Work Text:
The idea sneaks up on him.
Sylvien has heard about the spoons, of course — in passing mentions and vague references; has even seen a couple of them change hands, the gifter looking hopeful, the receiver pleased, one or both infatuated. It isn't a secret, or a mystery, he just... never really cared to learn the specifics.
Well.
The piece of rosewood in front of him would be perfect for something small — a weapon's handle, perhaps, or a set of hairpins; or — Sylvien rubs his temples and accepts that he is thinking of it.
Or a spoon. It would be a fitting gift, would it not? Something meaningful, created by his own hands, a showcase of passion for the craft they both hold dear — maybe not useful, but a clear enough message, surely.
Surely.
Sylvien doesn't drop his head onto the workbench, but it's a near thing.
He knows — frustratingly vaguely — that there is meaning in designs; that he needs to be specific, if he wants the message to be clear, and it does make sense — but Sylvien never needed to know the specifics, and asking now would be — mortifying.
It would also spoil the surprise, and, immediately following that thought —
Sylvien should really work on it at the guild, where there's tools and safeguards and his fellow carpenters to ask for advice.
He absolutely cannot do it at the guild.
***
He ends up choosing plants.
Of course he does — Sylvien might be a successful and passionate carpenter now, but that isn't where he started, is it? He was a botanist, before, and still is in some way, and plant language, if not exactly clear, is always reliable.
He sketches it out — a stalk of acanthus for the handle, a clover flower, a single carnation, and a vine of ivy winding around it all. Not a simple design, and not a quick project, and yet — it will be worth it, in the end.
So Sylvien carves.
He is being so very slow, so careful — bloodstains are terribly hard to fully wash away from wood, and a wrong cut would be even more disastrous, with him only having one attempt at this. Oh, he's sure he could find another fitting piece of rosewood eventually — but after how long? And would he dare to try another time, should this one prove a disaster?
Besides, Sylvien is okay with the spoon taking its time. It seems fitting, almost, in a way that truly important things require effort — in a way this, too, can show the feelings he is trying to commit to wood and carved flowers.
Maybe, he thinks while carving out a particularly tricky petal, that's how the tradition came to be.
***
He almost chickens out, in the end.
The spoon is finished — warm with its wax finish, delicate, pridefully impractical; countless hours put into its carvings, it's — good. It turned out good.
Just, maybe, possibly, not good enough.
The Atrium quiets in the evening, the lights dimmed, people filing out. Sylvien stays — cleans up the workbench, tends to his tools. It feels remarkably similar to that, first evening, down to —
"Have you finished your project, then?"
Beatin comes down from his vantage point just as Sylvien starts entertaining the thought of actually leaving. Sylvien has told him about needing to work on something private almost immediately, of course he would be interested — of course.
This, somehow, doesn't actually make it any easier.
Sylvien nods, suddenly not trusting his voice at all, and pulls out the spoon — wrapped in a soft fabric, partly to protect it, partly to conceal. He did want this to be a surprise, didn't he?
Now he just needs to see this through.
Beatin takes the bundle with remarkable care, and Sylvien finds himself missing his eyes — always, of course, but now especially; it would be nice to compare the color, even if the light is dim.
It would be nice to see his eyes.
"This is remarkably well-made, child," Beatin finally raises his voice, and Sylvien's heart falls a little — he hopes it isn't quite as clear on his face, not that Beatin is looking anywhere near it at the moment, "even with me coming to expect truly great things from you. The work on showing the grain alone deserves praise... And the sentiment is, of course, appreciated."
He does look up from the spoon then, holding it even more carefully, if such a thing is possible.
"How long have you spent on this?"
Sylvien tries to start talking — breaks off — tries again, not quite knowing what he is so afraid of.
"I wouldn't know," and it's quieter than he'd prefer, but, Seven Hells, he came so far — "I worked on it for half an hour or so most evenings, so you could probably add it up, if you'd like to."
Beatin hmmms, tracing the ivy vine with his fingertips, and finally looks up again — and, even through the glasses, his expression looks... awed, almost, and wondering.
"It's an honor," he says, simply, as if it is as simple as that, "and a privilege. I will need to find a proper place for it."
And, not letting Sylvien recover at all, smiling, "And I will, of course, need to reply in kind. That should be quite an interesting challenge... Oh, don't look at me like that, child, I do not mean to start carving now —"
And maybe, Sylvien thinks, it did turn out good enough after all.