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Janice really should’ve known this was coming. The truth of it is, she doesn’t like this part of herself, and subsequently likes to ignore any and all signs it might be coming out to play. Janice is all for free expression and self-compassion and living as the truest version of oneself, but that isn’t to say she doesn’t struggle with a few nasty forms of repression from time to time.
Being alive is confusing sometimes.
There’s always something about it that makes Janice feel nearly like an animal. She slides her face down from Floyd’s chest to his lap, nuzzling into his stomach, and when nothing more happens—please, please—Floyd sits up against her nest of pillows.
Thank God.
“Oh, hey, mama.” He murmurs. He immediately lays a firm hand on Janice’s back as she curls up tight, the other stroking the crown of her head. “‘S alright, baby. You feelin’ like that again?”
Having been together for so long, Janice is embarrassed and relieved that Floyd is familiar with these occasional dips in her mood. Dips is an understatement, really, but how else can she explain it? Chill, free-loving flower children don’t feel like this. They certainly aren’t meant to. This is part of the little negative spiral Janice finds herself in, and said spiral sends her further down into the greater, more general whirlpool of upset. Totally grody.
“Floyd.”
“I’m right here, baby, I gotcha. ‘S all good. Safe and sound up here.”
Janice nuzzles further into his stomach, the ache in her chest intensifying. Her hands are pressed tight to her breasts, knees curled up, bare legs crossed at the ankle. She probably should’ve anticipated this episode when she was drawn to the longest, frumpiest nightgown she owns. She’s pretty sure it might actually be from when she was a teenager, all thin and soft and queasy-comforting.
Janice whimpers.
“Awww, c’mon, baby.” Floyd leans down over Janice, casting a reassuring shadow over her as he strokes her hair. “None of that. Let’s get it all out, yeah? Right here, Floyd’s gotcha.”
That’s enough to do it. It always is. Janice sniffles, and hiccups, and then starts to cry freely, face mashed into Floyd’s middle. She’s sure it isn’t comfortable for him, wet and unpleasant and all horrendous vibes, but he doesn’t move from her, cooing a continuous string of soothing nonsense, firm hand rubbing up and down her back.
Letting the feelings come freely, Janice lays a hand on Floyd’s thigh, then pulls back again, needing to touch him and not wanting to touch him there, scared that it might make him think something about her. It’s stupid and irrational and super, major sexist of her, but with her nerves as jangled as they are and Janice so unused to this massively unrighteous state, she always finds herself thinking that if she can touch Floyd just right—or not touch him at all—she can finally feel good.
“Let’s c’mon up, ok? I’m right here, baby, I’m not goin’ anywhere. Yeah, just let it out. Got nowhere to be, Jan, you got all the time you need.”
Floyd gently manoeuvres her, laying back, bringing her up to rest against his chest. Janice gratefully loops her arms around his neck as he does around her waist. She’s half torn between kissing him dizzy and shying away from it, from even the impulse. Is there something, like, really, actually wrong with her, that she can’t even be this miserable without thinking about that? But she’s ugly now, crying uncontrollably, and she needs to convince Floyd, somehow, that she’s worth staying with—pure enough to have earned his attention or impure enough to be fun.
This sets off a fresh wave of sobbing, and Floyd simply holds her, pressing kisses to the top of her head, humming quietly. He doesn’t seem annoyed, just troubled, his normally mellow aura radiating worry-love-worry in anxious waves.
Eventually, the storm rolls by, and Janice finally finds herself with nothing left to give. She sniffles.
“Poor baby.” Floyd murmurs, and there isn’t an ounce of condescension in his tone. “Real good job, sugar. I think you needed that outta your system.”
Janice nods up against his chest. She peels back a little and Floyd immediately takes the opportunity to brush away a few lingering tears clinging to her eyelashes in a ticklish motion. Janice manages a weak sort of giggle.
“Thanks…”
“Jan, baby, you know I love you. You don’t gotta bottle it all up, mama. ‘S real bad for you.”
Janice knows this, of course, but the condemnation still sends cagey anxiety fluttering in her chest—I’m sorry I can fix it like what do you want—and righteous anger boiling in the pit of her stomach—It’s my life I can do what I want you’re not my—and it’s all so embarrassing Janice could scream.
She settles for a muffled groan instead, turning back into Floyd’s chest. There’s a little part of her waiting, wondering when Floyd is going to leave, get fed up with the sniffly, pathetic looking creature in the ugly nightgown whose tears he’s currently soggy with and hightail it out. Worse—better?—, she wonders when he’s going to trail his hands under her skirt and roll her over and take what he deserves after an evening of emotional babying.
“I know.”
She manages, eventually, when neither of these outcomes manifest. Floyd just lies there with his fingers combing ever-steady through the silky cords of Janice’s hair.
“You’re a real great lady, Janice. You don’t gotta have anybody think it to know it’s true. Hell, don’t need me to sign off on it…but we all think so. Me and the band and everyone at work…anyone with a brain. I mean, you’re foxy, you got a great body, but—you got a good soul, mama. A good heart. And I love ‘em all.”
There’s a real risk of Janice bursting into tears again, so she simply clings to Floyd, trying to channel her emotions into him through the contact. He has to understand what this means to her, even if there aren’t the words in any language, living or dead, to truly express it.
“I love you.”
She whispers, because it’s close, and Floyd bends to kiss her on the mouth, closely, chastely.
“I love you too, Jan. Got it real bad for you, sugar.”
“Don’t go.” She bursts, immediately wincing at how not chill it sounds. Mercifully, Floyd doesn’t seem to get freaked by her sudden clinginess. “Like, stay…please?”
“They’d have to get me outta here with a crowbar. Now, here, c’mon, just gettin’ us comfy.”
Floyd manoeuvres them both a little, grabbing a blanket from somewhere in Janice’s nest to drape over them both, tucking Janice in as she curls up tight again. She’s probably going to wake up baking hot and massively uncomfortable in the middle of the night, but it’s worth it for now, and worth it to know that when she does wake up, sweaty and sticky and unattractive, Floyd will still be right here beside her.
*
In the morning, Floyd hovers around Janice, helping her wash her hair in the shower and fastening her necklace. Sweet little things, just tokens of his affection she can turn over throughout the day. They go downstairs together to find the rest of the band there halfway through either making or eating breakfast.
“Hey, babydoll.” Zoot murmurs, sleep-hazy still. He might just’ve woken up from his first nap of the day. “Over here. I got an arm free.”
Floyd gives her a peck on the cheek and Janice extracts herself from his arms, heading to Zoot’s instead. He’s comfortingly familiar in a different way, lovely to snuggle into as his breathing evens and slows. She watches Floyd take over hash brown duty so Teeth can get more orange juice, Lips read his magazine and get it—and himself—covered in powdered sugar, and it all makes her smile, their family. That’s what they are, really. A totally different, totally loving family.
“Your breakfast should be ready most imminently, good lady of song.” Teeth calls, waving his spatula haphazardly. “But I’m afraid I lack the details on its hereabouts.”
Animal, who’s had his head stuck in the fridge for a good ten minutes, finally emerges and skitters over to Janice, presenting her with a bowl of what looks like berries and coconut flakes and a generous amount of chocolate piled precariously high.
“Açai! Açai!” Animal chants, bouncing a little on his toes. A few blueberries roll off onto the floor. “Animal make Açai!”
Janice takes the Açai bowl, such as it is, with a trembling hand and, overcome with emotion, reaches up with the other to scratch Animal’s head. He makes a rumbly-growled noise of contentment. Janice feels loved, more profoundly than should be possible. But it’s an irrefutable, undeniable truth. Everybody in this house, in this band, loves her and one another as wildly and fiercely, as truly and deeply, as she loves all of them.
Animal sniffs at the air, then whips his head around, breaking away from Janice’s touch. Floyd has taken on a kind of wrestling stance in front of the stove as Teeth does something hurriedly in their big cast iron pan.
“SAUSAGE!”
Animal shouts, making a beeline sprint towards the pan and, thankfully, into Floyd’s arms. It’s a noble struggle.
“It’s still raw, man! People think we starve you when you do that!”
Lips comes over to give Animal a few pieces of conciliatory Danish. Beside her, Zoot hardly stirs. Janice smiles, her heart light, and pops a piece of chocolate into her mouth.