[P] I have lost my pearls

[Florentine]

i'm a pretty flower girl
check out my pretty flower curls

He lay in a bed of flowers and wild grasses. The meadow welcomed him down, down. Stems arched over his neck to dance in the wind. Pollen dusts along his skin. It smells sweet like sugar and turns to powder upon the hot breeze just as easily.
 
That smile does not slip from her lips, not even when his eyes finally settle on her, cool as ice, as welcome as rain. Oh if only she could release the blue from inside him, then the meadow would drink such water for days. Florentine’s skin shivers, trembling beneath the touch of a bee. It searches her mane, wandering for flowers and tangling itself in the gold of her.
 
She does not sway for the bee, does not worry about how it seeks to free itself with a disgruntled buzz of staccato wings. Rather, the fae-girl is studying Florestan. Their gazes are mirrors for one another; his cerulean eyes study her and her amethyst eyes study him.
 
He does not speak, but oh the air is full with words that could have been. Words that might have been said, words that whisper between them unspoken drift by tickling her mind, her ears. They are so full of his thoughts, trapped behind electric eyes and lips as soft as satin – if only his mouth had moved to form but one. Florentine waits, gazing at him from beneath the tangle of her fringe, the tumble of errant petals.
 
Still he does not speak, not even when his too-long limbs fold beneath him and then push him, awkwardly, into a stand. He sways, young and unbalanced, and Florentine’s wing reaches out to touch his side – to balance, to guide. Still in silence, her earlier words lost to the hum of the summer meadow, she surveys him.
 
His youth is silk, unblemished, by the years. He is as a newborn fawn, swaying and leaning. Grace is a brush of fingertips from him, but Flroentine lets him sway like a leaf in the wind. Oh what would it be to be so new upon her limbs again! Such a smile it is that crawls across her lips, warm like dawn and as devious as the setting sun.
 
When the Dusk girl begins to think this boy might never talk, he opens his lips. Her ears fall forwards, better to catch the words that tumble at last from his lips. Her head tilts, feline curiosity gleaming in the corners of her. She is as wild as a bird with the curve of her wings and those bright eyes that watch and watch. “I suppose we had.” The fae-girl concludes at last with a smile as sweet as her honey-coloured skin. Her eyes are upon the falling soil, the dirt that clings to his pallid skin. When all is fallen, when his skin is as clean as the meadow might allow, Florentine turns.
 
She leads him through this sea of flowers, a trail of petals falling down to guide him. Florentine does not pause from the way she moves like a gliding ship, not even when his next question comes. It is as unassuming as the first and spoken just as softly.
 
Do you always wear so many flowers?
 
Florestan’s question pulls a smirk from her gilded lips and inspires a glint within her eye. How many times had she been asked just that? “What if I told you they grow there?” Over her shoulder she peers back at the boy, away from where the willow stands large before them. It is hunched and graceful with its long swaying vines, adorned in blade-like leaves. “Would you believe me?”
 
In the shadow of the tree, beyond the sun’s reach, Florentine surveys the boy, his legs still long with youth, his muscles still lean, his nose so terribly pink. “I have an ointment that might help that at home. Where do you live?”

@Florestan

florentine
rocking your pretty flower world