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Seymour is… interesting.
Mushnik’s only had him for a few months now, but he’s somehow managed to be both a boon and a curse for the flower shop. He’s young, cute and he’s got a green thumb bigger than the rest of him, but unfortunately that thumb, while helpful when caring for plants, is not very helpful when it comes to caring for pots. He’s managed to break nearly 20 in the time he’s been here and the cost is starting to add up.
He hopes it’s just because he’s young, and that soon he’ll grow out of it and become a proper employee, but for now he just has to deal with the frequent crashing and banging that occurs every day.
He is surprised though, when a loud shattering sound jolts him awake at 4:21 in the morning.
He’s up in seconds, just barely throwing on his slippers before sprinting up out of the basement. He grabs an axe as he goes; if he’s being robbed he needs to be able to defend himself, or at least scare the intruder off. He can hear Seymour starting to cry now, loud enough that Mushnik winces as he approaches. There’s another crash, and Seymour is saying something indecipherable through the tears. He’s definitely being robbed. He holds his axe closer and quiets his steps, avoiding the creaky second stair.
Fuck, the robber wasn’t holding Seymour hostage was he? The crash, the screaming, the talking, it wasn’t entirely impossible. Just a fat lot of work for a store with no money.
Mushnik brandishes his axe in front of him, slamming open the door to find… just Seymour. In the dark. No broken window, no robber holding him hostage, just clumsy Seymour Krelborn and two broken vases. He lets out a heavy sigh of relief and puts down the axe, still shaking as the immediate adrenaline from fear of a break in begins to fade.
“Seymour? What’s going on?! It’s four in the morning!” He clicks on the light and squints as his eyes adjust.
Seymour is sitting on the floor, surrounded by sharp shards of glass and clutching his hand close to his chest. He’s still crying, but he’s stopped mumbling and is staring up at Mushnik with big, wet eyes, squinty and swollen from his tears.
“How’d you even break a vase? What were you even doing up?”
He heaves a great, gasping sob in response.
“Ah, for fuck’s sake,” Mushnik muttered. This kid is a handful. “Alright, fine. Let’s just get you cleaned up then so I can get back to bed,” he says.
Mushnik approaches and lifts Seymour up and away from the glass with a grunt. Seymour buries his face into his shoulder, and Mushnik can feel the wet hot tears soaking into his sleep shirt. He’s incredibly glad he bothered with his slippers as glass crunches beneath his feet and he carries Seymour into the bathroom, depositing him on the sink counter.
“Alright,” Mushnik starts digging through the cabinets for his first aid kit. “Show me your hand,” he says, pulling out the hydrogen peroxide, a piece of gauze, and some bandages.
Seymour shakes his head and pulls his hand closer. Mushnik frowns. He normally isn’t so difficult, especially with stuff like this. Seymour gets hurt all the time without acting up. Sure, he cries, but otherwise he handles it like a champ.
“Seymour, come on,” Mushnik prods. Seymour shakes his head again, firmer. “Why not?!” Seymour’s lip trembles for a moment before he opens his mouth and vomits all over Mushnik’s chest.
Hm. Alright. Ha. Hmmmmm. Mushnik grits his teeth. The vomit soaks into his shirt just below where Seymour’s tears already stain it. Perfect. Just perfect. 4 in the morning, Seymour’s already broken two vases, and he’s sick. Great.
Deep breath in, deep breath out. This is fine. Kids get sick all the time, Mushnik knew this was probably gonna happen at some point or another. He places his large hand on Seymour’s forehead. It’s burning up. Fuck. He can do this. Just deal with the cut, get Seymour back to bed, and then he can deal with everything else in the morning.
He tugs his sleep shirt over his head, carefully avoiding pulling vomit through his hair, then wipes Seymour’s face with some wet toilet paper. He awkwardly pats his shoulder.
“Er, It’s okay, Kid,” He says. “Let’s deal with that hand now.”
Seymour shakes his head once more, and Good G-d, doesn’t he know Mushnik’s trying his best?! Frustration bubbles up within him. The least he could do is answer with his words. Mushnik hates when he goes silent like this.
“For G-d’s sake Seymour, it’ll feel better once we deal with it. Look, I’ll even skip the peroxide! It won’t hurt, I promise.”
Seymour’s face remains scrunched up in pain, but he slowly shows his bleeding hand to Mushnik, who makes quick work of running it under water and wrapping it up neatly after checking to make sure there’s no glass.
By the time he’s done, Seymour is mostly done crying, and his eyes are drooping sleepily. Mushnik scoops him up again, carrying him back towards the makeshift bed under the counter only to stop when he remembers the glass. Damnit, he can’t put Seymour back to bed there. Knowing him, he’d find some way to hurt himself again, and he can’t keep sleeping under there when they open the shop in a few hours. Seymour is asleep on his shoulder.
He groans. Fine. There’s no other option, and he’s pretty sure Seymour’s too sick to remember being spoiled like this later. The stairs creak from the extra weight as he carries him down to the basement and lays him down in his bed, pulling up the covers to rest under his chin. Taking a second glance, he places a pot on the bed stand—just in case he throws up again—and runs off to get a wet towel for his forehead. He’s pretty sure that’s what you’re supposed to do for a fever.
Satisfied with his work, he checks the clock—5:03. Too late to go back to sleep, and his bed’s occupied anyways. He reaches for the broom and dustpan for the glass. It was shaping up to be a long, long day.
****
It’s been nearly 5 minutes past when they were supposed to leave, and Seymour still hasn’t come out yet. Mushnik frowns, tapping his fingers against the counter. They’re going to be late if he doesn’t come out soon and they need to get his picture taken for the paper.
“Seymour, what’s taking you so long!?” Mushnik calls out towards the back. Seymour’s avoidant response is too muffled through the door to be parsed. “If your pants are too small or something you can borrow mine. We’re gonna be late, and we can’t miss this appointment!!”
The door cracks open then and Seymour peeks his head through, revealing flushed cheeks and a nervous expression.
“Um, sorry sir! It’s just- I’ve been trying to get this tie to work but I can’t, um…” Seymour trails off as he looks down to fumble with a thoroughly tangled navy tie, knotted up in a way Mushnik would’ve thought impossible for anyone but Seymour. Mushnik lets out a weary sigh, and Seymour’s shoulders curl inwards with shame.
“You’re what, twenty-something years old and you still can’t tie a tie?” Mushnik asks. He already knows the answer.
“W-well,” came the stammered reply. “You never taught me or anything and I never had to before, so…”
Ah. He hadn’t. Memories of his own father teaching him for the first time floated up unbidden, and Mushnik shook his head to push them away. Seymour isn’t his son, and Mushnik isn’t his father. He sighs again.
“It’s fine, just come here. I’ll teach you properly later but for now you can just watch.” Seymour looks relieved, and quickly walks over to sit on the counter.
Mushnik spends a minute untangling the mess Seymour made around his neck (seriously, how did he manage this? It’s practically a noose) and then sets to work trying to tie it around him. Seymour fidgets nervously, kicking his feet against the side of the counter.
You take the two sides, then grab the fatter side and wrap it around twice before… damn. He tied it backwards. Mushnik huffs. It’s so simple to put a tie on himself; he does it every morning, but for some reason trying to tie it onto someone else makes the familiar movements impossible. He sighs for the third time in as many minutes.
“Ah, shit. I’ll just tie it around my own neck then pass it off to you, ok?”
He lifts the navy tie off his neck and puts it on himself in 3 quick movements: around twice, up then through, and adjusting. Then, he pulled it off in one piece and slipped it over Seymour’s head, pulling it until it rested right at the top of his shirt’s crooked collar, under his blushing face.
“Thanks,” Seymour murmurs. Something soft and fuzzy blooms in Mushnik’s chest, warm, but uncomfortable. He pushes the feeling away as fast as he can and instead focuses on his watch. It’s nearly 10 minutes past when they should have left.
“Now we’re late for sure, damnit. Come on Seymour, up, up!! Out the door!!”
“Yes sir!!”
****
Seymour is practically vibrating in his seat next to Mushnik, a bright smile occupying his face. He’s pretty sure he’s never seen him so happy before, and it makes him mildly uncomfortable to witness.
The cause of his joy lies in front of them—a crisp sheet of white paper with “ADULT ADOPTION PETITION” in bold, professional font written at the top. Beneath it are the consent forms, envelopes, and stamps.
“Seymour,” Mushnik starts, “Stop bouncing your leg. You’re shaking the table.”
Seymour stops bouncing his leg. “Sorry,” he chuckles, then immediately switches to tapping his fingers against his thighs. Mushnik’s eye twitches.
“Uhm,” Seymour looks down at his feet as he speaks. “Look, Dad-”
Mushnik cringes. He may be adopting him, but he’ll only be his father in the legal sense. Yes, that’s right, a purely business based partnership..
“‘Mr. Mushnik’ is fine, I’m not your dad yet,” He interjects quickly. He just doesn’t want him to leave, that’s all. It’d be bad for the business.
Seymour starts tapping his fingers on the table instead of his thighs. It’s louder. “Right, I- That’s- um. Mr. Mushnik. I just wanted to say…” He trails off.
“Seymour, just spit it out. The faster we’re through with this the faster I can get to bed.”
“Thank you,” he blurts out. “For taking me in, and adopting me, and- and everything. It means a lot, I never thought I’d have a- That you could be my…”
“Dad,” Mushnik finishes for him. Over a decade of carefully kept distance starts to crumble with the admission. “Right. Well, I never thought I’d have a… son.”
Seymour smiles again, just as happy as before but softer, more genuine, a bit less manic. The sight of it sends warmth leaking into his chest, the kind of soft and fuzzy feeling described in children’s books.
Damnit, the kid is making him weak. He clears his throat loudly.
“Right, as I was saying, we don’t have all night. Let’s start with these forms.”
***
“I-I didn’t do it!!” Seymour’s voice rings out across the alley, desperate and shrill.
Mushnik wants nothing else than to believe he’s innocent. Seymour—meek, stupid, clumsy Seymour—couldn’t possibly be a murderer. Except the blood, the uniform, the bag, the baseball cap, Audrey, it all pointed right to him. He grimaces.
“Then come with me to the police and tell them that,” He says. Seymour tenses, fists curling at his sides. “Just so my conscience will rest easy.” He pauses, then adds for good measure, “If you don’t, I’ll have to tell them myself.”
Mushnik is gentle, when he speaks next. “Now will you come?” Seymour finally looks up.
“O-okay.” His voice is shaking.
Mushnik hesitates, staring into too-wide eyes hidden behind too-big glasses, wet and shiny with something undeterminable.
Ah, fuck it.
Mushnik pulls him into a hug. His movements are stiff, and awkward; Mushnik hasn’t hugged anyone in years and he doubts Seymour had either, disregarding his moment with Audrey just minutes before.
Seymour freezes up, standing stiff in his arms like he’s expecting something worse. Then, after a moment, he melts, resting his head against Mushnik’s chest and bringing two arms up to squeeze him hard enough that he wheezes. He’s warm, Mushnik realizes. And he hugs way too tight.
Seymour holds on for a moment even after Mushnik lets go, lingering in the moment for as long as he can without making a fool of himself. When he finally steps back, he looks up at him with deep, heavy emotion in his eyes, and it makes a hot rush of embarrassment rush through Mushnik as he’s hit by the reality of his display of affection. If Seymour really is innocent like he hopes, it’ll be awkward trying to live that down.
If he’s innocent. G-d, he might’ve just been hugging a murderer. He coughs awkwardly into his hand, turning away. “I’ll go lock up, we’ll head over,” he says, and starts off quickly towards the door of the shop before stopping just a few steps into the shop. He sucks in a breath through his teeth.
“Seymo-“ He cuts himself off. “Son,” he continues. “You know I… care about you, right?” It hurts to be this open, and Mushnik can feel something inside him squirming uncomfortably at the vulnerability. He doesn’t turn around.
Seymour takes a moment to respond, and when he does, it’s quiet, just enough that Mushnik has to strain to hear.
“I.. yeah. I-I know.”
Something warm blooms in his chest, soothing the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach, and for once he lets himself feel it instead of pushing it away.
“Good,” he says softly. “I’ll be right back.”
[Fin.]