Chapter Text
Floyd actually really loved smaller venues.
Sure, it was warm, so much so that he almost felt like his skin was peeling after sunburn but it was more personal and the people who attended really wanted to be there. They really liked his music. He could see individual faces instead of blaring lights. He could almost meet everyone before and after.
His solo career was less of a career and a bit of a side gig. A lot of the things he did were side gigs. He got some more education for a few years, went into some teaching, worked in a library for a hot second. All sorts of things and jobs he could find in the city. He supposed, however, his main thing was still his music. Whether it be performances or selling albums. He did a lot of work on his own. He had some help sometimes but Floyd had a hard time working with and trusting managers. He tried a few but they all felt useless most of the time.
It was one of the many times he really missed his older brother. Sure, John Dory had gotten way too into things near the end of things, pushing for perfection to an over the top degree. It had probably rubbed Spruce and Clay more than anyone, mostly due to personality clashes. But if there was one thing you could count on John for, it was getting things done and getting them done well. He had done so much for the band, all sorts of jobs, and Floyd, now that he was on his own, had no idea how he did it all and still came home to take care of four brothers.
The small venues were easier and the audience expected less performance, more lyrics. A lot of his time was spent at the studio - his own homemade makeshift one and the professional one he rented out when he felt like he had perfected his song. He really liked creating albums and records. Of course he liked singing directly to people but it was really nice to work on a song until he was satisfied with it.
It was like the work afterward was worth it.
Huh, maybe it was kind of easy to drop into perfectionism. Floyd wasn’t immune to it by any means and he wasn’t so into it like his older brother had been but he was also doing vastly different performances. It was easy to see how John Dory could get to that point.
Upon the short performance, he hung around to talk with some friends before heading out. Living in a city that was mostly made for giants was kind of insane. Little was made for him but since there was a bit of a population of other races - trolls included - his size, there were areas for them. He felt lucky to have an apartment that was for his size.
It had taken him a while to get used to giants that didn’t want to eat him. He had mentioned it once or twice to people and was only ever met with insanely horrified stares. It was safe to say most people around him were cautious of anyone who would call themselves a Bergen. Floyd hadn’t seen any in the last twenty years, to his great relief.
As he made his way home, he made a detour towards the post office. He walked in, the door chiming and signaling his arrival. The post office lady wasn’t a troll, Floyd wasn’t sure what she was, but she was nice enough and very lenient with him and his P.O. Box.
“It’s about time,” the post office lady, huffed, only partially amused. “I’ve already had to start to fill another box.”
Floyd came prepared to soothe it over. He slid her one of his new records. It wasn’t perfect but eventually it would be worth something, even as a draft. “For your troubles, ma’am,” he smiled.
“You’re lucky my kid likes your music,” she waved the record at him. “ And that you are so polite. Kids ain’t always raised that way. Musta had a good mom.”
Floyd blinked, a little taken aback. He barely remembered his mom. Even when she was around, she wasn’t always really present. And then after his father had been taken for Trollstice, it wasn’t long before she disappeared entirely. Had she taught him manners? Had she taught him anything?
”I think it was my brother.”
He hadn’t even realized he spoke until she replied, her expression turned suddenly sympathetic. “Ah. One of those families.”
“What do you mean?”
“The kind of family that has absent parents,” she said, with a shrug. “So the oldest child is forced to raise kids as a kid themselves without anyone seeing him or her as a parent figure. It often leads to heartache.”
“It does?”
He didn’t realize that was a thing.
“My uncle had to raise my mother and their other siblings after their parents died. They don’t talk anymore,” she shrugged, puttering with a box. “My uncle died last year. Alone. No one even knew for months.”
Floyd swallowed. That sounded awful, dying alone and thinking no one cared. “I haven’t seen my brothers in twenty years,” he confessed.
“I suggest you start,” she said seriously. “My mother hasn’t forgiven herself for not reaching out to my uncle. He wasn’t perfect but he did his best not knowing what he was doing or even realizing he was trying to be a parent and she didn’t realize that until it was too late.”
He nodded. Yeah, yeah. He should probably do that. By the time he looked up, she had pushed a pile of mail towards him on the counter and went into the back.
Oh yeah, he hated getting mail from his box. He thought it would be easier with less trips which was true but it also piled up. A lot. It didn’t help that Floyd didn’t stop by very often. He tried to go once a week. It usually ended up being a couple of weeks. This time, well, it was several more, leaving his mail to pile up. Grabbing the stack and shoving it all in his bag, he yelled her a thank you and headed back home.
Home. His apartment. Alone.
Whatever.
Unlocking the door, he trudged to the living room and dumped the mail on the coffee table before flopping face first into his couch.
UGH.
Why did he have to mention his brothers? Why did the post office lady, of all people, have to be so relatable?
He sighed and pushed himself up and sat on the couch, thumbing through the stacks of mail. He started to organize them into piles; fan mail, plenty of scams and credit card offers, a few bills. Yippee.
He would have to give those to his accountant. Which, by accountant, he meant an acquaintance-friend who was good with numbers named Dave.
He never had a problem with bills with Dave.
Floyd paused at a postcard. He thought it might just be fan mail but took a quick look over it. There was a beautiful orange sunset on the front with “Wish you were here,” in fancy script font. He flipped it over. There was nothing on it. No return address, no message, no name. He turned it back to the front.
“Wish you were here.”
Spruce maybe? It sounded like him. He was the only one Floyd knew who talked like that.
After twenty years though?
Twenty years and he got an unsigned postcard.
Okay then.
Why now?
The doorbell rang. Floyd set the postcard down and walked over to his door. A small man stood there. He was even smaller than Floyd. Frankly, he looked like he was made of rocks.
“Are you…” he squinted, trying to read the front of a large envelope. “Floyd? The sensitive one?”
Floyd couldn’t help but bark out a sudden laugh. “I’m sorry, what?”
The man did not look impressed. “Are you or are you not?”
“I’m Floyd.”
“Are you the sensitive one?”
“Uh… yeah, I guess.”
“You don’t sound so sure.”
“I haven’t been called that in twenty years. It was a thing, a long time ago. I used to be in a boy band,” Floyd explained.
He did not look convinced. “Okay… I guess. I’ve got an urgent letter for Floyd the Sensitive One. Do you want it?”
“I guess.”
“You have to sign for it.”
Floyd did.
The messenger rumbled away from his door, irritably. “Those stupid Brozone knock offs. Just cause it’s been two decades doesn’t mean there is any other boy band worth mentioning.”
What…?
Floyd stared for a moment before going back inside. He looked down at it. Well, he wasn't wrong. It was addressed to Floyd: the Sensitive One. That was a bit awkward. Perhaps a tad bit embarrassing too.
Someone must have recognized him from his boy band days.
Or maybe it was someone he knew from back then. The list was probably short. Whoever it was, it made him interested. He didn’t really get direct hand-delivered mail. It could be important.
He thought about what the post office lady said; how no one knew her uncle had died for a long time.
He opened it up and unfolded a large letter. It was hand written and well…
Atrocious.
That was putting it mildly.
The letter was short, practically only a note, but the handwriting was killing his eyes. It took him over twenty minutes just to read. Eventually, he was fairly certain he had it deciphered. He wrote on the back of an old piece of mail and read it out loud. He hoped it made sense.
Dear Floyd,
I’m being held against my will by super stars Velvet and Veneer.
Come to Mount Rageous at once.
Bring brothers
Love, Io
Who was Io? Unless it was Jo? Floyd struggled to recall as he read the letter again and again, consistently comparing it to the original. They obviously knew he had brothers and definitely knew he was in a boy band - a specific boy band. So probably a troll.
Did he dare to entertain the possibility it was one of his brothers?
Spruce did send him a postcard.
As much as Floyd would love to see any single one of his brothers, the prospect of one of them being held captive was an awful thought. Besides, he did not remember any of his brother’s handwriting to be so bad it was near illegible. He wrote down the names and initials of anyone he ever remembered knowing, stretching back to his childhood at the Troll Tree. He had an entire sheet filled out but so far, nothing popped.
Okay, on to his own family.
The idea sickened him that one of them could be held captive.
Rosiepuff.
John Dory.
Spruce.
Clay.
Branch. Branch.
Jack.
Ingrid Orchid.
Wait. Floyd paused and back tracked. Io. IO?
John Dory had been the only one with a double name, fashioned after their mother, who was the first born. Her father was the first born with a double name so it was kind of a tradition. He thought for a moment, perhaps it was his brother’s initials but John didn’t go by JD and Floyd was pretty sure it was an O at the end and not a D.
If the line before the O was straightened just a bit, it could easily be an I.
It wasn’t Jo or Io. It was initials, I.O.
He stopped, his heart skipping a beat.
It was his mom.
His mom needed his help.
And he couldn’t without his brother's help.