Chapter Text
Floyd twists around again, furiously huffing to himself as he tries to find a comfy spot on his bed to finally sleep! It’s been hours - let him sleep!
He’s annoyed, he can’t deny
and embarrassed
at himself because he knows exactly how to get to sleep when he normally has trouble but he can’t do that tonight because he was also annoyed at JD.
Brozone has broken up like two days ago now and he wants his space so he can safely be mad at John, but at the same time, he desperately wants his big brother back.
He wants his warm hugs and gentle songs and his heartbeat in his ear as they dance until Floyd falls asleep.
What I need is sleep, he reminds himself stubbornly but he’s been trying for hours and he’s at his wits end and he knows John isn’t in his room, so he gets out of bed and spares a look at the silently sleeping Clay, tip-toeing out of the room. He closes the door behind him and checks on Branch first.
He presses his ear to Branch’s door and listens for any sounds of distress but finds… nothing. He really should check up on his baby brother soon, he’s been super quiet lately
but he’s said his goodbyes and he can’t face the trolling like a coward.
Floyd needs to try and remember to ask Gramma about moving pods again. Branch’s room is tiny and it won’t last him forever, but when he asked last time Gramma only smiled mysteriously and said, “He only needs it for a little longer” and then never gives an explanation.
He carries on walking to JD’s and Spruce’s room and knocks on their door, waiting for a reply but getting nothing. So he opens the door and looks around, checking just in case but again, there is no John or Spruce. He idly takes a look around and doesn’t see anything out of place, he wonders if John was bluffing when he said he was going to the Never Glade Trail? He doesn’t know - he’s too tired to care right now.
Floys flops on JD’s bed and is surrounded by the smell of him and he closes his eyes and hopes this is enough to soothe him to sleep, before a thought hits him, I need music . He flings himself back up off the bed and goes to John’s desk, moving the chair out the way and looking at the stack of vinyls he’s always kept under there.
Floyd is looking for a specific vinyl before he even thinks about it. The record hidden in the rattiest sleeve, held together mostly with tape over the years and he skillfully slides it out from the others without sending the stack tumbling. He stands and takes it out gently, putting the record on the turntable and lowering the arm, lowering the volume to just about silent.
“ My lover's got humour. She's the giggle at a funeral, ” He smiles as the music plays, filling in the silence with piano notes and Floyd sways his body, but it doesn’t feel right. He always has John with him to dance with, “ Knows everybody's disapproval. They should've worshipped her sooner. ”
When he was little he always wondered why they had a song like this - he didn’t complain, just wondered. It wasn’t Pop - he wondered where it came from. He wonders if mom brought it back with her. He's never asked.
“ If the heavens ever did speak. She's the last true mouthpiece. Every Sunday's getting more bleak. A fresh poison each week. ”
He groans in annoyance when his arms flop at his sides, he doesn’t know what to do with them. He glares around and looks at the bed, having an idea and grabbing a pillow to hold to his chest with his arms. Much better, “ We were born sick. You heard them say it. My church offers no absolutes. She tells me, ‘Worship in the bedroom’ .“
Floyd remembers when he was younger. He's always had trouble sleeping and he used to crawl into John’s bed when he was a baby, or at least that's what his brothers tell him - that John was the only one who could stop him from crying, “ The only heaven I'll be sent to, is when I'm alone with you. ”
“ I was born sick. But I love it, ” John always made him feel better by dancing. Whether it was dancing to records like this, or John would sing one himself. He loved John’s voice. Or sometimes just in silence, swaying until Floyd’s brain got the message and let him sleep .
“
Command me to be well. A-a-a-a-a-a-a, amen, amen, amen,
” Besides he’s thirteen now - he needs to stop relying on John so much. He’s nearly a fully grown troll! He needs to start sleeping without help - even if that thought is the one that nearly breaks him.
Not Brozone splitting, but not having John around to dance with. How stupid is he?
“ Take me to church. I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies. I'll tell you my sins, and you can sharpen your knife, ” He mouths along to the lyrics, yawns interrupting, blinking slowly and he simply flops back onto JD’s bed, pillow under his belly uncomfortably but he doesn’t move it. It’s almost like John’s here with him - comforts him enough to let him sleep, “ Offer me that deathless death. Oh good God, let me give you my life. Take me to church. ”
0o-o0
He’s gently woken up when the sunlight comes in through the haphazardly closed curtains and Floyd yawns, jaw cracking. He turns his head out of the sun and lets his body lay limp, eyes lazily trailing about.
The desk catches his eye and a binder is in the bin. It sends a jolt through him - John loves that binder. It's his song binder, why is it in the bin?!
Floyd jerks up, trotting to the bin and taking it out, he goes back to the bed and sits down, eyes taking in every little detail of the folder. It was a solid teal cover, buttery smooth like leather and worn down from age, the corners worn. There were a few random dots and squiggles that accumulated over the years and in the corner, right at the bottom in neat, loopy script read: For John Dory .
John’s had it at least before Floyd was hatched, he remembers John always used to carry it around with him if he had an extra five minutes.
Whether he was cooking and had it open on the side to flutter over to between when stirring the meal or bringing it along in preparation for Floyd to sleep and trap John in a sleep-hug, or when he was soothing Branch’s egg with one hand and the other was free to scribble with.
This was John’s song book. He'd never been shy about it, always telling them if they asked, but they'd never looked. It felt… personal. Considering the things Floyd himself had sometimes brainstormed and tried to write, he didn’t want to intrude on JD’s privacy like that.
But now… the curiosity was getting to him. Did John put it in the bin? Why?
Could he… take a peak?