Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first memories that Floyd had — the first that are whole and untainted by the corrosive fear that had cleaved his life in two as if with an axe, into the time before and the time after — were of the funeral. The deaths themselves were an aching void, the divide between the two halves that sometimes seemed insatiable and evergrowing. His life was a discordancy of two truths — flashes of terror and comfort, family's faces twisted in love and horror and anger, their voices singing lullabies and screaming their way into silence. The good shifted to bad as easily as if they were borne of the same gaseous essence, like the shapes swirling in the corners of his vision, evaporating as he attempted to bring them into focus but taunting him when he turned away.

He'd been dressed up, he thought. He was still too small to be in suits like his older brothers had been, but John Dory had stone-facedly led his arms through the sleeves of the nicest shirt that didn't drag on the floor. He remembered trying to get a smile from his eldest brother, the visions of what had happened already having fallen from his mind as if it were a sieve — perhaps, that’s what it had become, in the end. But John Dory showed no signs of even having heard him. John Dory hadn't heard Floyd in a while. He would swivel his head, sometimes, as if there was something else he was hearing instead — something they couldn't. If he heard those things now, he showed no sign of it. He just lifted Floyd off the stool he’d stood on without a word and set him carefully onto the floor, ensuring that the shirt didn't swallow him entirely. A nod. Then, a hand much larger than his own wrapped around his fingers, squeezing tight enough to hurt, though Floyd would never tell him. John Dory had never liked to hurt people. It would only make him more sad now when he looked almost as far away as Clay or Grandma.

Floyd's stomach twisted itself into knots as he followed his brother's much longer strides, not quick enough to fall into step but not slow enough to be dragged along. He was nervous. They were going to the Palace Pod. He'd never been there before. Of course, Floyd knew it wasn't a place that people wanted to go, especially not this time of year. Floyd had envied it when he was still small enough to be carried in Mom's arms. The sheer size of it, he remembered — though it seemed much bigger in his memory, unsolid in its colour and shape as if it couldn't quite decide how exactly it looked—  was dazzling to him, and he'd point at it and beg. Her expression was rarely as grave as it was then, her frown all but dripping off the sides of her chin. She had told him something then. And he had never asked again to go inside. He had never wanted to. Not even on the one night a year that so many Trolls were gathered there that they took turns standing inside and outside of the walls, seeming to form one indistinguishable mass. If John Dory noticed that Floyd had stopped walking so much as he was stumbling with his arm stretched to allow as much space between him and the building as possible — he didn't let on, and he didn't slow. 

Floyd's neck prickled as the mass around the building seemed to grow heads which turned to him, hundreds of faces he realized were attached to bodies; hands clasping hands and shoulders and arms and torsos, bodies shaking and in all hues of colour, tinged with the grey that always seemed to accompany the early spring. His ears couldn't help but twitch as whispers began to pour like a hushed wave, encapsulating Floyd and his brother as they parted to reveal the door.

“— Lost both of their parents in one day—” 

“— And poor Rosiepuff, have you heard?—”

“— First her husband, now her daughter—”

“— I hadn’t seen her until—”

“— She hardly leaves her pod—”

“—Those poor boys.”

"— How will he ever cope—"

John Dory's shoulders stiffened and squared, but still, he didn't slow. Floyd's cheeks burned under the attention of so many strangers he didn't know, under the scrutiny of so many faces moulded into the form of pity and concern. Floyd wanted to protest, to wrench his hand from his brother and tell them all to stop. He wanted to tell them that he knew as much as they did that his parents were gone. Spruce had told him as much when Floyd had asked that night why they hadn't come back. "They're never coming back", he had shouted. The tears that were welling up in his brother's eyes began to fall in earnest when Floyd's smile had cracked and fallen. There was no end to the fat tears rolling down Spruce's cheeks, then. And Floyd had understood. When his brother had dropped to his knees and held Floyd tight, whispering wet apologies over and over, he knew that there was more to it than that. They couldn't come back. They had been taken away, and Floyd knew, finally, what it was that his mother tried to protect him from seeing every spring when they rushed past the Palace. 

It was Death. He'd heard the name whispered by Trolls much older than him who didn't think he could both colour and listen at once. Death came when the flowers bloomed, and it took from them; sometimes it took strangers, sometimes it took friends, and sometimes family. Grandpa had been taken, too, before Floyd was born, but the holes he'd left behind had already been paved around by the time Floyd had learned of their presence at all. It was a few years before he put together that the nights they'd spend huddled together, hardly breathing, were connected to the losses. It wasn't too long, then, before he'd put together that they were hiding from Death. And if their parents had never made it back to their hiding spot, then Death had found them. And when Death found you, you never came back. 

He knew this, but everyone else seemed to pretend he didn't. Floyd had been eight for almost a whole year, and people still tried to hide things from him. He always found out anyway, but still, they tried. They stopped talking when he entered a room and spoke to him as if he was still too young to understand what they meant. He hated it. Floyd didn't hate much, but he hated that... and clowns. He was eight years old, yes, but his parents had always told him he was clever for his age. He wanted to be more than that, though. He wanted to be clever for any age. He wanted his brothers to let him be a part of the conversations they tried to keep away from him. He wanted to help. He wanted them to let him help.

"They're talking about us," he whispered to John Dory, tugging his hand as if it would stop him from pushing the doors open. 

"Let them," Was the only response Floyd got.

He squared his shoulders the way his brother had, trying to look braver than a little boy would be walking into the scariest room in the whole village.

The inside was nothing like Floyd would have expected, though maybe that was just because of how dark and empty it was. The curtains had all been drawn, and if there was any furniture in this room before, it had all been cleared out now. All except for the three chairs the royal family sat in, the lit brazier sending flickering shadows across the walls, and the long table before them. A series of candles were laid across the surface of it, each cluster accompanied by a group of Trolls tinged with grey and holding each other close. At the far end of the table was the rest of Floyd's family, their blue skin paler than he was used to seeing, though perhaps that was more due to the lighting than anything. Spruce turned at the sound of the doors opening, letting out a breath before hesitantly holding his arms open to Floyd. His second oldest brother had been a bit more touchy since he'd yelled at him, but Floyd didn't mind. He pulled his hand free from John Dory and ran the distance between them, letting Spruce hug him tight as he needed, no matter how his ribs began to ache. Floyd hoped, as he hugged back, that some of his own colour would rub off onto Spruce. 

"How are Grandma and Clay?" He asked quietly, glancing over Spruce's shoulder as John Dory joined them.

Clay had been wrestling between two states, unable to contain it beneath the surface. One side of him seemed desperate to fill his day with anything that would distract him, not wanting to speak of anything relating to their loss; the other side, however, was silent and almost hollow. He was hollow now, like a pond without any fish, standing before the twin candles on the table in front of them. It was in that hollow state that Grandma had stayed since that night. The Trolls outside were right, at least, that she hadn't left the pod. She hadn't left her room, either. Whenever Floyd talked to her, she just stared forward, seeming to look at nothing in particular. She didn't seem to see much of anything lately. 

"Don't worry." Spruce's smile was tight. He didn't seem to want to tell Floyd much of anything since he had yelled, either. "They'll be okay."

The days immediately after Death had taken from them were always the worst, Floyd knew. He'd grown to notice the tension held in their neighbour's shoulders, the way the Tree seemed to be wrapped in a blanket as smothering as the scent of flowers that clung to the breeze. It wasn't until summer — when the sun began to beam its warmth down stronger than ever, and the soft, too-sweet spring flowers gave way to the rich summer blossoms of violets, yellows, and blues — that the community seemed to shake off the stiffness they had all taken on. The sun seemed to chase away the grey, slowly but surely, and voices would flood the air again in melodies that harmonized and swelled into the night, and it was almost enough to make them forget they had ever hidden away. It was as if everyone forgot to live with the holes left behind — how to move on — until the world itself had moved on first, presenting the stones with which they would pave their way. 

But summer was a long way out yet. And Floyd couldn't stand the grey-tinged stiffness that had infested his home — the holes that Death had left behind.

A clock chimed somewhere, in a room beyond the foyer they gathered in. Spruce straightened again, taking Floyd's hand as the King raised from his chair. The King was an older Troll now, with wisps of white standing among the wild, orange tuft of his hair. But his eyes held a wisdom and kindness that rooted Floyd in place, drawn to listen though the man hardly raised his voice.

"We have gathered here today," he began, arms held out with palms facing up, "to honour the losses that have shaken our community. No words we could say would ever be enough to make right the pain you all feel, but together, we may yet soothe the ache. From my family to yours, I welcome you into my home to remember the lives of those taken too soon. For some of you, it is not your first time here. And for others, it is. To all of you, but especially the latter, I offer my sincerest sympathies and ask that you extend the same to each other. 

"Every day that we spend in this cage is a day that has been stolen from us, but today, we steal one back. Today, we will not give in to fear or pain. We will honour those they would have us forget, and together, we will remember the lives that were taken. We will remember the words they said, the lives they led, and the hearts they touched. I invite all of you — not just the families gathered before you — to share their memories as we light a candle and bask in the light they gave us."

Hours must have passed in the room with Floyd's feet rooted to the floor and his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth. One by one, the King lit the candles only once there was nothing more to be shared; he would say their name then, and thank them. Through it all, Spruce and John Dory held his hands while Clay and Grandma seemed a million miles away, unreachable on the other end of a divide too great to cross alone. Story after story was shared in the room, silent but for breathing and the crackling of flames, so many words flooding his mind until they began to pour from his ears, and he was left to try desperately to remember — what had their name been? This Troll who liked to dance under the stars and feed the songbirds that nested at the top of the tree had a name, but the King had whispered his thanks too quietly for Floyd to hear, and then he had moved on to another. Another whose stories Floyd couldn't begin to hold onto. 

These were Trolls he might have passed, once or twice, while walking with his parents or playing with his brothers — some were other children he might have played with if he'd ever dared to approach anyone outside his family. But only now, once it was too late, did he get to know who they'd been and learn the ways in which they would have gotten along. He didn't understand, back then, the enormity of this gesture the King had offered, too consumed by the anxiety brought on by too much information being presented at once; he didn't know how their loved ones might have wept if he'd spoken up, if they'd known how he tried to listen and know those who could never be known again. He didn't understand, as he would eventually come to understand, the fear of fading away into the aether unnoticed and unremembered, without so much as a gravestone to prove that you had been.

But he felt it, still. Even then, he felt that strange, unknowable beast of an emotion constricting his chest, and he knew it was important to remember. 

“Rowan and Dahlia." The King was just to their left, head bowed as he lit the conjoined candles together. "Thank you.” 

A moment of silence followed. A moment which Floyd spent trying to remember which one had been which. And then, the King turned, his eyes landing on John Dory. His brother's hand tightened around his. "Now, we would like to remember Melinda and Dory."

Floyd could count on one hand the amount of times he'd heard either of his parents' names spoken aloud. In their family, the adults tended to save names for moments of importance, more inclined to affectionate names instead. Honey would only turn to Dory when Mom would pretend to be mad at Dad for forgetting to pick up ingredients for dinner in town, and Melinda was saved for anniversaries and birthdays. It was enough to rock him, to tear his gaze away from the King and onto John Dory — it wasn't right to call them by their names, surely John Dory would say that.

But John Dory said nothing. His face had gone pale, his eyes wide as his free hand reached up to clutch the collar of his shirt. He was panicking. It was a panic that Floyd had only ever seen worn by him and Dad. The type of panic that was saved for when the last note of a song came out flat, or when a loaf of bread that had taken all day to prepare didn't rise properly and burned. It was the type of panic that told Floyd that John Dory had not considered what he would say when their turn came. The type of panic that couldn't be soothed until the song had been sung again and again until each note was perfectly on pitch, or until the sun had long set but, caked in flour, the bread was finally both golden brown and fluffy inside. The type of panic that wouldn't go away until John Dory had found the perfect words to say; words that the panic blinded him to seeing.

Floyd turned to Spruce then. Mom was always the one who had been able to calm them when their hands shook too much or their vision was too blurred with tears to see properly, and Spruce was the one who was always by her side. If anyone would know what to do, it would be Spruce.

But Spruce, too, was looking at John Dory with tears already in his eyes — the same tears that had formed when he'd yelled, waiting for the moment to spill over. The type of tears that turned his voice to nothing more than a hoarse whisper that was nearly unintelligible except for the two words Floyd had learned to decipher: I'm sorry. On Spruce's other side, Clay stood, staring down at the table with an expression that screamed the words he wanted to say but had not yet found the voice to express. And all Floyd could think of was Grandma sitting hollowly in that wheelchair; there would be no stories passed on by their children, and if she could even hear them now, all she would hear spoken of their parents would be the King's own muttered thanks. 

And so, Floyd fished deep within himself and found the words to say, praying that they would be the right ones — the sort of words that Mom was so good at finding.

"Mom likes the flowers most of all." His brothers' eyes turned to him, along with every other pair in the room. Floyd was aware, suddenly, of how high his voice must have sounded, and how silly he must have looked in this shirt Dad promised he would grow into. His skin prickled under the attention, but he continued. "Not the pink ones that smell too sweet. She likes the yellow ones that grow on the vines near the top of the Tree. But, she's scared of being so high up. She always says, when Dad laughs at her, that if Trolls were meant to be that high up, we would have wings. But even though he'd laugh, Dad would surprise her with a bouquet every summer. I used to help her put them into vases. She told me once that he was really bad at pretending, so she always knew when he was gonna bring them home, but she would still act surprised every time. She wanted him to be happy, too."

Spruce sniffled a laughed beside him, hand separating from his to wipe at his eyes. Floyd pulled his other hand free of John Dory and stepped up to the table, ducking his head away from the King's eyes as he reached for the yellow candle symbolizing her. "She would bake him cookies whenever he was sad because she knew they were his favourite. And he would come home and smile as soon as he smelled them, no matter how sad he was. He told me, once, that they weren't even his favourite, but they were now. He didn't care about the figs or the chocolate. It made him happy because she loved him."

Floyd reached for the light green candle then, scooching it close enough that he could press the two of them together, as close as when they would dance together in the living room. "They never let any of us go to bed without a song. But they never wanted to sing without each other. So, we would all climb into their bed, and they would sing us a duet. We started singing, too. After that, none of us wanted to sing without anybody else, and we would all sing our night song together. Then, they would tuck us into bed and tell us about the perfect family harmony. They said if anyone could make it real, it would be us. So long as we loved each other and held each other tight. And now, I don't know what's gonna happen. I know that Death took Mom and Dad away, and we won't get to sing together anymore. I hope that Death took them somewhere nice. I hope it's a place with yellow flowers every season and fig cookies whenever Dad is sad, and I hope they get to sing a duet every night. I hope they can be happy there and not worry so much about us that they forget to have fun. And I hope that someday I can find them there, and we can all sing together again."

There was a long pause once he'd finished. A pause filled only with the crackling of flames and the ever-present sniffles of the crowd; a pause where eyes burned holes into Floyd's back and his heart raced, wondering if he had said something wrong. He let go of the candles and took a step back, almost stumbling into Spruce's waiting hand. Warm fingers clasped his shoulder, and then his brother's arm wrapped around him, pulling him into a half hug.

"Our parents—" Spruce cleared his throat, then started again, more clear this time and without the rasp of tears. — "Our parents were good people. They cared deeply for every person in the community, even if they had never spoken. If you had a hard day and found a care package left anonymously at your door, it was our mother's pleasure to put it together. She didn't care if she was recognized for it or not; she only cared that everyone knew there was someone out there who cared for them. She would be flustered and embarrassed to hear people speaking about her, but it needs to be said how kind and selfless she was. I was better for having her as my mom, and I will try to live my life with the same kindness she did, and I will try to love as wholly as she did — especially as she loved our dad. He lived every day like it was the first day of his life, and looked for the best in everyone, no matter what. He brought a joy to our lives that I- I don't know how to live without. But I'll try. I'll try to make every tomorrow better than yesterday."

Clay sniffed, his palms pressed to his eyes. His mouth opened and closed a few times before finally, he managed to rasp out a sentence. "It's hard to remember anything else, but I don't want to remember them by how I lost them." 

It was then, when Spruce had pulled Clay's face into his shoulder and let him cry, that John Dory squared his shoulders again and began to speak. To anyone else, he would sound put together. But Floyd was clever for his age. He could hear the tension, like the string of a violin pulled too tight and about to snap. No matter how wound up he might have been, holding himself together with nothing more than surface tension, John Dory was nothing if not a writer. And, with the haze of panic beginning to clear, it was second nature to string together the words that waited for him; after all, what was a eulogy but a song without rhythm? "They will live on through all of us. I'm proud to share my father's name, and I will carry their hopes and dreams with me until they can finally come to be. Through Clay, their determination and strength will live on; with each project he undertakes and every hardship he faces, they will carry him through to see it to the end. In Spruce, their love and passion will find an outlet; with everything he does, he will put his — and, in turn, their — all into it, and their love will never really leave us. And Floyd... Floyd carries on their kindness, compassion, and selflessness. When none of us have words, somehow, Floyd finds the ones we all need to hear; when we're lost in the dark, he manages to pull us out, just as they would have. They touched everyone's lives, whether in a big way or small — known or not — and so long as we live, so long as we remember them, they will never truly be gone."   

All Floyd could think, as the room began to fill, slowly but surely, with anecdotes and stories of how their parents had touched people's lives, was that he'd done it. He'd helped. And they had let him. Not only had they let him, but they had encouraged him and praised him. He had done as Mom would have done, calming John Dory from the brink of panic and easing him back to the words he knew how to write; and he had done as Dad would have done, pulling Clay from the fog that had descended upon him. His brothers hadn't turned him away, but rather drawn him in. The King met his eye again as the last of the stories petered out, and he smiled.

Then, he bowed his head and lowered the small burning stick in his hand to the wick of Mom's candle first, then Dad's. "Melinda and Dory, thank you."

When the last candle had been lit, the room was no longer as dark and frightening as it had once seemed when they had first entered. Now, with the light of the countless candles to chase away the chill of the falling night and to warm the grey-tinged faces around them until they almost seemed coloured again, Floyd could feel the love the King had promised was there. It was present in the hands of strangers who reached out to them as they left, accompanied by words of encouragement and promises of whatever they might need. John Dory met their hands thankfully, reciprocating their words with apologies that they couldn't offer the same; faces blurred together as Floyd rubbed his tired eyes, rocking a bit on his feet as the shadows flickering along the walls seemed almost to lull him to sleep. Arms scooped him up, holding him close as his eyelids began to droop, voices muffling together until they gave way to the sounds of the night. Crickets chirped a sweet lullaby and the breeze cooled his flushed cheeks, driving him to nestle closer into the warmth of the arms that held him. 

In this space between wakefulness and sleep, Floyd could almost picture it being his Dad's chest pressed against his cheek — the steady, living thrum of a heart under his ear was his Dad's, and he would laugh and brush away the strands of hair that hung in front of his ears. "It'll tangle if you sleep on it like that," he would tease, "And then, it'll never grow!"  But the teasing never came, and his skin began to itch beneath the tangling hair, and there was no song sung to him when he was carefully laid on his bed. Not even tonight.

But John Dory did sit on the edge of Floyd's bed, pulling the soft quilt up to his chin and pressing a kiss to his hairline. He whispered something then, the words almost lost to the night. It was a promise that Floyd would forget by morning, the sieve that his mind was. It would remain forgotten for a long time, until there was nothing but silence to accompany Floyd, broken only by the rumbling of his stomach and wheezing breaths. When he was imprisoned in his own office, surrounded by as much darkness as there could be in a city as bustling as Mount Rageous, the memory couldn't help but bubble to the surface. And the words, whispered as they had been two decades prior, rang like the tolling of a bell inside Floyd's mind:

"We'll make it real. I promise."

Chapter Text

Floyd had never craved the feeling of spotlights. He’d never wanted to hear the sound of cheers so loud it drowned out all else or to have his face known coast to coast. His priorities had always laid elsewhere, in the softer moments between himself and his guitar, letting his fingers drift along the frets until his aching chest gave way to aching still yet grounding fingers. But he’d done his best with the hand he’d been dealt. It had taken him a long time, but Floyd was content with the life he had built for himself by the time he was approaching thirty. Mostly content. Somewhat content. As much as he could be, Floyd was fine with the life he had built.

The age of BroZone had long passed, and his brief solo career had dwindled in his early twenties — he'd had to disconnect his phone to keep the nonstop ringing at bay and put his foot down when he began to receive home visits — and he had settled down outside Mount Rageous. Finally, the message seemed to sink in that Floyd would never return to the stage, and they left him alone in his home. Custom-built, of course. There weren't many Trolls in this part of the world, after all. At first, he wasn't thrilled to be one of the few. Or even thrilled at all. But, he'd seen just about all the continent had to offer and felt sickly sweet melancholia settle in the back of his throat with each beautiful view. 

Spruce would have loved the rolling waves off the coast, and John Dory would have loved the mountains; Branch would have been giddy to sickness to see all the flowers that grew in the fields between, and Clay would have loved nothing more than to kick his feet up in the nook of a great willow. An itch would set into his skin, then, that only the feel of his feet on the road and the wind rustling his hair as he drove down long winding roads could soothe. Mount Rageous was the first and only place he'd found that didn't dredge up the memories of his brothers, so real the back of his throat began to sting.

They would have hated the city. The constant noise, lights, and bustling of people, every aspect was a deterrent to his family. It was impossible to picture Spruce trying to enjoy a stroll, dodging the feet of pedestrians rushing to their jobs, or to imagine John Dory trying to order a coffee from a cashier more than ten times his size who could hardly hear him. He could even see the tension and stress that would mar Clay's face when the city's noise only grew louder when the sun set. He could imagine it because he had felt it all himself. He was built of the same bricks as his brothers; the stress, frustration, and fatigue that kept them at bay fought to drive Floyd, too, as far as he could get. But, to see where his brothers would have faltered had allowed him to move on, to surpass any space they may have inhabited in his mind, no matter his own discomfort. It had helped him to work towards a future. A future he was mostly okay with. A future he would tolerate.

Floyd opened his own studio with what he'd saved during his career, renting out a room in a building of towering giants who seemed surprised whenever a client passed through his door. Regardless, he persisted where he once would have faltered. In a matter of years, Floyd's solo career was little known, let alone his involvement with BroZone. He wasn’t the Sensitive One or the rising star who had let himself fall from the sky. He was just Floyd, the producer. 

And then, he became Floyd, the teacher.

A pair of dentists living outside the city brought their children to him. He had never dealt with anyone who didn’t have their own image or music prepared to present to him. These twins had nothing to offer, but they’d laid a wad of cash before him. In exchange for Floyd to impart all that he had learned over the years to make them stars, they were willing to pay a sum that could get Floyd out of Mount Rageous. He’d toyed with the idea of following the call beyond the horizon to see where it took him but shook himself back to reality when he remembered the strings of reality that tethered him here: the expenses, his possessions, his career. Deep down, Floyd knew he would throw them all to the wayside if not for the apprehensive fear that bubbled when he glanced out to the horizon. But when he looked into their eyes — neck craned upward despite standing atop his desk — he could see the passion gleaming like stars, and he could hear the call that had long been dormant. And so, for as little as an exclusivity agreement, how could he refuse?

It had been more complicated than Floyd had expected, seeing as the teenagers had no real experience in the industry save for some dances they'd put together and a few karaoke songs they enjoyed. It took a year of imparting all he could — how to read sheet music, basic scales, projection, breath support, attempting to play a few different instruments to varying levels of failure — before Floyd realized that Velvet and Veneer would need more extensive tutoring than he could offer alone. Too many strings had been snapped off guitars, and keys shattered off his piano; too many days had passed with Velvet storming out rather than listening to his feedback. So, he negotiated with their parents; he would provide texts for them to study, and they would ensure there was practice at home. Floyd truly believed that, with the proper guidance and enough effort on their part, the twins could climb to the top.

They, however, didn't seem to take it well. 

"I find that it can help to familiarize yourself with the science behind the theory we're putting into practice. I can tell you about breath support until I'm, well, bluer in the face, but if you don't know what you're supporting or why it's important, I don't think we can get much farther."

"So, you're saying we suck?" Velvet sneered, the list of books Floyd had given her — paid for and ready to be picked up at the library nearest their suburban home — crumpled in her fist.

"No, no, not at all," Floyd raised his hands pacifyingly, as he always did when tempers began to soar, "All I'm saying is that I'm not a scientist. I did all of this ages ago now. I only remember the end result, not the steps to get there. I can't explain it to you in a meaningful way, but if you can read those books, then I can help you to—"

"So why don't you read these stupid books, then do your job and make us stars?"

"Vel," Veneer cut in, "I can read them, it's okay—"

"No!" She slapped away her brother's hand, which had come to rest on her shoulder. "We bought this Troll to make us famous, not to make us read."

Heat rose to Floyd's face instantly, and he found his hands shaking. He crossed his arms over his chest to conceal the tremor, breathing deeply to calm himself. Trying to calm himself. Failing to calm himself. Floyd had heard many things said about him since he left Troll territory; a lot of it was ignorance, simply due to how few of them ventured beyond their borders. But some of it... some of it made him feel like he wasn't an equal here. Sometimes, it made him yearn to be around his own kind, even in that cage where everyone knew his name. But this wasn't an adult sneering at him while he struggled to buy groceries in a city not at all built with him in mind. This was a fifteen-year-old girl who couldn't possibly understand how the words she was saying would sting. He himself had done things far more hurtful when he was her age.

"I'm not going to make you do anything, Velvet," he reassured her, breathing deeply in and then out and then again, "The books are there for you, should you decide you want to read them. But just know that you can't get far without putting in the work to make it there."

She scoffed and threw the crumpled paper in Floyd's direction — a paper that had been hard to get in a size that would fit the twins — before storming out of the room. The door slammed behind her hard enough to rattle the doorframe. Veneer stood there a moment longer, hands wringing in front of him as he looked between Floyd, who was pinching the bridge of his nose to nurse away the beginnings of a headache, and the door. Then, he stooped to pick up the crumpled paper from the floor, stuffed it into his pocket, and ran after his sister.

"Velvet," Floyd sighed, "If I were to write a song for you, it would undermine you as an artist."

They'd had this conversation easily a hundred times since they'd begun working together, though it had rapidly devolved into an argument as time passed. It was hard to keep calm when someone kept pushing the same buttons again and again, only getting more deft as they realized which ones made Floyd tick. He'd wanted to retire when he turned thirty, he remembered. He’d thought this money would be his ticket out, to find a place that didn’t set him on edge every morning. He'd planned to pack up and leave the bustling city with its deafening music and blinding lights in the dust before the sun had even risen to see where life would take him when he followed its call rather than ignore it.

He'd thought it brought him to Velvet and Veneer. Mere weeks before he turned thirty, there they were, hopeful and determined enough to go the distance. What was that, if not a sign? He’d been naive, and he'd postponed retirement indefinitely, and he'd signed a contract. And he'd been locked in with them for almost two years. He couldn't hear the call he'd thought he once heard anymore, not over the shouting arguments Velvet would pick, the slamming of hands onto piano keys or fists into the wall. But still, he stayed. He stayed because how could he leave when that spark of ambition still gleamed in their eyes, no matter how many times they failed? It was a spark that he intended to fan into an inferno that would take Mount Rageous by storm. And also, he was legally bound to them. 

"I'm here to help you find your own path to walk." Instinctually, he raised his hands pacifyingly as her hands clenched into fists. She was more temperamental, still, at sixteen than she'd been at fourteen. "I'm more than happy to help you write a song, but it has to be your own. I have faith that you can do it."

"Come on, Velvet," Veneer tried tiredly, in a display that had become less and less frequent, to bring his sister away from the edge, "Let's just go home."

She, however, was more than practiced in ignoring him. "You've been saying that for two years, Troll! And yet, what have you done to 'help' us? Make us read science books? Learn to do a jazz square? Play the stupid piano? With the amount we pay for you, you should be glad to write a song for us!"

"It's not about that." Where anger should have burned inside him, there was only a faint smouldering heat, oozing smoke that seemed to drain him of his energy. "I'm trying to teach you the skills you need to pursue this long-term. Your voice and creativity aren’t things you can buy. They take time and hard work to develop. You can't just skip to the end of the line with a song you've never seen before and expect everything to work out."

"But, isn't that kinda what you did?" 

Floyd could see the regret flicker across Veneer's face as soon as the words had left his mouth — before Velvet had even had the time to whirl around, the heat of her gaze turned on her brother instead.

"What?" 

"I don't- I mean- It's nothing , I just—"

"You wouldn't bring it up if it was nothing, idiot," her words were strained, pressed through her teeth with great effort, "So I'm asking you what you meant. And you're going to tell me."

"I, uh—" He faltered momentarily, then deflated. "I looked him up while I was at the library. Reading that science book. He was in a band at our age, and they went, like, totally viral, too. I found some old vinyls — uh, sorry."

Velvet's expression had evidently darkened if the way Veneer faltered as her head snapped around again to glare at Floyd was any indication. Anger radiated off her in waves, burning in her eyes in a way utterly unlike and yet all too similar to the spark of ambition he usually saw. A shiver rocketed down his spine as she stepped forward, suddenly too aware of how small he really was. 

"Is that true, Troll?"

"It was my brother's band, not mine. He controlled everything about it — the songs, the choreo, the outfits, our personas — everything. That's why I—"

"So you're a liar." She raised a finger to cut him off, and Floyd found his throat closing in response. He gulped, trying to find within him the authority he should have if he didn't feel so small . If those words didn't cut to his core.

"What?"

"Well, all this talk of faith and honour and blah blah blah, and you're nothing but a hypocrite! You rode someone else's coattails to fame, and now you're acting like you're better than us as if you didn't do the same thing!"

"Velvet, this is incredibly out of line—"

"You're the proof that it works! You would just be a massive nobody without someone else's songs, but you tell us it's wrong?" She was working herself up now, cheeks tinted as she scoffed. She stomped to the edge of the table, bracing one hand on the edge and the other driving a finger into Floyd's chest with enough force to send him stumbling. "You get more attention that way, don't you? You just want to see us fail! Admit it!"

"That's enough!" Floyd rarely found himself raising his voice. But now, with a hand clasped over his bruising sternum, feeling the rapid drumming of his heart beneath his fingers and sweat dripping down the back of his neck —with a furious giant looming over him in a soundproof room where nobody could hear the commotion — Floyd was afraid. Floyd was terrified and scrambling for the control he had lost somewhere down the line to a teenager who'd destroyed hundreds of dollars in his property. He summoned as much strength as he could muster, trying to steady his voice as much as possible. "I've had enough. I want you out of my studio immediately. I'll be calling your parents to terminate our contract, and if you take so much as a step onto my property again, I will call security."

A flash of fear struck the twins like lightning, and Floyd, in turn, felt all of his own draining away. They were children. Cracks began to form in his resolve, and he swallowed thickly as Velvet took a stunned step back. And then, Veneer all but threw himself to his knees in front of Floyd as if reality had finally hit him with all the force of a train.

"Wait!" He pled, and Floyd could hardly bring himself to look at him. "She didn't mean what she said! You- You know how she gets sometimes — she just— Please! You can't do this!"

"I'm sorry, Veneer." And he was. Veneer had never been anything but willing to learn and try . Where Velvet was resistant like the rugged cliffs he'd hiked across on his way out of Troll territory, Veneer was as malleable as the teal-blue waves that lapped the shores. "I truly hope to see you in the charts someday."

The boy's eyes flooded with tears instantly as he was struck with the realization that it was over . And, if not for the pang of guilt that stabbed into his chest like an arrow, Floyd might have noticed the glass in Velvet's hand. By the time his skin had begun to itch with the primal warning that something was wrong, it was already too late. He barely had enough time to roll out of the way as it slammed down, the rim leaving a slight ring of fruit juice where his foot had been. 

"Oh my god!" Veneer cried, his voice muffled by the cup, "Velvet, what are you doing!?"

"He was going to drop us." Her voice was frighteningly still, if not for the slightest quiver. "Did you want that to happen?"

"Well— no, but isn't this illegal or something!?"

A moment passed between the twins. A moment where Floyd's blood roared in his ears, a moment where his body trembled, and his lungs spasmed with panic. Then, Velvet's gaze turned to him, looking him up and down as if searching for something. "I don't see a phone in there. Do you?"

Floyd's stomach dropped through the floor, and he was on his feet before the boy had a chance to respond. He tried not to let his panic be too evident, but it was all coming back to him — the cage that surrounded the Tree, the scent of flowers almost suffocating as Death swooped from the sky, holding his family close and praying it wouldn't be them, the guilt of praying for the death of their neighbours, the horror of the aftermath as friends and family sought each other out with only the light of the twinkling stars, knowing that some would never be found, the grey that descended like a smothering smog— his hands pressed to the glass, perceptions be damned, and he began to plead.

"Let me out. Please. I- I won't tell anybody. Just let me go!"

"Will you still drop us?" On the other hand, Velvet was cold, almost seeming to grow taller as Floyd shrunk in on himself.

"I—" He choked on air, tears burning the corners of his eyes as he imagined even another day with them. "I can give you a letter of recommendation." To someone far away. Someone who wasn't so damn small , who they wouldn't be able to do this to.

"Well, if you're gonna be holding a pen anyways, you might as well write me a song while you're at it."

Floyd faltered. It was an easy trade. He could almost weep at how easy the trade was: a song for his freedom. It was so easy that it pierced through him like a blade, his whole body reverberating with the aftershocks. But it was also so much more than a song.

Ever since he'd left BroZone — since he'd left his brother behind with nothing but a lie to comfort him — Floyd had promised himself he'd never again become a prisoner to the thing he loved most. He'd spent years abstaining from music, the only constant throughout his entire life. His guitar — the only thing he'd saved from his old life — had accumulated a layer of dust and dirt over his travels. Across mountains, beaches, fields, and forests — seeing hundreds of things for the first time that both astounded and saddened him — not even a hum left Floyd's lips. 

Only when he'd settled at the edge of Mount Rageous — when the all-consuming guilt and burning anger gave way to something softer — did he begin to let the music seep back in. Words poured from his pen like an untapped river, releasing the pressure that had built and built inside his ribs, unfaltering until he was completely drained. He wrote songs of yearning, hope for what might be, and mourning for what could have been . Soon after the lyrics were written, he brushed the dirt from his guitar and tuned it for the first time in years, strumming with nothing but the almost foreign feeling of contentment and release as he hummed along. It was as if he'd never stopped. 

Floyd had never written a word he didn't mean nor sang a single note that didn't reverberate deep in his soul. No matter the pressure from artists like vultures who wanted to swoop up his new material, Floyd never gave in. He rented a recording studio with all the money he had left and produced his songs himself. And when labels scrambled to be the one he signed to, Floyd never accepted a single offer no matter the numbers written on the cheques. He refused to ever let himself succumb again to pumping out song after hollow song that meant nothing to him, lest he, too, return to the hollow grey that had consumed his youth. 

He would only be trading one prison for another, though one would be of his own making. Going back on this now, after all that he had lost in obtaining his peace, would make every sacrifice he had made for nought. He thought of Baby Branch — of the hopeful yet sad eyes that had stared back at him, a small hand waving and a smaller voice saying, "See you later," naive to the betrayal Floyd knew he'd grow into. And he knew he'd made his choice.

And he knew it was almost certainly the wrong choice to make.

"I've told you a hundred times. I can't."

Velvet's lip curled back to reveal white teeth, holding her free hand expectantly to her brother. "We'll see what you think in a few days. Veneer, your book."

"Wha— you can't be serious, you want to leave him there?"

"Just until he comes to his senses."

"Until he— th- this is wrong, Vel—"

"Have I ever led you wrong before?"

"I— well, no, but—"

"Exactly." Velvet's voice snapped her brother's mouth shut in the way Floyd knew was instinctual; a wave would always break against a cliff. "The book."

The pleading look Floyd gave Veneer was lost as the boy couldn't seem to look his way. He stooped down and passed to Velvet the very book that had been the source of many arguments. A great shadow fell upon the glass as she lay the book — easily taller than Floyd — on top, giving it an impossible weight. Regardless, Floyd slammed his shoulder into the wall only to bounce off, more injured than the glass was.

Velvet took Veneer's hand then and tugged him to the door, her demeanour that of a regular teenage girl. "Now, let's go. We can stop at the theatre on the way home. I know you've been wanting to watch that new movie—"

The door closed behind them, leaving Floyd well and truly alone. Fear ravaged his chest like a wild animal, almost possessing him with its ferocity. He slammed his fists into the glass until his knuckles split and left a glittery sheen that obstructed his view, and he screamed until his voice was hoarse, though he knew it was in vain. Everyone in the building had grown accustomed to leaving Floyd and his space be — Hell, some of them probably thought he'd gone through with his retirement — and he'd insulated the walls years before to muffle the sounds of constant rehearsal. There was no one to hear his cries. No one would come looking for him. There was nobody at all who would miss him.

And so, in the darkness that quickly consumed his office, Floyd fell to the desk in despair. As the hours passed, without any company but his own thoughts — thoughts which were consumed rapidly by swooping hands he'd once thought were Death itself, an annual funeral that infested their homes with grey, and a once-family that seemed a million miles away — Floyd curled into a ball, and he began to weep. There was nothing at all he could do but wait.

Floyd was sure, at first, that they would return the next day to free him. having come to their senses overnight. And he — after moving as far away as he could — would stay true to his word and keep silent about it all once he'd severed their contract. He'd planned out what he would say to them, rehearsed keeping his voice from shaking. 

But the sun reached the peak of its lazy ascent with only a few people outside his door going about their business — he tried, despite the iron-tinged ache in his throat, to call for help, though he knew it was pointless. The sound of the bustling city seemed almost to taunt him. Laughter and music from people going about their lives, never to fear a being larger than them playing with their lives as they pleased. And then, the sun began to dip again, passing through the small portion of the sky his window allowed him to see. His stomach had long since started to growl, and his tongue was so dry that it rubbed like sandpaper against the roof of his mouth. But still, the sun continued to set until he was left in darkness again.

One day turned to two, the air beneath the glass thick and heavy, and then two to three. Floyd had surpassed the point of tears, his cheeks long dried and eyes sunken and sore. He'd ridden the waves of anger, screaming until he couldn't breathe and beating his swollen hands against the glass until he collapsed, and he'd entertained the delusions that this was somehow all a sick dream that he'd wake from any minute. But this wasn't a dream. As he watched the sun set for a fourth day in a row, he felt himself sinking into the aching pit of acceptance. He was going to die here.

He would die a liar, having never made right the wrongs from a lifetime ago. He was going to die having never gotten to meet the man his baby brother had grown into, having never made amends with his brothers, whom he'd never gotten to forgive; the resentment and love he felt for them at once still fought inside his chest even now, trying to decide if he'd rather die vindicated or at peace.

In the end, he hardly noticed the door to his office creaking open, the hinges unoiled. He'd been curled up on the floor for days, his chin tucked into his chest as his breaths came laboured. It was only when voices, muffled by the glass, filtered into his ears that he realized he wasn't alone anymore.

"Oh my God, he's dead!"

"No, he's not, idiot! Look, he's breathing."

"Please." Floyd's dry lips cracked as he spoke the word, his larynx aching and dredging up the taste of blood. It was all he could manage. "Please."

"Have you changed your mind?" Velvet crossed her arms, unwavering despite the state he was in.

His throat burned, and his eyes would have welled with tears if he'd had the water to spare. "Please."

"That sounds like a no to me." Velvet hummed, pressing a finger to her chin as if considering her options. "I don't know, Veneer. Do you think another day would change his mind?"

"No—!"

"Velvet, I—" He withered under her look, arms wrapping around himself. "Another day might change his mind."

"Exactly what I was thinking."

"Please—"

"Well," Velvet continued, turning away from Floyd as if he weren't begging for his life, "I would hate to have made the trip downtown for nothing, so what do you say we go to that diner up the street? You like their milkshakes, don't you?"

Veneer's eyes lingered on him momentarily, and Floyd felt his heart sink through the earth. Then, he looked away. "Okay. Do you wanna go save a table? I need to use the bathroom first."

"Whatever. Just hurry up, okay?" She flicked her long ponytail over her shoulder and left without another glance at her prisoner.

Floyd could only close his eyes. He might have begun to laugh at the situation if he was a bit farther gone. He was going to die trapped under a glass that was sticky with fruit juice. 

And then, a cool rush of air swept over him, replacing the thick, stale air he'd been breathing for days. His eyes shot open as he gasped, sucking in deep, sweet breaths of fresh air; his lungs ached, but he didn't care. He could have cried.  

The glass was in Veneer's hand, not lifted but tilted to one side. If he'd had the energy, Floyd would have thrown himself through the gap in a desperate attempt to escape. But, as it was, he barely had the strength to hold his head up. So, he watched as a far-too-large piece of a granola bar slid in, followed by a water-filled cap. And then, as quick as it had been raised, the glass was back on the desk, and the book was replaced on top of it. Then Veneer rushed out of the room without a word.

Floyd stared at the offering, and he wished he could throw it back in the boy's face — wished he had the voice to scream, the strength to refuse it. But he had neither of those things. He dragged himself over, and he ate and drank until his stomach was full. And then, he cried. Even the one who seemed to care, to know the difference between right and wrong, had no intention of freeing him. He was going to stay here, stuck teetering between life and death at the whim of those he'd had faith in above all others.

For the first time, there was nothing Floyd could do to make this better. For the first time in his life, Floyd felt completely and utterly helpless.