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“Solo songs!”
Floyd winces at the outburst.
Four of the Brozone brothers - Bruce has returned to Vacay Island, understandably - are sitting around the table, lit by several lanterns hanging from the ceiling. The dirt walls of Branch’s bunker seem to press in on Floyd.
“Solo songs?”
John Dory nods excitedly. He had proposed a reunion concert, but with Bruce gone it wouldn’t have been the same. Apparently, he’s been thinking about ways around that little fact. He waves his hands around as he talks. “We’ve all been in different places for years, so we’ve probably developed different tastes in songs. I’ve written some new ones I can sing, and you guys can showcase your own new styles!”
Clay crosses his arms skeptically, sitting straight in his seat. “You won’t tell us what to sing?”
John Dory shakes his head, lifting his gloved hand to place on his heart. “I won’t.”
Clay leans back, throwing his hands up in a shrug. “Then I don’t see why not.”
Branch twists his hands together. “I don’t know if I feel comfortable singing in front of everyone.”
JD gapes. “What? But you sang before!”
“That was different! I didn’t know them, these people have been around the whole time, and they’ve seen me -” Branch cuts himself off, cheeks growing red. “-when I was different than I am now,” he finishes lamely.
Floyd sees JD poising himself to argue.
“You don’t have to,” he assures Branch swiftly. He looks at JD nervously.
The older troll frowns. His eyes flick across the room, as if he’s rearranging something in his own head. Eventually, he nods. “We can make it work. But you - ” he points at Floyd menacingly. “Have to sing!”
Floyd swallows, his face heating with anxiety. He plasters a smile on his face. “Okay.”
John claps his hands together with finality. “Great! I’ll tell Poppy, we can plan it all out…we’ll need a venue, mics -”
Floyd is no longer listening. In fact, he’s no longer seeing much either.
Before he realizes what’s happening, his head is hitting the ground.
~ ~ ~
When Floyd wakes up again, he’s no longer in Branch’s bunker. He knows this because it no longer smells like damp earth. There’s a soft surface beneath him that can only be a bed. He peeks an eye open, and is greeted by the colorfully decorated walls of John’s camper-pet thing - Rhonda.
And then John’s there. He must have been waiting for Floyd to open his eyes.
“Floyd!” John rushes over to the bed, throwing himself into a kneel. Floyd wonders if he’s scraped his knee. John reaches up to turn Floyd’s head in his hands. “Are you okay,” he asks softly.
Floyd swallows.
Is everything okay?
Always!
“Always,” he mutters, his voice catching on the word.
John pauses. Then his face splits into a smile. “Good. But. Maybe the whole concert isn’t a good idea, I mean -”
“No!” Floyd shoots up, almost cracking his head against John’s. “No, I can still sing!”
“I don’t think -”
“I can !”
John backs up, raising his hands. “Okay! Okay. But if anyone asks, it wasn’t my idea, it was yours!”
Floyd nods in agreement, pulling his feet up to sit more comfortably.
John stands, popping his back into place with a groan. “You wanna stay here or head back to your pod?”
Floyd tilts his head. “What time is it?”
“Late.”
“I’ll stay here, old man.”
John points an accusing finger at him. “Watch it.”
John shuffles around for a bit longer, pulling a sleeping bag and pillow out of a cabinet. Floyd makes as if to move off the bed, but John halts him with a hand on his head. “Quit it. I’ll sleep on the floor. “
Floyd almost argues, and then remembers how comfortable he is. He lays himself down, pulling the cover over him. He’s already half asleep when John’s voice reaches him.
“Goodnight Floyd.”
~ ~ ~
Floyd’s first concert is nerve wracking. On stage, he almost slips - it’s only Bruce’s hand steadying his shoulder that saves him, and he’s not looking forward to when John goes over the footage.
But afterwards - it’s euphoric.
His hands are shaking with adrenaline, but he survived. And it was fun, regardless of the stress.
He finds himself yearning for the next time he gets to go on stage.
And John is approaching him.
“Is everything okay?”
Floyd grins wide. Suddenly he’s very grateful that John had this idea.
“Always!”
~ ~ ~
Floyd has been relegated to making posters with Clay. He isn’t sure where Branch and John have gone off to. Even without that distraction he can’t quite focus on the posters.
He bites his lip, forcing his hand to steady as he glues a revamped version of the Brozone logo onto a poster. Clay has already neatly scripted some words onto it, but Floyd has stopped reading them after the third one.
After the fainting spell last night, John had dropped Floyd off at his pod which he shares with Clay. He’d given stern instructions for Clay to watch Floyd and call him if anything happens, which is probably the only reason Clay hasn’t demanded more responsibility from JD. He’d also, regrettably, instructed the two of them to make personalized invitations to the concert for so-called ‘VIP’s’ including Poppy, Viva, and several other royal trolls from other clans. While this is beneficial in the sense that he doesn’t have to do much -
It also keeps him just unoccupied enough for his worries to leech into his thoughts.
Finally, Clay sighs, capping the marker with a click.
“You good?”
“Always,” Floyd mutters automatically.
Clay raises an eyebrow, kicking his feet up onto the table. “What are you thinking about then?”
Floyd sighs. He taps a finger on the table. “I - I can’t sing at the concert.”
Clay stares blankly. “Okay?”
Floyd shakes his head, snatching another logo to glue. “You don’t get it…”
“You think you can’t sing ‘cause you haven’t done it in years, but you don’t want to let Johnny down.”
Floyd huffs. “You got half of it.”
Clay scrunches his face up confusedly. “Which half?”
“I don’t want to let John down. It’s just - what if Velvet and Veneer messed me up too much? I haven’t really sung since then, except for with you and Branch’s friends, but John couldn’t hear me then since everyone else was singing.”
Clay’s mouth stretches into an ‘oh.’ “And now he wants you to sing solo,” he says with gravity.
Floyd nods, turning all of his attention to the glue stick in his hands. The room is silent for a moment. Floyd fills it with reassurances, as he always does. “It’s okay. I’ll just practice. It’ll be alright.”
Clay nods. It’s clear on his face that he wants to say more. Floyd is glad he doesn’t.
He has posters to make.
~ ~ ~
Spruce’s first girlfriend spends the night with the brothers.
No one likes her.
She’s pretty, but she’s a liar. She says she was born outside of the Troll Tree, but then why would she have come here? She says she’s had other boyfriends before, but she doesn’t seem to know what to do around Spruce.
And she’s mean.
She yells at JD when he says Spruce needs someone more than her. And maybe it was mean, but Floyd finds himself agreeing.
The yelling match scares him, and so does Spruce’s glare, even if it is directed at JD.
The couple leaves, and John scoops Floyd into his arms even though Floyd is much too old for that now.
“You okay?”
Floyd grins because he doesn’t know what else to do, and hugs John’s neck. “Always.”
~ ~ ~
Floyd has dedicated himself to practicing his songs, locked away in his younger brother's bunker where only Branch can control the flow of incoming people.
Of course, this means Branch can hear him singing. That doesn’t sting so much, aside from the slight twinge of embarrassment that his younger brother should hear him this way.
He chose five slow songs with just enough range to seem impressive. Even then, his voice is different somehow.
It’s just not -
His.
He has no illusions. He knows even if somehow there still was a little talent missing from when it had been stolen, he still has a singing voice on par with the best.
He sighs, letting his head rest against his chest. Branch begins clapping from his seat at the dining table, until he realizes that Floyd isn’t responding with enthusiasm. Or - responding at all.
“Um. Good job?”
Floyd lowers himself into a dining chair. He doesn’t like the sharp angles of it. “No. It wasn’t quite right. But thank you.”
Branch tilts his head, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Really? It sounded just like the old recordings.”
Floyd shakes his head. “Even if you can’t tell the difference, or Clay can’t, I can.”
And John can.
And that’s the main issue, isn’t it?
Branch crosses his arms. He leans back in his chair, appraising his older brother. Floyd doesn’t like the look he’s giving him.
“Isn’t the whole point of this concert to embrace how we’ve all changed?”
Floyd smiles. Of course that would be Branch's interpretation of things.
“That’s what John said but.” Floyd shrugs, leaving the other half of the sentence open to interpretation.
But he didn’t mean it?
But it was just a compromise and holds no actual value?
…
But it doesn’t apply to Floyd.
Is everything alright?
Always.
Branch gives Floyd a sour look. “You people are insufferable,” he says flatly.
Floyd laughs because he doesn’t know what else to do.
~ ~ ~
No one says their parents were eaten by Bergens.
It’s still pretty clear.
Floyd grips the baby in his arms with more strength than necessary - Branch whines with discomfort. Grandma Rosiepuff pries him away. Floyd is angry at her for that, but he doesn’t think yelling at her would be very nice.
She’s grieving too.
Clay tries to tell jokes to lighten the mood. They all fall flat - none of them are funny, no matter how hard he tries to live up the ‘funny’ title. Spruce has isolated himself - Floyd hasn’t seen him in days. He hasn’t even shown up to the funeral.
He kind of understands. Even here, some persistent trolls are asking after the ‘heartthrob.’
Suddenly, John’s gentle hand draws Floyd out of his thoughts. His smile is soft, and sad, and there’s a weight there that Floyd will never understand.
“Are you alright?”
Floyd nods, holding his tears back. “Always,” he whispers.
John pulls him in for a hug.
“That’s what I’m counting on.”
~ ~ ~
Floyd can hear JD’s singing behind the curtains. His voice is still as great as always, his new songs better than ever. Floyd has no doubt that Clay will also shine on stage, better than ever before.
It’s nothing like the last concert. The feeling of waiting behind the curtains is the same though. The only reprieve from this thought is that Bruce and Branch aren’t backstage with them, so it can’t be the same.
It’s worse.
Not only has Bruce brought his entire family to the concert, but every one of their handwritten invitations has been received and followed up on. Queen Barb of the rock trolls, King Trollex, King Quincy and Queen Essence and Prince D, and every other troll clan leader. This is no longer just a fun concert, it’s a chance to show them how good pop can be. And knowing what happened while he was locked up in his diamond prison, Floyd has the feeling this could be really important.
The stakes have risen.
But still, the most important thing -
Is impressing John Dory.
“You don’t have to do this,” Clay says from his position by the mirror, adjusting the sparkly green tie on his suit. “John and I can sing.”
Floyd breathes heavily. He swipes his hands across his outfit, drying them. “I want to,” he says and it’s not convincing at all.
Clay crosses the room, gripping Floyd’s shoulders. “Floyd. Look me in the eyes and tell me you want to do this.”
Floyd looks down at himself. His loose black and pink shirt feels inexplicably too tight around his chest. The dangly belt around his waist irritates him. It’s his style, he chose the outfit, but he can’t help thinking about what the crowd (John) will think about it.
Floyd draws his eyes up to Clay’s.
“I want to make John proud.”
Clay looks disappointed. His hands drop back to his sides.
Floyd’s heart stutters.
John exits the stage with the deafening sound of applause following him. His face is rosy with excitement, and his grin momentarily chases Floyd’s anxiety away. It returns tenfold when he hears the chanting of his name from the crowd.
Floyd!
He swallows thickly as John pushes him toward the curtain.
Floyd!
John’s voice doesn’t reach him over the pounding in his ears.
Floyd!
He takes a step, hand reaching out to brush the curtain away -
And loses his balance. His vision goes black, and his head hits the hard ground.
Not again.
~ ~ ~
Floyd wakes abruptly, a feeling of dread freezing his body in place even as he yearns to shoot up and find his brothers.
Bruce is already there though, and so are Clay and Branch, but the one brother that Floyd had been painstakingly worrying over is not.
“I disappointed him,” he breathes.
Bruce shakes his head adamantly.
“I was supposed to sing.”
Branch crosses his arms, looking angry at something. “Who cares?”
Clay, who has a hand on Branch’s shoulder in silent comfort, explains. “No one saw you fall. We just told the crowd the truth. That you fell sick and couldn’t go on. I sang my songs, and then John and I sang a couple duets, and everyone was happy.”
Floyd isn’t comforted by this.
“Queen Barb asked after you. She wanted to know if you were okay.”
“Really?”
Bruce nods. “Poppy too. She was in here a minute ago.”
“I need to talk to John.”
His brothers exchange wordless glances amongst themselves. Floyd can read all of them. They’re skeptical about letting Floyd talk to John.
He must be disappointed.
Branch ends up making the decision. “We’ll send him in.”
The three file out.
Floyd was so stupid.
He should have known he wouldn’t be able to do it. He just thought it would be the singing part he’d mess up at, not entering the stage.
He lays on the bed, throwing an arm over his eyes. He isn’t sure he’ll be able to meet John’s eyes.
His oldest brother enters the room.
“Floyd,” he says breathlessly.
The bed dips and Floyd knows John has sat next to him. He pries Floyd’s arm from his eyes.
“I’m beginning to think this is my fault.”
Floyd’s eyes widen. That isn’t what he expected him to say, and suddenly he feels the need to explain himself.
“It’s mine. I wanted to prove that I - that I’m still the same. I know you don’t like that we’ve all changed, and I didn’t want to disappoint you, but my voice is just…I was scared, I couldn’t go on stage, I - I’m sorry!”
John throws his face into his hands. “No,” he groans. “Floyd? You - you have to know I’m not disappointed.”
“Really?”
John takes a deep breath. “I don’t like change. It makes me feel like I’ve been left behind. But I’ve had time to think about this, and. I want to know my brothers how they truly are.” He looks at Floyd with gravity. “You’ve always been constant, and that’s been great for me. But it was a lot of pressure on you and that wasn’t fair.”
Floyd feels his throat closing with emotion.
“You don’t have to be okay. You’ve been through alot and a concert is not as important as you are. You don’t always have to be okay. I didn’t think I’d ever have to tell you that.” He pauses. “You understand?”
Floyd nods. His throat aches with the effort of keeping his tears down.
John pulls Floyd into a hug. “I’m proud of you all. I’m so proud of you Floyd.”
And that’s when the tears fall. He sobs silently, clinging to his brother like a lifeline.
“I’m sorry,” John says.
“I was never mad at you,” Floyd answers easily, choking on his sobs.
John pulls back so Floyd can see his smile. “For the record, I still want to hear you sing. I want to know what your favorite songs are.”
Floyd pulls back, sniffing. “I want to show you.”
John rubs Floyd’s back comfortingly. “Are you alright?”
Floyd smiles.
“I will be.”