Strangers With Candy: Why Should I Care?, part 3

[ptahrrific]

Title: Why Should I Care? (3/?)
Series: Strangers With Candy
Pairings: Seamus/OMC; Chuck/Geoffrey
Rating: PG-13
Contents: Continued terrible parenting; hot, ass-thumping sex.
Beta: stellar_dust
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use.

Summary: Seamus finally moves out of his mother's house, gets some good sex, and starts classes. And then it all falls apart.

Previous chapters can be found here.


Why Should I Care?
Part Three


"Sweetheart, are you sure about this?" asked his mother for the hundredth time. "The new house is smaller, but there'll be plenty of space for the two of us."

In theory, they were clearing everything out of the place, throwing some of it in a pile for a garage sale and packing the rest. In practice, Seamus was clearing things out, while Mom hovered over him and criticized.

"The lease is already signed, Mom," he said, pulling things out of the basement closet and dropping them unceremoniously in a box. If they were down here, they hadn't been worn in years, and therefore automatically going to the garage sale as far as he was concerned. "Besides, I'm still not giving up the gay thing."

"You're sure it isn't just a phase? Have you tried stopping for a while? Maybe you'd grow out of it."

"I'm not stopping. And even if you decided you were okay with that, it's high time I moved out."

"You will still visit, though?"

"Sure," said Seamus, lifting out a hanger with something covered by a drape of dark blue plastic. "Hello, what's this?"

"Oh, that," sniffed his mother. "Get rid of it."

Seamus raised a corner of the plastic to reveal white satin, gathered with lace and tiny pearls. "No way," he breathed. "You still have your wedding dress?"

"If I had known it was still down here, I would have given it away years ago. Worst mistake of my life. I mean the marriage, dear, not you," she added quickly.

Time to change the subject, before this one picked up steam. Seamus knew that. Nevertheless, he found himself fingering the delicate lace. "If you don't want this," he said haltingly, "can I . . . ?"

His mother stepped forward and snatched the hanger from his hands. "Seamus Noblet, don't you dare! I don't know what sorts of things you people get up to in dresses, but you are not doing them in this one." She dropped it in the box of clothes, then picked the whole thing up. "I'm going to run this down to the Salvation Army this minute. If you finish down here before I get back, you can get started on the dishes."

Seamus shook off the pang of regret as he watched her go. Five minutes ago, he hadn't known the dress existed. Why should he care what happened to it?


§

Most of the boxes were still unopened when Seamus threw a party to dedicate the new place. George was the youngest person there, but if anyone thought this was odd, they forgot about it after a round of drinks.

When the other guests had cleared out and the dishes were piled high in the sink, Seamus flopped down on the cheap ugly couch. He probably could have gotten a better one—between the sale of his childhood home and a couple of soul-crushing loans, tuition for the year was covered—but it never hurt to be careful.

"The menu was a hit," observed George, flopping down beside him.

Seamus waved magnanimously. "All thanks to your teaching, O great one."

George grinned. "Hey, I like that. Say it again."

"Great one," repeated Seamus, who had a light buzz going and was feeling generous towards the whole world, his useless parents included. "Amazing one. Wonderful one. Incredible, wonderful, perfect George . . . ."

He was cut off by George's lips on his.

"What?" he stammered when the younger man had pulled away. And then, because saying it once didn't seem to cover it: "What?"

"I liked the other stuff better," said George. "Go back to that."

"Are you drunk?"

"Sober as a judge."

"But—I thought you didn't want this," protested Seamus, trying to wrap his head around the fact that George was now straddling his hips.

"What, because I didn't put out when we first met? I didn't want it then. I sure do now."

So saying, George leaned in and kissed him again. It was pretty convincing.

"I'm drunk," groaned Seamus when his mouth was free again. "You're taking advantage of me."

"Do you want me to stop?"

Seamus glared at him; but George was looking down with perfect sincerity. Also a flushed face, dark eyes, and slightly parted lips.

"God, no," panted Seamus. "Don't you dare stop."


§

They didn't get much cooking done during their next few visits. Or much of anything else that wasn't sex, for that matter.

Seamus was immensely gratified to find that here, if nowhere else, George didn't have the faintest idea what he was doing. Oh, he had the general "tab A, slot B" concept down, but beyond that he was clueless to the point of embarrassment. (Well, anyone else would have been embarrassed. Sometimes Seamus wasn't sure whether George understood the concept.)

But he was enthusiastic, and that was something. And he was flexible, and that was something too. And he was more than willing to follow instructions.

Much as Seamus loved the results, the process scared him.


§

"So . . . back to school, eh?"

"That's right, Dad."

"You'll show your teachers proper respect, I hope? Not ask too many questions?"

"College professors like it when we ask questions. It shows we're thinking."

"It shows," said Dad sternly, "that you're not respecting the teacher's authority. Don't do it. I never stand for it in my classrooms."

Seamus knew this all too well. He had pleaded with the Flatpoint High administration to be allowed into his father's biology class in eleventh grade, and was pretty sure this was why he had never taken a science course again.

"Students should follow a teacher's instructions without questioning them," continued Dad. "That's what I did, and look how I turned out. So what else is going on in your life? Anything special?"

"No," said Seamus. "Nothing much."


§

"Going home in a week," said George, licking some of the extra cake batter from a spoon. He had been too preoccupied with finals to come over much, so Seamus had insisted that they bake something completely nutrition-free to make up for it. "You want to come over some time?"

"How far away are you, anyway?" asked Seamus, mildly distracted by the way George's tongue was flicking over the smooth metal.

"Didn't I tell you? Our house is right outside the Philadelphia metro. Hour and a half south of here. You could drive down for the day. Meet my parents."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"They'll love you. I promise. Well, Dad will probably give you dirty looks and make a point of announcing several times that you're too old for me, but he'll come around. And Other Dad will think you're great right off the bat."

"That's not the point."

"Well, what is the point, then?" asked George around his spoon.

"Do we have to talk about this now?" In a few steps Seamus crossed the tiny kitchen, pressing George against the counter. "This thing will be baking for at least forty minutes. Let's spend them doing something more interesting."

"Ooh, I like the sound of that." The spoon clattered to the floor as flour-covered fingers tangled in Seamus' hair.

A burst of anger shot through him. "Do you always," he growled against George's mouth in between rough kisses, "do as you're told?"

"What?"

Seamus thrust once, hard, slamming George's waist violently against the counter.

He didn't get the chance to do it a second time: George's arms went between them, elbows digging into his ribs, and he instinctively pulled away far enough that the younger man had room to wiggle free. "Seamus. What the hell?"

I wish I knew. "Oh, good, you can push back."

"Well, yeah, but that's gonna leave a bruise! And not the fun kind, either!"

Seamus ran a hand through his hair, sending a fine dusting of flour raining down onto his shoulders. "I know. Sorry. I got a little carried away."

"No kidding. What's going on? Are that you worried about my parents? Is that why you're freaking out on me?"

"I'm not worried!" And it was true. If he didn't care about his own parents' good opinion, why should he care about George's?

"So why don't you want to visit them?"

For all that Seamus wished the topic had never come up, it was a relief to have George finally dragging the words out of him. "It's just . . . come on, bringing me home to meet your family? It's not like we're in a serious relationship, here."

George looked at him, face carefully expressionless.

"Come on," said Seamus weakly. "You're always the laid-back one. You won't take this too hard, right?"

The younger man shook himself. "No. No, I guess not. But, look, I gotta run." He started for the hall.

"Already?" Seamus followed him out. "Wait, what about the cake?"

George pulled on his shoes without looking up. "It's just cake. You can handle it. I really should be studying. Finals are serious, whether I like it or not."


§

George didn't call all summer.

Seamus didn't call either. He worked; he hunted down cheap textbooks; he read up on material he hadn't paid attention to since high school.

Cartons of ramen piled up in the sink.


§

The first class was in a vast lecture hall, with what must have been a hundred desks, most of them already full when Seamus arrived. He found a seat towards the edge, though a little nearer the front than he would have liked, and busied himself with his books.

Most of the students were talking with each other or absorbed in similar paper-shuffling, but all the commotion crashed to a halt when a voice barked at them from the front of the room. "All right, you little runts, listen up!"

Seamus was so surprised that nearly dropped a five-pound textbook on his foot.

"Your honored professor will not actually be teaching the class in person," said the figure before them. "Instead, the job of molding your impressionable young minds will be left in my very capable hands." The familiar voice switched from a bark to a purr. "Oh, but don't you worry, my pretties. I'll be gentle. You may address me as—"

"—you stupid junkie whore!"

Seamus clapped a hand over his mouth, but the words had already come out.

Jerri Blank, sixty-six-year-old grad school freshman, squinted at him. "I can see you've met me before."