Chapter Text
Breathe.
Floyd reminds himself as he sits between Branch and John Dory in the waiting room of Pop Village’s lone little doctor’s office. It's only been a week since the three of them (plus Poppy and Tiny) arrived back in the village but Branch had wasted absolutely zero time booking Floyd an appointment and Floyd hadn't even tried to protest his urgency. He couldn't. He promised his brothers he would go and so….
Floyd takes a deep breath. Shaky. His hands are clenched together in his lap to keep them from doing the same and it's what he’s concentrating on when he hears Branch’s voice asking, “You alright?”
Floyd turns to shoot his brother a smile. “Fine!” Said smile dips slightly as he moves his gaze back down to his lap, hands unclenching so he can cup them tight around his knees. “Just…. nervous.”
Paper rustling as Branch shifts his hold on the magazine he’s been reading. Carefully placing his own hand over one of Floyd’s. Reflexively Floyd tenses, for just a single second but it's enough for Branch to notice, keeping his hand exactly where it is and not pressing down any more than he already is.
“It's gonna be okay.” Branch isn't one for lengthy reassurances, Floyd’s learned. He says what he needs to say to get the ball rolling again and throws himself right back into the action but still, Floyd finds all the comfort he needs in Branch’s small smile. He lets himself relax just the tiniest bit.
John Dory, on the other hand….
“Hey, you said yourself that you’ve been feeling better this week, right?” John doesn’t shift from where he’s been reclining, arms crossed behind his head with a casual grin that feels weirdly out of place for the situation. Scoffing: “Watch, you’re gonna come out of there and you’re going to feel stupid for ever coming here!”
His smile drops. “Wait, that didn’t come out right—”
But he doesn’t get the chance to edit his statement before the three of them are suddenly startled by a new voice calling out, “Floyd?”
Floyd jumps, heart suddenly in his throat, but it’s only a troll, a squat green troll leaning out the doorway of the examining room with a clipboard in their hand. Squinting down at it as they adjust their glasses. “Is Floyd here?”
Breathe breathe breathe running through Floyd’s mind as he wills himself to stand up. “Y-yeah, that’s me!” Pushing himself forward.
“Come with me.”
And he does, obediently, but not before he turns around just briefly enough to catch an encouraging smile from Branch and a mouthed ‘Good luck!’ from John Dory. An enthusiastic thumbs-up.
Floyd offers back a shaky smile as he disappears through the doorway.
“Your brother explained your…. situation to me.” The doctor helping Floyd up onto the examining table before proceeding to bustle around the room, picking up and setting down equipment that definitely isn’t doing any favors for Floyd’s anxiety. “I admit I had to do a bit of research. Cases like yours were rare even in the pre-Trollstice era.”
They’re snapping on the lamp right next to Floyd as they say this, and the sudden glare paired with those words only help to make Floyd’s heart rate spike even more. Troll almighty. Even so, Floyd blinks the spots out of his eyes and says, genuinely curious, “There were others like me?”
“Of course; methods for harvesting troll essence go way back.” And the doctor was starting to smile at this explanation, but one look at Floyd’s wide-eyed stare has them frowning again, an embarrassed little hmm! “But you probably don’t want to hear about that, do you?”
“......Um—”
Nevermind: the doctor’s already coming at Floyd with an otoscope. “So tell me, Floyd. What have you been feeling?”
It doesn’t take very long for Floyd to run down the list of symptoms, the doctor checking through their own list of basic tests all the while, pausing only to reply with an “Mm-hm” or to take notes on their clipboard. By the time Floyd’s finished his voice is starting to go shaky, throat dry, and even though he’s just been sitting here talking he’s somehow starting to feel exhausted, which makes one last thing to note to the doctor, one last decisive “Mm-hmm!” and pen stroke.
With the examination done the only sounds in the room are the rustling of papers and the ticking of the clock over the door. That, and the steady thump of Floyd’s own pulse in his ears, but he doubts the doctor can hear that. He’s gripping the edge of the examining table. Like he’s afraid he’s going to fall off if he doesn’t.
Finally, after a few minutes, the doctor speaks up again. “Well, looking at the symptoms you described, we’re most likely looking at some form of…. long-term damage.”
Thump thump thump. Floyd barely recognizes his own quiet reply. “....Damage.”
“It would explain the tremors.” The doctor flipping through their own notes. “And the, ah. The pain.” At this they flick their eyes back up towards Floyd, face not quite stoic enough to mask their concern. “Your hair too, I think.”
That part gets enough of Floyd’s attention to snap him back to reality, even if only by a bit. “My…. my hair?” Unconsciously his hand reaches up to clutch at his bangs. Deep pink fading to white at the roots. He’s looked in a mirror exactly once since leaving Mount Rageous. He’s been carefully avoiding them since.
“Yes—have you tried using it since the…. the incident?”
I hadn’t thought about…. But Floyd can’t tell if he’s actually said it aloud. His fingers continue to tangle in his hair. Someone’s muffled words drone on in the distance.
“....not all bad news! We can start you on physical therapy for your hands and move up from there….”
Snapped out of it again by the feeling of something being pressed into his hands. Floyd blinks—it’s two small sachets, each with a tag tied to its drawstring. The doctor points to each one in turn, explaining “This one for pain management, and this one is to help with the fatigue.” And Floyd is still processing this when now the doctor is handing him another item, this time a card. “I’m scheduling you for a consultation in two weeks but don’t be afraid to come back before then if you find yourself struggling.” Finally they step back, push their glasses up with their best reassuring smile. “Anything else you’d like to talk about?”
For a few moments Floyd just sits there on the examination table, hands full, gears in his head whirring as they desperately try to catch up to reality. “I…. I, uh….”
Breathe
The command cuts through so suddenly that it startles him, but: Floyd takes a deep breath, shoulders tensing, and he doesn’t open his eyes when he says, to the point:
“When you say long-term….. how long-term do you mean, exactly?”
The doctor seems to ponder this, hand to the back of their neck. “....I can’t say for certain. Best case scenario it’s only a matter of months, but otherwise….”
For the first time all visit, they can’t seem to think of what to say. Floyd meets their apologetic look with a quiet “....Oh.” Dropping his gaze back down.
“....You’re going to be okay.” He can hear the doctor stepping closer. Voice sympathetic. “I know things sound bad, but the prognosis is good! I’m here if you ever need my help, and I’m sure your family feels the same.”
That’s right, his family. Floyd’s mind briefly flashes to Branch and John Dory out in the waiting room.
(We need you, brother)
Another deep breath. Lifting himself up once more.
“Thank you.”
“Soooooo how’d it go?” John Dory is the first to greet Floyd outside, already leaping out of his seat. Big smile plastered on in an effort to come off as inviting. Floyd starts to answer “Goo—” before he remembers about the bags he’s still holding onto. His first instinct is to tuck them up into his hair but— wait. He stops himself mid-motion, quickly shifting gears to fumble the things into his pocket before his brothers can ask questions.
“It went good.” Awkwardly clearing his throat. Not looking up at either of them. “It…. actually went pretty good.”
“What was that?” Too late: Branch signals pointedly to Floyd’s pocket. Mentally Floyd kicks himself.
“Oh. They just gave me some meds, it’s fine.” Tacked on at the end to maybe hopefully assuage some of their concern. But:
“Meds?” John’s voice overlaid with Branch’s going “Hey!” as he reaches out to stop John Dory from charging. Immediately he starts to protest— ”What??” —before another pointed look from Branch gets him to drop it. Not without an annoyed scoff.
One more firm glare and Branch is turning back to Floyd, face softening. “What else did they say? Is everything alri—”
“Can we talk about this after we get back?”
Floyd only doesn’t notice the new look Branch and John Dory share because he’s cringing away from them, suddenly wishing he could take the outburst back. Arms coming up to clutch at one another.
If I have to be here for one more second I’m GOING to explode
“....Please.” Voice gone small.
If there’s something else either of them wants to say, they keep it to themselves for now. Instead all Branch says in reply is a gentle “Yeah. Okay, yeah,” and he moves to shoulder the door open.
One long and slightly awkward walk across town later, Floyd finds himself seated in the kitchen in Branch’s elaborate underground bunker. Not exactly what Floyd had pictured when Branch said he’d built the hideout but there’s only so much they’ve had time to unpack in the week he’s been staying here and if he’s being honest, it hasn’t exactly been Floyd’s biggest concern these past few days.
Speaking of: Floyd slowly swirls a spoon in his mug of tea as he sits in nervous silence, trying to work up the nerve to speak. Figure out what exactly he wants to say. Around him at the table Branch and John Dory fiddle with their own mugs, alternating between sharing worried glances and sneaking peeks at Floyd. The room is so quiet it’s painful.
Finally, Floyd steels himself with another deep breath. “They said….” Nope, try again: his voice comes out feeble. One more long inhale and: “....they said there might be some. Long-term damage.”
Through half-lidded eyes he makes out their reaction—the sharp clench of Branch’s jaw, John’s eyes going wide. It takes all of Floyd’s willpower to finish the rest and even then he’s mostly just repeating the doctor’s words. “So. Th-that would explain everything.”
Petering out into silence. Again. Having said what he needed to say Floyd lets himself sink lower in his chair, hands wrapped around the warm tea mug but lacking the strength to really lift it.
“....Okay.” Branch is the first to break the tension, all stone-cold determination. “So what’s the game plan? They’re not just going to send you on your way with a few pills, are they?”
Floyd finally does lift his mug. Shakes his head. “Nn—no, they said they were going to start me on physical therapy.” Sip. “I guess we’ll go from there.”
“That’s it?” John lifting himself slightly from his seat so he can lean his palms on the table. “Two months in the hole and this is the best they can do??”
“Calm down, John—”
“You said so yourself, B!” Turning to Branch as he gestures frustratedly towards Floyd. “You’ve seen how bad he gets! There’s gotta be something else we can do besides—”
“And you really think getting mad at Dr. Chamomile will help with anything?” Now all of Branch’s attention has shifted to John Dory, both of them oblivious to Floyd now shooting them each a nervous glance. “Look, instead of going over to yell at them, why don’t we try asking them to consult with doctors from the other kingdoms? There’s a chance that they might—”
“Guys…”
“And if they don’t know, either? What are we supposed to do then—”
“Guys—”
“Then we’ll figure it out! But you being stubborn isn’t going to help him any—”
“GUYS!”
Branch and John Dory swivel their heads towards Floyd, abruptly silent, both taken aback. Floyd’s glaring between the two of them and maybe it’s a good thing they’re both too shocked to notice that Floyd’s started shaking again.
For what feels like the hundredth time today, Floyd makes himself take a deep breath. There’s a headache starting up behind his temples. Great. “It’s okay. Really.” This time when he looks between his brothers it’s with a look gone soft. Pleading. “Please…. I don’t want you two arguing with each other because of me.”
“We’re not—” But this time John Dory doesn’t need Branch to intervene. He stops himself, seems to bite back whatever he was going to say next and instead lets it out as a resigned exhale. Picking up his mug to take a swig from it if only to give himself something to do. Beside him Branch flushes guiltily, biting his lip.
“....You’re right. I’m sorry.”
The last of Floyd’s resolve goes sailing out the window hearing Branch say that. This time when he sinks into his chair there’s no relief tied to it at all. His limbs feel like jelly. “It’s okay, Branch.” It happens almost automatically. “I know you’re worried.”
Again, he doesn’t notice the look that passes between his brothers because he’s abruptly bringing himself to his feet, gripping the edge of the table hard when he comes dangerously close to slipping back down. The still half-full mug on the table rattles.
“Can you guys excuse me for a minute?” Because the two of them are already reaching out for him, but he only catches a glimpse of their worried faces, then the floor beneath him, and finally a doorknob rattling in his hand as he shuts the bathroom door behind him, muffling everything else besides his own racing heartbeat.
He leans himself over the sink, head pressed against the mirror hanging over it, and wills himself to just breathe, dammit, pulling in long, shaky breaths.
(will you pull yourself TOGETHE)
“It’s okay….” Whispered to himself in between inhales. “You’re going to be okay….”
For the first time in days, Floyd looks up into the mirror.
Even in the room’s dim lighting he can make out the dark circles under his eyes. He spends so much of his time sleeping now and yet they’re still there. Still so tired all the time….
He doesn’t want to, but he can’t stop himself. His eyes drift up towards his hair.
Deep pink fading to white at the roots. Unconsciously his hand comes up to tangle in his bangs, tug them down further over his weary face.
He wills something to happen.
Nothing does.
Floyd’s pulse pounding in his throat. He swallows hard, hand fisting tighter in his hair and he squeezes his eyes shut, concentrating so hard the ache building in his temples explodes and makes his stomach lurch.
“Come on come on PLEASE….”
Nothing. Floyd’s hair doesn’t budge an inch.
He opens his eyes again in time to catch his reflection going pale, eyes wide and glassy. Hand clenched so tight it’s starting to hurt.
Oh.
Oh no.
“....Floyd? Are you okay in there?”
The knock at the door makes him jump, gasping, knocking his knee against the sink and causing tears to spring into the corners of his eyes but he blinks them back furiously, suddenly reaching over to crank open the faucet and the sound of running water.
“Y-yea—I’m fine!” He answers Branch in a tone that’s a little too loud, even over the din of him tremblingly cupping his hands under the faucet and splashing water into his face. Another gasp. “Just give me a second!”
“....Oh. Okay.” But he can tell from the shadows under the door that Branch isn’t moving away, and as Floyd snaps the water off again to reach for a towel he allows himself one last look in the mirror.
Nothing’s changed. Water drips down from his chin onto the floor. He should probably clean it up and spare Branch the trouble. This is his brother’s home after all.
One last deep breath. Floyd presses the towel to himself and turns to open the door.