Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2009-04-13 04:30 pm
ptahrrific) wrote2009-04-13 04:30 pm
Entry tags:
Fake News/Strangers With Candy: Why Should I Care? part 8
Title: Why Should I Care? (8/12?)
Series: Strangers With Candy
Pairings: Seamus/OMC; Chuck/Geoffrey
Rating: PG-13
Contents: Language; sickness and health; alcoholism and other destructive impulses; fabulous, fabulous dresses.
Beta:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
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 comes perilously close to actually acting on his Secret Shameful Desire. Featuring one drunken stupor, two beautiful gowns, three instances of pounding on doors, and far too many final exams.
Every time a chapter like this comes up, I lose a few hours googling formal dresses. The green one looks something like this.
Previous chapters here.
Why Should I Care?
Part Eight
"Mom?" Seamus pounded on the door with a gloved fist. "C'mon, Mom, open up. It's freezing out here!"
When there was no answer, he peeled one hand out of its glove and dug numbly through his pockets for the keys. He had given up the relative warmth of Dad's apartment, surrendering himself to the chilly outdoors, in order to spend a little bit of Thanksgiving with each parent; if his mother had ditched him for a party, damned if he wasn't going to raid her fridge while he was here.
As it turned out, his suspicions were misplaced. Mom had stayed in. She just hadn't waited for his company before breaking out the vodka.
Seamus had seen too many guys pass out after a binge and never wake up to not call an ambulance.
"Nah, this is pretty routine," he told the paramedics when they asked if he wanted to come along. "She knows the drill by now." Besides, why should I care if she freaks out when she wakes up alone? It's no worse than she deserves.
§
Rather than make the frosty trek back to his own apartment, Seamus made himself at home.
He started by finishing off the bottle (waste not, want not). A long, hot shower came next. Then he pulled on some clothes from the small stash he had left there after the move, and rifled through the closet in search of a good thick robe.
All of Mom's clothes were actually pretty nice. Closing his eyes, Seamus let his fingertips enjoy the softness of the fabrics, subtle and warm.
When the flow was interrupted by cold plastic, it was so jarring that his eyes flew open.
There was a dark blue drape under his hand.
Hardly daring to breathe, Seamus fell to his knees and lifted a corner. White satin. Lace. A multitude of tiny pearls.
"Mom's a damn liar," he almost laughed.
After a moment's hesitation, he pulled the hanger from the closet and raised the drape. It was obvious from just a corner of the fabric that it was much too good for the Salvation Army, but he had never seen the whole thing. Even the wedding photos displayed on the mantel when he was little had only been busts. How could he resist?
Once the entire lovely gown was revealed, several things hit him in quick succession.
First, it was a wreck. The seams up the sides were split, many of the threads ripped right out, as if someone distinctly heavier than the original wearer had made a futile attempt to squeeze into it. Or, for that matter, the original wearer herself, with the additional weight that a child and a few decades brings on.
Second, there was something subtly wrong about the proportions. Even assuming Mom had had much shapelier hips when she first got it sized, the balance in the area was off. Too much sag around the stomach.
Third, none of this stopped it from being absolutely fucking gorgeous.
§
A couple of days later, Seamus called Mom to make sure she had come home okay. He didn't mention the wedding gown in his closet, and she didn't ask.
A few days after that, the gown had company.
The way this had happened was all sort of a blur. He remembered telling the Goodwill attendant something about a costume party, about needing the stupidest, ruffliest, most extravagant dress they had on their hangers. Next thing he knew, he was standing at the bus stop, holding a paper bag that nearly overflowed with waves of sea-green taffeta.
Riding home was torturous. Seamus had gone almost to the last stop on the line before daring to make the purchase, which meant he had to sit through a full hour of panicking every time the bag was jostled before he made it safely home. Once there, he had immediately stuffed it in the closet and gone to class.
When he got home from work that evening, he flopped into bed without bothering to change. The closet went unopened.
He slept badly.
§
As Seamus was about to knock for the third time, the door jerked open, revealing a bleary-eyed George in a wrinkled sweatshirt with a wicked case of bed-head. "Seamus? What're you doing here?"
"You said you were sick." Seamus held up a foil-wrapped dish. "Figured you could use some sustenance."
"Wow. C'mon in." George waved him into the dorm room, sitting down a little too heavily on his mattress. The edge of his slipper-clad foot bumped against a cheap plastic bowl, sliding it across the floor tiles. "Stomach's a little queasy right now, but I appreciate the thought."
"You could stick it in the fridge? It's here to stay, anyway. You can't unfry things."
George nodded thoughtfully, as if this were a Zen koan. "What did you make?"
"Pork fried rice." Seamus peeled off a corner of the foil.
George took a deep breath as the scent filled the room. "Maybe I could have just a little."
§
"Hypothalamus."
"Mmrgh," grunted George, flinging an arm over his face. "That's the purple one, right?"
"Uh, the card's purple. Does that mean something?"
The plate of rice was balanced precariously on top of one of the squared-off bedposts. Seamus had only dished up a few spoonfuls, but George hadn't gotten through half of it before leaving the rest there.
"Nah. I have this toy model brain at home...somewhere...the colors match up to it. It's not important, it just helps me remember. Hypothalamus...between the thalamus and the brain stem. Responsible for...metabolic processes?"
"Right so far. You've got one more thing written here."
Seamus had his legs slung around the back of George's desk chair, where he was flipping through a stack of colored note cards. The desk boasted a laptop that was probably more powerful than the one that launched the Mars shuttle, and still it couldn't come up with any better study aid than pen and paper. There was probably a moral in there somewhere.
"Is it...autonomic nervous system?"
"Is that what ANS stands for?"
"That's the one."
Sure, Seamus had studying of his own to do, but George probably needed him more right now. Besides, Jerri had come up with hilariously dirty rhymes for every item on her study guide, which meant he had at least one class in the bag.
He flipped to the next card. "A-amygdala?"
George just groaned.
"Oh, come on, I can't have pronounced it that badly."
No answer.
"Do you, uh, want a hint?"
With a gurgle George rolled over, and Seamus finally realized what the bowl was doing on the floor.
What were you supposed to do with a sick person, anyway? Seamus remembered getting the chicken pox in second grade; that had mostly involved lying alone in the dark and itching, while upstairs his parents worked and cleaned and had people over for dinner and generally went on with their lives.
Which was a hell of a lot more sensible than bringing comfort food to someone who was only going to throw it up. What kind of idiot would—
"S-sorry about this," croaked George. "Think you could...grab me some water?"
Seamus was nearly overwhelmed with the urge to start shouting. Get it yourself! Just because you have the flu, you think I'm supposed to take care of you?
Mouth firmly closed, he snatched up a spare cup and bolted from the room.
Once he had space to breathe, it took the edge off. Still, as soon as George had his water, Seamus stammered an excuse and beat a hasty path out of there.
§
The rest of the class trickled out of the hall one by one.
Seamus knew he shouldn't be focusing on them, should be concentrating on the exam; but his heart wasn't in it. Besides, after working question 9 four separate times, he had gotten as many answers.
"Seamus, Seamus, Seamus," sighed Jerri's voice from behind him. "What ever are you still doing here?"
"Trying not to fail," snapped Seamus. "You think you could wait until after the time limit's up?"
"Let me see that." Before Seamus could object, Jerri had snatched the exercise book from his desk and was paging through it. "This one's right," she declared, skimming the first page before flipping it over. "So's this one. And that one. And...yep, that one too."
"Isn't this kind of unethical?" protested Seamus feebly.
"Oh, probably." The corners of Jerri's mouth sank in a tragic frown. "But what use ethics, when the heart is in such pain? Better to cut the strings quickly than to draw out our goodbyes. Exam over; you pass. Now fly, little bird! Fly away!"
"You know I'm coming back next semester, right?"
The saggy old face twitched in several unusual places. "Don't spoil my tragic farewell, here, bucko," she ordered.
"And I'm even taking the class you're TAing."
Jerri squinted at him. "Say again?"
"Education 240. I'm taking it."
It was a little hard to read Jerri's expression at this, but he was pretty sure it was supposed to be tender. "Why, you darling thing! Did you do that just for lil' ol' me?"
"Sort of. If you really want to know, it's because you're so fantastically screwed up already that I don't think I can make it any worse."
Jerri's eyes went misty. "Seamus Noblet, that is one of the nicest things anyone's ever said to me," she enthused, reaching for him. "Hugs!"
§
"What kind of color is green for a dress, anyway?"
The synthetic silk rustled apologetically as Seamus lifted the offending garment out of its bag.
Except for the color, the thing he had purchased at random was a fairly elegant ensemble. Sweetheart neckline, drop waist, the carefully gathered top sparkling with beads, the skirt falling in a mass of ruffles all the way to the floor. Put this thing on, and Seamus would look like the world's most gorgeous air freshener.
...as would whoever happened to wear it! Which wouldn't necessarily be him!
Trying to shrug off his irritation, Seamus laid the dress out on his freshly washed sheets and began absently running his fingers over the beads.
Moving his hands down to the skirt, he arranged the crumpled ruffles, untucking those that had gotten squished or inverted or folded in on each other. There was something soothing in the task. Meditative, almost.
After a few minutes of this, so absorbed was Seamus' attention that he forgot to notice that he was imagining George filling out the fabric. Thus it was entirely without judgment that he dismissed the picture, on the grounds that George was really more of an autumn.
Could Seamus himself pull off pastels?
Did he dare—
Seamus' thumb brushed over a loose thread, jolting him out of his reverie. Irritated once more, he left to retrieve a pair of scissors.
He could fix this, he thought, standing over the dress once more. It would be easy. Just snip the little troublemaker, and the dress would be perfect again. And it was perfect, for all the grief he was trying to give it over the minty fresh hue.
The blades sat poised at the base of the thread.
You shouldn't even be touching this! admonished Dad's voice in the back of his head.
And why the hell not? thought Seamus. It's my dress. I'll do what I want with it!
As if in a show of solidarity with him, the scissors turned against the fabric and sliced a ruffle neatly in two.
Once it had started, the rest came as effortlessly as if it had been choreographed. The scissors cut ribbons through the skirt, laying bare the carefully hidden seams and splitting lines of stitches one by one before sliding up to the waist. They chewed through the bodice, leaving a ragged line up the stomach. They crunched against beads, which went clattering against the walls and the floor like a fine hail.
At last Seamus yanked them away with a gasp.
The dress lay helplessly on the bed, looking as if it had been disemboweled.
§
"Seamus, if you don't open up in thirty seconds, I'm having the fire department break in."
"Don't be stupid," ordered Seamus; but he opened the door anyway, revealing a wild-eyed George with a fine dusting of snow on his coat and hair. "I'm fine. You didn't need to drive all the way out here."
"My dads can survive without me for a few hours," countered George, pushing his way in. "Seamus, you were incoherent on the phone. What happened?"
"Nothing. Doesn't matter."
"I'm not leaving until I know you're okay, so you might as well tell me what's going on."
George settled on the couch while Seamus retrieved the box and nearly threw it into his lap. On seeing the smooth green fabric, he caught his breath and started to smile, running a gentle hand over the undamaged ruffles on top of the pile. Then he found the bodice and lifted it up.
Seamus stood a few feet away, shifting from foot to foot in agitation, as the smile froze on George's face.
"I'm guessing it didn't come like this," he said shakily.
"It's not a big deal!" snapped Seamus, just a hair short of actually interrupting. "It's just a cheap synthetic anyway!"
Now George just looked confused. "Are you sure?"
"Are you kidding? Feel it!" Leaning forward, Seamus grabbed a handful and rubbed its layers against each other, the cool slickness of acetate sliding between thumb and finger, before letting it fall. "Or, hell, just look at how the light hits it. This stuff has never been near the business end of a silkworm in its life."
Frowning slightly, George turned over the fabric until he found a line of thread. "Any chance you know what kind of stitch this is?"
"Chain stitch," said Seamus without bothering to look. "I told you it was cheap. Look, aren't we getting a bit off track here? Why aren't you freaking out?"
"This isn't just about the cheap dress, is it."
"Of course it's not!" cried Seamus. "Cheap or not, it looked good, and it didn't deserve this—I didn't even mean to do it, it just sort of happened!" His voice was careening hysterically upwards; George's eyes never left his face. "And I do this all the time—I can't take care of anything—you can't trust me to take care of you!"
He broke off. George's hands, which had been easing the green dress from its box and taking in the full extent of the damage, had reached the satin underneath.
"Snuck that out of Mom's closet," Seamus panted, willing himself calmer, as George began to draw this one out too. "Real silk, obviously—it's a wreck too, but it was like that when I got it—a bunch of the threads ripped, and for some reason it's all stretched out in the stomach...."
He stopped cold.
A bulging gown. Photos that only showed from the waist up.
Why hadn't it been obvious?
"Did you know?" asked George softly.
Seamus sank to the floor, barely managing to shake his head as it bowed under the sudden weight.
He had long suspected that, if not for him, his parents would have split apart much sooner. But it had never occurred to him that he might have been the only reason they got together in the first place.
"Fuck," he breathed, voice cracking. "Shame us. No wonder."
George slid gently down from the couch and knelt before him, both dresses cradled in his arms.
"You're not unwanted," he murmured.
Easy for you to say, thought Seamus. Your parents adore you. He opened his mouth to say as much, but choked on the words.
"You are pretty screwed up, though," George added. "You're angry; you're loud; you have a destructive streak a mile wide. Your self-confidence is a crapshoot. You're plenty bright, but you can never focus long enough to make anything of it. You pretend to be all rebellious and uncaring, but you're terrified to admit the forbidden things you want most. And whenever any hint of commitment crosses your mind," here he lifted the white satin slightly, "you try to sabotage yourself rather than dealing with it. You're a mess, Seamus Noblet. But not a hopeless mess."
A sob tore itself from Seamus' throat.
"So you've made some lousy moves," George continued. "And you're going to make more, because you're a wreck, and because life dealt you a crap hand, and because you're human. Doesn't mean you have to give in to them. So you break things. It happens. Put them back together. You can do it; I know you can. I believe in you. I love you."
He scooted closer. Under a curtain of satin and lace and taffeta, their knees pressed together.
"You can start with these. I don't know the first thing about dressmaking, but you—most people can't tell apart fabrics and weaves and stitches like that, and here you go around acting like it's second nature. Either you've worked at it or you have a knack, and either way it's obviously something you care about. Fix them."
The fabrics swam in Seamus' blurred vision. He tried to gather their edges with shaking hands.
"Who knows? It might turn out to be your calling." There were tears brimming in George's voice too; but then he laughed, clear and glad. "Maybe we've had your name all wrong! It has nothing to do with you being a disappointment. It's a cry from all the torn-up dresses in the world: Seam us!"
Series: Strangers With Candy
Pairings: Seamus/OMC; Chuck/Geoffrey
Rating: PG-13
Contents: Language; sickness and health; alcoholism and other destructive impulses; fabulous, fabulous dresses.
Beta:
stellar_dustDisclaimer: 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 comes perilously close to actually acting on his Secret Shameful Desire. Featuring one drunken stupor, two beautiful gowns, three instances of pounding on doors, and far too many final exams.
Every time a chapter like this comes up, I lose a few hours googling formal dresses. The green one looks something like this.
Previous chapters here.
Why Should I Care?
Part Eight
"Mom?" Seamus pounded on the door with a gloved fist. "C'mon, Mom, open up. It's freezing out here!"
When there was no answer, he peeled one hand out of its glove and dug numbly through his pockets for the keys. He had given up the relative warmth of Dad's apartment, surrendering himself to the chilly outdoors, in order to spend a little bit of Thanksgiving with each parent; if his mother had ditched him for a party, damned if he wasn't going to raid her fridge while he was here.
As it turned out, his suspicions were misplaced. Mom had stayed in. She just hadn't waited for his company before breaking out the vodka.
Seamus had seen too many guys pass out after a binge and never wake up to not call an ambulance.
"Nah, this is pretty routine," he told the paramedics when they asked if he wanted to come along. "She knows the drill by now." Besides, why should I care if she freaks out when she wakes up alone? It's no worse than she deserves.
Rather than make the frosty trek back to his own apartment, Seamus made himself at home.
He started by finishing off the bottle (waste not, want not). A long, hot shower came next. Then he pulled on some clothes from the small stash he had left there after the move, and rifled through the closet in search of a good thick robe.
All of Mom's clothes were actually pretty nice. Closing his eyes, Seamus let his fingertips enjoy the softness of the fabrics, subtle and warm.
When the flow was interrupted by cold plastic, it was so jarring that his eyes flew open.
There was a dark blue drape under his hand.
Hardly daring to breathe, Seamus fell to his knees and lifted a corner. White satin. Lace. A multitude of tiny pearls.
"Mom's a damn liar," he almost laughed.
After a moment's hesitation, he pulled the hanger from the closet and raised the drape. It was obvious from just a corner of the fabric that it was much too good for the Salvation Army, but he had never seen the whole thing. Even the wedding photos displayed on the mantel when he was little had only been busts. How could he resist?
Once the entire lovely gown was revealed, several things hit him in quick succession.
First, it was a wreck. The seams up the sides were split, many of the threads ripped right out, as if someone distinctly heavier than the original wearer had made a futile attempt to squeeze into it. Or, for that matter, the original wearer herself, with the additional weight that a child and a few decades brings on.
Second, there was something subtly wrong about the proportions. Even assuming Mom had had much shapelier hips when she first got it sized, the balance in the area was off. Too much sag around the stomach.
Third, none of this stopped it from being absolutely fucking gorgeous.
A couple of days later, Seamus called Mom to make sure she had come home okay. He didn't mention the wedding gown in his closet, and she didn't ask.
A few days after that, the gown had company.
The way this had happened was all sort of a blur. He remembered telling the Goodwill attendant something about a costume party, about needing the stupidest, ruffliest, most extravagant dress they had on their hangers. Next thing he knew, he was standing at the bus stop, holding a paper bag that nearly overflowed with waves of sea-green taffeta.
Riding home was torturous. Seamus had gone almost to the last stop on the line before daring to make the purchase, which meant he had to sit through a full hour of panicking every time the bag was jostled before he made it safely home. Once there, he had immediately stuffed it in the closet and gone to class.
When he got home from work that evening, he flopped into bed without bothering to change. The closet went unopened.
He slept badly.
As Seamus was about to knock for the third time, the door jerked open, revealing a bleary-eyed George in a wrinkled sweatshirt with a wicked case of bed-head. "Seamus? What're you doing here?"
"You said you were sick." Seamus held up a foil-wrapped dish. "Figured you could use some sustenance."
"Wow. C'mon in." George waved him into the dorm room, sitting down a little too heavily on his mattress. The edge of his slipper-clad foot bumped against a cheap plastic bowl, sliding it across the floor tiles. "Stomach's a little queasy right now, but I appreciate the thought."
"You could stick it in the fridge? It's here to stay, anyway. You can't unfry things."
George nodded thoughtfully, as if this were a Zen koan. "What did you make?"
"Pork fried rice." Seamus peeled off a corner of the foil.
George took a deep breath as the scent filled the room. "Maybe I could have just a little."
"Hypothalamus."
"Mmrgh," grunted George, flinging an arm over his face. "That's the purple one, right?"
"Uh, the card's purple. Does that mean something?"
The plate of rice was balanced precariously on top of one of the squared-off bedposts. Seamus had only dished up a few spoonfuls, but George hadn't gotten through half of it before leaving the rest there.
"Nah. I have this toy model brain at home...somewhere...the colors match up to it. It's not important, it just helps me remember. Hypothalamus...between the thalamus and the brain stem. Responsible for...metabolic processes?"
"Right so far. You've got one more thing written here."
Seamus had his legs slung around the back of George's desk chair, where he was flipping through a stack of colored note cards. The desk boasted a laptop that was probably more powerful than the one that launched the Mars shuttle, and still it couldn't come up with any better study aid than pen and paper. There was probably a moral in there somewhere.
"Is it...autonomic nervous system?"
"Is that what ANS stands for?"
"That's the one."
Sure, Seamus had studying of his own to do, but George probably needed him more right now. Besides, Jerri had come up with hilariously dirty rhymes for every item on her study guide, which meant he had at least one class in the bag.
He flipped to the next card. "A-amygdala?"
George just groaned.
"Oh, come on, I can't have pronounced it that badly."
No answer.
"Do you, uh, want a hint?"
With a gurgle George rolled over, and Seamus finally realized what the bowl was doing on the floor.
What were you supposed to do with a sick person, anyway? Seamus remembered getting the chicken pox in second grade; that had mostly involved lying alone in the dark and itching, while upstairs his parents worked and cleaned and had people over for dinner and generally went on with their lives.
Which was a hell of a lot more sensible than bringing comfort food to someone who was only going to throw it up. What kind of idiot would—
"S-sorry about this," croaked George. "Think you could...grab me some water?"
Seamus was nearly overwhelmed with the urge to start shouting. Get it yourself! Just because you have the flu, you think I'm supposed to take care of you?
Mouth firmly closed, he snatched up a spare cup and bolted from the room.
Once he had space to breathe, it took the edge off. Still, as soon as George had his water, Seamus stammered an excuse and beat a hasty path out of there.
The rest of the class trickled out of the hall one by one.
Seamus knew he shouldn't be focusing on them, should be concentrating on the exam; but his heart wasn't in it. Besides, after working question 9 four separate times, he had gotten as many answers.
"Seamus, Seamus, Seamus," sighed Jerri's voice from behind him. "What ever are you still doing here?"
"Trying not to fail," snapped Seamus. "You think you could wait until after the time limit's up?"
"Let me see that." Before Seamus could object, Jerri had snatched the exercise book from his desk and was paging through it. "This one's right," she declared, skimming the first page before flipping it over. "So's this one. And that one. And...yep, that one too."
"Isn't this kind of unethical?" protested Seamus feebly.
"Oh, probably." The corners of Jerri's mouth sank in a tragic frown. "But what use ethics, when the heart is in such pain? Better to cut the strings quickly than to draw out our goodbyes. Exam over; you pass. Now fly, little bird! Fly away!"
"You know I'm coming back next semester, right?"
The saggy old face twitched in several unusual places. "Don't spoil my tragic farewell, here, bucko," she ordered.
"And I'm even taking the class you're TAing."
Jerri squinted at him. "Say again?"
"Education 240. I'm taking it."
It was a little hard to read Jerri's expression at this, but he was pretty sure it was supposed to be tender. "Why, you darling thing! Did you do that just for lil' ol' me?"
"Sort of. If you really want to know, it's because you're so fantastically screwed up already that I don't think I can make it any worse."
Jerri's eyes went misty. "Seamus Noblet, that is one of the nicest things anyone's ever said to me," she enthused, reaching for him. "Hugs!"
"What kind of color is green for a dress, anyway?"
The synthetic silk rustled apologetically as Seamus lifted the offending garment out of its bag.
Except for the color, the thing he had purchased at random was a fairly elegant ensemble. Sweetheart neckline, drop waist, the carefully gathered top sparkling with beads, the skirt falling in a mass of ruffles all the way to the floor. Put this thing on, and Seamus would look like the world's most gorgeous air freshener.
...as would whoever happened to wear it! Which wouldn't necessarily be him!
Trying to shrug off his irritation, Seamus laid the dress out on his freshly washed sheets and began absently running his fingers over the beads.
Moving his hands down to the skirt, he arranged the crumpled ruffles, untucking those that had gotten squished or inverted or folded in on each other. There was something soothing in the task. Meditative, almost.
After a few minutes of this, so absorbed was Seamus' attention that he forgot to notice that he was imagining George filling out the fabric. Thus it was entirely without judgment that he dismissed the picture, on the grounds that George was really more of an autumn.
Could Seamus himself pull off pastels?
Did he dare—
Seamus' thumb brushed over a loose thread, jolting him out of his reverie. Irritated once more, he left to retrieve a pair of scissors.
He could fix this, he thought, standing over the dress once more. It would be easy. Just snip the little troublemaker, and the dress would be perfect again. And it was perfect, for all the grief he was trying to give it over the minty fresh hue.
The blades sat poised at the base of the thread.
You shouldn't even be touching this! admonished Dad's voice in the back of his head.
And why the hell not? thought Seamus. It's my dress. I'll do what I want with it!
As if in a show of solidarity with him, the scissors turned against the fabric and sliced a ruffle neatly in two.
Once it had started, the rest came as effortlessly as if it had been choreographed. The scissors cut ribbons through the skirt, laying bare the carefully hidden seams and splitting lines of stitches one by one before sliding up to the waist. They chewed through the bodice, leaving a ragged line up the stomach. They crunched against beads, which went clattering against the walls and the floor like a fine hail.
At last Seamus yanked them away with a gasp.
The dress lay helplessly on the bed, looking as if it had been disemboweled.
"Seamus, if you don't open up in thirty seconds, I'm having the fire department break in."
"Don't be stupid," ordered Seamus; but he opened the door anyway, revealing a wild-eyed George with a fine dusting of snow on his coat and hair. "I'm fine. You didn't need to drive all the way out here."
"My dads can survive without me for a few hours," countered George, pushing his way in. "Seamus, you were incoherent on the phone. What happened?"
"Nothing. Doesn't matter."
"I'm not leaving until I know you're okay, so you might as well tell me what's going on."
George settled on the couch while Seamus retrieved the box and nearly threw it into his lap. On seeing the smooth green fabric, he caught his breath and started to smile, running a gentle hand over the undamaged ruffles on top of the pile. Then he found the bodice and lifted it up.
Seamus stood a few feet away, shifting from foot to foot in agitation, as the smile froze on George's face.
"I'm guessing it didn't come like this," he said shakily.
"It's not a big deal!" snapped Seamus, just a hair short of actually interrupting. "It's just a cheap synthetic anyway!"
Now George just looked confused. "Are you sure?"
"Are you kidding? Feel it!" Leaning forward, Seamus grabbed a handful and rubbed its layers against each other, the cool slickness of acetate sliding between thumb and finger, before letting it fall. "Or, hell, just look at how the light hits it. This stuff has never been near the business end of a silkworm in its life."
Frowning slightly, George turned over the fabric until he found a line of thread. "Any chance you know what kind of stitch this is?"
"Chain stitch," said Seamus without bothering to look. "I told you it was cheap. Look, aren't we getting a bit off track here? Why aren't you freaking out?"
"This isn't just about the cheap dress, is it."
"Of course it's not!" cried Seamus. "Cheap or not, it looked good, and it didn't deserve this—I didn't even mean to do it, it just sort of happened!" His voice was careening hysterically upwards; George's eyes never left his face. "And I do this all the time—I can't take care of anything—you can't trust me to take care of you!"
He broke off. George's hands, which had been easing the green dress from its box and taking in the full extent of the damage, had reached the satin underneath.
"Snuck that out of Mom's closet," Seamus panted, willing himself calmer, as George began to draw this one out too. "Real silk, obviously—it's a wreck too, but it was like that when I got it—a bunch of the threads ripped, and for some reason it's all stretched out in the stomach...."
He stopped cold.
A bulging gown. Photos that only showed from the waist up.
Why hadn't it been obvious?
"Did you know?" asked George softly.
Seamus sank to the floor, barely managing to shake his head as it bowed under the sudden weight.
He had long suspected that, if not for him, his parents would have split apart much sooner. But it had never occurred to him that he might have been the only reason they got together in the first place.
"Fuck," he breathed, voice cracking. "Shame us. No wonder."
George slid gently down from the couch and knelt before him, both dresses cradled in his arms.
"You're not unwanted," he murmured.
Easy for you to say, thought Seamus. Your parents adore you. He opened his mouth to say as much, but choked on the words.
"You are pretty screwed up, though," George added. "You're angry; you're loud; you have a destructive streak a mile wide. Your self-confidence is a crapshoot. You're plenty bright, but you can never focus long enough to make anything of it. You pretend to be all rebellious and uncaring, but you're terrified to admit the forbidden things you want most. And whenever any hint of commitment crosses your mind," here he lifted the white satin slightly, "you try to sabotage yourself rather than dealing with it. You're a mess, Seamus Noblet. But not a hopeless mess."
A sob tore itself from Seamus' throat.
"So you've made some lousy moves," George continued. "And you're going to make more, because you're a wreck, and because life dealt you a crap hand, and because you're human. Doesn't mean you have to give in to them. So you break things. It happens. Put them back together. You can do it; I know you can. I believe in you. I love you."
He scooted closer. Under a curtain of satin and lace and taffeta, their knees pressed together.
"You can start with these. I don't know the first thing about dressmaking, but you—most people can't tell apart fabrics and weaves and stitches like that, and here you go around acting like it's second nature. Either you've worked at it or you have a knack, and either way it's obviously something you care about. Fix them."
The fabrics swam in Seamus' blurred vision. He tried to gather their edges with shaking hands.
"Who knows? It might turn out to be your calling." There were tears brimming in George's voice too; but then he laughed, clear and glad. "Maybe we've had your name all wrong! It has nothing to do with you being a disappointment. It's a cry from all the torn-up dresses in the world: Seam us!"
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I flailed after I read it.
It's so good, it made me flail.
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...which is the same reaction I have to Stephen's trauma. Which Jon always helps fix. Interesting.
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Seamus was raised with Chuck's massive heap of neuroses. George was raised with all the experience Jon and Stephen gained from healing Stephen's even more massive heap of neuroses. They were practically made for each other.
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George just groaned.
"Oh, come on, I can't have pronounced it that badly."
Haha, that reminds me of my days in AP Psych. I never did learn how you pronounce it...
I just love the way you describe dresses in this fic. Fabric has never seemed so sexy!
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Dresses are hot. And thanks!
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Poor, troubled Seamus. Good thing he's in capable hands.
I was reading one of your comments up there, and you're right; they are ridiculously suited for each other. Something that struck me: is Stephen self-aware enough here to recognize the similarities he and Seamus have/had in terms of issues, should he learn about them? That idea intrigues me.
Great chapter!
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It's sort of a background theme in this particular story, because Seamus doesn't know enough about Stephen's issues to recognize the parallels. So they're slipped in as Easter eggs for the informed reader. (...hey, I'm more topical than I thought.)
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That's really awesome. Oh, Stephen. You've grown up so much! *pets him*
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*snicker*
Nice chapter!
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I did actually love George's "MAYBE MY TERRIFICALLY BAD PUNS WILL HEAL YOUR SOUL" optimism. Also I get the feeling that like 90 to 100 percent of his motivational speech was taken from his Other Dad's numerous pep talks over the years.
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And, oh yes, Other Dad raised this boy well. (Although even Dad has managed to pick up and pass on some valuable lessons over the years...)
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I will never get this sentence out of my mind. It's too wonderful. XD
Me, I just realized that every time I've been cheering for Seamus to do something in this story, it's basically been to the tune of "Hey Jude". You know, with the usual pronoun switches.
"And anytime you feel the pain, hey jude, refrain,
Dont carry the world upon your shoulders.
For well you know that its a fool who plays it cool
By making his world a little colder.
Hey jude, dont let me down.
You have found him, now go and get him.
Remember to let him into your heart,
Then you can start to make it better."
...maybe it's just me.
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<3
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This is magnificent.
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Thank you for the image of Stephen in a poofy dress, apron, peach-colored heels, and pearls. I appreciate it. =P
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THAT EXACTLY
BUT I DIDN'T WANT TO SAY BECAUSE I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE TAKING IT *~*TOO FAR
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I hope it never leaves my brain, quite frankly.
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Even real Stephen, when he and Jon roleplay as a sexually frustrated housewife and the handyman.
But that is an even more hilarious image and I cling to it. *clings!*
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Poor thing, I just want to give him a hug and tell him I love him. =( And I'm sure he'd look lovely in a dress, green or no. (I found some pretty green dresses on that site you linked, just to prove that green dresses can, in fact, look nice.)
Also, poor George. Puking is gross.
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Thanks ^_^
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(And, yeah, big BNL fan over here =D)
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Even though I know it's "shame-us", it always reads as "seam-us" in my head. :| I have that problem with "ep-i-scop-al" too. Stupid words.
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I'm getting the feeling Jerri is way better at this teaching thing than you would expect.
Jerri's eyes went misty. "Seamus Noblet, that is one of the nicest things anyone's ever said to me," she enthused, reaching for him. "Hugs!"
Besides, she is actually rather cute in her her own fucked up way.