Archive of Our Own

“Could you be a little more gentle with my hair John?”

“Sorry bro bro, let me just get this last tangle.” Floyd watched as John focused on the left side of his hair, delicately holding the strands with barely any force. Floyd sighed, this wasn’t any better than the brute strength he’d been using earlier, they were going to be here forever.

Swiftly grabbing the comb from his brother’s hand, he held his hair by the roots and quickly brushed out the last section they were on. 

“Aw it’s perfect Floyd!”

Smiling faintly, he nodded at his brother. Looking in the mirror he could see how both of their hairstyles looked identical. Down to the very ends of their hair. His brother had made sure every small detail was perfect.

Perfect, always perfect.

He was a bit tired of hearing that word.

Glancing up at his brother, he could see the bags under his eyes and the rigidness of his smile. The harsh light of the room wasn’t doing his brother any favors, the shadows seeming to age him about ten years.

“John, have you thought about taking a break with all of this?” Twisting his fingers in his lap, he looks to the side, making sure to look as uninterested as he could. He knows that trying to start a conversation on this subject could go south if he phrased it as a request. 

“Not really. Maybe later Floyd, after we do the Perfect Family Harmony!” John laughed as he patted his shoulder, walking out of the room in a hurry. 

It’s not like his brother’s response had surprised him. John had been tightly lipped about how he had been feeling for ages now. The only recent change was the sudden obsessive behavior and stress with all the things pertaining to the band. If he’d been a clam before, now he would be comparable to a safe in a bank vault buried underneath the Bergen King’s throne. 

Sighing, he pulled off his pants and put on their stage outfit. He couldn’t help but grimace at the image he made. He looked just like the rest of his brothers. Sounded like them too. Where was he beginning and his brothers ending? 

He’d been meaning to talk to John about a solo career but every time he looked at the subtle droop in his ears and the bags under his brother's eyes he held his tongue. He didn’t want to be the one to crack the thin ice that everyone was standing on. It’s a balancing act that’s been feeling just a bit harder lately.  

Walking out into their den he couldn’t help but look at Branch sitting in his highchair eating some blue yuji berries, a bright orange bib around his neck. Floyd couldn’t help but poke the baby’s side when he gave him a toothy grin. 

“Bee! How could you!” Floyd gasped out with as much dramatic flair as he could

“What?” Branch laughed a bit of confusion coloring his voice. 

“You’re eating blue berries Branch; you’re eating your own people!” He shoots his hands out to tickle him again, smiling at the bell like laughter that rushes out of his brother. His brother raises his arms up in the universal sign to be picked up and Floyd can’t help but oblige. Moving his bowl over a bit, he holds him and grimaces at the blue stained hands so close to his hair and jacket.

“I get to perform with you today, Flo! It’s going to be awesome!”

“Can’t wait Bee!”

Hearing footsteps coming from the hallway he turned his head and saw the rest of his brothers come out. John was smiling so widely it looked painful, while the other two were frowning a bit, annoyance written all over their faces. 

John grabbed a napkin and came close to the two wiping Branch’s face and hands quickly. He’s got a soft look in his eyes, but Floyd can tell he’s feeling conflicted about something. The look makes him feel a little bold all the sudden

“Hey John?”

“Hm?”

“Let’s take a break after this tour, even if it’s not long, any kind of moment to take a breather would be nice.”

It’s quiet for a moment, something brittle is filled in his face and body but John just huffs a bit and agrees. It’s not the boisterous energy he typically gives but the slight nodding of his head is enough. 

His agreement doesn’t stop Floyd from wondering why he'd been so hesitant looking. What was so important about this tour and the harmony that he was willing to go so far? As they started to make their way to the venue he couldn't help but dwell on this thought. 

Pushing his thoughts back as they reached their destination, he couldn’t resist watching everything come together. The lights, audience and his brothers. Watching John fly between all the brothers he can’t help but exhale a long breath at the overwhelming and erratic energy coming off his brother. 

“Bro, you look stressed. Breathe.”

“Well, of course I’m stressed, Floyd. It’s the first show of the tour. We have to hit the per-” 

And then Floyd saw John stop, his very breath halting in his chest. Floyd watches, something weary and anxious, slowly filling his body. It’s not super noticeable at first, not really. But then the sudden silence stretches a little too long, loud in its unnerving quiet. 

John wasn’t blinking. His chest wasn’t moving.

It feels like both ten minutes and ten seconds have passed. Something forever etched in the creaking breath that his brother suddenly takes. Floyd should be asking if he’s okay, why he stopped talking. But something feels wrong, his mouth feels glued together and the hair on his arm is standing up. He feels like a lighter failing to come on. Floyd swears he can almost hear it.

Click. 

Click. 

Click. 

Then, finally he hears the fire catch, and can feel it under his feet as he suddenly lurches toward his brother. 

“John? You ok bro?”

Looking at his brother he can see something shifting and wading in his eyes, a type of confusion that he doesn’t think he’s ever seen in him before. Floyd watches John skim a look past him and toward the room, a confused grimace finally reaching his face as he looks around. 

Why wasn’t he answering him?

“John, hey, are you all good”

Floyd saw John suddenly clench his fist and grimace, his nails digging into the soft flesh. There’s something cold and unfamiliar in the way he looks at himself. It reminds him of the way the doctor had looked at Clay’s arm when he broke it during the holidays. 

Leaning closer to his brother, he saw it, a single bead of sweat sliding down his temple.

Then another.

And then, like something had exploded open inside him, his face was soaked, drenched in a sudden flood of perspiration. His lips were parted, eyes unfocused.

“What the hell… John, what’s going on? You’re sweating a lot bro” he whispered, voice barely catching on the edge of his breath. 

His brother was rocking, swaying to something only he could hear, a sway in him that was both concise and disorienting. A melodic rendition of a loss of balance. Even out of it, his brother seemed to be somewhat on beat. It was…

Concise. Measured.

Off.

It was like watching a metronome tick just out of time. Like his body was following a beat that didn’t belong. Unconscious and off tune with their surroundings, only following his internal rhythm. Sweat was starting to dribble down his chin, swirling and moving with the subtle sway of his brother's body. His movements suddenly reminded him of a wave, like an ocean wave from a story book. Unpredictable and vast. It feels like he’s watching his brother submerge himself underwater, achingly slow and harsh. All the while he’s stuck on the shoreline, watching and calling.

Something curled in his stomach, anxious and empty. What was going on? Why wasn’t he looking at him? 

"John. John. John!"

 
“Floyd,” John slurred slightly, his words spilling out warped, thick and slurred, like his tongue had forgotten how to move. It felt like watching Branch say his first words awhile back. 

“John, you just suddenly stopped talking mid convo, plus you kind of look out of it.” 

It was clear that he was finally gaining his brother’s attention, but it felt fragile, almost as if he was trying to hold water in his palms, liquid seeping out of the sides and leaving quickly. John’s eyes flicked toward him, unfocused and slow, as if dragging through sap.

He blinked once, twice, each one achingly long. Then suddenly Floyd felt his brother’s arms wrap around him, a vice grip around his sides. In a way that he was unfamiliar with, his brother's hands fumble a bit, loose and uncoordinated. There’s a hand gripping the back of his vest, and another patting his back in a consistent beat. Each added tap makes something settle in the bottom of his chest, heavy and wistful. His brother’s hold was tight but oh so gentle, gentler than he thought he’d been in a long time. 

There’s another pat and then a thump, and he can swear he can recognize the beat of a lullaby John had sung to him when he was younger. The pats are quick and feather light, but he can’t help but grip the back of his brother’s turquoise vest and lean into him, putting his head on his shoulder.

“John, what… what’s going on?” His voice was muffled as he spoke into his brother’s shoulder, worry starting to fill every pore on his body.

“I’m sorry,” John whispered, his words coming out slow and sticky, as if they’d gotten tangled on his tongue. Floyd could feel the hands holding him getting tighter, the scent of an unknown woodsy smell suddenly flooding his nose. It’s a foreign scent that Floyd both recognizes and feels that he has never smelled before. 

Had his brother used a new cologne?

His brother gently pushes him back and cupped his face. The hands on his cheek are affectionate in the way they hold him, but there’s a subtle shake in each digit that makes Floyd feel rattled. 

Seeing his brother like this, slipping into something he couldn’t quite name, he could feel a tremor of his own well-up deep inside of him, quiet but certain, numbness creeping up his nerve endings. 

John wasn’t crying. Not exactly. But he looked like he was about to, and that alone was enough to rattle Floyd further. He tried to remember if he’d ever seen that look before. Pondering as much as he could if there’d been a similar instance. Nothing comes to mind. Not even once.

The longer he looked at him the more it felt like he was breaking, coming undone in his inability to help and identify what was wrong.

“I’m so sorr…y, I lo…I lub you,” John choked out, his gaze firmly locking with his brother's. He was looking at Floyd as if he was precious and fleeting, as if he’d leave at any minute and never come back. John looked like he was holding himself together by threads. Frayed ends sticking out the sides, waiting to be cut off.

It’s at this moment that Floyd realizes something. He wasn’t sure they would know what to do if John fell apart.

Something had to be wrong.

Was he sick?

Placing the palm of his hand on his brother's forehead he couldn’t help but hiss at the burning heat he felt. It felt comparable to the time he had fallen asleep on his grandmother’s heating pad. 

“John, you’re burning up, oh my god. I think you actually just almost burned my skin, I swear you were just fine.” Contemplating his next action, he could hear his brothers talking in the background.

“Bro what’s going on with John”

“Floyd what’s going on why did he stop talking?” 

He hums to acknowledge Clay and Bruce, but doesn’t turn their way, weirdly feeling like he’ll miss something if he looks away for too long. Moving to grip John’s arm, he tried to steady his wavering form, focusing for a moment on the blown-out pupils of his brother. They were both larger than normal but one of them was obviously larger than the other. 

His brother opened his mouth, taking a deep breath, a wheeze echoing in Floyd’s ear.

“Sorr—” John’s started and stopped, a shake in his words and body. His apology cut short as Floyd watched his body convulse, his body rigid with each jerk. Vomit spews uncontrollably, it hits the ground in thick splashes, too much, too fast, droplets flying across Floyd’s chin and vest. There was a wet, choking gasp, the sound billowing through the room. And then there is a blue liquid, gushing from his brother, the glitter of his blood shining in the light.

Floyd froze, and for a second, just a second, all he could do was stare. There was something heavy at the bottom of his feet, pressing him to the floor and stealing his breath.

“John?” Floyd’s voice cracked. He pitches forward, hands unsure of where to grip his brother, his heart agonizingly fast. His back, his shoulder, his hair? There was too much blood, his fingers were starting to slip in it, his hold slackening. 

His brother’s eyes start to rove around going everywhere and yet nowhere, ending with his eyes fluttering to a close. Floyd shakes him a bit, his other brother’s starting to crowd the area around him. Their voices drowned out in the wheezing breath he could feel coming from his brother’s chest. 

He supposes that the sound he hears is his older brothers panicking and his little brother crying but he can’t move or talk to address them. His brother’s blood had become glue, sticking him to the floor, his knees stuck and his hands immovable from his skin. He hears something else but all he can think about is the color of blue. Lost as his brother’s cobalt ichor stains his nail beds and clings to his skin. 

It feels like hours, minutes, and days before he feels himself being wretched back from his brother. His skin feels as if velcro is being torn, split in half and missing. He can feel a cry get stuck in his throat, as he watches Spruce gather John Dory into his arms. They’re saying things to him, but he can’t hear them. He can only think of following his brother out the door and through the Troll Tree. 

He turns, there’s a left, a right and then he goes up and down and right again. And yet the only thing he can see is the color blue shimmering in the moonlight, and dripping a trail through the branches. 

They make it into a building, and suddenly his brother is taken from Spruce, hands grasping at the skin he was just holding. It feels like he’s watching the sunset for the last time, the warmth of the light leaving his body and ending at his feet. He tries to follow but there’s a hand on his shoulder, holding him tightly, surely bruising his shoulder in the strength needed. There’s murmuring in his ear, but he can’t help but stare as the sun finally crests the hill, night upon them with no ending in sight. 

The grip on his shoulders gets impossibly tighter, and finally he feels himself being shaken. It feels as if his ears have just popped when he turns to look at who’s holding him. 

“Spruce?” 

“You back with us bro?”

Nodding his head he couldn’t help but feel as if he had just run a race for two hours of sleep, his body suddenly heavy and tight from the stress of the moment. Looking around he can see that they were in the medical pod, most of the seats empty with only two other trolls in the room, one eyeing them and another sleep. 

He wants to sit in one of the chairs lined against the wall, but something keeps him upright and rooted, stuck to his spot in front of the hallway leading to the emergency service room. His brother comes close but doesn’t move him. He stands by and wraps an arm around his shoulder, holding him loosely near him but grasping Floyd’s arm tightly. 

The warmth in his brother feels nice as if he’s sitting under the sun at the top of the Troll tree, the leaves hiding him from seeing the sun directly. Then suddenly the feeling is gone as he jolts at the sound of a nurse running across the hall. 

The room is cold and he can’t help but grasp onto the only warmth in the room now, there’s a scent of disinfectant filling his nose, and he can feel the feeling of salt start to sting his eyes.
There’s a tremble in his body that starts in his shoulders and travels to his hands, his fingers tightening into fists to assuage the movement. He can feel his breath turn ragged, his attempts to catch it failing him time and time again. His vision is blurring and there’s something clogging his throat, thick and coarse. 

“Hey, hey, Floyd, you’re okay, you’re okay.” 

Even with his brother’s assurance, the gentle words and warm grip don’t ease the burn in this throat and eyes.

*****

It feels like hours before he’s able to uproot himself from the spot, letting his brother guide him to one of the small rickety chairs in the waiting room. Spruce hasn’t said anything but words of comfort but Floyd can tell that the silence they have been sitting in for the last couple minutes is starting to get to him, questions most likely dancing on his tongue. He can hear buzzing from a lamp nearby is finally interrupted by his brother’s curiosity. 

“Floyd what happened buddy?”

And the question makes his shoulders shake again, sniffling as his nose is still clogged from earlier. 

“I don’t know,” he hiccups, his words halting. He wipes his nose with his hand, snot and tears becoming a mixture on his skin that makes him grimace.

“He just suddenly started getting really hot and out of it. He just…he kept saying that he was sorry and that he loved me. I didn’t…I just…” Pulling his knees up he bends forward so that his forehead touches them. Floyd picks at the thread dangling from his shorts, needing to do something while they talk.

“Where’s the others Spruce? I heard Branch crying; he didn’t see too much right?”

Spruce grimaced, shrugging his shoulders a bit, “Well…he saw enough, Clay had to catch him when he tried to run over, I’m going to be honest this whole situation is a bit of a mess. Troll, I hope he’s okay."

Glancing to the side he can see red rimming his brother’s eyes and his hair flying out sporadically as he looks ahead.
It’s quiet, the uncertainty of their brother’s condition stilling the air and holding them stiffly. It’s only another thirty minutes of no news that Clay walks in pale and looking just as tired as them. They smile at each other, something empty and hesitant as they sit side by side, the snores from the other visitor and the ticking of a clock reverberating through the room. 

“The stage manager handled the audience and Grandma and Branch are at the pod right now. Branch is a bit inconsolable, nothing I tried to do was helping, and at some point, Grandma just told me to go without her. Man…I don’t even think B truly knows what exactly is going on right now, he just knows he saw blood and that we were panicked.”

Thinking about the blood again he refuses to look down at his stained nail beds. 

It’s another hour before they hear a door open down the hallway and a doctor whose name plate says, “Moonbloom”, steps out, her expression tight and countenance reserved. There’s blood staining the edges of her sleeve and she’s holding a chart so tight, Floyd can see her hands turning white.

The three of them stand up in sync, invisible strings pulling them into her direction.

“I assume you guys are the family of the patient that you brought in?” 

Floyd nods, “Yes. Were his brothers.”

The doctor nodded only once, slow and jerky. “So, I’m going to be honest…we…this…was unprecedented, we haven’t seen anything like this in the tree before. His temperature was skyrocket and his body was basically going into shock. She pauses for a moment, lowering her voice into a gentle tone.

“His…heart was slowing and he required resuscitation. He’s stable now but we don’t think there’s anything else we can do but give you medicine for his fever. We tested everything we could, and they all came up negative. We just don’t have the resources for this in the tree. All we can do now is give you a stretcher to take him home in”

Floyd could feel the sting from where his nails were digging into his skin. 

Overheating. Shock. Resuscitate. 

The words felt like they were being spoken through a wall of sludge, each one less clear than the last. The doctor went on, but Floyd only caught fragments of what she was saying, “monitoring, close watch, and see him soon.”

When the doctor left, Floyd felt himself drop into a crouch, knees touching his forehead again as he blankly stared at the stretch of floor in front of him.
John had always been unshakable. Solid. The one who stepped in when things were going wrong. 

And tonight, his brother’s slurred words of apology could have been the last words that he'd ever heard from him.

*****

Wheeling him through the tree feels like a funeral march, a body and a trail of those that they’ve left. 

His brother’s breathing is shaky and there’s a subtle wheeze that he can hear but he’s still as a rock as he’s lying on the stretcher. Each corner they turn is a workout as they try to keep him from falling, the stretcher stiff in its movement. By the time they get home Spruce and Clay are both out of breath and sweating quite a bit. Floyd holds the door open for them, and they carefully maneuver their brother through the opening, moving slowly so that no accidents happen. Grandma’s sitting on the couch, crocheting furiously with a worried look on her face. She stands up briskly, crochet needles falling to the floor quickly. 

“How is-” she pauses, looking past Spruce and down at the stretcher, something gloomy flashing over her face. She hums, turns around and leads them toward John’s room, her steps echoing throughout the pod. Reaching the bed, she pulls back the blankets on the bed and gently takes John off the stretcher, laying him down and tutting at how light he feels. 
Watching as she brushed her hand through John’s hair, Floyd couldn’t help but turn to the side, making eye contact with the walls of the room. Her solemn worry was making his chest burn and eyes ache. Hearing her start to hum, he looked back over and saw her looking forlorn as she combed his brother’s hair. 

“It’s been a long night boy’s; I’ll stay in h-”

“No!”

Feeling eyes on himself, Floyd pulled back the arm that had shot out at his exclamation. 

“No, I…Can I do it? I promise I’ll get my rest too; I just need to stay to… I don’t know…see?”

He’s not even sure what he’s even saying but he does know that there’s no way that he’s leaving his brother’s side right now. The thought of not being able to watch him breathe with his own two eyes was making his arms and legs feel stiff and his heart pounded.
His grandmother sighed but didn’t fight it, giving him an unreadable look as she kissed his head and left the room. Feeling a hand on his shoulder he looked up and saw Spruce looking at him softly.

“You sure you’re all good to stay in here tonight bro?”

Nodding he leaned into his brother, taking in the quick comfort, visibly wilting as he pulled away. As he watched Clay and Spruce leave the room, he took notice of the stiff tension lining both of their shoulders. 

Walking over to the bed he couldn’t help but grimace at the thought of laying down in his show clothes. John Dory would have a fit when he found out. The crinkling of his vest grated on his ears, but he didn’t even want to look away to take it off now that no one else was in the room. Adrenaline waning in the quiet of the room Floyd climbed into the bed and rested his head on his brother's chest, taking in the soft croon of his heartbeat. It sounds like his brother writing songs in the living room. His hands on his guitar, palm striking wood as he hummed aloud, lyrics always just on the tip of his tongue. 

Tears crest his eyes as he hummed along with the beat, hoping that in some way he was giving his brother comfort. Curling his fingers into his brother's vest he whispered into the night. 

“I love you too JD.”

******

Waking up he could hear the birds from outside the tree and a small wheezing noise. His head is lifting with the rise and fall of John’s chest, and he can feel the consequences of his awkward position last night.  His neck is aching and he can feel a crick in his lower back.  

Hearing another wheeze, he looks down at his brother and notices that his brother’s chest sinks down and only partially rises back up. His breathing is shallow and halting, making Floyd’s nerves flare and a pit open in his stomach. They couldn’t even bring him back to the medical pod, he knew that they wouldn’t be able to do anything. They’ve already stated such. He’d just have to keep watching him closely and making sure that he was comfortable. 

Looking at his brother’s performance clothing, he felt his skin itch a bit, the rough material scraping against his sides. Humming, he gingerly gets up and goes into his brother's closet, grabbing two shirts and a pair of shorts. Quickly changing into clothes, he throws his stage vest and shorts on a chair and then changes his brother's vest out for a T-shirt.  Getting back into bed he just barely puts his head on John’s chest and places two fingers on his wrist, counting every beat he could. It goes like that until calm starts to flood his veins, that is until he’s hit with the realization that something’s different. 

Grabbing his brother’s left arm, he brushes his finger against the top of his hand, eyebrows furrowing as he felt his skin.

It’s cold. 

John’s skin had gone icy beneath his fingers, as if the warmth had withdrawn from it entirely. The surface felt smooth and rigid, chilled through, refusing the warmth of his touch. He checked his own hands, flexed his fingers, then tried again, hoping it was a mistake. But the cold was still there, stark, and undeniable. 

The skin was too smooth, with barely any creases or calluses from playing the guitar. His skin was too tight, drawn hard over bone and muscle, as if it had shrunk while his brother had been sleeping. It wasn’t moving the way skin should; it felt fixed, almost sealed, unresponsive to the warmth of his hand. It looks lighter than it had, some parts oddly wrinkled in the corners.

Hearing a hitch in John’s breathing he looked up and could see his chest shutter a little bit. Looking a little further up he could see that even his brother’s ears were drooping now. 

Maybe it was the light? 

Leaning to the right he moved out of the way of the sunlight and let it shine on his brother. Looking at his pale skin he couldn’t help but feel anxiety burn in his chest. 
At first glance, his brother looked almost younger. The skin of his face seemed smoother than it had been, it caught the light cleanly, too cleanly, like something recently healed or recently made. As if it hadn’t been covered in blood not too long ago. His ears drooped lower than they should have, heavy and slack in a way that pulled at the shape of his face, and fine crow’s feet were now creasing the corners of his eyes, faint but unmistakable.

He remembered those eyes from the day before, remembered standing close while his brother had worked his fingers through his hair, the familiar lines, the exact set of his face. This wasn’t that. Everything was there, the same features, the same proportions, but they no longer lined up the way they had. It was like looking at a version that had been adjusted without understanding what mattered. 

He leaned back, tongue thick in his throat, staring at his brother as if looking any longer might make the wrongness settle and dissipate. The room felt too quiet, held in place only by his watching.

SLAM

“Sorry,” Spruce said immediately, wincing as he stepped inside. “Didn’t mean to put that much strength into it.” He shifted the tray of food in his hands, forcing a smile that pulled tight at the edges. The smell of warm bread and broth crept into the room, grounding and ordinary in a way that almost hurt.

He tore his gaze from the bed, nodding too quickly. Spruce’s smile lingered, strained, as his eyes flicked past him to their sleeping brother. Floyd watches his brother putter around the room, placing the tray by the side of the bed and pouring some water into a glass. It’s silent as he then hands everything to Floyd, motioning for him to eat.

“Grandma figured that making a something light would be easy on all our stomachs, with, well, you know, everything that happened yesterday. So, soup it was,” Spruce lightly chuckles as he sits at the end of the bed.

Nodding he takes a small sip of both water and soup, his stomach heavy with the tightness of the room. It’s silent only for a moment, before he’s unable to fight the urge to pick his brother’s mind.

“Do you…” Floyd started, then stopped. He swallowed and tried again. 

“Does he look… different to you?”

Spruce didn’t answer right away. And when he did, he didn’t turn. “No. I mean, maybe a little paler. But that makes sense after everything that happened.”

“No, I mean…like his face, it’s smoother right? Nothing looks different to you?”

Spruce eyes him from where he stands, body now oddly twist from how he had turned around.

“Floyd, maybe you should take a break, you look exhausted man. You need to go bathe and get some more rest bro.”

Swallowing passed the knot in his throat he takes in a breath and considers his brother’s words. Maybe he was seeing things, a shower did sound good. He didn’t really want to leave but he knew that Spruce could watch him.

“Sure, but only if you stay in the room.”

After receiving a curt nod, he gingerly gets off the bed and slowly leaves for the bathroom, exhaustion filling every sinew in his body.  The house is quiet as he walks the only thing he can hear is his grandmother’s humming. Opening the bathroom door, he shuts it softly and looks at himself in the mirror. 
For a moment, he’s still, taking in every detail as if his own body is unfamiliar. 

Then his eyes dropped. There, along the collar of his shirt.

Dark and dried.

He frowns slightly, like his brain hasn’t caught up yet. Like it didn’t belong to him.

And then it clicked, and his breath hitched.

Stepping closer to the mirror he sees small dark blue splatters across the bottom of his chin and streaked faintly up toward his neck where his hands must’ve dragged it without him realizing. Looking down at his nails he could see crusted dark blue underneath his nails and staining his nail beds. Floyd swallows hard, his throat suddenly tight, and turns on the shower quickly, the rush of steam momentarily distracting him from his incoming descent. He figured somebody had recently been in the shower considering that he hadn’t needed to wait for the water to warm up. 

Taking off his clothes, he scratches at his skin, waiting only a second more to step under the shower head. He doesn’t move for a moment, just lets the water pelt his skin and breathes in the steam.

Slowly, he can see the water turning an off blue, his brother’s blood finally beginning to fall off him. No longer being able to look at the swirling cerulean, he grabs his sponge and scrubs at his skin. Only stopping when it starts to hurt, his skin bright and inflamed.

Standing under the water, he couldn’t help but wonder if asking his brother had been a long shot anyway.

He understood why Spruce couldn’t tell. Spruce had never been good at noticing slow changes, especially not in John. And for months now, John had been orbiting the band so tightly. Control, obsession, long stretches of intensity, there wasn’t much room left for anything else. Spruce hadn’t been looking closely then. Not because of a lack of care, but more so a mix of anger and locked chest called John’s feelings. 

Only Floyd had noticed. He’d seem the tightening, the thinning, the way John was stretching himself long before the pouring of blood made it undeniable. 
That was the difference. Not sight, exactly, but attention. And now as Floyd stood there in front of the mirror looking at the bags under his eyes, he wondered if seeing it and still allowing for inaction made him complicit.

*****

Nothing changed for two days. 

They took shifts after that.

No one suggested it. No one had to. It had just settled in place, as if they were a well-oiled machine. Someone was always in the room with John, while the others rested in short, restless stretches before trading off again. It felt like if they kept watch, kept him from being alone, he wouldn’t slip any further away.

For two days, nothing changed.

The steady beeping of the monitor. The slow rise and fall of his chest. No movement. No voice. No sign that he was coming back.

Then on the early morning of the third day Clay came in. He didn’t rush, didn’t make a scene, but there was something in the way he stood in the doorway, something tight in his shoulders that made everyone look up.

“He woke up,” Clay said.

Floyd was on his feet instantly. “What?”

“Just for a second,” Clay added. “It didn’t last long.”

Floyd’s chest tightened. “Did he say anything?”

Clay hesitated, glancing down for a moment before shaking his head. “Not really.”

It should’ve been discouraging. But it wasn’t, because he’d woken up. Even if it had been brief, just the notion of his brother being a little alert was enough. The probability of their brother waking later in the day after having been sleeping for two days was high and it had them on the edge of their seats. Wondering. So, they stayed. All of them.

The room felt smaller now, quieter. Like they were afraid to push too hard against whatever fragile progress had been made.

Branch had long ago climbed up carefully, and laid across John’s chest, fingers clenched in his t-shirt in rebellion. They had pulled him off the first time due to John’s breathing still not sounding great. This time he had made sure to curl his fingers in as much of their brother’s shirt as he could. But no one stopped him. Not this time.

John looked… better.

Still pale. Still too still. But his breathing wasn’t as strained, his face less drawn. Like his body had finally stopped fighting so hard just to keep going.

Eventually, someone mentioned food.

They left together, reluctant, each of them casting one last look back before stepping into the hallway, only soothed by the notion that if he woke up Branch’s presence would quell any feelings of loneliness. It felt wrong to leave, even for a few minutes.

The world outside the room hadn’t changed at all. The lights are too bright and their voices too normal. Like nothing had happened. They didn’t stay gone long. Just enough to grab some of their grandmother’s leftover soup, something none of them really tasted. They brought a tray back for John too, almost without thinking. Just in case.
Spruce leads them through the room, all of them surprised as they look at their awake brother. For a moment, no one moved or spoke.

Like the wrong breath might undo it.

But then Spruce breaks their trance, speaking to him softly as if John was fragile. Floyd tries not to but can’t help but zone out while his older brother’s are talking. His brother is breathing, he’s talking. He’s awake. 

It’s when he sees Spruce grab the food for John that he feels his feet move quickly, swooping in to seize the tray and settle where Spruce had been moments before. He spoons some soup and raises it to John’s lips. Floyd watches him huff and takes in a couple mouthfuls of soup. Floyd could feel his eyes burn as he watched his brother, happiness and wariness waring through his body. 

Floyd's hands trembled slightly as he held the spoon, his movements stiff and hesitant. He probably should have waited another day to interrogate his brother, but he couldn’t help but spew out the question that had been plaguing his mind.

“The doctor said your heart started to slow down, that they had to resuscitate you” Floyd whispered, his voice cracking with emotion as he held the spoon hovering over the bowl. 

“I...” John began, but Floyd could feel the rest of his words tumble out his mouth, the wait of his brother’s awakening making his lips loose.
“Your body was overheating so bad that Dr. Moonbloom said it looked like your body was going into shock, and that you might… that you might…” Floyd's voice trailed off, unable to voice the unspeakable fear that hung heavy in the air.

Floyd looked at him harder than he ever had before, his eyes watering all the same, “John did you go to the concert feeling like that, not saying a thing, close to…close to death”

"No, no, I wouldn't do that to you guys," John rasped, his voice strained from the sudden intensity of his response. Floyd watches him cough weakly, his throat raw and tender from the effort. "I wouldn't... I wouldn't want to put you guys through that."

Floyd could feel his eyes softening after hearing the emotion in his brother’s voice, his expression still filled with worry as he reached out to gently squeeze John's hand. "I figured John, I just needed to know for sure," he murmured. "We know you wouldn't do that intentionally. But you've gotta promise us, okay? Promise us that you'll speak up if something's wrong, that you won't try to tough it out on your own."

Floyd watched John nod, as they met each other’s gazes.

"I promise," John vowed, his voice steady, "I'll... I'll be more careful; I'll tell you if something feels off."

"That's all we ask, John," he said softly. 

Floyd raised the spoon once more, but John shook his head gently, mindful not to disturb Branch's sleep. Floyd nodded in understanding, his mental exhaustion creeping in now that he had talked to his brother.

Floyd could only hope that John wasn’t lying and that he would communicate.

*****

John was a liar. 

It wasn’t done in a malicious way but, it still hurt. Floyd had trying hovering around his brother to get some more information out of him but it still felt like he was clamming up more than usual. Every question was met with agreement and nonchalance. It was like John knew how to do nothing but agree and nod now. 

That wasn’t the only way that he was acting strange either, he was the same but somehow oh so different.  

It didn’t happen all at once.

Which if Floyd had to choose was the worst part. If John had woken up confused, disoriented, and obviously wrong Floyd would’ve known what to do. He would’ve called someone, said something, fixed it. 

But it came in pieces, small things that were adding up to show a bigger picture.

*****

John had always been particular about the way that he liked things. He’d always been rigid with just moments of flexibility. Like a plank of wood that could be bent just right. He noticed patterns too; he’d always kept track of things no one else bothered to remember. It was his thing. One of the things that he’d kept track of was their sleep schedules.

Floyd used to joke that they didn’t need to look at the clock in the house, just John. He’d give subtle reminders, quiet nudges to get people to bed, and set down a glass of water without being asked. He didn’t hover, exactly. He just… knew.

So, the first time John didn’t say anything when Branch stayed up too late Floyd noticed.

But he let it go.

He’s recovering, he told himself. He’s tired.

That made sense.

It kept making sense.

Until it didn’t.

*****

It was the yuji berries that really stuck. Branch had been obsessed with them lately talking about them constantly, asking for them, refusing to eat much else some days. It had been a thing.

And John had noticed. Of course he had.

He’d gone out of his way to get them, even when it was inconvenient. Floyd remembered it clearly, John coming back late, setting the container down with that quiet, satisfied look like he’d solved a problem no one else had even realized was one.

So, when Floyd saw the nearly empty bag on the counter he couldn’t help but comment.

“Didn’t you just restock these? Man, Branch really is running through these.”

John looked at the bag.

Then at Floyd.

And for a second, just a second, there was nothing there.

No recognition. No easy, automatic answer.

Just a faint crease in his brow.

“…No?”

He’d been uncertain, like he was searching for the answer and coming up empty. Looking at the bag Floyd couldn’t help but feel something cold settle in his chest.
 

*****

The worst one was the dent in their bedroom wall.

It had been loud. Memorable. Recent.

Two weeks ago, he and Clay had been playing Knock Over, where you strap pillows to your chest and see who could knock the other person down when running at each other. Something had been miscalculated and somehow Clay had run into the wall face first and put a large dent into it. There had been a whole conversation about it, what to do, whether to fix it themselves or call John. 

That is until the decision had been taken from them and their older brother had walked in, his face quickly losing his smile. He’d been upset with them but had stated that it wasn’t something they could deal with until the concert was over. So, a poster had been its place since. John had taken charge like usual and helped them out.

So later, when they were standing in their bedroom, Floyd nodded toward it, wondering if John had come up with a solution.

“You ever figure out what you wanted to do about that?”

He expected at least a sigh. A not yet. Maybe a tired excuse.

But John just looked at the wall. Really looked at it.

“ The poster?”

Floyd’s stomach dropped.

There was no hesitation. No joking edge. No attempt to brush it off.

Just a simple question.

Genuine.

Wrong.

Was he forgetting? Or was this…

*****

After that, Floyd started watching his brother more closely.

It was in the pauses.

The way John would sometimes take a second too long to respond, like he was sorting through something that should’ve been immediate. It was in the recollection of conversations they’d definitely had; plans, small decisions, things John had agreed to, only for him to nod along like he was hearing it for the first time.

It was in the way his gaze would drift sometimes, unfocused, not distracted exactly but, disconnected. Like he’d stepped half a pace out of the moment and hadn’t quite made it back yet.

And every time, every single time, John acted like it was normal.

A quiet “I’m fine.”
A small shake of his head.
A deflection so subtle it would’ve fooled anyone who wasn’t looking for it.

But Floyd was looking now.

And once you saw it, you couldn’t unsee it.

“I promise,” John had said.

“I’ll tell you if something feels off.”

*****

It was around early morning that everything came to a head. Floyd’s not sure why but he awakes suddenly, his eyes bleary and his head fuzzy. He can taste his own and breath and he’s so dehydrated that his lips are cracking down the center. Gingerly getting up, he gets up to get a glass of water, his steps soft on their lush floors.  

Reaching the kitchen in no time he gets his glass and drinks the chilling liquid in one gulp. Still tired he starts walking back to his room but pauses when he gets the urge to check on his brother. Padding to his room he cracks his brother’s door and squints into the dark room. After trying his best but failing to see his brother, he opens the door wider freezing at the empty bed staring back at him.

Stepping back, he retraces his steps going near the kitchen but making a turn into the den this time. 

He’s not there.

He moves quickly and quietly throughout the house, checking each room to see if he’s there, but each time he doesn’t see him.
Which means, he’s not in the house. 

Floyd could run out of the house and search for him in every nook and cranny, but what if he came back, or what if they just missed he each other. But what if he forgot where the pod was? His brother had been forgetting a lot of things recently and not telling anyone, would this end up a consequence of not addressing this problem.  
He stews but ultimately comes back with the thought that it would be better to wait. So he sits in the room, their meager lamp being the only light in the room. It’s another hour that before he hears the door open. His brother is stepping into the pod gingerly trying to be so quiet that he’s obviously sneaking in.

“John”

His brother jumps but then quicky stumbles, weirdly favoring one leg.

“Hey, brother of mine, how’s your morning?” 

Floyd couldn’t help but give a deadpan stare, did John really think that he was going to brush this off, adding finger guns was not going to soften him up.

“Where were you? And why are you covered in dirt?” Floyd’s voice was low, carrying the weight of worry and exhaustion.

John rubbed the back of his neck to muster a casual tone. “Just needed some fresh air, you know? To clear my head.”

Floyd’s frown deepened. “At two in the morning? If that’s even the time you actually left. After everything that’s happened? What did you even do? Go down to the roots and roll in the dirt?” 

His brother was covered in dirt, from head to toe, there was even dirt under his nails and on his nose.

“I had to talk to the king. It was important.”

Floyd stood up, crossing the room to stand in front of John. “Important enough to sneak out and potentially bring more stress onto your body? You look like you’re barely standing straight, John.”

John winced. “I’m sorry, Floyd. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just... I had to do something.”

Floyd wasn’t sure he could do this anymore, he needed to address the elephant in the room and ask him what was going on. He was tired of hearing “I’m fine,” knowing that his brother was probably hiding the problems that he was facing.

“John… what’s going on, you’ve been acting unusual these past couple of days. At first, I thought it had been your sickness but it’s like you’ve become another person. Like someone mimicking themselves.  I…I feel further to you then I ever have before.” 

“Floyd, I love you and I’m sor-”

Floyd can’t help the sudden panic that flashes through his body, the memory of his brother losing consciousness and his blood coating his skin flooding his mind. He’s up quickly, pressing a hand to John’s forehead. He’s can feel his eyes stinging and his heart aching.

John grabs his hand from his forehead and pulls Floyd into a hug. “I’ve messed up so much with you guys. I…love you so much, all of you. You guys are my brothers and I haven’t been treating you guys like that. I’ve been talking to you as a manager and not a brother.”

“I pushed you into the box of the sensitive one without really asking if that was okay with you and that was shitty of-,” 

His brother pauses, his body shaking from the sudden bellowing coughs he lets out. Patting John’s back, Floyd looks at him softly, his words coming easily. 

“I was never really mad at you John, I’m an observer, I’ve seen what the others haven’t.” And then he hums, “Don’t think I didn’t notice that you didn’t really answer my question, we will be talking again, I am bringing this up to the others, just later. Don’t do this again John, communication, remember?”

“I won’t,” John promised, pulling Floyd into another hug. “I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.” 

Floyd nodded against his shoulder, hugging him back tightly. “Good. Now, let’s get you back to bed. Your forehead actually felt pretty hot.” Just being this close to his brother he could feel the heat of his brother’s skin, the heat radiating.

John let out a soft chuckle, but Floyd’s chest tightened at the sound. It didn’t sit sound right, too thin, too strained, like it had been forced out past something heavier. John’s eyes didn’t quite settle. They flickered, unfocused for a second too long, like he was trying to lock onto something he couldn’t quite see. His expression shifted, subtle, but wrong. Confusion, maybe.

Or disbelief.

He barely had time to process it before John’s body seemed to falter. His legs didn’t move right and had suddenly dropped onto one knee with a quiet groan. John moved slowly, like everything hurt. His hand dragged down to his pant leg, his fingers clumsy as he rolled the fabric up inch by inch.

Floyd stepped closer without thinking, and then he saw it.

The stitches were wrong.The skin around them had darkened, purple and blue, spreading around the wound like an intricate spider web. Blood seeped through in slow, uneven lines, catching against thread that looked like it was starting to come loose.

“What the hell, John!”

The words came out before he could stop them, rough and lined with panic.
John looked up at him, dazed.

Not defensive. Not dismissive.

Just… slow. Like he hadn’t caught up to what was happening yet. Floyd thinks that scared him more than the blood. He moves immediately and puts an arm under John’s to pull him up, steadying him before guiding him toward the couch instead of the bedroom. He eased him down, then straightened, eyes scanning him quickly. He was too pale, too still, and not quite breathing right.

Looking at the injury, Floyd knew that he couldn’t deal with this himself, moving quickly he moves into the hall and barges into Spruce’s room. Shaking him awake, his brother looks at him and then quickly sits up. Without saying anything to each other, they move out of the room, his brother falling him into the den.  They must have made some noise though, because Clay comes out of their room too, rubbing an eye as he looks at them.

Coming into the room, Floyd can hear his brother wheezing as he tries to sit up. Spruce goes and sits next to him as Clay grabs their first aid box and is gently wiping away some of the blood from the gnarly stitches. 

Floyd watches as Spruce coughs to get John’s attention, “Do you need to go to the doctor’s again since you clearly just came from there?” 

He can see the anger in his brother’s as they take care of John, and he can’t help but agree. Watching them go back and forth he knows that they probably won’t get a straight answer. 

“What is wrong with you, you’ve been acting so weird these last couple of days. I mean for sprinkles sake, you’ve actually been silent recently, eerily if I might add. Along with the fact that you wait until the middle of the night when everyone’s sleep to leave the pod, to do who knows what and comes back covered with dirt and with stitches. We need an explanation, John Dory and now.” Spruce huffs as he says it, looking at John firmly.

“I just needed to do something guys. It won’t happen again.”

“John, you’re literally telling us nothing! How are we supposed to believe you if you’re not telling us anything!” Clay yells. 

“I’m trying to save you guys!”

Floyd pauses, looking at his brother closely. What does that even mean? The others must feel the same sentiment because they are just as silent and curious as he is.

“I’m just…you guys don’t know about the things, all the bad things. When the moon goes dark it takes away everything you have and it twists. It’ll twist and turn everything you are, and boil everything inside. I saw it, I lived it, and...and there has to be a reason that I’m here. I know that I need to save you guys.”

Floyd finally speaks again, “John, what… what are you even talking about?” 

And he should stop, but he can’t. The words are burning his tongue, and memories of the dark are blinding his sight. “This isn’t me like this isn’t; it’s not my body, I was in the future, and I saw what was going to happen; I broke things, and then we hurt each other, and I just-”

Floyd can feel himself tilting. As he listens to Spruce and Clay talk about him being delirious and needing to get him to the doctor, he can’t help but feel ice filling his veins. They didn’t understand and he wondered if they ever would.

It feels as if roots have risen from the ground and tied around his legs, making them stiff and unmovable. He had noticed that his brother had been acting differently, strange even. The cold skin , the new smell, even some of his speech was different. Looking down at his brother’s callus free hands he couldn’t help but wonder.

If not, his John, who exactly was this?