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He felt urged to tell someone.
The entire rehearsal today he was more off rhythm than usual as his mind kept repeating last night’s events, following Singe’s guiding moves and commanding voice, the whole group was just trying to get through this stupid song. There was just one portion that Floyd struggled to get right, which was this fast paced moment they were supposed to make look effortless and slow. Moving in front of John then sliding aside to give room for the next brother.
Floyd couldn’t quite get there in time without causing Clay to slam into him or looking like he tripped over himself to make it, and each time-
“Stop, stop!”
Floyd jumped just as Clay threw the brakes down on his section, pulling back just in time before they both stumbled - his brother hissed out a growl and threw his hands up.
“Floyd, come on!”
He flinched back, ears dropping down as Clay dragged his hands down his face - and Singe moved over towards them with a scowl.
“Alright, since Floyd can’t figure it out, I guess we’re forced to call it here.”
The comment only made it worse, and Floyd could feel Clay’s glare harden on his back.
“I’m gonna make some adjustments, we’ll have to relearn a few steps, but Floyd should be able to catch up.”
Floyd’s hand reached for his own arm and squeezed, Branch was already walking towards his things and grabbing them to leave - he never liked sticking around longer than he had to - and left before he could be a part of anything else.
What he didn’t understand was that Singe had already come to that conclusion last night, to change the dance, so why wait until now? To say it in front of everyone after another four run throughs?
His cheeks felt hot, Clay angrily grabbing his own bag and slamming the doors open to leave the room. John himself didn’t say much, just stood there with his hands on his hips and head tilted back as he caught his breath - whereas Bruce reached down to rest a hand on Floyd’s shoulder.
He jumped, snapping up to catch his brother’s gaze; soft, and concerned as he nodded towards the door as well.
Picking up his bag and leaving felt like a defeat.
Once they were outside the crushing pressure of the dance room, Bruce leaned down to offer a kinder expression.
“Don’t take it to heart,” Bruce started. “Clay’s just short tempered, he’s always yelling at everyone any chance he gets.”
Trying not to shrink in on himself, Floyd licked at his lips and twisted the fabric around his wrist, realising quickly that they were alone. Perhaps not the best place, outside the dance room, but the secret bounced around his teeth as his tongue fought to catch it.
“Oh, yeah… but, um-”
His voice was so soft he could barely hear himself, he was sure Bruce only caught the ‘yeah’ and nodded along.
“It’s fine, Singe said he’d make the dance easier, right? Not so bad anymore then, huh?” He offered a smile in a way that he believed would’ve been comforting, but the words themselves dragged Floyd’s legs deeper into the ground underneath.
His voice got even quieter.
“...Yeah… but-”
Bruce’s smile tightened, before he gave him a firm pat on his shoulder and moved around him. “I’m gonna go get some lunch, perk myself up. Smile, Floyd! We’re done for the day, we can go do whatever we want.”
“But- Bruce, I-”
But Bruce was already leaving in the midst of his sentence, Floyd’s voice so gentle he may as well have just been mouthing the words instead of speaking them.
Now he stood alone, with the knowledge that John and Singe were in the dance room together, alone, no one else around to see anything that could happen. Would Singe try anything here? This was far less private than a middle of the night confrontation, but who could be sure? The dance room was relatively sound proof.
Part of him wondered if he should open the door and peek inside to check, but the other part - the bigger part - knew that it’d be pointless to try. What would he even say if he caught something he wasn’t supposed to?
He couldn’t even defend himself against Singe’s words.
Scratching at his arm again, Floyd chewed the inside of his cheek and began to walk away from the dance room doors. That’s what he tended to do best, apparently.
He avoided the kitchens, and the bedrooms, since that’s where Bruce and Clay would be, and having a conversation with either of them wouldn’t really be successful in any capacity so…
Maybe he could try with Branch? Branch was pretty logical. If he didn’t see issues with anything that Floyd said, then he could get this anxiety off his mind and focus on the important things; like singing, and dancing.
As was ever important with the Pop trolls.
That idea set in mind, Floyd began to head towards the basement. They couldn’t really do whatever they wanted in public, so relaxing often meant fresh air wouldn’t come with it as a package deal - unless you were John, because John could do everything right.
He tried to shake that thought away and instead slipped into the recreation room. It was supposed to be for hanging out and spending time together, but the only one who really used it was Branch - and at this point he’d basically claimed the space as his own.
Inside it was filled with bean bags, games, more TVs than a single room ever needed, it was there to be enjoyed. They had a fun space to hang out in.
None of them came down here.
He caught sight of Branch at the end of the room, having moved a desk down here ages ago - the wall itself was filled with pinned scrawls of his countless inventions. Floyd didn’t understand a single word of it, but it looked cool.
Ironically, Branch wasn’t actually sitting on the chair of the desk, but rather near it, on the ground. Hunched over and tapped his pen uselessly against the paper. Floyd made his way over, cautiously avoiding the mess of forgotten inventions and abandoned tools scattered around the floor.
His brother’s ear perked up, obviously knew he was here, but didn’t acknowledge him yet.
Floyd couldn’t help but ask.
“Why are you… on the floor?”
“Helps me think.” Branch responded blankly, brows furrowing as he scrawled over the design before flipping the page of his sketchbook over and starting again with something else.
Floyd didn’t say anything at first, and the two remained in a silence that might’ve been awkward for one party more than the other, Floyd just wasn’t sure which one that was. After lingering in place for a few more minutes, he swallowed the nerves and dared the question dancing on his mind-
Or, well, specifically opening the gate to start walking towards the question. It was basically the same thing.
“Branch…?” He squeezed his hands together, as if trying to hold his nerves in place. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” Branch responded easily, which was something at least. “Not like I’m getting anywhere with this design,” he set the sketchbook down and looked over his shoulder towards him. “What’s up?”
Floyd licked at his lips again, squirming on the spot as if Branch’s casual glance was something to fear. He always had a more natural glare than the rest of his brothers even in a neutral state. Made it hard to tell when he was angry or not.
“Don’t… take this the wrong way.”
Branch snorted and turned another page as he returned to scribble another… something. “Already off to a good start.”
Floyd tried not to let that get to him, his heart shaped tail coiling around his legs as if he was about to jump and dash away. “I know we all have our… grievances with Singe.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“And we know he can be a bit aggressive with John,” He continued, eyes flicking to any part of the room he could find, continuing on after Branch’s small ‘yep’ of confirmation. “But, um…”
…Say it. Say what you saw.
Images flashed in his mind, stitching to the next as the puppets played their roles the same way they had last night. His mouth opened-
And Singe’s glare yanked his faith away. Sweat began to build in his palms, and he hastily wiped them against his shorts before clasping them together towards his lips with a tight expression.
“Okay, I really have to preface that I’m not implying anything.”
Coward.
Branch hummed a simple “Obviously”, like he was just waiting for Floyd to get to the point.
He squeezed his hands and moved them downward. “But… Do you ever worry that Singe might… get worse? With John?”
Please say yes, please say yes, please-
“Not really?” Branch angled his head over his shoulder again, throwing him a confused glance that shrivelled any confidence Floyd had remaining. “He’s a dick, sure-”
“Don’t use that language, please…”
“-But Dee’s his star.” Branch returned his focus towards the pages, already fine with moving on from the topic apparently, and missing Floyd’s pale face. “If he goes too far, he risks permanent injury. Without Dee, we’d make less money. No Dee, no shows, he knows that.
“So no need to worry,” Branch scrunched his face as he leaned closer to his paper and reached for a ruler that’d been left on the floor - using his leg to balance the sketchbook in place and draw across the page. “He’s handsy, yeah, but for all the grief he can give us, Singe isn’t stupid. He won’t risk Dee or his public image.”
And that was that, according to Branch. Nothing to think about beyond Floyd’s weak offer of a frightened explanation. He didn’t do a particularly good job of even bringing it up in the first place, so he can’t blame Branch, but…
Floyd’s smile was tight, and visibly fake. Not that it mattered when Branch wasn’t even looking at him. “Right… of course.”
The image of his brother being shoved against the wall as hands squeezed around his precious throat played quickly in his mind.
Floyd turned his body once more.
“That’d be really… really stupid.”
He left the room. Branch was none the wiser.