Thilbo - sweeter than sweet
May it rot your teeth, my dear.
226
Thorin’s fingers are larger, clumsier. He is inexperienced with such delicate work, but each time he pictures the expression that might come to Bilbo’s face, he presses on.
It takes him a dozen or more attempts to create something halfway decent and then more care than he’s ever had to exert in order to reach his destination without crushing it.
“Close your eyes,” he instructs, and Bilbo opens his mouth--surely to ask why--but he trusts Thorin and he does as he’s told.
Ever so gently, Thorin places his masterpiece atop Bilbo’s golden curls.
When the task is complete, Bilbo smiles, his curiosity piqued. “Shall I take a look then?”
Thorin gestures acquiescence, although worry creeps in around the corners of his mouth. He follows Bilbo to the mirror and smiles to himself.
The very moment Bilbo sees it, his face breaks into soft contentment and surprise. Delicately, he touches the flower crown: some of the flowers are missing petals, have been crushed, the links barely holding.
He turns to Thorin. “Thank you.”
The anxious lines of Thorin’s brow and mouth ease and he cups Bilbo’s face. “I hoped you would like it.”
“It’s simple,” Bilbo says, and he’s up on the balls of his feet to get closer. “Like me.”
Thorin chuckles and presses a kiss to Bilbo’s lips. “You are anything but simple, my treasure.”
