#trfount

It was suppose to be cute but it became abit of conflicted feelings and prophetic dreams

With the bunny's design had the thought that the prophetic dream fount had the vision of pure vanilla is abit tainted with what he knows of truthless

No warnings, sfw

Truthless Recluse sometimes felt like the watchful eyes of sun and the moon bored at him for reasons far different than admiration.

Laid on his side, with a scroll in his hand—one of those useless things that he did not want to check over, yet did it for the other's sake—and boredom that far surpassed his normal tolerance, he found that the quiet began to feel…

Odd.

The warmth of the body at his side persisted, but it felt artifical. Worn and fabricated, as if stolen from someone else's breath—bottled into a shape that simply pretended to live.

A single finger, pale blue, with the fingernails bitten down to the point of blood, traced his side. It first began at his collar, the thick fabric dipping at the movement—followed down, to where the material wrapped around his chest.

The virtue hummed appreciatively, though their eyes did not quite meet the healer's.

Tracing their hand down, they grazed at the top of his thigh, not suggestive, yet not intimate past the usual point of simply laying together.

Truthless Recluse lowered the scroll enough to set it on the mattress aside.

"You know," Fount mused, cheek supported by their palm—the elbow pressed into the pillows' depths. "I recently found it hard to focus on the letters. Do you reckon I could simply close the inbox?"

The question came suddenly, out of character for someone who insisted on their service. Scrunching his brows, the hermit searched their face, but found little contact.

Fount's eyes flicked over him anew, from the very start of the neck, all the way down to his knees, as if their true mind was absent for quite some time.

"Didn't think you'd ever decide on doing something like this."

The virtue arched an eyebrow. Their hand then moved back, from the top of the thigh, tracing up his arm, before he decided to simply walk atop the dark curtain of fabric with his fingertips.

"Like what I said?" They asked. "I answered most of what was there to answer."

The change did not go unnoticed. Truthless Recluse wished that he could focus enough to provide his own opinion—something he came to understand that Fount valued, even if not enough to fully adjust to it each time—but something about the stare was…

Distracting, to say the least.

Fount breathed out an exhale. "Well, maybe it'd serve them better if I focused on what there is to share about the world, rather than what they want to know about themselves."

The recluse's brow arched. He did not budge.

"Ah, but that is only a foolish thought."

As their tone returned to the more soft, far less decisive hum, Truthless Recluse shifted slightly, facing the knowledge better.

"You speak so oddly these days," he mused. "You spend far too much time at that river."

"Do I?" Fount's eyes finally fluttered up, meeting the hermit's mismatched ones. "I suppose, though is it really too much time if it quenches thirst?"

The virtue's arm moved, loosely wrapping around Truthless Recluse's waist—fingers spreading out to feel the subtle shape of his torso. Fount came to enjoy the subtle shapes, the way that the thinner portions of the fabric could be pressed down to the other's figure.

He liked seeing the slightly defined strength, even though he felt almost vain for it.

Their hand skimmed down again, with less desire and more assessing.

"You know," Truthless Recluse cleared their throat, trying to ignore the pinch of the fount's fingers on his hip. Something felt odd about the entire ordeal.

Fount's hand cupped the material, the length of the black fabric folding as he moved his palm higher, to the hermit's chest. It came to lay right above his heart, near the weirdly shaped symbol at the front.

The virtue arched a brow. They were far too focused on staring at his chest, feeling the pulse thrum beneath his skin.

Truthless Recluse pressed his lips together.

"I believe I could focus better if you stopped—"

"Your heart is racing." Fount spoke, observational. He did not try to verbally pair feelings to the physical sensation as he always tried to, an index finger tapping at his chest.

The hermit's mouth ran dry.

He looked off into the large window, then at the countless pieces of parchment that lay scattered over the desk. His other hand sank into the mattress below with a move far too careful to have been natural.

Truthless Recluse couldn't put sense into his thoughts, nor could he arrange his feelings in a way that could make sense.

It was him who always hovered—now he felt that he should dip.

Like the sun, somewhere below the horizon of Fount's lashes.

The virtue hummed. "I'm sorry, what were you saying? I think I zoned out."

The hermit pressed his lips tight.

I can't help but feel like you are sizing me up.

"It's nothing,"

Like a snake.