Two Months

Floyd's Take on Things

"You want to what?!" Floyd asked, not quite believing what he'd just been told. He had woken up from the unexpected nap he had taken, and was almost immediately told that his family was planning things for him without his permission.

"Don't freak out about it yet, baby bro," said Clay. "We're just giving you some options that'll help you get better."

"Nope. No, thank you, I will pass," was the immediate answer he received. "I don't need therapy of any sort. I'm doing just fine on my own."

"But you're not, Floyd," Bruce interrupted. "Look, we won't force you to do anything you don't want to do, but we need you to at least take this into consideration. It's for your own good."

Floyd was quiet. He really did think that he was managing just fine on his own, and he really didn't want to bother some random troll with his problems.

"We're not saying there's something wrong with you, we would never, but you do need help," Branch added when he saw the look on his older brother's face. Floyd looked towards John Dory, wondering if the oldest of them would chime in with his own opinion. He stayed silent.

"No, I don't," Floyd said, a hint of anger in his voice. "Now, please, leave me alone." He put his head down, not wanting to see the look on his brother's faces. He knew that they only wanted what was best for him, but he really didn't need or want any help at the moment. A moment later he could hear the others leaving the room, doing as Floyd had requested.

Once he was completely sure that he was alone, Floyd broke. At first it was just a few years streaming down his face, but it soon turned into silent sobs. Why did things have to be this way? Why couldn't it all just go to how it had been before? Sure, he had greatly missed each and every one of his bros, but at least he didn't have to deal with this when it was just him traveling all over the place.

But traveling was what had gotten him kidnapped in the first place. He had heard from others how Mount Rageous probably wasn't a good place for a small, almost completely defenseless troll like him, but he'd gone anyways, hoping to find the perfect opportunity to make it big with his solo career.

So much for that dream.

He could barely sing anymore, which made sense if he thought about it. His talent was taken from him for months, but he had thought that recovery would be so much smoother than this. He thought he'd be resting for a couple days at most, and then he'd be able to walk, run, sing, dance, perform like he had before.

How wrong he'd been.

Sure, he had performed with his brothers, Poppy, Viva, and Branch's other band, but he must've been on some sort of adrenaline high or something because as soon as they had gone backstage, he'd collapsed and immediately passed out from overexerting himself so soon after he'd been freed.

He was put on bed rest for days.

And then there was the incident with Clay not too long ago. What was it, a day? Maybe two or three? Or was it longer than that?

Was his memory starting to fail him?

There was just so much wrong with him, and he hated it so much. He didn't want to burden his brothers or anyone else with his problems. Sometimes he wished they had never found him, that Velvet hadn't ever sent that letter. At least they wouldn't have to see him in his current state. They wouldn't have to see him so broken.

Floyd didn't know what to do anymore. Maybe the others were right in saying he needed help, but he really doesn't want. The thought of another troll, a complete stranger, hearing about everything that was going on in his mind terrified him. What if they sent him away for good because he was too messed up to be fixed?

Physical therapy didn't sound as bad, but at the same time it seemed like torture. He's seen and heard of others going through it before, and he remembered them all saying the same thing; it wasn't an easy process, and sometimes it made you feel even worse on the inside. And what would happen if it didn't help him get back to his previous physical state?

There were so many questions going on in his mind, and no one was there to answer them for him. He hated being alone so much, but maybe it was for the best. No one else had to see him completely break over what he considered such a small, insignificant thing.

No one had to see how weak he truly was.

He thought about John Dory, and how he must be so disappointed in him for not being perfect, even if he had changed how he saw his little brothers and their band — their family —. Even though being perfect no longer mattered as much as it did back then. He'd managed to break out of being the strict leader he was, while Floyd was stuck with what his part in the band defined him as.

He thought about Bruce, who had matured so much, and even became what he assumed was an amazing husband and father. He's proud of his older brother for that, for not letting Spruce and being the heartthrob of the group define him. Meanwhile there was Floyd, who couldn't stop being the sensitive one.

He thought about Clay. He also didn't let his role in the group define him. Sure, he was still the funnest of them all, but now it wasn't what he based his personality off of. Clay was free, Floyd was not.

And he thought about Branch. No longer a baby. Instead he was a full grown man, who had done a wonderful job of raising himself, even though he never should've had to do that. He was an awful older brother for letting his little bro grow up all by himself. He could never forgive himself for that, once again proving his given title to be true.

Maybe that's all he was. Maybe being "The Sensitive One" would stick with him until the day he died. Maybe they'd been right all along, and he'd never change like the others have.