RP: Weekend

[pb_sam]

Characters: Sam Kennerly, Seamus Finnegan
Location: St. Mungo's
Date: August 14, 2000
Status/Warning: Closed/None
Summary; Sam pays a somewhat recovered Sea a visit.
Completion: Incomplete

Comments

[pb_seamus]

It wasn't that Sea was a stranger to pain, or fear --

It was only that these things came much later than what caused them, and by the time he realised what sort of pain he was in they'd already admitted him, and numbed him up. He was already asleep, only sleeping, sort of like the song; and that was how it'd been for days. Sea couldn't remember how many of them there had been, even: he only vaguely remembered the date of the attack, and from then on everything had been a kind of painless blurring dream. It was as if the lack of blood had continued, as if he'd never know better than the daze they'd settled on him like a blanket. But whose fault was it really? The healers, or his own?

Neville's owl was his first contact with the world in days. He'd had the clarity to reply, because a part of Sea was still living in a world where going out was possible; the rest of him was embittered, tired, and he hadn't even been able to tell his friend he was all right. He hadn't even been able to see Hannah. He hadn't had the heart. And his

[pb_sam]

Sam didn't flinch at what he knew was probably the smallest outburst Sea had managed yet. He only nodded--stupid question--but what else was he used to say

[pb_seamus]

"Tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after" said Seamus, waving away the question with a snort. "I don't feckin' care. Not like I'll ever get away from these bastards, that I tell you straight."

He gestured to the pamphlet, which had been read many a time; not that any of it made so much sense to him in the end. He didn't like being registered, but mum hadn't given him a choice, and his wounds had kept in Mungo's long enough for them to catch him properly. He'd even signed the papers, but then it was anyone's guess if he'd really known what he was doing.

"See that rag? Feckin' wipe my arse with that shite. Wish I could feckin' eat it for breakfast, can just picture the eejit what wrote it, blast him. These feckers don't know nothing what it's like."

Because lycanthropy felt like something, all right, but never what they said.

But he grinned at the present, turning it over in his hands. Giving Sam a sharp look, he began opening the scroll. "What's this?"

[pb_sam]

"An experiment." Sam replied, waiting for it to properly unroll--it was a watercolor, because buried at the bottom of what Ingrid and Rosemary had given him was an unbelievably expensive paint set and brushes. On the scroll was Sea, body contorted in what the boy usually called dancing--the colors were wavering and bright, and he'd even titled it 'Improv to Earth, Wind and Fire.' "It's the collar that was in bad taste, really. Took a few days, er, what do you think?" Most had been from memory and doodles done at the shop