Disclaimer: I do not own Little Shop of Horrors or any of it's characters

Part One

Seymour was almost positive he was lost at this point. As he walked down the dirty Skid Row street in his too big sneakers, he took in his surroundings. There was the wine-o he saw passed out 10 minutes ago. Did he do a lap? Which way now?

Living at the Skid Row home for boys, leaving wasn't technically not allowed, but it was frowned upon. He knew tons of boys who walked out. Sometimes they came back a week or so later. Sometimes they were wearing new shoes flashing new baseball cards. Sometimes they reeked of cigarettes. Sometimes they had a broken jaw or a black eye. Sometimes they just didn't come back. Seymour didn't even really have a reason for taking off today of all days. He wasn't fed up with anything in particular. Sure he was being bullied, but he had been all his life, and it wasn't anything new. Today was no different. His stomach growled. He thought of his lunch being snatched away today by one of the older boys laughing "TOO SLOW KRELBORN!" Not that any grown ups would help. Though as he was walking down the damp street, his feet sliding in and out of his sneakers with each step, he prayed they would. Would anyone come looking for him? Or even notice he was gone?

He stopped in his tracks when he realized one of his shoes had come off. Bending down he retrieved the crumpled newspapers that had fallen out, and stuffed them back inside tying the laces as tight as he was able. He stood back up and brushed off his pants. Where was he? Some kind of shopping district?

He looked up at the big glass window he was standing in front of. "Mushnik's Flower Shop" was painted in big letters. He pressed his face up to the dirty window and tried to make out what was inside. Plants! He loved plants. All kinds. He thought back to the pressed flowers and dead leafs collection he had under his mattress. Seymour often found himself saving leafs, admiring each and every vein before tucking it away for safekeeping. He had even tried to teach another boy the different parts of the flower once, when he had reached out and ate the top off. That was the last time he had tried that. Though he had never seen flowers these colors before. Bright yellow, soft lavender, sea blue. The window was too dirty though.

He opened the store door and heard a jingle above him. He glanced up at the bell on top of the door and smiled. The store was not much cleaner on the inside, though it appeared to have no one working. Seymour turned back to the window display and smiled at the flowers. He pressed his face against the lavender and inhaled its sweet perfume. Unlike any of the smells he was used to. He admired each flower in the display, touching their pedals and stroking their leafs. When he had smelled each of them at least once he turned around to looked at the rest of the flowers in the store. A certain rose arrangement caught his eye. It sat proudly on the counter in a beautiful faux crystal vase nearly radiating its deep red. Seymour was drawn to it. Wide eyed, he walked up to the counter and picked it up. He held it at eye level admiring both the roses and the vase. He had to have one. Just one, to take back to the home with him. He would hide it under his mattress or between the pages of a book and nobody would know. Surely whoever owned this store wouldn't miss just one rose. He reached into the arrangement and tried to grab the big plump one in the middle.

"OUCH!" he screamed as he felt a prick.

Thorns. He had forgotten about the thorns. In his surprise the vase slipped through his grasp, and he saw it shatter at his feet with a loud crash. The red roses sprayed out along the linoleum like drops of blood. He froze. He heard a rumble from the back and braced himself.

A portly man with a bushy mustache appeared through a swinging door. He saw a boy standing by the counter, a look of pure terror on the child's face and blood dripping from his finger. The man looked down at the child's feet where his precious vase was shattered in pieces everywhere. He turned a great purple.

"What do you think you are doing?!" He shouted.

Seymour didn't say anything. He didn't even move.

"My arrangement! How do you intend to pay for this?!"

Seymour looked down at his feet then back at the man, the look of terror still frozen on his face unmoving.

"Do you have any idea how much this cost me?!"

He moved forward towards him. Seymour flinched, thinking he was going to be struck. He shielded his arms across his face and lowered his head. The man saw this and stopped. He looked down at his feet where his shoes were crunching the shards.

"So?" he asked.

Seymour lowered his arms slightly and looked up at his face.

"How. Do. You. Intend. To. Pay. For. This?" he asked, stretching out each word.

Seymour moved his arms to his sides completely and stood up straight.

"I don't have any money sir."

"That's what I thought," he responded. "Ah great, that's just great," he said pacing back and forth.

The man turned his back on Seymour and rubbed his mustache thinking. Of course this kid had to come into HIS store. He looked at the floor, covered in shards, pedals, and also weeks worth of dirt. He looked up at the displays of vases and pots which had started to collect dust. He looked at the window in desperate need of being cleaned. He looked over his shoulder at Seymour who hadn't moved. Very slowly he pushed past the swinging door and returned with a broom. Seymour flinched again, assuming he was going to use it to strike him.

"Sweep," he was ordered, as the man held out the broom.

Hesitating Seymour took the broom and looked down at his mess. Slowly he started to sweep the shards, then the pedals. He looked up and saw the man watching him intently. He lowered his head and continued to sweep. When his mess was cleaned up he didn't stop there. He swept under the counter and pulled out a mess of dried brown flower pedals. He swept around the displays getting every speck of dirt and flecks of glitter. He swept in every corner and every crevice. He found himself getting slightly agitated noticing how the floor never truly looked clean, no matter how many times he brushed. After he had done as well as he was able to he was handed a dustpan and swept up his piles. The man nodded towards a garbage can behind the counter and Seymour dumped the mess.

"What's your name kid?"

"S… Seymour Krelborn… sir."

"You may call me Mr. Mushnik."

Seymour stood still for a second before he smirked nervously and held out his hand. Startled, Mr. Mushnik grabbed it and shook it. Mr. Mushnik's hand was much larger, it nearly swallowed Seymour's hand.

Mr. Mushnik looked at this kid. He couldn't be very old. He was too small. Maybe six? He looked very dirty, though he couldn't have accumulated all that dirt from sweeping the floor. It must have been from before. His hair was a mess of brown curls in desperate need of being cut under a navy blue baseball cap. His cheeks slightly indented, his smile crooked. He was also wearing a pair of glasses, though there was no way these belonged to him. They were much too big for his face and were held together by a piece of tape on the bridge of the nose and on one of the hinges. It was almost as if these glasses were used by an adult, tossed aside, then fished out of the garbage by a child in desperate need of them. And that's exactly what had happened.

"Well," said Mushnik clearing his throat, "Are your parents going to come find you soon? Could they pay for the vase?"

Seymour frowned and shook his head.

"Hmph. Well Krelborn, my usual employee is M.I.A. today," he glanced back at the clock, just before 3:00, "so you have three hours to make up for the vase."

"What do I have to do sir?" he asked as he began to wring his hands.

He motioned his index finger at the front display window and fished out a rag from behind the counter.

"Go clean that window off for me."

"Yes sir," he answered taking it.

Mushnik raised his eyebrows. Yes sir? No sir? Who was this kid?

Seymour started by cleaning the inside of the window. He climbed up on the ledge and started to wipe. He looked at the reflection of the skinny boy in glasses and smiled a toothy grin back at it. He had the same issue with the window as he did with the floor, it was never really clean. When he was satisfied with the inside he went out the door and started to wipe the outside. Mushnik watched him. He could run, he thought. He was already outside the shop. No boy would stay and work the extra hours when he could take off running. Obviously a child could outrun him, and find somewhere to hide behind a dumpster or something, never to be found by ol' Mushnik. However, Mushnik shook his head of this thought. He knew, somehow, that Seymour wouldn't run.

When Seymour finished the window he came back in, the bell tinkling above him, and a smile of satisfaction on his face. Mushnik walked into the back room and came back holding a toilet brush.

"I want you to think about how generous I am being," he said as he held it out to him like a sword.

He expected him to cringe, or at least groan. But he just took it. He cleaned toilets all the time at the home, no big deal. It was one of his chores but it was something for a kid who lacked friends to do. He pushed through the swinging door and through another door he presumed to be the bathroom. The toilet didn't look as if it had been cleaned any time recently and he sighed before he got on his knees.

When he was finished he pushed back through the swinging door. Mushnik thought for a minute before retrieving a watering can. Seymour's face lit up at the sight of it. "Really?" his expression asked. This didn't bother him at all. He loved to water plants! Raising his eyebrows he handed the can over to Seymour who quickly scurried away with it. He came back nearly 10 seconds later for a refill, the smile still plastered on his face. Mushnik showed him where to refill it and off he went again.

"How old are you Krelborn?" Mushnik asked as he watched him watering a giant pot on the floor by the door.

"Nine, sir."

Nine? This child was tiny! He seemed incredibly skinny in his clothes that were much too big for him. Maybe he was malnourished?

There weren't any customers but Mr. Mushnik never seemed to run out of work for him. Seymour just kept buzzing through them though. It was when he was rearranging the flowers in the front window that he noticed a familiar shape outside.

"Mr. Dean!" He shouted as he knocked his knuckles on the window, "Mr. Dean!"

He looked back at Mr. Mushnik, his face lit up with hope. Someone he knew! Someone to take him home! Mushnik glanced at the clock, 5:55. Close enough.

Mushnik cleared his throat, "alright then. That's three hours of work, consider it payed for."

Seymour slid of the window ledge and ran over to Mushnik, hugging his legs tightly.

"Thank you sir, thank you," he whispered then sprinted out the door.

Mushnik rubbed his palm on his forehead and tried to hide his smile. That was not the reaction he was expecting to get after all the work he had done. He walked over to the window and watched him running up to a man. Seymour stopped at his feet and looked up at him. Mr. Dean turned to face him, clearly surprised and shouted something. Seymour reached his arms up as if to hug him but instead the man lifted his arm and slapped him clean across the face. Mr. Mushnik couldn't hear what he was saying but he was shouting and waving his finger in Seymour's face. Seymour buried his face in his hands and shook as if he was crying. The man grabbed Seymour's wrist and pulled him with him, heading in the opposite direction of the shop. Seymour hung his head but didn't put up a fight. Mushnik watched until they were out of sight. Who is this kid? he wondered one last time.