John offers the other man a smile and a little bob of his head at the compliment. It's true, he supposes, it's a fine little piece, even if it's a bit -- homely. John is no artiste, and anyway, it's the thought that counts, is it not? Besides, he has made himself a habit by this point of weaving little flowers together for a certain somebody, and had done so over the hundreds of years that never were. He supposes it would make sense that he had developed a particular skill for it.

As Cid asks after the person in question, however, John becomes particularly focused on the wreath in his hands. He should not be embarrassed, and he is not, necessarily. But he is also not certain how to handle such situations when they are so new to him and he so... New to them in turn.

"Ah," he replies. "I was thinking of -- a very dear friend of mine." He flashes the other man a somewhat sheepish smile. "Gold is a color that reminds me of him."

And then, to spare himself, he gestures to the craft that Cid has been working on. "And yourself?"