#i was halfway thro writing this when i realized it actually wasnt snowing in the og scene. erm.

[berrymoos]

❝❪ 🌧 〜 sea salt on snow. ❫❞

ʚɞ—fandom pairing: trolls. rg!branch, a dabble of cg!poppy

ʚɞ—summary: the telltale fuzz of tinyspace knaws at branch's brain when he storms off the bus. (canon compliant!)

ʚɞ—cw(s): angst. hurt/very little comfort. minor spoilers for trolls 3.

ʚɞ—a/n: a truck of inspo hit me in the middle of the night, i blacked out, then woke up at 2am with words mysteriously on my screen. here's some soup, happy belated holidays <3

the snow is cold underneath bare feet and the wind bites with jagged teeth at skin exposed by under-prepared dressing, but branch presses forward regardless of his discomfort, swallowing the burning throb of panic clawing its way out of his chest. tears threaten his eyes, build upon the brim of his eyelids, blur his vision with the flurry falling all around, but he wipes them away with an angry fist. there isn't any use crying about his mess, now.

he sets his jaw and glues his gaze to the wobbling images ahead of him, flicking his ears as though to rid the words he hears, but they're incessant gummy worms and they stick; they wriggle into his brain and burrow into him with a lack of mercy: “you didn't think we’d live together when this was all over, did you?”

it stings. it stings to reflect on the revelation that his body still remembered every move and every step when jd and spr– bruce dragged him into an impromptu performance; it stings to feel the bear hugs, the tossing, the cheek-smushing linger on his skin, the joy they all expressed upon seeing him after so long; it stings to recognize the age-old feeling of his own happiness deflate into a limp balloon when he learns their mission is simply that — a mission. to save floyd and nothing else.

perhaps, deep down, branch had a niggling suspicion all along that things were too good to be true, and once more he was proven right. john dory, bruce, clay, even floyd to a lesser extent abandoned him before he was out of diapers and never once attempted to reach out, to find his location, to see if he was just alive; of course they wouldn't want to stay together with him– for him. they never bothered trying to all those years ago, anyway.

he isn't unlovable—right? it isn't his fault—right?

their voices—loud within the walls of the bus, accusing one another, angry, frustrated at jd—ping-pong across his head. with shaking legs branch’s shuddering breath catches on a hook and yanks a choked sob from his throat. all at once his brain scrambles, buzzes, slushes like sea salt on snow, then yanks him under. why here? why now? without– without–

a hand catches a blue one from behind, delicate but too sudden nevertheless. branch yanks away and whirls around only to stumble over his own two feet, grey-blue fur bristling on instinct … but her taffy pink skin and her worried magenta eyes, let alone her frowning red lips crumbles every bit of him before any words can be prepared. with another sob that wracks his shoulders forward, the brittle twig all but collapses into poppy’s warmth, scrambles to clutch onto any part of her that can stabilize him in the littlest bit (the front of her dress: soft against his palms and soothing to squeeze), hiccups a breath, and wails.