Original Language: French
John Dory smiles as a few rays of sunlight, bold enough to slip through the curtains, brush against his eyelids. They’re persistent enough that the Troll finally cracks open one eye, then the other. A moment later, a mighty yawn escapes him, and he runs a hand over his face to rub his eyes and shake off the lingering sleepiness. Then, with a contented sigh, he rolls onto his stomach and begins to stretch lazily in the middle of his bed.
Ah, how pleasant it is to take one’s time in the morning…
Before, he hadn’t really had the chance: life in the Neverglade Trail was a constant struggle, and he couldn’t afford to linger in one place for more than a few hours.
But today, having settled into Pop Village for an indefinite period, he can finally allow himself a break.
That’s why he lies there as long as he likes, savoring the warmth of the sheets, the softness of the pillows, and the gentle purr of Rhonda, who’s still asleep.
When Poppy suggested he settle down here, John initially thought he wouldn’t be able to get used to a sedentary life. After 20 years spent crisscrossing the globe without ever putting down roots, he was convinced that boredom would soon catch up with him and he’d leave again.
That was almost a year ago.
He has seriously reconsidered things now, having tasted the comfort of a stable life - where he can walk outside without the risk of being eaten at any moment, and where he once again has the chance to socialize, something he’d missed more than he cared to admit.
A year had already passed, and not once had he felt the urge to leave this place.
Worse still, he’s even starting to consider settling there for good. And he’s certain Rhonda wouldn’t mind at all, given how much she loves spending time with the Trolls - especially Queen Poppy.
But while he mulls over his decision, John Dory summons the courage to haul himself out of bed, following another stretching session that his aging back appreciates. Once fully awake, he heads to the tiny dresser where he keeps his few clothes and pulls on a pair of old shorts - patched on one side and torn on the other - thinking to himself that he really ought to go shopping sometime. Next, he grabs his favorite jacket, its massive fur collar tickling his cheeks. Finally, he picks up his only glove, intending to put it on, but stops short; a sudden, violent, and unexpected pain flares in his left hand, causing him to drop the garment with a grunt of discomfort. Then, lowering his head, he glances at his hand - that cursed hand, marked on both sides with a large star-shaped design nearly as wide as his palm, in a faded blue that stands out starkly against his skin.
It’s an old, particularly ugly scar - a souvenir from a time before he’d mastered the art of surviving in hostile environments. Despite all the care he’s lavished on it, the bone, tendons, and muscles were irreparably damaged when he earned this “trophy,” and it causes him constant pain. On some days - like today, it seems - the agony becomes so intense that it feels as though a white-hot iron’s being driven into his hand, preventing him from performing even the simplest movements, such as flexing his fingers. He’s noticed that this happens mostly when rain’s approaching: the dampness seeps into his damaged flesh, ruthlessly reigniting and intensifying his suffering. And there’s nothing John Dory can do to ease the pain. He’s tried everything - medicinal herbs, meditation, acupuncture, ice, hot water bottles - but to no avail.
He has no choice but to grit his teeth and force himself to pull on his glove, even though the friction of the fabric against the mark makes him want to scream. This garment’s the only thing he’s found to offer some relief: not only does it hide the scar, but it also provides a measure of support for his tired muscles, allowing him to move almost normally.
“Almost” is the operative word here, since - glove and all - John Dory drops his coffee cup, can’t manage to zip up his jacket, and fails even to open a jar of jam.
Annoyed, sore, and hungry, the Troll fortunately soon finds the solution to all his problems: his brothers. Spending even just an hour with them is enough to get him back on track, and he even manages to arrive in time to share breakfast with them.
“JD, you’re a genius!” he exclaims, leaping off Rhonda; her massive head turns curiously toward him, and a loud purr escapes her as he strokes her cheek. “I’m going to grab a bite with my brothers - you can go for a wander while I’m gone!”
His dear friend doesn’t need to be told twice, and John watches her disappear into the bush with a delighted smile before setting off for the village - specifically, for Branch’s Bunker.
At this hour, Bruce - who’s come to visit for the week - must be getting a meal ready. Floyd’s likely still asleep; his brief stint with Velvet and Veneer left some lasting effects, including debilitating chronic fatigue and joint pain that forces him to sit down frequently. Clay’s probably in the shower, and Branch’s surely already had at least his first 2 cups of coffee for the day.
If John hurries, he might just make it in time to share the first meal of the day with them.
As a rule, he avoids imposing his presence on them, contenting himself with being around them when the opportunity arises and adapting to everyone’s schedule; for even if he isn’t the most emotionally astute Troll, he senses when his presence is unwelcome and is fully aware that his brothers haven’t yet completely forgiven him for those 20 years of separation. Eager to properly make amends - and knowing they’re all safe now - John Dory gives them as much space as they ask for, watching over them from afar, as is his duty as the eldest.
But every now and then, he allows himself to show up at Branch’s place - knowing the others are there - to ask for a bit of their time. Generally, they welcome him, mindful of the effort JD puts in for them and wanting to show him that he still has a chance to find a place in their hearts.
That’s why he doesn’t hesitate for a second to knock on the doormat outside Branch’s Bunker, waiting until the hidden hatch beneath it opens to reveal Clay’s curious face - his still-damp hair confirming to John that he’d been right about the shower.
“Hey, JD!” his brother greeted him with a friendly smile. “Coming for breakfast?”
“You guessed it!” the older one replied with a cheerful nod, before hopping onto the elevator platform; Clay started it up to take them deep underground, to the nerve center of their younger brother’s bunker.
“You’re in luck - Bruce made his famous potato omelet,” Clay hummed once they reached their destination.
“The one with chunks of smoked pork belly? Pure bliss,” enthuses John Dory, his nose already assailed by the delicious aroma of the meal Bruce’s whipping up right now - a scent that makes his mouth water instantly.
He and Clay soon reach the kitchen, where Branch has recently installed a massive wooden table after making sure his brothers would be staying in the area. The only one who leaves occasionally is Bruce, called back home by his beloved wife, their brood of children, and his restaurant. Yet, he makes the effort to return at least once a month, even if only for a day or two. Sometimes, he even brings along a few of his little ones, as well as Brandy.
In any case, Branch now shares his living space with Clay and Floyd - both having decided to move in to make up for lost time - and getting the place ready for this shared living arrangement keeps him pretty busy; fortunately, he’d built the bedrooms long ago - JD actually knows that one of them’s earmarked for him and that he could move in there, if he wanted to.
“What’s on the agenda for today?” John asks after greeting Bruce and sitting down at the head of the table, licking his lips at the thought of the feast awaiting him.
“Finishing touches on the new bathroom,” Clay replies. “It’s bigger than the other one, and better equipped, to make things easier for Floyd.”
“I could lend a hand,” he suggests, ignoring the pain that now radiates from his fingertips to his elbow, promising a difficult day.
“If you promise to do everything I say,” Branch’s voice reaches them. He appears in the dining room doorway, wearing a leafy robe, his hair still tousled from a long night’s sleep, his tail trailing behind him.
John greets him with a broad smile before replying in an exaggeratedly solemn voice:
“You have my word. I will obey your every command without hesitation or question!”
Branch narrows his eyes, only half-convinced, but doesn’t press the issue - apparently still too tired for that. Instead, he goes to sit next to Clay, who’s just brought over a pot of coffee - which the youngest immediately claims.
“How much coffee have you had since you got up?” JD asks.
“Two,” his brother replies, and the eldest grins broadly.
It’s good to see that, even after 20 years, he still knows his brothers inside out.
Floyd eventually joins them, greeting them in a groggy voice that makes John laugh. Then Bruce - bless him and his cooking skills - finally brings out breakfast: an omelet so huge it could double as a blanket, and from which everyone rushes to take a generous helping, as if they hadn’t eaten in a week.
And there they are, having breakfast together just like in the good old days - fighting over the sugar and tossing objects across the table (because simply passing them calmly from one to the other isn’t funny enough, whatever Clay might say), not to mention the contest to see how many slices of jam-covered toast they can stuff into their mouths at once.
John emerges the clear winner with a total of 7 slices - one of which nearly causes him to choke to death. He’s saved only by Bruce’s paternal reflexes; Bruce even takes the opportunity to lecture him, to the point where John Dory - despite his legendary carefree attitude and the fact that he’s the eldest - ends up shrinking a little in his seat, promising not to do it again.
Then, having finished their meal, they clear away their cutlery, eager to finally start their day in earnest.
Unfortunately, as he carries a stack of plates back to the kitchen, John Dory feels the pain in his hand return - as searing as a poker left in the fireplace flames. A strangled yelp escapes him, along with the dishes he was holding, and he can only watch in horror as they fall.
Miraculously, Branch, who’s close behind him, manages to catch all the plates before they hit the floor and quickly sets them down by the sink.
“Watch it!” he snaps at his older brother.
“Sorry, they slipped out of my hands,” John replies with an embarrassed smile, rubbing the back of his neck as he tries his best to ignore the unpleasant numbness in his left arm.
“You sure you’re okay? You suddenly went pale,” Bruce remarks - skilled at spotting such things after a long, impressive career as a family man.
“Hm? Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” JD says quickly, shrugging. “Didn’t sleep well last night, that’s all.”
Fortunately, his lie seems to suffice, and none of his brothers press the issue. For once, John offers to handle the dishes himself to give them time to get ready, and they agree without complaint.
Left alone in the kitchen - after Branch has shown him where every utensil belongs (the eldest already knows the layout of the kitchen by heart, but he knows it reassures his younger brother to tirelessly repeat the rules he himself established, so he lets him do it without a word of protest) - JD begins the task. He makes sure everyone has truly left however, before removing his glove and setting it within easy reach, just in case. None of his brothers know what he’s hiding underneath, and he has no intention of revealing it to them. What would be the point, anyway? It’s his problem - his alone.
Then, without further delay, he begins washing the plates.
For as long as he could remember, he’d always enjoyed doing the dishes - even when he was just a tiny Troll. The feel of the warm water on his hands gave him a deep sense of well-being, while also soothing the muscles in his injured hand, and he loved the scent of the dish soap. It reminded him of afternoons back when they still lived in the Troll Tree in Bergen Town, when his grandma would give him a bowl of soapy water to blow bubbles and keep his little brothers entertained.
John smiled at the memory of Bruce and Clay - clumsy on their young legs - scrambling to catch the lovely, translucent spheres. And then there was Floyd’s adorable, wide-eyed look of astonishment the day a bubble popped right on the tip of his nose.
Despite the threat hanging them over back then, John’s memories of that time were generally happy ones.
Except, of course, for the day his parents were devoured by Bergens.
“No, don’t think about it,” JD told himself as he cleaned the glasses, taking his time to ensure there wasn’t a single smudge left on them - well aware that otherwise, Branch would give him yet another lecture on hygiene, something the older brother would happily do without.
But just as he was about to put the last glass away on the top shelf, a sudden stiffness seized his fingers, causing them to spring open against his will. And this time, Branch wasn’t there to catch it.
The glass shattered on the floor between his feet, scattering sharp shards everywhere. The noise, combined with John’s startled shout, caught Clay’s attention, and he quickly came over to join him.
“Is everything okay here?” he asks, and JD jumps before hurriedly pulling on his glove. “Damn, what happened?”
“An accident,” the older one replies, looking a bit embarrassed.
“Okay, don’t move; I’ll pick up the glass before you step on it,” the younger one tells him, quickly sweeping up the area around John’s feet.
As luck would have it, Clay cuts the tip of his right index finger on a shard, the sharp hiss of pain that escapes him makes JD spin around to look at him.
“Yeah, it’s nothing,” Clay sighs, tossing the broken glass away and running his hand under the water in the sink. “Just a small cut.”
“Want me to get you a bandage?” John offers; despite what he’d said to his brothers during their argument before saving Floyd, he can’t help but want to look after them and make sure they’re all okay.
But Clay shakes his head.
“It’s fine, I’ve got it,” he says, walking out of the kitchen before John has time to react.
Still, the older brother clearly notices his sibling’s annoyed expression and the accusatory glint in his green eyes.
Great, now Clay’s mad at him…
“Sorry!” John calls out, hoping that’ll be enough to appease the other Troll.
Unfortunately, he gets no reply, and as he leaves the kitchen himself, he runs into Branch, who gives him a wary look.
“What did you do this time?” the youngest brother asks suspiciously.
“I just broke a glass - it’s no big deal, it happens to everyone,” John replies defensively, before trying to change the subject: “Is there anything else I can help with?”
Branch stares at him for a moment and - miraculously - decides not to press the issue, opting instead to point toward one of the hallways adjoining the main foyer.
“Well, there’s still the bathroom to finish outfitting. You can get started on your own - with the plumbing, if possible - and I’ll join you as soon as I’m dressed,” he says simply, and JD’s face lights up with an enthusiastic smile.
“Consider it done!” he exclaims before darting off without a second thought - eager both to help his brother and to escape his scrutinizing gaze.
Some days, he misses Bitty B terribly - misses those big, happy eyes and those gap-toothed smiles.
Still, all isn’t lost; perhaps Branch will eventually truly rediscover the joy he once had. As the saying goes, hope springs eternal! And JD has hope to spare.
But in the meantime, Branch has asked for his help, and John fully intends to provide it as quickly as possible - overjoyed and just a little honored that his youngest brother’s finally placing even a shred of trust in him.
“If I finish before Bitty B catches up with me, he’ll have his morning free to spend with Poppy - and he’ll be grateful to me for it!” the Troll thought with a confident smile, hurrying down the hallway toward the work site.
He soon found a toolbox and everything needed to finish the plumbing. Delighted at the prospect of helping his brother, he quickly set to work. Having lived with Rhonda for nearly 20 years, he’d picked up some DIY skills - including a thing or two about pipes - so he began the job with plenty of confidence.
He soon became lost in thought, even humming a random tune as he started at the water connection, taking his time to ensure the job was done right. He was nearly finished when he heard footsteps behind him; glancing briefly over his shoulder, he saw that Branch had arrived.
“You’re going to be happy, Bitty B - I’m almost done,” he sang out proudly.
“Stop calling me that,” Branch grumbles back, eliciting a laugh from his older brother as he steps closer to check the work.
Since Branch says nothing, John assumes he’s doing a good job and keeps going; his tail wags happily behind him, betraying the satisfaction he feels at having not only managed to help his younger brother but also off the feat of shutting him up.
“See? I can handle myself,” the older one coos with a slightly teasing smile, before grabbing a wrench to tighten the final bolts.
Unfortunately, the action aggravates an old injury, and a grimace slowly spreads across his face as he performs the repetitive motion of turning the wrench. He eventually has to give up, though he figures it should be enough: the bolts are securely in place and - despite Branch’s protests - John’s convinced there’s no reason for any trouble.
So, naturally, there’s a problem: the second he opens the water valve to test his work, the bolts all pop off one after another, too fast for him to react. The next instant, a jet of water slams into both Trolls’ faces, and in the blink of an eye, the bathroom’s flooded.
“Shut the valve!” yells Branch, who’s been pushed back to the doorway by the force of the spray.
“I’m trying!” John shouts back, pulling at the valve with all his might - but to no avail; unable to close his left hand and lacking sufficient strength in his right, he cannot stop the flow.
“What on earth is going on here?!” Bruce’s voice suddenly booms; appearing behind Branch, he quickly grasps the situation. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!”
He immediately shoves his younger brother aside to rush into the bathroom; roughly pushing John out of the way, he grabs the valve and hurriedly turns it to shut off the water.
A deafening silence then descends upon the room.
Bruce’s soaked from head to toe, his magnificent purple mane forming a sodden cascade down his back - a mane that’ll likely take hours to dry. As for the floor - not even yet tiled - it’s now awash with water that quickly soaks into the bare earth, turning the room into a massive mud puddle; the youngest member of Brozone slips in it, landing hard on his backside with an impressive *Splash!* followed by a thunderous “Ouch!”
John’s first instinct is to laugh at the astonishing spectacle, but he falls silent almost immediately when Branch and Bruce glare at him.
“Look what you’ve done!” the youngest growls. “It’s going to take me all day to fix the mess! I told you the bolts weren’t tight enough!”
“It was just an accident - calm down,” Bruce tries to soothe him with an annoyed sigh, pulling a dry towel from the cupboard and handing it to his younger brother, who snatches it angrily and tries to dry himself off.
“Yeah, Bitty B, I’ll clean it up, don’t worry,” John adds, forcing a smile onto his face.
Unfortunately, his attempt at reconciliation hits a wall of anger.
“No way!” Branch shouts. “You aren’t touching anything else in here, got it?! Actually, it’d be great if you could just leave!”
John Dory’s eyes go wide with shock; even Bruce looks a bit surprised.
“Branch…” he begins, but the younger brother shakes his head and crosses his arms over his chest, looking deadly serious.
“Don’t ‘Branch’ me, he growls, pointing toward the bathroom exit. “I’m not kidding - I want you out of this bathroom. I have to mop all this up, and I won’t have time to keep an eye on you.”
“Keep an eye on me?” John asks, offended. “Branch! I’m your big brother; *I’m* the one who’s supposed to keep an eye on *you,* not the other way around! Come on, seriously - I’m sorry, okay? You…”
“Go away,” his younger brother cuts him off irritably. “Go on. Floyd needs help shelving his books; that’s probably more up your alley…and it’s a lot less dangerous than letting you mess with the plumbing.”
JD opens his mouth but shuts it again almost immediately, unable to think of a comeback. Beside him, Bruce gives him an apologetic look, and the older brother realizes he won’t be getting any support from that quarter.
“I just wanted everything to be perfect,” he stammers again.
“As usual,” Branch snaps, his voice icy, and John finally realizes his brother isn’t going to change his mind.
So, swallowing his pride along with the bile rising in his throat, he nods.
“All right,” he mutters. “I’ll go see if Floyd needs me. Sorry again about the mess. I’ll just… I’ll just go.”
“Perfect,” growls Branch, stepping aside to let him pass as he heads for the door. “And do us a favor - don’t come back!”
“Branch!” Bruce scolds him.
“Nah, he’s right,” John mutters as he walks down the hallway. “See you later!”
“Yeah, right,” he hears Branch grumble before Bruce scolds him again, but JD isn’t listening anymore; he shuffles his feet toward the library.
When he arrives, the Troll pauses to shake off the barrage of negative thoughts. Then, forcing a cheerful smile onto his face, he enters the room, humming a “Hey, bro!” full of feigned energy.
As agreed, Floyd’s there, busy moving several stacks of books from one end of the room to the other, toward the back where massive, already-packed shelves stand. Hearing John approach, the pink-haired Troll stops and offers a friendly smile.
“Hey, JD,” he replies in a welcoming voice. “Come to help?”
“Yeah, Branch said two pairs of hands would be better than one,” confirms the eldest, relieved that his warmest brother’s presence is easing the weight of the monumental screw-up he’s just caused in the bathroom. “Wow, he’s got a lot of books!”
“Oh, most of them belong to Clay,” Floyd corrects, looking slightly amused.
“Right, his famous sad books… I read one once. Never again,” John remarks. I cried through every single chapter.
“Really? Are they that bad?” asks a surprised Floyd, as his older brother takes the stack he was carrying off his hands - earning a warm word of thanks from the younger one.
“You have no idea,” John confirms, cradling the volumes against his stomach. “So tell me - where do I put them?”
“Well, I was thinking of sorting them by genre,” Floyd replies. “These are novels; I’ve started shelving them here - look.”
“You know, Branch might complain that they ought to be in alphabetical order,” John says with a chuckle as he goes to set the books down near the shelf Floyd pointed out.
The latter joins him there and helps him quietly put the books away.
“Just like he used to do with our albums,” he whispers with a knowing smile, which John returns.
Of all his brothers, Floyd’s the only one who showed genuine joy at seeing him again, and the only one who seems enthusiastic about his attempt at redemption. JD’s therefore particularly happy to spend some time with him. They soon find a rhythm that works for them: John moves the heaviest books and arranges the highest shelves, while Floyd handles the lower ones and sorts the volumes however he likes. However, he has to stop regularly to catch his breath, and John can’t help but feel a pang of guilt at his brother’s fatigue - his brother, who used to be so full of energy and life.
“I’m sorry,” he says after a while, as Floyd’s forced to sit in an armchair because his legs can no longer support his weight.
“For what?” his brother asks curiously.
John Dory gestures vaguely toward him.
“For that whole business with Velvet and Veneer. If I’d been faster… or if I’d alerted the authorities…”
Floyd tilts his head, then smiles at him very gently.
“John… You don’t have to apologize. You did everything you could to save me, and in doing so, you managed to bring us all back together. Do you realize that? It’s thanks to you that we’re here today.”
The eldest swallows hard; setting down the books he was still holding, he walks over to his brother and kneels before him.
“But I was too slow,” he stammers, feeling shame and a sense of failure slowly tightening his throat. “And now, you’re paying the price for it…”
Floyd’s smile softens even further before the pink-haired Troll leans forward to take his older brother’s hands in his own.
“A tiny price, considering everything it’s given me,” he replies. “And the doctors say I’ll regain full function within a year or two, so you see, everything’s fine. And I don’t blame you at all, okay? So please, don’t blame yourself either.”
“I can’t help it,” John whispers, his voice trembling more and more. “I keep telling myself that if I’d come back sooner, if I’d tried to reach out to you guys…”
“And if you hadn’t done anything at all, I’d be dead,” Floyd states firmly, his fingers tightening slightly around the older one’s. “Johnny, you saved my life - do you realize that?”
JD nods awkwardly. Deep down, he knows Floyd’s right, but he can’t stop blaming himself. He should’ve been there for his brothers; he never should’ve broken up the band. It was his role, as the eldest, to protect them, and he failed completely. Because of him, two of his brothers suffered horribly, and the other two hold a grudge against him. The worst part is that he keeps hurting them, even now, and it’s absolutely crushing his spirit.
“Even if they don’t show it,” Floyd continues, pulling him out of his self-pity, “They’re happy to see you again.”
“Even Branch?” asks John, struggling more and more to hold back his tears.
As a rule, he’s the type to hold back tears - or only shed them in private, tucked deep in bed under the covers late at night. But with Floyd… With Floyd, he’s never managed to keep up the act. It’s as if his brother has a superpower that compels those around him to open up completely, to place the keys to their hearts in his caring hands. And John, for all his tough-guy bravado, has never been able to resist his younger brother’s kindness and understanding.
“Especially Branch,” Floyd finally replies, and the next moment, John presses his face against his brother’s knees, his body racked by a heavy sob.
Instantly, two hands slip into his hair, gently playing with his long turquoise locks in the way that’s always soothed him. They say nothing, because there’s nothing to say. JD simply pours out all the grief and frustration that’ve built up over the last few months, and Floyd accepts it all willingly, giving him all the time he needs to calm down and pull himself together. When John finally manages to do so, he pulls back to take a deep breath before offering his younger brother a shaky smile.
“Sorry - and thanks,” he says, speaking rapidly, his voice still a little unsteady. “I think I needed…to just let it all out. It’s been a long morning.”
“No worries,” Floyd replies. “If you want to talk about it more… my door’s always open, okay?”
John nods, and after wiping his eyes with a somewhat abrupt motion, he goes to pick up the books he’d abandoned in the corner.
“You can open up to me too, you know?” he says as he goes back to tidying up. “I know, and I thank you for it,” confirms Floyd, who wastes no time joining him to help.
Together, they go back to tidying up, chatting about this and that - mostly nothing in particular - in an attempt to lighten the mood. The older one eventually works up the courage to mention the two accidents he caused earlier that morning, and Floyd reassures him with all the patience and calm he possesses.
He even manages to coax a genuine smile onto John’s face, and it isn’t long before the latter regains his usual good spirits.
Alas, luck’s truly not on his side today; he barely has time to enjoy this brief moment of respite before his old injury flares up again. Just as he’s trying to put a book away on a shelf above Floyd, disaster strikes before he can react: a violent jolt of pain suddenly shoots through his hand, a sharp cry escapes his lips, and he drops the massive encyclopedia he’s holding. To make matters worse, the book slams right into Floyd’s forehead - so hard that the poor Troll staggers backward, dazed by the impact.
Horrified, John rushes over to steady him and check his head, where a thin cut has appeared, trickling a fine stream of glittering blood.
“Oh no, no, no, no,” JD stammers, his voice drained of color as he frantically looks for something to stop the bleeding.
“It’s okay, it’s nothing,” Floyd replies, simply pressing his fingers against the wound. “The book slipped out of your hands, right? I’ll just have a bump.”
But John doesn’t hear him; he’s deafened by the panicked pounding of his heart, which echoes right in his ears. He can focus on only one thing: his little brother’s hurt - he’s bleeding.
Just as it was his fault he was captured by two species of talent-stealing vampires; just as it was his fault Branch had to grow up alone for 20 years; just as it was his fault Bruce had to change his identity and flee to the other side of the world; just as it was his fault Clay cut himself off from the outside world and its joys for so long - just as he’d hurt three of his brothers in the span of one tiny, fleeting morning.
Everything - everything - was his fault.
And this time, neither Floyd’s reassuring words nor his kind smile could calm the panic gripping John Dory.
Before he could even think twice, he rushed into the hallway, shouting:
“I need help! Floyd’s hurt! Guys!”
Within a minute, his three brothers had joined them. Branch even had the presence of mind to bring a first-aid kit. Soon they were crowding around Floyd, holding out bandages and disinfectant.
“It’s a minor cut,” Bruce finally said - having become an expert on such scrapes since the birth of Bruce Jr. “Nothing to panic about.”
But John Dory *was* panicking.
He couldn’t help it; 20 years of guilt had just slammed into him with the force of a tsunami. Gasping and distraught, he hung back, his tail curling nervously around one of his legs.
“It’s my fault,” he stammered. “My fault. My fault, my fault, my fault… The book was too heavy, and my hand… I didn’t mean to, but I let it go, and it fell and…”
Instantly, Branch closed the distance between them and grabbed him by the fleece-lined collar of his jacket.
“And what?!” he roared. “You’re the one who did this to him?! That’s impossible! Can’t you be careful for once in your life?!”
“Branch!” cried Floyd, joining them and trying to step in to make their youngest brother let go. “Stop it, I’m fine!”
“No, you’re not fine!” the youngest continued, raging. “None of us are fine - because of him! Every time he’s around, things go wrong!”
“Stop, that’s not true!” Floyd protested indignantly. “You don’t mean that!”
“Yes, I do!” Branch shouted at the top of his lungs. “And it’s the truth!”
Every word felt like a knife to the gut for John Dory. Still in shock, nauseous, and with his arm throbbing more painfully than ever, he finally managed to break free from Branch’s grip and took a staggering step back toward the door.
With a tight throat, he barely managed to stammer:
“Everything to be perfect - we know!” Branch spat out.
The eldest froze as if he’d been slapped.
Then lowering his head, he mumbled:
“Sorry. I think the best thing is… is for me to leave.”
“No!” Floyd cried out emotionally.
“Guys, how about we sit down and talk this through calmly?” suggests Clay, finally stepping forward as he realizes the situation’s truly spiraling out of control.
“Seriously, we just made up,” sighs Bruce.
But their words fall on deaf ears; John waves them off dismissively.
“No, Branch is right. I destroy everything I love - it’s always been that way, and there’s no reason for it to change. So, I’m leaving. Who knows? Maybe we’ll see each other again in 20 years.”
And, flashing a smile as fake as the fur on his collar, he whispers a barely audible:
Then he turns on his heel and rushes to the elevator platform, activating it before anyone can catch up to him. In any case, he doubts any of his brothers followed him.
As he ascends to the surface, he tries to sort out his thoughts and figure out his next move, but everything’s a jumble in his head; he feels like both vomiting and crying, his hand throbs with agonizing pain, and it feels as though some invisible force is yanking his hair in every direction.
He’s thoroughly disoriented when he finally reaches the bunker entrance; he steps out with a somewhat unsteady gait, walking away without paying attention to where he’s going. The only thing that matters to him right now is putting distance between himself and his brothers - for the safety of all four of them.
He should’ve stuck to his original plan: reforming the group only long enough to save Floyd, then going their separate ways. But Branch managed to convince him to stay, to give their family a second chance… And look at the result.
Now, Branch is the one who resents him the most; Floyd’s hurt, Clay is too, and Bruce has naturally sided with his younger brothers. As the second-eldest sibling, it really falls to him to step up as guardian and protector - a role John Dory failed to fulfill.
At the thought of having failed once again - of having shirked his duty - the Troll feels tears welling up, but he swallows them back hard, refusing to allow himself a moment of respite after all the harm he’s caused.
He has no right to cry when he’s the one at fault.
All he can do is go find Rhonda and prepare to leave Pop Village for good. Maybe he should go back to the Neverglade Trail. At least there, there was no one he could hurt.
Yes, that’s an excellent plan.
The solution to all his problems, and the only way to redeem himself without hurting anyone.
Rhonda will likely be a bit sad to leave, but John knows she’ll understand - because she always understands, and she’s the only one he’s never caused pain.
He just needs to find her, and then they can…
Pain flares up in his hand again, and this time it’s so excruciating that it knocks the breath out of him. Feverishly, he looks down at his fingers - staring at them without truly seeing them - as he endures, in gasping silence, the vicious onslaught of a wound nearly two decades old.
“This is all your fault,” he whispers as the agony recedes. “You’re the one who hurt my brothers. You’re the one who’s broken, incompetent, useless. Why do I even bother keeping you around?”
He doesn't realize the weight of his words. The pain’s too intense; it numbs his senses and clouds his reason. He feels like an animal with its paw caught in a trap. He sees only one way to break free…
Pulling off his glove, he casts a final, hate-filled glare at the hand that’s betrayed him so often in the past - and continues to betray him now, just when he needs it most. The scar looks like a mocking grimace, laughing at the misery it’s caused. John Dory stares at it for a moment, then snaps.
His teeth sink fiercely into the tender skin of his wrist - hard enough that blood quickly fills his mouth, spreading a metallic taste that makes him nauseous, yet he refuses to let go.
He has to free himself from the trap, rid himself of the source of his misery and…
His fangs suddenly strike a nerve, and pain explodes - blinding and searing - rippling through every single cell in his body.
Glitter-flecked blood now trickles down his chin and along his arm; his hand trembles violently, and he suddenly realizes what he’s just done.
Another cry escapes him - fainter, more muffled.
Then, darkness swallows him, and he loses consciousness - here, in the middle of the woods, from the safety of his own people.
When he regains consciousness, John Dory immediately notices three things:
First, he’s no longer outside.
Third, he isn’t in pain anywhere.
“I must be dead,” he thinks simply, lacking even the energy to worry about such a possibility.
But no sooner has the thought crossed his mind than a familiar voice rings out right beside him:
“Holy glitter-crusted cracker, you’re awake!”
Turning his head toward the sound, John meets the gaze of Floyd, who’s sitting on a chair next to the bed where John lies. The other Troll’s large pink eyes are filled with a mixture of relief and worry that JD can’t quite fathom.
“Bro?” the eldest stammers, once he remembers how to work his tongue - which is stuck to the roof of his mouth, feeling pasty and dry as cardboard.
If Floyd’s here, that means he’s still alive after all. But if he’s alive… where is he?
Confused and unable to think clearly, he tries to sit up, but the world immediately starts spinning around him; he lies back down with a grimace, pressing his right hand against his temple.
“Try not to move around too much,” Floyd advises, coming to sit on the edge of the bed.
John Dory smiles faintly as he feels his brother’s tail gently wrap around his arm in a comforting gesture.
“The doctor said you needed to stay quiet,” the younger one adds, and his older brother frowns.
“The doctor?” he repeats. “Floyd, what happened? Where am I? What’s this about a doctor?”
Floyd’s expression grows even more worried than it already was.
“You don’t remember?” he asks, before lowering his gaze.
Following his brother’s line of sight, John freezes when he spots his left hand.
Resting atop the blanket, it’s completely swathed in a wide gauze bandage that extends almost to his elbow. When he tries to move it, he’s startled to find he has no sensation whatsoever in his arm. Then, surprise gives way to fear as snatches of memory come flooding back.
His escape from the bunker, the forest, the guilt, then the anger… the desire to be rid of that cursed pain once and for all…
“Floyd?” JD stammers in a tiny voice. “What can’t I feel my hand? Floyd? What did I do?”
He immediately tries to tear off the bandages, terrified of seeing the injury he might’ve inflicted on himself, but his brother stops him at once.
“Calm down,” he says in a gentle but firm voice. “It’s normal for your arm to be numb; the doctor numbed it to operate on you.”
“Surgery?” John repeats, his ears flattened and his tail nervously curled around his thigh beneath the duvet. “Floyd, what actually happened?”
Floyd shifts restlessly, fiddling with his earring and avoiding eye contact. It takes him a few seconds to find the right words, and then he hurriedly summarizes the situation:
“When you left the bunker, Branch followed you. He realized right away that he’d gone too far and that you two needed to talk. But when he found you… you were unconscious. He came back to get us - you should’ve seen him; he was panicked.”
John Dory closes his eyes for a moment. Guilt washes over him again, and he feels more wretched than ever for having terrified Branch like that. Floyd must sense it, for he places a hand on John’s - the uninjured one - and offers a small smile. Then he continues, his voice thick with unshed tears:
“We followed him to where you were, and… Johnny, there was blood everywhere. We thought you… that you were…”
He falls silent, on the verge of tears. John stares at him, devastated at having hurt him, too. He should’ve just grabbed Rhonda and left immediately! But that cursed hand… He couldn’t help it; he’d felt compelled to do something.
“We thought you’d been attacked by a beast,” another voice suddenly chimes in from somewhere behind Floyd, who jumps and turns around.
Bruce then appears, looking grim. Approaching the bed, he places a hand on Floyd’s shoulder, silently asking him to step aside. The younger brother reluctantly complies, holding JD’s hand in his own for as long as possible before returning to his chair. John laments the sudden separation, but Bruce quickly fills the void Floyd left behind, settling into the spot their younger brother had just vacated. Carefully, he runs his fingers over the thick bandage covering John’s arm; John savors the warmth of his brother’s hand, feeling it even through the dressings.
“Then we figured it out,” Bruce continues. “Your mouth was full of blood, and with the teeth marks on your skin… Anyway, we tried to take you back to the village, but Rhonda blocked our path. When she saw you in that state… We only managed to calm her down once we got you settled in your room.”
At these words, John glances briefly at his surroundings and realizes that, sure enough, he’s lying in the bed he occupies inside Rhonda’s belly. He also realizes he can feel the familiar vibration of his friend’s body, and he smiles, letting himself be soothed by the gentle, low hum of her breathing.
“Clay went to get the doctor after that,” Bruce goes on. “He said… He said the wound looked worse than it actually was, but you’d still managed to do some serious damage to your hand. You… You severed two of your tendons.”
John Dory swallows hard. Glancing once more at his injured hand, he tries to move it again, but to no avail.
“He managed to stitch them back together,” Bruce assures him. “But he said you’ll need several months of physical therapy to regain full mobility in your hand. He… He also told us that it wasn’t the only wound. That there was another one - an older one…”
His expression shifts, filling with doubt - even fear. His fingers tighten around JD’s, and JD realizes his brother’s trembling. Suddenly, he understands what Bruce’s imagining.
“No,” he says immediately. “I… That other injury - it wasn’t me, I swear. But it was because of it that… that I hurt you all today. I was in so much pain; I couldn’t do anything anymore… So I wanted… I wanted to settle the problem for good.”
This time, sheer dread lights up Bruce’s eyes - and Floyd’s, too. Mortified by his own admission, John Dory looks away.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Floyd asks, his voice quavering.
“We could’ve found a solution together,” adds Bruce, paler than fresh snow.
“No,” John replies instantly. “It was up to me to handle it, not you.”
“Why?” Floyd chokes out, his eyes brimming with tears.
“Because you’re my little brothers!” the eldest exclaims. “It’s my job to look after you, not the other way around!”
“Please, not this again,” Bruce breathes, running a hand over his face. “Do you realize what you tried to do - all because of this stupid idea that we aren’t allowed to take care of you?”
John Dory’s expression darkens and he looks away again, but he refuses to back down. His voice trembling, he finally stammers:
“Looking out for you - that’s my role. It’s the only thing I know how to do.”
“Oh, Johnny,” Floyd stammers, hurrying around the bed to sit on the other side of his brother and grasp his uninjured hand. “You’re capable of so much more than this! You’re so much more than just a big brother! And you don’t even see it… Look at yourself now. You wanted to…”
He falls silent, and JD thinks he’s about to burst into tears. But his brother abruptly pulls himself together and says, in a strained voice:
“You wanted to tear your hand off.”
The raw, naked truth, dropped like a stone into a still pond.
And suddenly, John realizes that yes, he’d almost done exactly that. He’d nearly amputated his own limb out of… Pride? Shame? Guilt?
When he could’ve simply told his brothers.
He could’ve confided his insecurities to them, just as Floyd had, and spoken about his health issues. And just as they had for Floyd, his brothers would’ve adapted. They would’ve found ways to make his life easier and erase his suffering.
Instead, John had stayed silent, keeping it all to himself and focusing solely on his younger brothers’ well-being - as he’d so often done in the past - right up until that fateful concert where he finally cracked under the pressure.
Suddenly, he feels like the king of fools - so much so that he curls up under his duvet, clutching his mangled hand against his chest.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers in a wretched voice.
Bruce and Floyd don’t answer. Instead, the former places a comforting hand in his hair, while the latter gently strokes his shoulder.
“We’re the ones who should be apologizing,” Bruce sighs. “We should’ve seen that something was wrong. We should’ve… We should’ve put our grudges aside and made a real place for you among us again. Maybe if we had… you would’ve talked to us. So on behalf of all four of us, we ask for your forgiveness, John Dory.”
John Dory opens his mouth, closes it again, then pulls his blanket up over his face, unable to face his brothers’ sorrowful gazes any longer. They watch him for a moment before standing up.
“We’ll let you rest,” Floyd says. “If you need us, we’ll be right next door. Just call out.”
And they leave, abandoning John to his solitude.
He remains hidden for a long time, replaying the events of the past few hours over and over in his mind. Remorse and guilt continue to haunt him, yet they’re tinged with a hint of… of relief.
Now, the others know his secret. He won’t have to pretend he’s perfectly fine anymore. He might… He might even dare to ask for help. The mere thought wrings a sob from him - then another, and another - until he’s weeping openly, his face buried in his pillow.
He loses track of time as he lies there, taking all the time he needs to rest, recover from the emotional turmoil, and think about what comes next.
Having seen neither Clay nor Branch, he has no idea what they think of the situation. Are they angry? Disappointed? Worried?
And does anyone else know?
Poppy and Viva probably do - of if they don’t, they soon will. But the others? John Dory doesn’t want this getting out - just as he doesn’t want to get up - but he knows he’ll have to eventually.
“Might as well get it over with,” he tells himself, once he’s regained enough strength and found the courage to throw off his duvet.
He sits up in bed - slowly, cautiously - waiting for the world to stop spinning before putting his feet on the floor. Then he stands, grimacing as he loses his balance and falls back onto the mattress.
It takes two more attempts before he manages to stand up and stay upright. He takes a first step, feeling as fragile as a newborn. He’s even tempted to call out to his brothers, but old demons hold him back, and he ends up hobbling alone toward the door leading outside.
“Man, I don’t know what that doctor gave me, but it sure works wonders!” the Troll thinks. Besides having lost all sensation in his left arm - he has to support it with his right hand, keeping it pressed against his chest - he realizes he can barely feel his toes and feels strangely light-headed.
Finally, he reaches the door and opens it, almost timidly.
He’s surprised to discover that he isn’t actually outside, but rather underground in a sort of large, circular cavern; it takes him a moment to recall that Branch dug this space specifically so Rhonda could join them in the bunker if needed. The cave’s spacious and torch-lit, with an entrance well-hidden among the roots of a large tree near Pop Village. John Dory remembers the joy he felt when Branch first told him about the project, seeing it as a chance to live close to his brothers - while maintaining the personal space they all needed - and to keep looking out for his friend. The thought of being separated from the giant armadillo bus, even for just a few hours, had always bothered him, and he’s happy knowing she can come here for shelter whenever she likes.
Speaking of Rhonda, she soon realizes her passenger has stepped out, and her big, round head turns almost immediately toward JD, who greets her with a wide grin.
“Rhonda! My beauty!” he exclaims, just before a glitter-flecked tongue happily licks his face. “Yeah, I missed you too, you know!”
Rhonda responds with a loud, rumbling coo, and John takes his time cuddling and reassuring her. Eventually, however, he has to leave her, knowing he can’t put off the inevitable forever.
“I’ll be back soon, I promise!” he tells the armadillo bus before slipping into the corridor leading to the rest of the bunker.
The walk takes him nearly ten minutes; he has to pause frequently - sometimes because the world starts spinning again, other times to think about what he’s going to say to his brothers. Yes, the eloquent speech he’d prepared falls flat the moment he enters the main hall where Bruce, Clay, and Floyd are waiting. The instant they spot him, the room fills with a chorus of: “What are you doing up?!” “What part of ‘the doctor doesn’t want you moving around’ didn’t you understand?!” “Quick, come sit down here!”
A minute later, he’s seated in a chair, and Bruce’s placing a steaming cup of tea in his hands.
Mint and Hibiscus - his favorite flavor… Clearly, he isn’t the only one who knows his brothers inside out.
“What an idiot,” sighs Clay, standing beside him. “You should be in bed, resting! Not wandering around a bunker riddled with traps!”
“I wanted to see you guys,” John replies in a grumbling tone, sipping the delicious drink Bruce has prepared for him - and for which he offers warm thanks.
“You should’ve called us,” Floyd gently chides him. “It wasn’t safe…”
“Yeah, well, it’s too late now; I’m here,” the eldest hums airily, earning a light smack on the back of the head from Bruce. “Hey!”
“Don’t ‘hey’ me,” the other Troll snaps. “From now on, you do exactly what we say - and woe beside you if you disobey.”
John Dory opens his mouth to protest, but noticing his brothers’ annoyed expressions, he retreats into a sulky silence - though he eventually breaks it with an awkward murmur:
“Thanks… Thanks for coming to my rescue earlier.”
His words at least serve to soften the gazes fixed upon him, before Clay replies:
“You really ought to thank Branch. If he hadn’t followed you…”
He leaves the sentence unfinished, but John gets the point. Glancing down at his tea for a moment, he suddenly frowns.
“By the way, where is he?” he asks after a moment.
The other three exchange a look, communicating silently. Finally, it’s Floyd who speaks:
“He’s locked himself in his workshop; we don’t know what he’s doing.”
John Dory doesn’t try to pry, even though he’s consumed by curiosity - and worry - because he knows just how good Floyd’s at keeping a secret. While Bruce had no qualms about ratting out his brothers whenever they got into mischief, Floyd never breathed a word. To this day, John still doesn’t know which of his younger brothers had fun putting pink dye in his shampoo - forcing him to wear a hat for nearly two weeks. Floyd, the only witness, has always refused to say, even 20 years after that unfortunate incident.
As it stands, he still isn’t letting anything slip, leaving his big brother in a state of anxious suspense.
To kill time, he tries making small talk with the others, but the atmosphere remains tense and awkward; none of them really knows what to do after what they’ve just been through. John can’t blame them - he’s the only one responsible for this disaster.
He makes sure Clay and Floyd are okay, checking that the minor injuries they sustained aren’t serious and hoping Bruce forgives him for ruining a blowout that must’ve taken at least three hours to style. Miraculously, none of his brothers hold a grudge over the chain of accidents and their aftermath. The cut on Floyd’s forehead has stopped bleeding, and Clay seems quite fond of the little ladybug-patterned bandage on his fingertip. As for Bruce - whose hair’s now as wavy as the surf he loves to ride - he seems to adore his new look.
“A blessing in disguise,” John muses with a faint smile, just before hearing footsteps echoing in the hallway behind him.
Instantly turning his head in that direction, he sees Branch walking toward them, carrying a box. Upon spotting his older brother, the Troll stops in his tracks, then frowns.
“I thought you were supposed to be resting,” he says, his tone vaguely accusatory.
“That’s what I’m doing,” John replies with the most pleasant smile he can muster.
“Resting *in your bed,*” Branch clarifies, walking over to join them with quick, short steps.
“I’ll go back there later,” the eldest suggests. “But I felt it was important for me to come out here. So the five of us could talk - but also just you and me. We’ve got quite a bit to discuss, don’t we?”
His brothers all nod and gradually take their seats around the table where they’d shared a wonderful breakfast just a few hours earlier. Branch and John end up at opposite ends of the table, facing each other. The youngest places the box in front of him, and JD tilts his head to the side.”
“What’s in there?” he asks.
“I’ll tell you if you answer a question,” says Branch.
“Lay it on me,” John encourages with a playful wink, to which the youngest responds with a brief sigh.
Then, taking a deep breath, he dives in:
“That injury on your hand - where did it come from? The old one, not the one you got today.”
John blinks, caught off guard by the question. It was the very last thing he’d expected!
However, he has no trouble answering, it’s a story he’s almost proud of - even though the ensuing consequences were catastrophic and leave him utterly embarrassed today. So, without much hesitation, he begins his tale:
“Not long after I left the group, I headed to the Neverglade Trail. You remember - I said I was going there to hike.”
His brothers nod, hanging on his every word. John can tell they’re eager to know the truth about his scar and, more importantly, want to be absolutely certain he didn’t inflict it on himself.
“Surviving out there was harder than I thought, and the first few days were absolute hell. Every time I escaped one critter, I’d land right in the clutches of another. It was endless; I even nearly came back after just a month. In fact, I was on my way home when I found her.”
The other four Trolls prick up their ears, eager to know more.
His brothers look briefly surprised before nodding, silently urging him to go on - which he does, quite willingly:
“She was still just a baby; she must’ve wandered away from her mother and gotten lost. When I found her, she was about to be devoured by Honey Scorpions. Nasty critters, take my word for it. They get that name because they secrete a sticky, sugary substance that looks like honey - they use it to lure in their prey. And Rhonda… poor thing, she was so tiny. She was trying to get away, but they were closing in on her, so… so I stepped in. I don’t even know how we made it out; it all happened so fast! The only problem was, one of those beasts managed to sting me - it drove its stinger right through my hand.”
A shiver runs through his four brothers around the table. Clay covers his mouth with his hand, his face turning an unsettling shade of pale blue; Bruce winces and rubs his left hand, as if feeling his brother’s pain himself; Floyd looks ready to throw his arms around JD and pull him close; and Branch… Branch sits perfectly still, his eyes now fixed on the box sitting in front of him.
“So… you didn’t hurt yourself on purpose.”
“No,” he says, before deciding to add, “And I never have. I’ve never even felt the urge - except just now, when…”
He falls silent, suddenly hesitating to finish his admission. But his brothers are staring at him, silently encouraging him to open up, and he finally gives in:
“When the pain became too much, I wasn’t myself anymore; I had no control over anything. And I know I could’ve… that I should’ve asked for your help. I’m sorry I didn’t.”
“So now… do you think you’d be able to do it?” Floyd asks cautiously. “Ask us for help, I mean.”
John thinks about it for a moment, then offers his brother an uncertain smile.
“I think I could give it a try, yeah,” he says. His answer seems to satisfy his younger brothers, who all let out a sigh of relief - except for Branch, whose posture and facial expression haven’t changed at all for several minutes.
“Branch,” Floyd finally says. “I think you should show Johnny what’s in the box now.”
The youngest lifts his head slightly, meets JD’s gaze, and finally nods.
“Yeah, you’re right,” he murmurs, before picking up the box to hand it to his older brother.
“What is it?” John asks, curious.
“Open it and you’ll see,” his brother replies, eyes cast downward and cheeks tinged with a delicate blue - a sign of his embarrassment.
The eldest raises an eyebrow, increasingly puzzled, before doing as his younger brother asked. Lifting the lid, he reveals the box’s contents… and freezes when he realizes what it is.
“Branch…” he whispers, touched.
His little brother rocks back and forth, trying to hide his awkwardness behind an exaggeratedly serious pout. The combination gives him a funny look that almost makes JD laugh.
“The doctor explained to us that the scorpion sting limited your hand’s mobility and could cause chronic pain. I guess that’s why you kept dropping things today.”
John purses his lips but nods in agreement.
“That’s also why I couldn’t tighten the bolts properly,” he adds, earning an approving smile from Floyd, who clearly appreciates his honesty. “By the way, sorry again about the bathroom…”
“It’s fine,” he murmurs, before pointing to the contents of the box. “So, are you taking it or not?”
Suddenly remembering what they were doing, JD quickly reaches for the item Branch has just offered him - namely…
“It’s a compression glove,” the younger one explains. “It should help reduce the pain and let you move your hand and fingers however you want. I tried to make it look like the one you usually wear. It’s not perfect - I threw it together in a rush because I thought you’d want one as soon as possible - but if you want, I can always…”
He doesn’t get to finish his sentence; John suddenly stands up and pulls him into a tight embrace, hugging him with all his might, his throat tight with emotion.
“Thank you,” he stammers, his voice so altered by the overwhelming emotion that it feels like it belongs to someone else. “It’s perfect. Thank you, Bitty B.”
“Stop calling me that,” his brother replies in a relatively gentle tone before returning the embrace, clutching the older one’s back firmly. “I’m glad you like it, anyway.”
John smiles wider and, eyes welling up with tears, casts an almost pleading look at his other brothers; they understand the message immediately and quickly join the hug signalling to their eldest that they, too, are there for him.
As he savors this very first group hug where he’s the center of attention, John Dory realizes how lucky he is to have four younger brothers as wonderful as his.
“You took care of us for years,” Floyd whispers to him. “Now it’s our turn, okay?”
John nods and laughs when he feels Bruce lift him off the ground to hug him more easily.
His little brothers have certainly grown up; perhaps he really could consider leaning on them more, instead of staying locked into the role he more or less assigned to himself.
“Then again,” Branch murmurs after Bruce sets him back down, “The doctor really did say you have to stay in bed until he tells you you can get up.”
John blinks, then breaks into a wide grin.
“But I’m fine, I promise!”
His brother simply gives him a look that speaks volumes, and John’s smile fades as he feels Clay and Bruce each grab one of his arms.
“That wasn’t a suggestion,” Floyd says lightly, stepping up beside Branch. “Back to bed, John Dory.”
No matter how much he struggles or protests loudly, his brothers eventually manage to get him back under the covers and even force him to swallow the medicine prescribed by the doctor - even though it tastes absolutely vile.
And against all odds, John can’t even bring himself to be angry with them; he’s too busy discovering the pleasures of being the one who gets fussed over, for once.
He might even get used to it, in the end…
I came across this piece of art while browsing "Trolls" that came from a story I was curious about 6 days ago. After reading and translating it from French to English, it reminded me about @rydoesartandstuff story "John Dory's Quick and Concise Guide on How to Survive." The emotional details in this story feel similar to theirs. I highly recommend giving this and Ry's stories a read. Just make sure you have a box of tissues near you.
Credit for this story and art piece belongs to @azzzryel
