Archive of Our Own

Growing up, Floyd was always the moodiest. Sometimes John Dory thinks he was predestined to be the sensitive one. Still though, he doesn’t think anything could’ve prepared him for the responsibility of raising four little brothers. 

Most days, he felt stretched thin, like he was being pulled in a hundred different directions. He was their rock, their anchor—the one who held it all together. Showing up to school performances, cheering at games, being the shoulder they leaned on when things went wrong. His days started early, the weight of his family on his shoulders before he’d even had his coffee, and they didn’t end until he was stumbling into bed, practically tripping over his own feet from exhaustion.

It was a silent understanding pretty early on that Floyd was a little …different. He was sensible in a way that most young boys weren’t, softer around the edges. He wasn’t as rowdy as Clay, and he didn’t have Spruce’s broad-shouldered masculinity. There was a gentleness in the way he moved, a confidence in the way he made himself up.

There was a certain allure to Floyd. It’s immediately noticeable in any space he occupies; a unique magnetism in him that seemed to effortlessly draw people in. John Dory would watch him sometimes, secretly, struck by this quiet charm his little brother carried—those little moments when he’d catch Floyd by the mirror, tracing eyeliner along his lashes, his lips pressed into a line of concentration. He looked… delicate, yet powerful in his own way. Floyd would brush past him afterward, faint scents of product and perfume lingering, and John Dory would feel an inexplicable tightness in his chest.

He tried to dismiss it as pride, a brotherly admiration. But maybe it’s his own fault for stealing so many glances, because now, he felt something unmistakably deeper—a pang of yearning he felt dirty for having.

When Floyd would style his hair, those rose-tinted swoops that framed his face, John Dory found it hard to look away. He felt himself searching for glimpses of him on stage, his eyes instinctively drawn to the sight of Floyd, his grace, his brightness—all a sight for his sore eyes. And when Floyd would catch his gaze (really, it was inevitable that he did,) his heart would skip. Stupid . It was ridiculous. John Dory was old enough, almost too old to know that this wasn’t a normal way to feel about his own brother.

But no matter how hard he tried to shake it, the feeling only seemed to linger, a quiet ache nestled somewhere he couldn’t reach.

~

Floyd started throwing himself into movements that celebrated differences. He stood for peace, unity, and acceptance. This was in complete contradiction to the time when John Dory had been called to the school’s front office, where Floyd sat curled up with a bloodied nose beside another boy. He was silent, and waves of anger radiated off of him and his eyes were downcast, glossy with tears. The principal had given young John Dory a lecture on disciplinary measures he could take to straighten out his little brother; prevent future incidents, help maintain the integrity of the school and other patriotic junk.

They’d been walking home for some time, and Floyd hadn’t said a thing. Any of the brothers could attest to Floyd being the designated pacifist of the bunch. Their brother didn’t get into fights. Which played right into that exact point, given that the kid in detention with Floyd appeared completely unscathed.

John Dory fixed him up. Wiped away the blood, applied the salve, brushing back Floyd’s hair and tilting his face up with gentle, steady hands. Every touch softens him, makes him more pliant until he’s like putty in his hands. He’s more despondent than angry when he finally mutters something. Something that made John Dory do a double take.

(He’d been called a nasty word, one that started with the same letter as his own name.)

(Suddenly, the principal’s insistence that he ‘straightened him out’ made too much sense.)

Their reputation started to fray at the edges—the glitter and glam they’d built around Brozone tarnishing as Floyd’s personal lifestyle drew controversy. It wasn’t long before every performance was shadowed by protestors and furious crowds, waving signs, shouting, condemning Floyd’s ‘unnatural ideals’ and the ‘rebellious influence’ he’d had on the younger populations. It was relentless, this pressure that seemed to close in on them, and John, in stolen glances, could see the toll it was taking on Floyd.

And though the whole band closed ranks around Floyd, each of his brothers doing their best to make him feel safe, no one stayed up as late as John Dory, waiting for him to come home from rallies or meetings. He’d sit there, the hours stretching on, his heart tight with worry he couldn’t quite put into words. He’d hear Floyd’s footsteps eventually, dragging with exhaustion, or maybe frustration, but he’d always come home. And every time he did, John felt a little weight lift, even if only for the night.

It was during those years that a certain tension clutched the group. Floyd became more distant, pulling back into himself as the world outside grew louder, harsher. He still played his part, still showed up for their shows and kept the music going, but there was an undeniable sadness to him now. A heaviness that made him seem older than his years.

John watched it all with a quiet anguish, feeling his own helplessness more acutely with every passing day. He wanted to shield Floyd from the ugliness, to take on the burden himself if he could. But no matter how many nights he sat up waiting, or how many reassurances he offered, he couldn’t give Floyd the peace he seemed to need.

~

It was only in the quiet moments, the in-betweens of their chaotic lives, that Floyd felt the most at peace. After hours spent trying to calm Branch’s cries, he and his brothers had finally succeeded in lulling him to sleep. Floyd could feel the tension melt away as the baby’s soft breathing became the only sound in the room. None of them moved, barely even breathed, because any noise could wake up their baby brother, and none of them were willing to risk it—not after hours of rocking, shushing, and lullabies.

They were all bundled up together, a messy pile of warmth and exhaustion, but at the center of it all was John Dory. His arms encircled Branch like it was the only place in the world that mattered. Floyd found himself staring, feeling something unnameable tighten in his chest as he watched John’s careful, protective embrace.

There was admiration there—of course there was. John Dory had stepped into a role that no one else could fill. He’d given himself up, it seemed, to hold the family together. In those moments, Floyd felt like he was part of something much bigger, tethered to his brothers in a way he didn’t fully understand. But his gaze lingered on John, and Floyd knew enough to discern that what he was feeling wasn’t natural.

When John had taught all of his brothers some basic survival skills, Floyd knew that the flutter in his belly and heat crawling down his neck was not a normal feeling to get. Not while his older brother was pressed up behind him, hands on his, innocently showing him how to reel in a grappling line. 

Nor were the times when a girl would be a little too touchy with him, he’d show a little too much interest in her, and Clay and Bruce would be poking and prodding at Floyd for the rest of the day, trying to figure out the source of his moodiness.

But now, Floyd’s eyes drifted over John’s face, softened by the pull of sleep, his guard down in a way it rarely was. John wasn’t peaceful— Floyd doubted he ever really was —but there was something close to it here. His shoulders, usually tense with responsibility, had loosened; his expression was quiet, almost serene. Floyd could see the faint lines of worry etched into John’s skin, a testament to the weight he carried as their big brother and the leader of their band. 

But there was something …beautiful to him in that vulnerability. 

(Something that tugged at Floyd in ways he knew were better kept a secret.)

~

John Dory doesn’t like to be left alone with his thoughts. They get to be loud with all the insecurities he’d never even admit to having at all. He’s got an image to uphold, a standard he’s set for himself that keeps him upright, solid, the brother his siblings can look up to. When you’re in a position like that, you start to believe that anything less than perfection will shatter the foundation you’ve built. It gives him a reason to believe that he deserves any of it in the first place, despite the secret feelings he suppresses every single day. But he’s mastered the art of denial now; he’s taken responsibility for himself like a big brother should, never letting his baggage fall on his brothers. The ones whose duty it was for him to protect. 

What he’ll never acknowledge though, is that the more he pushes it down, the stronger the feeling gets. (Read: the harder Floyd retaliates.)

The roar of the crowd helps. Cheering his name, screaming their adoration. And that was enough of a distraction for him. The pride makes him feel like he’s glowing, like he’d been doused in a bucket of glitter. His brothers surround him, and they have their own looks of admiration for him, even if backstage, they complain that he’s pushing them too hard. He’d give more; make them prouder. He’s obsessed with the validation he gets from pushing himself to be better. He’d work harder, longer hours. Because then, he wouldn’t have to hear his mind race. He wouldn’t have the time to focus on one thing, like the bitterness rising in his throat when Floyd would dance with a new stranger, flashing that coy smile and letting them pull him closer at every party they got invited to. 

He wouldn’t have to be pulled in by the boy’s beguiling magnetism, the one that dragged everyone in. Which, sure, right? It’s fine, whatever. But John’s pretty sure there’s supposed to be some sort of fine-print granting his family members an immunity to it.

(Or maybe there was, but somehow, John was the unfortunate soul who’d slipped through the cracks.)

He wouldn’t have to look at him, his little brother, and he wouldn’t have to wish he was someone else— anyone else— and he could pull Floyd out of those parties, away from the strangers who get to bask in his attention, and take him somewhere where it’s just the two of them. Somewhere he wouldn’t have to constantly battle himself, wouldn’t have to pretend that the feelings running rampant inside him are anything other than what they are.

Now John Dory is forced to stay at his stupid booth, eating his stupid chip dip with Clay fast asleep on his shoulder. And he’s supposed to do nothing about the way Floyd looked at him, in the dim lighting, standing on the other side of a line he just couldn’t bring himself to cross.

(Like a big brother should.)

John Dory’s older than him, in his twenties, yet one would think it were the other way around with how Floyd had him under his thumb. The other brothers think it’s just eldest-versus-second youngest rivalry—Floyd’s defiance and John Dory’s overly controlling attitude—but there’s something a lot more complicated going on. Something that nobody could quite grasp. 

And Floyd had taunted him with it everyday; with what he wasn’t daring enough to chase. He was subtle about it though, the way only the youngest could get away with. Brushing past him in a way that their bodies touched. Broody stares that he’d avert when John looked in his direction. How his gaze always seemed to drift in John’s direction during performances when he was singing some of the more heated lyrics.

Not to mention his uncharacteristic and sometimes outrageous acts of rebellion against him, running off to after parties and hanging out backstage with (much older) show biz folk who visibly— the way they were eyeing him up —didn’t have his little brother’s best interest at heart. The way Floyd was draped across the venue’s expensive looking loveseat was a sight that had John questioning if he was really awake.

He looked lascivious and warm against the velveteen plush, his soft legs hooked over the chair arm. There was a frustrating, distracting heaviness in his violet honeyglazed stare. (Maybe they should’ve called him the Pretty One instead…)

John could tell he’d been here for a while, and what he’d walked in on most definitely was not his first round of intoxications. He’d muttered something unintelligibly about needing to leave, but Floyd had just chuckled at him.

“Lighten up, John Dory. It’s fine.” Floyd took a long drag of the small flaming thing between his fingers, then blew a puff of smoke into his face, a dim glint of delight in his eye when his big brother started to cough.

Floyd’s new friends did nothing to hide their smiles and snorts. Floyd felt something tighten in his chest, part guilt, part gross satisfaction at his brother being humiliated. It felt good taking back some of the power. The only thing Floyd had ever wanted was John Dory’s attention, and now that he calls himself “making things easier” by ignoring him all the time, Floyd loved the cheap thrills he was able to reap from acting out. Especially if it meant that for once, John Dory would look him in the eye without immediately blinking away.

But this time, his sworn protector had put his foot down. The two of them stumbled out of the backstage club and into the night, the sharp chill cutting into the anger simmering in John Dory’s chest. He kept his grip firm on Floyd’s wrist, ignoring the younger man’s attempts to pull away. Floyd’s shoulders were set, jaw clenched, his face contorted in that stubborn glare that he always wore when he felt backed into a corner. That glare, once innocent and pouty when they were kids, now held a challenging edge, an intensity that made John’s resolve waver for a brief second before he hardened himself again.

John Dory was furious, “Those guys aren’t your friends, Floyd. Trust me. They just wanna get in your pants, just to say they did—and spread more crap about you in the tabloids, alright?”

“Let go of me,” Floyd snapped, wrenching his arm free, eyes narrowed. His pupils were dilated from the smoke, and his cheeks were flushed—whether from the thrill of rebellion or the anger bubbling between them, John couldn’t tell. “You don’t get to decide who my friends are. I’m not a kid anymore.”

“No, you’re not, ” John shot back, voice low but no less intense and massaging his temples. “And that’s the problem, Floyd. You keep trying to prove it by hanging around people who don’t give one heck about you. You really think they care if you’re Floyd, the kid with real talent? Or do they just see you as the cover story for their next tell-all interview?”

“Why do you care? You don’t even talk to me anymore.” Floyd’s voice faltered as he swallowed hard, eyes fixed somewhere far away. Suddenly, there was a glossy sheen he tried to blink away. “Not unless it’s to play dad or boss us around.”

“That’s not—” John started, then stopped, running a hand over his face, struggling to find words that didn’t sound like he was scolding. But there was more to it, wasn’t there? Beneath the frustration, beneath his fury at Floyd’s recklessness, lay a mess of tangled feelings he’d spent years burying, trying to keep out of sight. Every time Floyd tested the boundary, every time he pushed just a little too far, John’s carefully built walls cracked under the weight of his own feelings.

There’s nothing he can say to him that wouldn’t be a lie. 

(But maybe he’d rather that than say any of the things that were true.)

~

None of the boys were very happy on the day that they were handed puka shell necklaces with denim tuxedos for their next magazine shoot. Spruce was especially vocal, grumbling about the stiff fabric and constantly tugging at his collar to try and get some air. Clay, in his typical good humor, didn’t seem to mind the shells, even cracking jokes about the tropical vibes and doing an exaggerated, stiff-legged walk in his denim blues that had the crew stifling laughter.

Floyd, however, avoided mirrors entirely after the stylists had finished with him. There was something uncomfortable about it all, something that made him feel oddly out of place. But he wasn’t one to say much. And John Dory—well, he kept his usual calm. He didn’t complain, even though it was clear he wasn’t sold on the look either. Their agent, ever the charmer, had clapped a hand on John’s shoulder and informed him with a whimsical flair, ‘No one ever made waves by playing it safe in the world of fashion!’

“Puka shells or not, you’re still a good looking guy, Floyd.” John Dory had whispered to Floyd later, off to the side. He looked down on him with that proud brother look, one that was always far too charming than Floyd thought was necessary. “I mean, come on. Anyone’ll give you that.”

(Floyd wished ‘anyone’ meant anything. Anything at all.)

”Oh, yeah?” He wished his heart raced nearly as fast when it was anyone else. With a courage he didn’t fully understand, he looked sidelong at John, feeling painfully young, painfully hopeful when he challenged quietly, “Even you?”

John’s face shifted, caught somewhere between surprise and something hesitant. He hadn’t thought it through, the possibility that Floyd would bite back. He opened his mouth, clearly scrambling to hodgepodge a response, but before he could, the photographer’s call cut through the room and broke the secret thread that hung between them.

Floyd could see it—the little cracks in John’s composure, tiny fissures in his steady resolve that he was certain John himself didn’t even realize were there. When it was just the two of them, Floyd sometimes saw a different side of him, a softer, almost uncertain John, one who seemed less sure of the roles they were supposed to play.

Throughout the shoot, Floyd felt a spark between them, a tension that flickered, warm and playful, igniting every glance, every laugh. Sparks everywhere, burning on their skin like glitter. It spurred Floyd on, to keep teasing, keep pushing. 

It was the most harmless fun he’d had these days, and plus, it turned the stalwart leader into a stuttering, blushing mess. There was a fine line that Floyd twirled playfully around his finger, like it was the chord of a rotary phone. He knew just how to fashion it, just how to dress up every teasing look, and make every remark sound like typical sibling banter. He can tell when he’s really under his skin, pushing all his buttons like a kid in an elevator.

Floyd has always admired John Dory’s strength, his resilience. He’s a big boy, more than capable of dishing a little light ribbing from his younger brother. But Floyd can see him getting restless, not quite knowing how to deal with the dichotomy of his bratty attitudes and syrupy sweet moods. 

They both seem sorely aware that Floyd was only ever waiting for John Dory to fix him. Waiting for him to take the plunge.

(Waiting for him to fall in, hopelessly, the way Floyd had.)

—-

The first few years after they’d all gone their separate ways were the most unforgiving.

Those nights, when silky images of Floyd pestered him, tortured him restless, dancing in his mind like persistent daydreams he just couldn’t shake. John Dory had done a lot of self soothing as the oldest, as the leader, but now, he was doing it for reasons he remembers hoping would go away with, what, time? Age, maybe? But the feelings, all of them, had taken root. They were almost as stubborn as he was.

But when his hand had drifted down, it was only to ward off the cold sweats, the tunnel vision, the heat pooling in his belly. He’d gripped himself in his hand, placating the longing throbs with deep strokes; ones that get quicker, needier with the intensity of his fantasies. His hips jerk and stutter up into his fist, small, achy hisses and low groans slipping through his grit teeth. There’s always the tightest knot in his stomach, fighting him, telling him; not Floyd. Anyone but Floyd, your brother.

But he’d always ignored his moral pushback with a vengeance, because when you’re alone, in the wilderness, and he probably doesn’t even care if you’re alive or not, you do what you have to if you want to get by. 

Finally, he could focus only on himself for once. He could allow himself to satisfy the hunger that he was always sweeping under the rug, always pretending he didn’t have. It had done him good for so long, made him the man everyone wanted him to be. But when he’s all finished, slick trails marking up his own belly, breathing hard and heart pounding, he’s not sure what to think of it all. 

(He’s not sure what to think of himself.)

But during the two decades he’d spent in the wilderness, John Dory had learned to tuck away his feelings for Floyd into the far reaches of himself. It was a quiet, invisible wound he never spoke of, not even in the restless solitude of his quiet nights. At first, when they’d all drifted apart, it hurt more than he could admit. But over time, with each new mile he put between himself and Brozone, those feelings dulled to a soft ache. He’d convinced himself that the spark had finally died out, swallowed by years of quiet. 

But when he saw Floyd again as an adult—trapped in that diamond prison with that familiar, soulful look in his eyes—it was like striking a match in a dark room. He felt the heat surge back into his chest, felt it spread through him like wildfire. All those careful years of pushing down and burying came undone in an instant. He saw Floyd, and he felt young again. It was as if no time had passed at all, like they were right back in those dressing rooms again, and he was chancing a glance at Floyd out of the corner of his eye, heart pounding with an impossible hope.

It was almost ridiculous how little Floyd had changed. Sure, he was older now, more weathered in a way, but there was still that same warmth about him, that quiet, thoughtful look that had always set him apart. And John could tell Floyd felt the same rush, could feel it in the way Floyd’s gaze lingered on him just a second too long, like he was seeing John for the first time all over again.

~

John Dory had always been good at pretending. He knew how to play the role, knew what words to say, what smile to flash, to make himself the perfect partner for an evening or two. He’d perfected the art of casual conversation, of hollow flattery, of murmuring reassurances that left his partners swooning. But beneath all the charm, his mind was always elsewhere. No matter who he was with, no matter how much he tried to drown himself in fleeting touches and whispers in the dark, he couldn’t quite shake how badly he wished it was someone else. It became the reason he could never make them stay.

(Or, the reason he was always relieved to see them go.)

Floyd also engaged in a fair bit of dalliances. Ones far more daring than he was ready for at the time. He learned with each one failed, but the casual ‘one night only’ approaches seemed to be the ones that numbed a certain ache, even if it was just temporary. The bliss, the pleasure, the soft touches and the sighs were just enough to soothe the burning ache that made its home inside him when he was very young. It followed him around like a shadow, always there, even when he surrounded himself in the bright lights of stardom to chase it away. 

It was enough for the night, to pretend. That his head wasn’t heavy with guilt for shutting away such improper longings, and for so long. He was capable of adapting to any situation. He could say someone else’s name and let himself be pulled under dulcet waves of ecstasy. 

(He noticed, every time the white-hot ache of satisfaction crept closer, he had always ended up wishing instead that he’d been buried to the hilt by the man that raised him.) 

And then after, when he lay there trying to catch his breath, he picked up right where he left off. The suffocating tightness spreading in his chest that he’d never find someone as gruff, as attentive, or as eternally loving as the one man on earth that he was never meant to feel this way about.

~

Floyd hadn’t seen any of his brothers since the band broke up. That was twenty-something years ago.

If he had to pick though, John Dory felt the most estranged of them all. There was this air of solitude that followed him around, like a dark cloud he’d learned to live with. His aged but handsome face was etched with soft lines, each one an echo of the twenty years they hadn’t seen each other. The years had added a rugged charm, but there was also a weariness to him—a heaviness Floyd could feel while standing next to him.

John Dory had always loved the grit and grime of nature, but now it clung to him, thick with a sense that he was better off by himself.

And yet, Floyd knew there was a part of his brother that wanted to be around people. That old yearning, the unspoken ache for connection. It was there, buried beneath layers of bravado and isolation. He kept it hidden well.

(Well… from everyone but Floyd.)

The two of them worked side by side, cleaning out the van John Dory had been living in for nearly two decades. It was cluttered with a hodgepodge of relics from his life—a chaotic timeline crammed into a metal shell. Limited edition Brozone memorabilia, awards and trophies, souvenirs from his solo adventures. It was as if he couldn’t let go, couldn’t move on from who he had been.

Floyd watched him rummage through the clutter, his movements slow, almost reverent. He realized he’d never seen this side of John before. The sentimental side that clung to memories as if they were lifelines. He was more comfortable surrounded by things from the past. And Floyd felt an odd pang of admiration for him, mixed with something deeper, something he didn’t quite want to name.

In a back corner, Floyd found a dusty, unlabeled box. Inside were posters from his solo tour, each one capturing him with a broad, glittering smile. And there, in a pile of old CDs, Floyd found all his albums, even the ones that hadn’t sold well, the ones that barely anyone else cared about.

Out of all his brothers, Floyd was the only one who had pursued music after the band broke up.

And John Dory had been the only one of his brothers to support him.

Now, the older brother was pouring two mugs of coffee for them, his hands steady but his gaze distant. Floyd couldn’t help but watch him, his chest fluttering with a warmth he hadn’t felt in years. It was a feeling that was both familiar and foreign, something that left him feeling vulnerable, exposed in a way he hadn’t expected.

“Oh, that stuff,” If he was flustered at all, he masked it with a casual nudge to Floyd’s arm, a proud look flickering across his face. “Pretty darn good, by the way.”

Floyd felt a flush creeping up his neck. He wanted to say something light, something dismissive, but his throat felt tight. “You came to the tour?”

“I… dropped by, yeah.” John Dory hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I didn’t know if you’d want me there, you know, after everything…”

Floyd looked at the CD cover again, a kitschy candid of him with his keytar he’d commissioned. He remembered that day, and how he hadn’t felt an ounce of the confidence that glimmered in his eyes while he looked into the camera. That tour had been one of the loneliest times of his life. He remembered how lost he felt, how directionless he was without his brothers around. 

Without John Dory around.

“If I’m honest,” His stare bore warmly into his. It was caught in his thoughts, slow and contemplative. There were a thousand words he’d still wanted to say, but he held them back. “I don’t think I’d have loved anything more.”

John Dory looked at him seriously for a moment, reading his expression. There was a certain wistfulness there. For what, John couldn’t exactly trust himself to decide. He raised a brow, and a small smile of reconciliation pulled at his lips. He pushed one of the mugs into Floyd’s hand.

He wished he could go back and do that for him. But alas, clinking his mug playfully to Floyd’s will just have to do. “Should we drink to that?” 

~

They had all been drinking on Vacay Island, visiting Bruce when John threw his arm around Floyd’s shoulder. The warmth that rages through Floyd has nothing to do with the campfire they’re all sitting around. He feels his stomach drop as he watches John’s drunken laughter, hearty and deep and rare. It’s such a warm sound, one he’s only just realized he hadn’t heard too often. Surely, the story Bruce was telling hadn’t been that funny, but man, it had tickled the older crowd, and all of a sudden, Floyd is stone-cold sober and he knows he’s staring… Like, openly. The rough edges of John’s jawline, the way his eyes crinkled with genuine amusement, the way his voice rumbled, rough but gentle. 

And it was a mistake. A huge, soul-crushing mistake to let himself notice these things, to let the warmth of John’s touch linger too long, to let his gaze settle on mouths it shouldn’t. Yet the more he tried to pull himself away, the more impossible it became. His throat was tight, his heart pounding in a way that wasn’t fair, wasn’t right.

Want rose in his throat like bile. Floyd hated himself for how natural of a response it was, to feel this way about the man who’d raised him. Raised all of them, sitting around the fire. 

It takes a world of effort to pull himself out of John’s magnetic warmth, and when he finally does, he’s left with a hollow ache in his chest. John’s looking at him with this unreadable expression. It was something soft, something vulnerable, as if John himself had felt the same unspeakable weight that Floyd pretended he had never felt in the first place.

As always, none of the others seemed to notice any of it, fully preoccupied still with their own stories, roasting snacks over the fire. The atmosphere was convivial, familiar. It was like the old days, when things were simpler.

(Though neither John Dory or Floyd can seem to remember a time when their feelings for each other were ‘simple.’)

~

Floyd was having a coffee with Branch in the dimly lit bunker when John Dory returned from his early morning foraging adventure. It was something he didn’t have to do, considering Pop Village was brimming with a colorful array of resources, but it was John’s way of making himself useful, seeking purpose in small acts of service. 

On the other hand, he looked like he’d been attacked by an angry tornado of leaves, whose fallen soldiers lay dead in his hair and strewn about his clothes. Most notably of all though, had to be the bright red scratch running across his cheek.

“Afternoon, brothers!” He said cheerfully. “One of y’all don’t happen to have a spare water hose now, do you? Branch, I’m mostly lookin’ at you,”

Branch, with a faint sigh of exasperation, shrugged. “As a matter of fact, I actually do.” He sounded as though even he was surprised by his own preparedness. “Just give me a minute, I’ll grab it for you.”

“Knew you would!” John leaned on the counter, chuckling sheepishly.

Branch rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help a small, begrudging smile before heading off to the cavernous storeroom packed with emergency supplies.

When they were left alone, Floyd asked, sounding more entertained than he meant to, “Why the hose?”

“Rhonda got pretty into the digging today, so, you know. Stuff all over. Gonna give her a good wash.”

“Hm. And what about…?” He sensitively gestured to the scratch across his cheek, which was vibrant with the need to be disinfected and covered.

“Ah, that thing. Don’t worry yourself, brother. It’ll heal itself up.”

“It looks painful.” Floyd winced, already on his feet, moving closer for a better look. 

John grinned, a slight faraway look in his eye. “I’ve dealt with worse.”

Decidedly, he patted the stool he was sitting on, beckoning. John did as he was told and took a seat while Floyd fetched one of the many first-aid kits that their little brother kept handy in every room.

“He almost sounds proud of it.” Floyd would be concerned if he weren’t so focused on the task at hand.

“What can I say?” John grinned, trying to play off the sting of the disinfectant with a joke. “They’re like trophies!”

“You have to be more careful.” Floyd finds it amusing at best, carefully dabbing the wound clean. John never understood how Floyd’s scoldings could be so tender. Somehow it made him all the more remorseful.

“You know, out of all of us, you were always the one that cared.” John said thoughtfully, trying to stay still for his bandage. He was way too zeroed in on everything about Floyd, all of his senses flooded with the softest man he’d ever known. But he stayed calm, pretending still that he hadn’t just crossed a line in his mind that he could never un-cross.

“Someone has to.” Floyd's fingers brushed gently along his jaw, tilting it up for inspection. It was a soft, simple touch—and yet it was secretly unraveling the older man. 

“Well, tch, yeah… But you don’t do it because you have to.” His lazing stare is far too affectionate for Floyd to pretend that it doesn’t send warmth raging through him. “It’s just who you are.”

“Guess it is.” Floyd’s expression softened, a quiet pride mingling with something deeper. He wonders if John Dory remembers where he learned it from first; who he’d spent his childhood observing, the man who was always willing to rip out a chunk of his own heart if it meant helping his brothers. 

For a moment, the air grew thick, holding them both in its grip. John leaned into Floyd’s touch, and the vulnerability of the moment left him feeling stripped down, exposed. He was keenly aware of how easily he could lose himself here, in this soft, fleeting closeness. A pulse of something reckless beat in his chest, a longing to close his eyes and just let it take him. Floyd’s hand rests on his face, thumb brushing feather light at the corner of his older brother’s small, sheepish smile.

He knows there are screws not bolted correctly in his head. Not when he wants to say something to him, anything , but his throat goes soft and he can’t seem to conceptualize words, together, in a sentence.

Almost as if pulled by instinct, John’s hand drifted up, capturing Floyd’s hand between his own and the warmth of his cheek. His fingers held tight, hesitant but firm, and the touch filled him with that inevitable ache he’d been swallowing down for years. He felt that familiar tightness spread in his chest; the one he’d swallowed down for years whenever it threatened to burst to the surface.

So he swallows it down. (Like he always does.)

It’s all something they don’t even realize is happening until they hear Branch’s feet padding back into the room. They quickly right themselves, not fully sure what it was that they felt the need to hide.

(Whatever it was had just left them both feeling more hungry than before.)

~

John Dory and Floyd start spending a lot of time together. To John, something about it feels mournful, like Floyd’s just hanging around because he feels sorry for him. John had always admired his little brother’s ability to pick up on things unspoken, like John’s slight anxiety about being around so many other trolls all the time, now that he’d decided to settle down in Pop Village.

Thankfully, things manage to feel normal between them. Or, as normal as they can, at least. John keeps his mind occupied with fixing up Rhonda, going out into the village to buy supplies. He even teaches Floyd a few mechanical tricks he’d probably never use, both of them kneeling by Rhonda’s control panel. It feels like real brotherly bonding when John has his hands over Floyd’s as he tightened a bolt with a wrench.

“You’re a natural!” Feeling so proud of such a small achievement took him back. This was how it was supposed to be. For once, feelings he had near Floyd weren’t stained with misplaced longings.

For a brief second, Floyd’s expression faltered, something like hope flickering in his eyes. And then, just as quickly, he masked it, pulling his hand away as if the moment hadn’t happened. But John could feel it—lingering in the air, in the space between them. 

John Dory looked away, clearing his throat, the usual nonchalance slipping back into his posture. “Yeah, so. Now you know how to tighten up a loose bolt.”

Floyd’s hand was reaching up, fingers brushing lightly against John’s collar, smoothing out the creases in his jacket as though it mattered. “John?”

The touch was gentle, but it sent a shiver down John’s spine, one he couldn’t ignore, couldn’t pretend wasn’t happening. He felt the heat crawl up his neck, and he forced himself to stay still, to keep from leaning into it. “Yep?”

Floyd’s stare rises to meet his brother’s. It’s a soft look, one asking him not to take it the wrong way, even if he knew the implications behind them were everything but right. He smiles. “I like it when you teach me things.”

And to that, John’s heart ached.

~

Queen Poppy throws a lot of parties. (Who knew Branch would go for a party girl?)

John Dory swears that every other day, there’s a new invitation on Rhonda’s doorstep, each one more colorful and glitter-drenched than the last. When he’d first settled down in Pop Village, he’d gone to a few of them, figuring it was a good way to ease himself into the community. But the music had been too loud, the crowds too overwhelming, and he’d found himself sticking close to the snack table or sneaking outside too often for fresh air. After that, he stopped going altogether, politely declining each invite with a quick note of thanks. Parties, he’d decided, just weren’t his thing anymore.

He preferred the quiet hum of nature that surrounded his home. It’s why he’d chosen a hill a little ways from the village to set up base. Up here, the music faded into a quiet vibration by the time it reached him. He could see the pulses of neon light flashing through the shutters while he made himself something to eat. He could feel the muted bang of fireworks bursting overhead, sometimes having to soothe Rhonda after being startled awake by them. He hadn’t felt left out though, not particularly. It was clear that he’d become somewhat of a hermit after all those years in isolation, but knowing that there were folks nearby now, always willing to help, had soothed him in a way that he’d only ever been the giver of; never the receiver.

By now though, he was already self-sufficient. The rustling of leaves, the chirp of crickets and the soft whistle of the wind through the trees were enough for him. It was peaceful, a perfect place to tinker with Rhonda, watch the stars, and let his mind wander.

…Though, lately, letting his mind wander was the last thing he wanted.

That thought lingered as he stood outside with Rhonda the next morning, water hose in hand, filling her huge bowl. His thoughts ran in circles these days, always landing in places he much preferred that they didn’t. It made the quiet less of a comfort and more of a trap, one that he found himself humiliatingly desperate to escape. 

So when he found the glittery invitation pinned to Rhonda’s frame, he didn’t (fondly) roll his eyes like he usually did. This time, he felt a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Tonight’s party seemed like a quick and easy way to drown out the noise in his head.

(What could go wrong?)

Things start off fine, the usual small talk with a bunch of familiar trolls packed into Poppy’s (deceptively spacious) pod. His brothers minus-Bruce are all there, interspersed throughout the room with fruity-looking beverages in hand, mid conversation. John Dory is aware that his gaze lingers a little too long on the brother with pink hair, but he pushes it to the back of his mind where he knows it probably won’t stay put for very long.

So far though, he’s managed to enjoy the party for what it is. As long as he keeps up good conversation and his cup filled with the stuff Poppy has dubbed her special ‘party juice,’ he can see tonight being one to remember. As he lounges into the soft plush while the others are partaking in karaoke hour, John’s thoughts sink someplace quiet despite the ruckus all around him. Too much party juice, maybe. Luckily the thoughts are nowhere near the other corner of the room, where he definitely hadn’t spied Floyd perched on a chair’s armrest, listening prettily while two guys chatted him up. 

He knew Viva and Poppy had only recently been reunited, but they were close as if they’d never been separated a day in their lives. 

He wondered idly, wistfully, if Viva had ever had similar feelings about her younger sister—the same, irresponsible ones that John did about Floyd. The kind that are so obviously not right but were the only ones that felt real.

Distantly, he grieves that he’d ever think something so filthy. That he’d ever project his own horrible feelings onto his friends, as if anyone could be as messed up in the head as he was. His sleepy eyes drifted to Floyd, and suddenly, he was transported right back to that lonely booth in the club. Clay asleep on his shoulder, Bruce nowhere to be found, and Floyd showing himself off, dancing with strangers. He thrived on midnight, never ran out of fuel. He’s sharp like diamonds but he’s softer than rose petals; eye catching. He’s not as young now as he was back then, but his soft faced beauty still draws folks in, effortlessly, keeps them watching, keeps them captivated.

Floyd was a dream, one John Dory just can’t shake. 

Not even after all the things he’d seen, places he’d been, or the trolls he’d met. Still, he only saw Floyd; a walking, moody mystery, his energy kaleidoscopic like glitter in the sun.

He sparkled in the mouth-watering type of way. One can’t help the urge to steal him, covet him away from the rest of the world. Cute, feminine boy that knows full well how good he is. Knows his appeal. John Dory has never even bothered to question why that’s so alluring to him, because either way, he shouldn’t be feeling any of it. He should’ve outgrown it all by now, right? The jealousy, the bitterness, the restlessness he continued to battle should’ve all been laid to rest in junior high. But like a shadow, they follow him around, never letting him forget.

Thankfully, he can still pretend that he’s too old for it all now. Especially the tightness in his throat when Floyd‘s eyes landed on him from all the way across the room, laughing at something being whispered to him. He can’t stand the way his eyes soften when he sees him, can’t stand what they might’ve been laughing about.

A memory pushes itself to the front of his mind; Floyd, as a kid, looking up to him with wide, trusting eyes, seeing him as his hero, his big brother, his protector. That trust was sacred; it was something he'd built and kept, something he'd held onto like a lifeline in the decades they'd spent apart. And now he was realizing, with a shattering clarity, just how desperately he didn't want to betray that.

Poppy clinks a glass with a spoon, drawing everyone’s attention to the toast she’d like to make to her sister. For throwing the party, for being ‘so, so gosh darn beautiful’ and a few other things that John can’t focus on because their fingers are interlaced and Poppy’s head is on Viva’s shoulder, love in their shared gaze, both visibly pretty tipsy. They look so in-tune with each other and John starts to feel a little hot around the collar, like-–oh, god. What was he thinking? Suddenly, it was really stuffy in here and he should probably step outside and take a breather. 

The best part about everything that’s happened; the band breaking up, the decades of isolation, the reliance on no one but himself— is that he can walk away now, and no one would come looking for him.

“John Dory?”

(Except for Floyd.)

John had been leaning on the railing at the edge of Poppy’s property, eyes locked on the colorful view that overlooked all of Pop Village. He stiffened when he heard the voice. It takes him a moment to breathe when Floyd tucks himself beside him, hands on the rail, dangerously close to his own.

“You ran out so suddenly, I thought something was wrong.”

“Nah, not at all. Things are good!” John said calmly, addressing his brother with a half grin. It’s a lie he’s so used to telling, he can’t help believing it himself. “Full moon tonight, eh?”

Floyd looked up, giving a strained smile of agreement. “Yeah, full moon.”

His gaze fell to John again, who was hellbent on not meeting his eye. But Floyd was never one to push, so he stayed the course, embracing the silence that John Dory insisted they sit in. Whatever he wanted. Floyd looked out into the village too, trying to spot whatever it was that John was pretending to find so captivating. Suddenly, he was a kid again, standing next to his big brother but feeling worlds apart, hopeless. There he was, doing stupid things for his attention, all to be met with nonchalance.

It stung, but he’d always gotten by, always told himself it didn’t matter. He didn’t need what others weren’t willing to give. It was a tough lesson to learn as the youngest, but there’s still a small part of him that persists, still feels entitled to John’s attention.

“Wanna know something?” Floyd rested his chin in his palm, smiling distantly, almost bitterly at the skyline. “I always believed you liked me less than the others.”

John felt his chest tighten, a fierce protective instinct surging through him. He wants to reassure him, tell him it’s not true—because it wasn’t. John Dory prided himself on his neutrality, the one where he liked all of his brothers equally. His love for them wasn’t to scale, couldn’t be compared.

On the other, regrettable hand though, he… understood why Floyd thought it—has always thought it—and suddenly, there’s a pit in his stomach. When they were younger, he’d pushed Floyd away, not knowing how else to deal with the confusing feelings he’d had for him. He’d always silently hoped Floyd would understand why, wouldn’t make him explain it to him. Maybe he’d been too desperate in the moment, not realizing how it might affect his brother later in life. Now, all of his adolescent moodiness and delinquency made a lot more sense. He was constantly acting out, aligning himself with the louse that John Dory had always made him believe he was.

Floyd was younger than him, even if he had an emotional maturity that exceeded most. He didn’t know better, he couldn’t know better. All he saw was his big brother putting distance between them while still knit-tight with the rest of their brothers. 

(Which was easier, because John Dory didn’t …feel for the rest of their brothers the way he felt about Floyd.)

“...I was a huge jerk.” John said earnestly, placing his hand over Floyd’s and giving it a sensitive squeeze. He’d come a long way, to believe something so unflattering about himself and not get defensive.

And he’s glad he did, because it earns him this look from Floyd, one that says, ‘yeah, kinda,’ except he’d never actually say so. He was too caring, too considerate of others’ feelings to ever deliberately make someone feel bad about themselves. John’s heart flutters, and he swallows against the dryness in his mouth. “How I treated you back then was not a reflection of who you are. That was on me. And I’m real sorry, Floyd.”

”It’s all behind us now.” How Floyd could still look at him, still love him after all of it gave John a feeling in his chest that takes his breath away. 

He didn’t deserve that kind of admiration, that kind of mercy or grace or anything at all. Ever.

“You always knew, though, didn’t you? Deep down?” John pressed gently, almost desperately . “I loved you just as much as the others.”

“I do now…” Came Floyd’s reply, the practiced casualness expertly masking his underlying hurt. “You did it because you didn’t know how else to protect me.” He read him aloud as if he were a book, leaving out the ‘ from yourself’ at the end.

And the way John said nothing told Floyd everything.

“I never wanted any of that, you know.” Floyd continued, giving him a meaningful look. He felt guilty for what he was saying, knowing what position it put John in. Knowing why they couldn’t. Knowing why they haven’t . But it’s just vague enough to get by, to go undetected. “I just wanted you.”

John’s throat goes soft at the pseudo-confession.

Floyd only glances at him, an apologetic look in his eye. He sits down, his back against the gate and his knees hugged to his chest.

His younger brother, his fresh-faced admirer. He’d looked up to him, John Dory knew that, and he tried his best to be someone worthy of that. He knows he didn’t do that great of a job, because if he did, then Floyd wouldn’t be here, looking at him like that, knowing what John Dory really thinks of him. He’s a lot younger, he’s naive, newer to the world than John. Anyone could see that. John Dory had always tried his best to teach him, to take him under his wing and show the young boy everything he needed to know. He failed, at least partially, he did. Otherwise, Floyd’s eagerness to learn, to see, to do— wouldn’t send a hot buzz of excitement raging through John.

A moment later, John plopped down beside him. Floyd’s resting his chin on his knees, picking idly at a blade of grass between them. Their eyes find each other, sharing a knowing look; a look that felt like a whisper shared across the years. John wants to say something, wants to acknowledge this thing between them that had never really gone away. 

But the words felt thick in his throat, tangled in years of trying to swallow it down. He tips his head back, letting it rest against the gate as he watches the stars. Sounding distantly frustrated, he asks, “Gah, how do you do that?” 

John’s eyes definitely do not follow the soft curve of Floyd’s back as he straightens, his calm, purple eyes on him. “Do what?”

“How are you so in-tune with your emotions? With my emotions?” John asked, dumbfounded. “You understand folks, even when they don’t understand themselves.”

Floyd snorts, letting his head rest against the gate like John, his thoughtful stare cast skyward. “You just do a lot of watching, …listening. That kind of thing.” He turned his head to John, finding him staring right back with this sleepy look in his eye, full of admiration. Floyd’s chest feels tight. “You spend a lot of time around someone, you start to figure ‘em out.” 

“ Huh. So that's how I became such an easy read.” John said lightly, catching his drift.

Floyd’s hand planted behind him. He turned to him experientially, his movements are subtle and fluid with his soft laugh. He’s like a flower opening itself up to him, showing John everything precious, things he’d already seen, already loved him for. If only he were someone else, anyone else. Then he wouldn’t have to tear his gaze away, and it would be okay to look at him and feel completely rapt. John tucks his chin into the fur collar of his jacket. Fiddles with his glove. Tries to distract himself from the irresistible presence beside him. He releases a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding when he felt Floyd’s hand over his own, his thumb absently brushing over his knuckles, urging his older brother to look him in the eye. 

There’s only about a heartbeat of space between them now, and John can feel it against his lips when Floyd mumbles sagely, “I’m glad you’re here, John.”

Every muscle, every nerve is screaming at him to pull away. But John Dory doesn’t. Can’t. He doesn’t have it in him, not anymore. Not when Floyd was looking at him like he was the only other man alive. He’s frozen, caught in it, giving into the urge to let his eyes close as their noses brush. Every breath is shared now, warm air mingling, pulling them together. The invisible string that connects them has never been shorter. John murmurs between them, “So am I.”

Then Floyd brought a hand up to cup his face, holding his tired older brother, letting him rest there while he kissed his mouth warmly. He can feel his prickly stubble against his face, can feel hotness blooming in his belly as John Dory hungrily kissed him back. 

John let himself be dragged under by Floyd’s brutal waves of need. He can taste the booze on Floyd’s tongue, can taste his sweet lipgloss smudging onto his own lips with each kiss. It’s like taking a bite of youth again, his generous baby brother letting him steal what never belonged to him, letting him see what years and years of wanting him tasted like. 

They pull away, their lungs starved, the haze of it still clinging between them like a humid fog. Panting, they shared a wet, warm cloud of air, their noses brushing faintly as neither moved too far from the other.

It dawned on John Dory then—the enormity of what had just happened. Of what he had done. Of what he had allowed to happen. The kiss still lingered on his lips, a phantom sensation too strong to brush off. He swallowed hard, his throat tightening as the full weight of the moment bore down on him.

His gaze flickered up to meet Floyd’s, expecting to see some measure of shock, some sliver of regret or panic. But Floyd wasn’t startled at all. His expression was calm, even knowing, as if he’d expected this all along. There was no fear, no hesitation in his eyes—just an unspoken question, one he was kind enough not to ask aloud.

John tried to speak, to wrestle the maelstrom of thoughts into coherent words. He knew he had to say something, anything, but every thought felt like a contradiction of the one before it. His lips parted, but nothing came out. He froze, caught in the intensity of Floyd’s steady gaze.

Floyd didn’t push. He didn’t need to. His patience was steady, as constant as his presence. His hand tightened over John’s, a firm but quiet gesture that grounded him, reminded him to breathe.

John closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply as the spaces between his breaths grew longer, less frantic. His heart still thundered, but the edge of panic was dulling, slowly giving way to something softer. Something heavier.

When he opened his eyes, Floyd was still watching him, his face gentle but expectant. John’s chest ached with the weight of everything he wanted to say, forcing himself to start. “I… Floyd, look,”

But before he could finish, the door swung open with a sudden crash, startling them both. Music and laughter poured out, accompanied by the chaotic swirl of a hundred colorful lights. The moment shattered instantly, the bubble they’d been wrapped in dissolving as if it had never existed.

Floyd’s two admirers from earlier spilled out onto the porch. The same ones John had caught gawking at him earlier, their flirtatious energy making his stomach churn with jealousy he had no right to even have. Then they waved Floyd over.

John froze, his body stiffening instinctively. He felt Floyd glance at him, the weight of his younger brother’s gaze heavy with something unreadable. Permission? Reassurance? John couldn’t tell, and it only made him feel worse.

He forced himself to tip his head toward the group, a faint, dismissive nod.

Floyd lingered for a moment longer, his expression clouded with thoughtful reluctance. His eyes searched John’s face as though trying to read something between the lines. But John avoided his gaze, a response Floyd was used to by now.

Eventually, Floyd rose to his feet, his movements deliberate and slow. He hesitated, but only briefly, before stepping away.

John stayed where he was, frozen in place as he heard Floyd’s voice mingle with the others. A laugh— Floyd’s laugh —cut through the night air, and John’s chest tightened painfully.

Alone now, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His hand brushed his mouth instinctively, wiping away the faint traces of his brother’s lip gloss. It shimmered faintly on the back of his hand, mocking him.

(The taste doesn’t go away.)

~

John Dory isn’t dense. Not when it counts. 

He can read a room well enough to know where he stands with Branch, Clay and Bruce. They don’t hate him—at least not anymore—but the warmth that should come with family isn’t quite there. Things are better than they used to be, sure. The outright hostility has been replaced with something quieter, more civil, but no less distant. There’s a kind of tolerance now, one born not of forgiveness, but of necessity—and John feels it every time they’re in the same room.

Floyd, though—Floyd has always been different.

He was the one who had an extra reserve of patience for John somehow; always the only one who stuck around when the others had stormed off. Something about it had always made John feel funny, that the other two could get so exasperated with while one still lingered, always stayed to hear his side of it. 

Even now, after everything—after that night—Floyd’s patience hasn’t wavered.

John feels it acutely as they stand side by side at a small gathering Floyd had dragged his brothers to. It was strange, feeling Floyd’s hand on his shoulder while he introduced him to friends. The word brother falls easily from Floyd’s lips, so natural and so innocent that it makes John’s stomach twist; a swelling mixture of pride (that he’s Floyd’s brother!) and then debilitating shame (because he’s Floyd’s brother…)

He shouldn’t feel his chest tighten, shouldn’t feel his breath catch at the sound of Floyd’s voice. He shouldn’t still be able to taste the faint, lingering sweetness of that kiss still, or feel the ghost of Floyd’s hands brushing over him. But he does—he feels it all, even if his only job is to stand there and pretend he doesn’t. 

Even if his only job is to stand there, and play big brother. 

He’d always be Floyd’s brother, even if he had to remind himself of it constantly.

(He realized then, with a dull shock, that he’s been in love with him longer than he’d loved him just as a brother.)

~

They mostly pretend that it didn’t happen. (Mostly.)

John had hoped (maybe a little naively) that it would relieve some of the tension that had built up over the years. 

“We’re older now. And it’s not your job to look after me anymore.” Floyd said to him privately, his voice laced with soft, persuasive charm. “Plus, it’s not like we’d be hurting anyone.”

It’s not like when they were younger; when John Dory could fix any of his brothers with a stinging look. Now, being chided had the perplexing opposite effect of exciting Floyd, which only made him misbehave more. John wanted to argue, to push back against the casualness in Floyd’s tone. But it was never that simple, and instead, like always when it comes to Floyd, he feels something twist deep in his chest at the words. 

John stepped forward, his strides measured and purposeful, masking the real reason he was coming closer behind a veil of exasperation. This was just another attempt to be stern with Floyd, rein him in before they crossed yet another line. But they stood impossibly close now, with John Dory dropping his chin and giving him a tired, suppressed look of amusement. He’d forgotten how to scold, so instead, he’s astonished. Maybe even a little amazed, too; at Floyd’s gall to say those things, to look at him with such an unserious and burning lust, to imply that—that…

“ Floyd…” He says, but he doesn’t know what he wants. 

Floyd pretends to be intimidated, teasing, completely unrepentant—unable to stifle his grin all the while. He made a half-hearted attempt to step around John, a deliberate move to test him. 

John’s hand shot out, catching him by the wrist and spinning him back around. In one fluid motion, he steers Floyd right back against the wall, and pins him there with just enough force to make a point. The closeness was suffocating, their breaths mingling in the charged space between them. 

And then John kisses him, because that's a thing he can do now. A thing they did.

Floyd doesn’t hesitate— never hesitates—his lips parting eagerly under John’s, instinctively pulling him in deeper.

~

(It’s almost artistic how wrong he had been; to think they could put this behind them.)

The silence doesn’t erase the tension; it sharpens it, makes it unbearable. Every accidental touch feels electric now, sparking memories he’s desperate to forget. Every conversation is heavy with things unsaid, every word precariously laced with double-meaning, hidden intent.

John Dory can’t deal with Floyd’s hand on his knee underneath the table during family night at Poppy’s, nor the way it slowly crept up his leg. He can’t handle Floyd’s teasing, can’t handle the way his voice softens when he sings, can’t deal with those eyes on him and the heat blazing behind his gaze.

He doesn’t know what to make of the warmth radiating off of him, the weight of his presence… it felt so natural, so familiar, so agonizingly wrong in ways he couldn't quite untangle.

He thought he’d buried this, thought he’d grown past it. But the feeling was stronger now than it ever was, like it was splitting his ribs in half from how enormously it had all spiraled out of control.

John’s heart sank and soared at once. Floyd had moved toward him, slowly, carefully, still afraid he’d up and leave like he always did. They were alone; horribly, awfully alone in John’s van. Something hot burned in his belly from the way Floyd looked at him, his eyes flickering with want.

He set himself warmly in John Dory’s lap, pressing their bodies together in a way that made it impossible to think clearly.

John Dory swallowed thickly as he watched him pluck the buttons of his nightgown apart. He shouldn’t be this eager. He shouldn’t feel this excited. Floyd’s hands are shaky when he does it, but there’s a firmness to the way he moves; a type of certainty that John Dory wished he’d had just a morsel of. The robe fell open, exposing the skin that had always been there, the skin he’d seen a million times. But now that it was pointed and intentional, no longer a secret glance in passing, he fought the saintly urge to look away. Floyd wanted him to see. And once he did, he couldn’t not stare. His flat tummy rose and fell with all the gentleness of flower petals, soft but nervous breaths as his brother’s gaze roamed his body. 

He was petite… but boyish and rough. John felt heat sink to his lap as his eyes hungrily drank in the forbidden sight, one that made his heart pound. There was so much to give. So much to take. And here was Floyd, putting everything up for grabs in a reckless moment of forbidden lust.

They’d been out for cocktails with the other brothers, reminiscing on old times when things were different. Much different. 

And now…

“Remember the dressing rooms?” He’d asked, shoulders shimmying out of the silk until the soft cloth spilled down his arms and pooled around his back. “I could always feel your eyes on me, John. Could always feel you staring.”

Floyd had a few centimeters on him height-wise, and he used the leverage cleverly; grabbing his chin and making him look him in the eye. Their chests touch, and it’s soft like roses, disorienting as all hell. John Dory’s mouth goes dry.

His finger trickled down John Dory’s exposed chest, slow and teasing. “So I’d do things to try and see, you know? Little things, to see if you wanted me like I wanted you.”

John felt the words shudder over his ear, causing the sensitive cartilage to twitch. It makes him shiver, the warmth of it tingling down his spine. 

Floyd snorts at how affected John is by him. How affected by him he’d always been.

“You just made it so hard to tell, though. So I thought, I don’t know, ‘just move on,’ ” As Floyd continued, John tried focusing on anything other than the feeling of his brother’s fingers intertwining with his own, “But it only felt good if I was picturing this,” He rocked his hips forward, wantonly, letting a hot burst of arousal spread through them. It’s so wrong, but they both make these stilted little noises, and Floyd can’t help grinning, “My big, strong, handsome older bro, giving me what I want…”

And John Dory understood then, out of all his brothers, why it was always Floyd who needed saving. Floyd, well… he’s always had this eagerness . This endless hunger for a thrill that had this way of putting him in danger. He didn’t just wander into trouble— he invited it. He was perfect flesh to tear into, soft and vulnerable.

“God, you’re perfect,” John murmurs at last, unthinking, stripped of his usual restraint. What would mom think of it all; her innocent Floyd, her little Rosebud tempting his brother into debauchery meant for any two but the two of them. John’s always been on the denser side when it came to whether a thought should stay inside, or if it should be said aloud. But Floyd had always loved that he was a bumbling heap of handsome cluelessness. Quieter, he admitted, “You’re all I can ever think about…”

It makes Floyd chuckle, and he asks, sounding resonantly bored but somehow royally amused, “Am I?” 

“You know you are.” John knows that Floyd’s lack of amusement doesn’t come from a place of arrogance... at least, not fully. Floyd had heard it all before—how beautiful he was, how irresistible. But if he were truly perfect, he’d project innocence and purity in more than just appearances. He’d have come back sooner, like he promised Branch he would. He wouldn’t have spent his youth so recklessly, wouldn’t have went to all those parties, wouldn’t have gone home with all those people.

(But John hadn’t meant it in the literal sense, had he?)

As John instinctively placed a hand on the curve of his hip, another memory from their childhood intruded. A fluttery one, of Floyd’s tiny body in his hands; their mom showing him how to hold his little head up. Keep him upright, she’d said, and keep him close to your body so he can feel your warmth. 

Skin-to-skin contact is how he bonds with you.

He'd learned to soothe him with lullabies, to stand between him and the world, a steadfast protector and guide. That had always been his purpose—to love Floyd, yes, but not… not like this.  

He was supposed to keep him safe from everything. Even from himself.

And his mind was racing with every reason he shouldn't do this; shouldn’t give in, shouldn’t surrender to the wiles of feelings festering since their band days. He was better than this, wasn’t he? He was supposed to be the leader, the reasonable one.

But the reasons felt small, dim, compared to the intensity of what he felt now. And as Floyd's body leaned into his, he felt his own resistance crumbling, his heart thumping in his chest. He could feel Floyd’s warm mouth moving fluidly beneath his jaw, leaving deep, persuasive kisses that had John’s eyes wanting to close. 

Finally, he let his tongue press longingly against his, mouths moving, caught in his full, heavy kiss. John hooks a strong arm around Floyd, holding him close. He can’t resist him, of course he can’t. Not when he was imposing himself so sweetly, so suffocatingly. He held Floyd like a bride, kissing the younger man like it was his last night alive.

And that was when John felt Floyd. Really felt him. His charmingness poured into soft, teasing kisses that got him to chase. It drove him mad, the warm hums into his mouth as he laid him down, climbing over him. He managed a tired laugh, suddenly feeling every bit of his age. “You sure it’s me you want?”

Floyd has always been difficult for John Dory to fathom. He doesn’t understand— never understood what he could possibly want with him. They’ve got a significant difference in age, and they hardly ever agree on much at all. He’s got so many other friends he could shack up with; always had more going for him than John Dory ever did.

“I’ve followed your lead my whole life,” Floyd said, with that profoundness lilting soft inflections of his low voice into what was only meant to be a whisper. His thumb traced small, soothing circles over his cheek, and his lilac gaze bore sleepy into John’s. “Now I want you to follow mine. Just for tonight.”

All protest that John Dory has—it dies there, in his throat. Floyd was looking at him with something beyond trust. It was need. There was a spark of hunger, a daring edge that sent a shiver down his spine. And that look, that want, was tugging him into a place he swore he'd never go. The sheer absurdity of it all makes him shake with a quiet, incredulous laugh. And now, all these years later, he’s propped over his brother, as pretty as any girl he’d ever spent the night with. 

( Who was he kidding? He was miserably prettier than that.)

Here, John doesn’t have to hide how well he knows his baby brother. Little about him had changed; if anything at all. He’s still deeply moody, still enormously gorgeous, and still full of dry wit. He can still be a brat, as he so often was, soaking up every bit of the attention he naturally attracted. Not to mention he was gross. By god, he was gross. John was astonished by the libido on this one. It’s an unusual thing to know about your own brother, but somehow, it only amuses him more. It’s how he knows they’re related—though, John would always pride himself on being the most chivalrous about it.

And yet, there was something about it here, in their quiet little cocoon of desire and admiration that felt brotherly, and John finds himself adoring that they are the same flesh and blood. Suddenly, the two decades they’d been apart felt like no time at all, and Floyd was familiar beneath him; like a twin flame, having the same forbidden craving.

“I think I can live with that.” He says softly, letting Floyd pull him down to his lips again.

(Just for tonight. Just for him.)

When Floyd is woken up the next morning, it’s by a warm stream of sunlight spilling right over his eyes from the porthole window. Everything was exactly the way he remembered them before he fell into a dreamless sleep; clothes thrown in a hasty pile in the corner of the cramped space, pillows tucked between the wall and headboard, and a light, fluttery feeling of delicate excitement nestled deep in his chest. All that was missing were the strong, protective arms he’d fallen asleep in, the leg hooked possessively over his hip, and the soft rhythm of breathing matched up with his own.

Floyd let his mind skim over last night, and he can feel himself become more feverish with each thing remembered. His years’ long unattainable crush on his older brother had somehow …prevailed. And now he’s in his bed, feeling tender and sore from the reciprocation of his feelings.

But in hindsight, it made sense that John Dory was an early riser. Floyd can hear moving around outside the sleeper room’s sliding door. 

After he freshens himself up, he searches through John’s closet for something to wear. Hidden way in the back, Floyd finds something that delights him to shivers; an old tee from his solo world tour, oversized and well-worn. (If he finds one more thing from his career in this van…) 

“Mornin’!” John called from the kitchenette. The air was almost sickly with the aroma of coffee grinds.

Floyd sat himself fluidly atop the counter, watching John empty the pot of fresh brew into his mug. “Hey.”

When he finally turns to face him, he smiles like normal, then does a double take at his choice of apparel. He laughs in a self deprecating way, looking properly embarrassed. “Where’d you even find that?”

Floyd squints, but his creeping smile dampens the accusatory effect he was going for. “It was hanging up! In your closet.”

“Yeah, well, careful,” He replied before a small sip, eyes smoldering at him playfully over the rim of his mug, “Pretty sure I jerked off in that one a few times.”

“Charming.”

“Isn’t it? The next pot’s for you, by the way,” He tipped his head toward it, heating up on the stove. “Didn’t expect you to be up so early.”

Floyd watched it boil over the slow simmer, the grinds blending with the water. Then he gets an idea. “Bet I can guess what kind it is.”

“What? Just from looking?”

John’s mug was halfway to his lips when Floyd put a hand over his, stopping him.

“From tasting.”

“From…?” He was distracted by Floyd’s gaze, which lingered a bit lower, not quite meeting his eye. He swiped his mouth with the back of his hand, wiping away whatever it was that Floyd was staring at— “ Oh.”

His dumbstruck expression earns a snort from Floyd as he scoots himself to the edge of the counter, opening his legs invitingly.

John mindlessly moves to stand between them, setting his mug off to the side. Floyd threaded his arms around his neck, bringing him closer.

“I dunno. Seems like cheating, Floyd.” John’s voice slid to a tease. He could feel Floyd’s lips curve into a smile against his own.

“Eh, I don’t do it often.” 

“Don’t let me get in your way, then.” There was a quiet wonder to his voice as Floyd brought their foreheads together. Their lips come to a brush, drawn to each other like magnets. The comfortable silence is broken only by the soft separation of every slow, open-mouthed kiss. Floyd was deliberate, giving his bottom lip a soft suck, tasting the coffee on him. It has John a little wobbly in the knees the way their tongues mingled, feeling the undulations of Floyd’s warm, wet flesh against his own.

They were in such a rush when they’d kissed last night. This morning though, everything was entirely exploratory, slow and lingering. It was full of push and pull, give and take. Until Floyd broke the kiss with a soft noise, a teasing tingle on the tip of his tongue. “Mmn…” He hummed thoughtfully against John’s kiss-swollen lips, his voice a few octaves lower. “Cappuccino.”

John Dory strained against certain …urges after that, but he’s still got enough blood flowing to his head to recognize obscure talent when he sees it. “Huh. You’re good.”