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    Summary

    Orin slammed his palm on the countertop, making Seymour jump a little bit. His eyes closed for a second in frustration, before he opened them and looked at Seymour with the most pitiful expression he’d probably ever gotten from him. He sort of resembled a kicked puppy.

    “Seymour, it’s Princess,” he said lowly, voice laced with a somewhat hurt misery. That certainly stopped Seymour in his tracks, and his concern fell completely into confusion within a matter of seconds.

    “Orin, what– what the hell d’you…” The gears turned in his brain as he wracked it for any kind of explanation for the response he’d gotten, before his mouth fell open. He looked at Orin, closed it, opened it again, and hesitated, incredulous. “... Your– your motorcycle???”

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