Heartbreak part 2
WARNING: I DID NOT PROOF READ THIS, IF THERES ANY SPELLING MISTAKES OR GRAMMER MISTAKES JUST IGNORE IT I WROTE HALF OF IT DURING SCHOOL.
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John Dory burst from Branch's bunker, a whirl of emotions etched on the faces of those left inside. Floyd's expression was tinged with worry, Bruce wore a mask of confusion, and Clay seemed nothing short of irritated. Branch broke the tense silence with a blunt, "What the actual fuck just happened?
Seated on a beanbag, Floyd shifted, glancing at his brothers. "He looked like he was on the verge of a panic attack, not at all himself," he said, his concern palpable as he exchanged a meaningful look with Bruce. "I'm going to check on him. We can't let him wander off when he's this upset," Floyd declared.
Floyd grasped his wooden cane and painstakingly rose from the beanbag. He made his way to the bunker's elevator, pulled the lever, and ascended, leaving the bunker.
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John Dory burst through Rhonda's door, slamming it shut as he collapsed to the floor, his breaths coming in heavy gasps and sweat beading his forehead.
Gathering his strength, he pulled himself up using the countertop for support and staggered toward the loft. Once there, he climbed into his bed and reached under his pillow for something concealed there—a blue plushie. This wasn't just any toy; it was a Flopper Hopper, distinguished by its large green button eyes and long, fuzzy ears, though one ear was notably damaged, missing its latter half.
Clutching the plushie tightly, John curled into a fetal position and began to cry, his tears soaking into the soft fabric of the doll.
John's eyes wandered upwards, resting on the tapestry of memories plastered across his ceiling. Among the snapshots capturing his wild escapades on the Neverglade trail, one photo held his gaze longer than the others. It wasn't just any picture—it was a heartfelt reminder of a different kind of adventure.
Centered amidst the chaos of his thrilling journey memories, this particular photo was more personal, more intimate. It featured a woman with hair that flowed like a cascade of deep, reddish-pink sunset, her skin aglow with a yellow sparkle that seemed to light up the room. Cradled in her arms was a baby, a tiny mirror of her luminosity but with hair the color of the deepest sea green, tinged with teal.
This picture, unlike the others, spoke of a journey not across wild landscapes but through the
realms of love and connection. The striking visual contrast between the woman and the baby, with their shared glittery skin and uniquely colored hair, painted a vivid image of familial bonds and the beauty of heritage. It was a precious, frozen moment that John cherished, a beacon of warmth and love amidst his adventurous exploits.
This photo was John's sole keepsake of them together, the singular testament to their intertwined lives. Clutching the child's doll, he felt the weight of memories it carried. Beneath his glove, hidden from the world, lay his ring—a silent vow, a whisper of a life once promised. These items were more than mere objects; they were the guardians of his regrets, the symbols of the heartbreaking truth that he would never see them again.
As tears streamed down his face, soaking into the fabric of the doll, John's whispered apologies filled the quiet of the room. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I couldn't protect you, I failed you both," he repeated, his voice a broken melody of sorrow and guilt. Each word was a testament to his pain, a sorrowful lullaby that spoke of loss, love, and the unbearable weight of his remorse.
The persistent knocking at the door seemed to dissolve into the void of John Dory's grief, his ears deaf to anything beyond the echoes of his own sorrow. When Floyd received no response, driven by concern and impatience, he decided to take matters into his own hands. With a determined push, the door swung open, and he entered the armadillo bus, his presence unannounced
Navigating the stairs proved a challenge, his cane a necessary but cumbersome companion that made the ascent more difficult than usual. However, Floyd's resolve was unwavering. As he entered, he paused, scanning the space with a keen eye. It didn't take long for the muffled sounds of John's despair to guide him towards the loft.
Spotting John, Floyd hastened his pace, an urgency fueled by concern propelling him forward. The ladder to the loft posed another hurdle, but Floyd navigated it with a clumsy determination, mindful of the limited space. John's form occupied most of the loft, leaving Floyd to awkwardly balance on the ladder, his presence now impossible to ignore.
Floyd's heart ached as he witnessed the depth of John's sorrow. With every fiber of his being urging him to offer some solace, he carefully navigated the tight space of the loft, settling near John yet ensuring he respected his need for personal space. In the dim light, Floyd's presence was a silent beacon of empathy and understanding.
"John," Floyd's voice was a soft murmur, a gentle breeze in the stifling air of grief. "I'm here for you." His words floated in the space between them, an offer of support, laden with unspoken promises of companionship through the storm of sorrow.
The loft was cramped, but at that moment, it felt like the entire world had narrowed down to this intimate setting of raw emotions. Floyd, sensitive to John's need for space yet eager to offer comfort, extended a tentative hand but paused, letting it hover in the air for a moment. He wanted to bridge the gap between them, to offer a touch that said everything words could not, but he also understood the sanctity of personal grief. He waited, allowing John to dictate the terms of their interaction.
As the silence stretched on, Floyd remained a steadfast presence, his heart silently breaking for his brother. "If you need anything—a glass of water, or someone to just sit with you—I'm here," he offered softly, his words laced with the warmth of genuine concern.
And so, Floyd waited, a quiet guardian in the night, ready to provide comfort or companionship, to listen or to share the silence. In the loft that night, amidst tears and whispered apologies, the foundation of their friendship deepened, grounded in the understanding that sometimes, just being present is the most profound support one can offer.
John continued to sob into the plushie, his emotions spilling over. Slowly, he rolled over to face Floyd, revealing eyes swollen and red from crying, with tear tracks marking his cheeks. As their gazes met, a fresh wave of tears surged, amplifying John's cries in a heart-wrenching crescendo of grief.
Floyd, moved by the sight of his brother's pain, reached out to pat John on the back, his expression etched with concern. "I couldn't save them. I couldn't protect them. I'm so sorry... I'm so, so sorry," John's voice broke with each word, a confession of his deepest regret.
Floyd, initially puzzled by John's words, followed his gaze to the collage of photos adorning the ceiling above the loft. His eyes settled on the photograph of the woman and the baby, a realization dawning on him. With a heavy heart, he whispered, "Oh... John, I'm so sorry," now understanding the depth of John's loss and the source of his profound sorrow.
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i hope you guys like it :D i have alot of ideas for this au! feel free to give feedback or ask questions
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