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The flower shop was quiet, save for the soft hum of the neon sign flickering outside. Seymour wiped a dusty vase, his fingers trembling. Ever since his strange plant had started growing—quickly, dangerously so—he couldn’t sleep without dreaming of vines and blood.
And lately, he couldn’t stop thinking about him.
The door opened like a gunshot. Seymour jumped, nearly dropping his vase. Orin Scrivello, DDS, stood there in the doorframe with his leather jacket slung carelessly over his shoulder, the ever-present smell of nitrous oxide and cologne clinging to him like a threat.
Seymour flinched. “Doctor.”
“There’s the plant freak,” Orin sneered, though his voice held something playful. He stepped in close, breathing heavy like he always did. “Thought I’d check in on your little project. Still feeding it, huh?”
Seymour tried to step back, but Orin cornered him by the workbench, close enough that Seymour could smell the faint scent of alcohol on his breath. His laugh was cruel, but his eyes flicked over Seymour’s face like he was trying to figure something out.
“You’re always jumpy,” Orin said, reaching out to flick Seymour’s glasses, making him yelp in pain.“Scared of everything. How do you even survive out here?”
“I—I’m not scared of everything,” Seymour stammered, barely audible.
“Bullshit. You’re scared of your own shadow.” Orin’s smile faded just slightly, then came back in full force, quickly enough that Seymour wouldn’t have believed it had gone if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes. “You’re scared of me.”
Seymour didn’t reply. His eyes were glassy now, full of something Orin didn’t recognize—anger? No, surely Seymour was hurt. A strained silence settled between them.
Then Orin shoved him back against the bench—not hard (Orin didn't want— that—but hard enough. “Say it.”
“Say what?” Seymour choked.
“That you hate me. That you think I’m a monster. Everyone else does.”
Seymour, decides, fuck it, he's tired, and screwing up the courage he had left, finally says it—
“I don’t hate you! I hate how you make me feel—like I’m worthless, like I’m just something to laugh at! And I hate that I still think about you when you’re not here!”
The words hung there, raw and cracked.
Orin froze. For once, he didn’t have a smirk. Seymour’s shoulders shook. He ran a sleeve over his face, trying not to cry—but it was too late. A tear slipped free, sliding from beneath the thick frames of his glasses. And God help him, something twisted in Orin’s chest.
“Hey,” he said, softer than Seymour had ever heard him. “I didn’t mean to—damn it.”
He reached forward awkwardly, thumb brushing Seymour’s cheek.
“I’m not good at this shit,” he muttered. “Hurting people’s just easier. You cry and you know stupid things about plants and I... I don’t know what to do with that.”
“You could start by not making me cry,” Seymour said, voice tight.
Orin looked at him. Really looked at him. The fear was still there in Seymour’s eyes—but so was something else. Something fragile. Something hopeful.
And for once, Orin didn’t stomp it out.
He leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn’t perfect—too fast, too rough at first. But Seymour didn’t pull away. After a breath, it softened. Mint and metal, nervousness and salt.
When they broke apart, Seymour blinked at him, wide-eyed.
“I’m... gonna regret this, aren’t I?” Orin muttered, fingers brushing the hem of Seymour’s sweater vest lightly.
Seymour just smiled faintly, still teary-eyed. “Only if you leave.”