RP: Slack
Characters: Seamus Finnigan, anyone else?
Location: Diagon Alley.
Date: May 4th, 2000
Status: Open.
Summary: Lazy days with Mr S. Finnigan.
Completion: Incomplete.
Seamus did not go to work on Monday the 4th.
In fact, he walked straight past the Junk Shop, hunching slightly in an effort to 'hide' behind the taller man next to him. The day was bright and at ten he was up earlier than he would have been; though he'd never rise before twelve for anything but money or girls or a combination thereof, Sea was up now, and he was determined to have a good day. (Especially when it was at the expense of an uncharacteristically pristine attendance record.)
First, to a park, where he played football with a bunch of gangly teenagers from one state school or another. Verily Sea destroyed them all with his footwork, and ran away to the swells of an invisible orchestra of triumph.
Second, someone forgot a box of sour candy on a bench near the edge of the green; discounting any regard for cleanliness or safety, you can fill in what happened next. Seamus was still wincing over his sugar-raw tongue when his eyes fell on a frozen custard stand, and it was with delicious treat in hand that he finally returned to the alley.
...Which was busier than he thought, for it being morning and all. He had always had the vague idea that some people liked to get on with their day before noon -- after all, a handful of them showed up in the Shop and roused him from dozing at the register. But he'd never really known just how many of them there were. Perhaps this was a vital part to being an adult that Seamus hadn't realised: actually having enough to do that you couldn't always stay out at night and scrape it all together in half an hour. (Feeding oneself properly was possibly a portion of this.) Apparently people had real responsibilities when they lived in the real world, or contributed to society, or something like that. No wonder mum was so frustrated. He hadn't really applied himself at all yet.
Sea considered this for a moment, shrugged, and carried on with the custard.
No regrets.
Location: Diagon Alley.
Date: May 4th, 2000
Status: Open.
Summary: Lazy days with Mr S. Finnigan.
Completion: Incomplete.
Seamus did not go to work on Monday the 4th.
In fact, he walked straight past the Junk Shop, hunching slightly in an effort to 'hide' behind the taller man next to him. The day was bright and at ten he was up earlier than he would have been; though he'd never rise before twelve for anything but money or girls or a combination thereof, Sea was up now, and he was determined to have a good day. (Especially when it was at the expense of an uncharacteristically pristine attendance record.)
First, to a park, where he played football with a bunch of gangly teenagers from one state school or another. Verily Sea destroyed them all with his footwork, and ran away to the swells of an invisible orchestra of triumph.
Second, someone forgot a box of sour candy on a bench near the edge of the green; discounting any regard for cleanliness or safety, you can fill in what happened next. Seamus was still wincing over his sugar-raw tongue when his eyes fell on a frozen custard stand, and it was with delicious treat in hand that he finally returned to the alley.
...Which was busier than he thought, for it being morning and all. He had always had the vague idea that some people liked to get on with their day before noon -- after all, a handful of them showed up in the Shop and roused him from dozing at the register. But he'd never really known just how many of them there were. Perhaps this was a vital part to being an adult that Seamus hadn't realised: actually having enough to do that you couldn't always stay out at night and scrape it all together in half an hour. (Feeding oneself properly was possibly a portion of this.) Apparently people had real responsibilities when they lived in the real world, or contributed to society, or something like that. No wonder mum was so frustrated. He hadn't really applied himself at all yet.
Sea considered this for a moment, shrugged, and carried on with the custard.
No regrets.