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agerefandom · 19 days

Text

Skid Row Blues

Fandom: Little Shop of Horrors

Characters: regressor!Seymour Krelborn, Orin Scrivello

Words: 1,400

Summary: Seymour is trying to get through the day without regressing, but the appearance of Audrey's boyfriend in the shop sets a crisis in motion.

Warnings: Orin Scrivello is a warning in himself: threats of violence, yelling, anxiety, dissociation, canon-accurate sadist!Orin (which gives the scene a bit of an uncomfortable undertone), unwanted regression, physical restraint, hurt with no comfort.

A/N: someone requested regressor!Seymour interacting with Orin and I got a little carried away. This fic is unedited, so I'm sorry for any mistakes.

Seymour had been doing his best to keep himself together all day, but it was taking more energy than he had. He’d knocked over an empty plant pot that morning and cut himself on the shards: it hadn’t hurt very much at the time, but it had become a constant ache that wore on him every time he moved his hand.

Thankfully Mr. Mushnik hadn’t yelled at him, just huffing and leaving Seymour to clean it up. Seymour wasn’t sure if he could have held it together, if he’d yelled.

As it was, he was holding on by a thread: the knowledge that closing time was coming soon. They had barely sold three plants that day, but Seymour’s brain was too wrapped up in ouch and stuffed animal to really care about the shop’s finances. Closing time meant going downstairs to his bed and his favourite (only) plushie, and Seymour was clinging to that vision with both hands.

In the meantime, he had brought three plants to the counter and occupied himself by carefully pruning them, curling their discarded leaves between his fingers. The familiar snip of shears and texture of leaves was calming.

That was when the door was pushed open with too much force, sending the bell jangling and almost colliding with the shelf behind it.

Seymour flinched, first at the noise and then out of fear for the plants, but the door stopped just short of hitting anything.

“Hey, you!”

It was Audrey’s new boyfriend who stood in the doorway, arms crossed as he crossed the threshold and stopped in the middle of the room. Seymour had talked to him only once, and had seen him through the big shop windows many times. From these encounters, Seymour had drawn two conclusions.

Firstly, he did not like Orin Scrivello. Secondly, Orin was the last person Seymour wanted to be around when he was this close to regressing.

“Hello,” Seymour managed. Anything further refused to come out of his mouth. At least the greeting had sounded fairly normal.

“I’m lookin’ for Audrey. You seen her, kid?”

Seymour shook his head hard enough that his hair fell into his eyes. He went to push it back and realized he was still holding the small pruning shears. He ended up awkwardly putting his hands back down.

“You sure you haven’t seen her? I went to her place and she wasn’t there.”

Orin paced towards the counter, hands coming up as if getting ready to grab, or hit, or-

Seymour dropped the shears and splayed his hands in the air, trying to look as unthreatening as possible. From the way Orin’s eyes travelled from the shears to Seymour’s face, Seymour wasn’t sure that he had made the right choice. The smile on Orin’s face was more dangerous than those white-knuckled fists.

“Got something to hide, kid? You seem a little jumpy.”

Orin’s pace slowed as he got within arm’s length of the counter, almost sauntering the last two steps as he reached out and slid the shears over to his side, holding them up to the florescent lights and inspecting the blades.

“N-no. I-I-” Seymour’s brain tripped over itself, leaving his mouth useless.

“I-I- spit it out, huh?” Orin mocked him, high pitched for a moment before breaking into an angry growl.

Seymour’s lips sealed themselves, and he shook his head again, trying to gesture with his fingers that he had nothing to say.

“Wise guy,” Orin said, and reached out to catch one of Seymour’s wrists, easily pulling it down onto the counter between them. Seymour heard himself gasp, and make a little noise of distress. It surprised him how quickly he’d become completely separate from the situation, with almost no control over his body. Orin was only an inch or so taller than him, but Seymour could offer no resistance to the grip around his wrist.

“Now let’s try this again.” Orin brought the gardening shears down on the counter, the tip splintering the wood beside Seymour’s thumb. “When I ask you where Audrey is, you tell me. She never goes anywhere besides her little apartment and this little store, so I know that you know where she is. So let me ask one more time. I’m lookin’ for my girlfriend. Have. You. Seen her?”

“No. No, no, no,” Seymour heard himself say. His voice was high and shaky and wet, and that was what made him realize that he had started crying. “M’sorry, m’sorry, no, no, please.”

“Oh, I like that word.” Orin grinned wider and his enjoyment filled the room, oppressive and suffocating. Seymour was choking on it, even as he feebly tugged against the other man’s grip. He was too small for this, too small to understand what was happening or try to plan a way out through the blind panic that gripped him. “Say it again.”

“Please.” Seymour had no difficulty guessing what Orin wanted to hear. He wished that he didn’t know, that he could feign ignorance or make some kind of prideful stand, but all he wanted was to get out and get downstairs to his safe little room where he could hide under the blankets and maybe never come out. Like a fungus that grew in the damp and darkness, something that never needed the sun. “Please, please, no. Le’go please.”

Orin clicked his tongue, a caricature of disappointment.

“Very nice, but still the wrong answer. Where’s Audrey?” Orin wrenched the shears out of the wood, splinters falling from the blades as he raised them again.

“I don’t know, please, m’sorry! Please!” Seymour’s words blurred together, and he could feel snot and tears on his face. The shame was a distant sensation, the fear so much closer and brighter. He put his other hand on the edge of the counter to try and push away from Orin’s grip, but the other man was strong.

Orin swung the shears down, and Seymour could see the arc of movement headed straight for the back of his hand, where it was pinned helpless on the table, the glint of metal and –

At the very last moment Seymour’s hand slipped free, sending him reeling back into the shelves behind the counter. He saw the shears bite into the table again, and then he was slumping to the floor, his knees refusing to hold him. The desk hid him from Orin’s line of sight and Seymour covered his face as well.

Maybe if I can’t see him, he can’t see me.

Maybe if I can’t see him, he can’t hurt me.

Seymour screwed up his eyes and wished and hoped that Orin would leave him alone, that he was done, that this whole day was over.

“I believe you,” Orin said. “See you ‘round, kid.”

The sound of heavy motorcycle boots crossing the shop floor, and then the gentle tinkle of the bell over the door as it opened and closed.

And then, silence.

Seymour slowly uncovered one eye, and peeked at the desk. There was no one there that he could see. Shakily, he got to a crouch and dared to look over the counter. No one in the shop, and no sign of Orin in the street. The shears were still buried in the wood of the counter, and Seymour was definitely going to get in trouble for that tomorrow.

Tears still rolling down his cheeks, Seymour carefully pulled himself to his feet and removed the shears from the counter, laying them down gently. He locked the cash register and put the key into his pocket, then tiptoed over to the door and locked that as well.

Seymour flipped the sign to ‘Closed’ and finally allowed himself to breathe. He took the steps downstairs one by one, holding onto the banister. Clumsy at the best of times, he didn’t want to fall and hurt himself any more. He was so, so tired of hurting.

In the basement (home at last), Seymour immediately dove for the bed and threw the covers over his head, rummaging in the pillow case to bring out his stuffed bear and crushing it against his chest. He cried for as long as he wanted to, until his eyes burned and his throat felt raw.

Someday, Seymour told himself, hugging his bear close. Someday I won’t live here with all these terrible people and all of this fear. Someday I’ll be somewhere cozy, and comfortable…. and green.

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