A Crown For Syrup

"What is your favorite flower?"

"Mmh...?" Syrup rolls over onto their back. Above them, Peter stands, a line of thread held in his hand and a blue ribbon pinched between his teeth. As far as sources of money goes, Syrup tends to find partners that are both willing to give themselves physically and with their pockets. Peter is paying for his meals this week - as well as giving him a nice, comfortable studio to sleep in. In exchange. Syrup is using the unique parts of his body to help Peter model a few pieces of clothing that wouldn't work quite the same on someone without a see-through middle. In the evening, Syrup keeps his bed warm in his favorite method. All of that being established, he isn't exactly expecting to be asked his favorite of anything as much as he is waiting to be dressed up or taken to bed and spoiled.

He rests a hand on his stomach, tracing the pink etching that marks where his bellybutton would otherwise belong. "Not a question I've had to consider before..."

"Would you?" Peter asks again, raising his eyebrow over the ribbons he's working in his hands. He turns them into one another, making small cuts within the center of the ribbon so he can fold the strip back and loop it through, making a braided effect without as much bulk in the material. "This outfit needs a crown. I'll be taking pictures of you in the sun outside today. Don't you think a decoration of flowers would suit the look? You'd be like... a garden fairy."

This makes Syrup's already flat face flatten even further. He rolls back onto his stomach, hands propped under his chin, and reaches forward to tap his cigarette onto his ash tray. When he pulls on the cigarette, a cloud of pink smoke leaves his mouth. It smells sweet in the air, chocolate and strawberries. Syrup claims his smoke to be part-aphrodesiac, but any actual mind altering side effects have yet to be seen. He looks back over his shoulder and bats his eyes at Peter regardless. Peter is unmoved by the smoke or the seduction. Syrup s i g h s. "Can't you just pick for me? You match things and styles every day... is it that hard to match a little more?"

"Syrup," Peter begins, setting the ribbons down to cross his arms instead. "Do you really not have a preference? Not once have you looked at a flower and thought you might like to wear it? Not at ALL?"

Syrup sets his cigarette down and crosses his own arms, looking into the studio with a slight pout to his lips as he tries to think of something. He doesn't have the time or the care, really, to think about things like... nature. Certainly not FLOWERS. When even was the last time he stayed out in the grass when he wasn't invited to by his lover-of-the-week or whatever rich john was purchasing him? It had to have been under the care of Murmur, or otherwise when he was still young and curious about the world instead of prefering to stay spoiled, indoors, and with his legs apart.  "Daisies are nice..." he mumbles, finally.

"Thank you," Peter sighs in exasperated relief. He picks the ribbon back up, along with his needle, and selects from an arrangement of spring flowers several bright white daisies to begin crafting into a crown for Syrup. "Remind me next time I have you over to have all the choices picked out for you ahead of time. I didn't realize answering a little question would be so difficult."

Syrup stretches, purposefully letting his legs drape out behind him so his feet land in Peter's lap, crossing at the ankles over his thigh. He bounces them like he's fidgeting. Peter looks over at him with a flat gaze of his own, not finding the teasing to be funny right now, and lifts his sewing needle like he is threatening to prick Syrup's toes with it. This gets the glass doll to pull his legs back very  fast - regardless of the fact that Peter is far too kind to actually do any stabbing of him. Not to mention how unsterile his needle would be at that point. "I don't like to think..." he complains, groaning. "If I wanted a job where I had to pick things, I would have become a tailor."

Peter flicks a discarded daisy at Syrup. It lands on his mouth - he sputters it away. When Syrup sits up to complain yet again, Peter shuts him up by dropping the completed flower crown on his head. It nestles right in above his white hair, standing out only from the blue ribbon and the golden centers of the flower. To either side, his heart-bauble horns swirl with pink strawberry mist. Peter's tired expression changes to a smile of approval at his hard work. His hand, soft and full compared to Syrup's own thin and fragile ones, cups Syrup under his chin. The needy doll finally falls silent, a powering of red dusting his cheeks. Peter has the hands of a working man. The strength in them would make any bun with as pathetically unsatisfyable mind as Syrup go week in the knees. He allows his head to be turned and displayed as Peter examines the flowercrown for imperfections. When he finally releases Syrup, little steam-clouds of embarrassment float off the top of his head.

"Well?! Are you happy now?" Syrup snaps, looking up from under the daisy crown on his head.

Peter is still smiling. He looks far too good when he does. The tailor nods. "You are as good as any garden fairy in my book. Perhaps even better. I don't know any faries personally," he jokes, like faries exist. "But I'm certain none of them would seduce their way into my bed just to turn around and call my job meanial and labor-heavy in a derogatory way. Hm?"

Syrup sticks his lower lip out and roll his eyes. "Oh no... Is there aaanyway I could eeever make it up to you?" he asks, flat.

Peter snorts. "I could think of an option or two..."