#krelbxrn

    “I understand, runnin’ a flower shop can take a lot outta ya… Runnin’ errands, checkin’ inventory, Mr. Mushnik’s wrath…” He shuddered when he mentioned their boss. “Stressful stuff. Sometimes you hardly get a moment to yourself.”     Seymour grinned back at her, his smile masking concern for his friend’s state of being. Her black eye – while covered by makeup, yet still slightly visible – concerned him; it made him wonder just what went on with her and her “boyfriend”, and whether or not he should intervene. He sighed. (Why intervene in something you shouldn’t take part in, after all? What happens behind closed doors shouldn’t be his business, after all. It’d be rude to intrude.)     “Ah, who am I kidding? I just wanted to check on you, that’s all.” Seymour said shyly, adjusting his ever crooked glasses. “You seemed lonesome, a-and I figured that you’d like some company…” Of course, it seemed awkward to come up from the basement – living quarters – and ask for a hug, but Seymour wasn’t very good with words in the first place. He’d figured that maybe, just maybe, a hug would work best.

“Oh, well... I would, um, I would like that company!” Audrey means it, and yet she’s trying too hard, she knows, to smile — to look like nothing’s wrong. Seymour isn’t stupid. He’s bound to see through the act —Audrey certainly doesn’t think she’ll be winning any awards for her performance — but she relies on his sheer kindness to keep him from saying as much. 

She hated the idea of this sort of play-acting. It was what she invariably ended up doing each night in The Gutter, smiling to hide  s u f f e r i n g . To let even the thought of an association between her two lives into this shop... It made her heart twist. Lying to Seymour felt especially uncomfortable, as Audrey had the notion Seymour was an open book, himself, and that he would never be so deceptive with her. He’s better than me, she thought in dismay. 

platonic/friendship starters ( @krelbxrn )

PANIC is the first reaction. She’d thought he’d been downstairs with the plants, and stupidly let herself have what she’d imagined was a private moment of exhaustion — of that Skid Row brand misery. When Seymour’s voice reaches her she’s leaning over the counter, elbows on its surface and head in her hands, but soon SPRINGS back up, turning in agitation to look at him reassuringly and to hide her face, back and forth, unsure which is the appropriate dismissal of this worry and this offer. (Because what’s that almost sickening flutter at the thought of Seymour’s arms around her? NOT GOOD, that’s what it is!)