desires.

---

Exit Isildur.

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