Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"I call the next round."

Both Knife and Pickle turn in the direction of the voice, watching as Trophy descends the last few steps of the stairs and approaches them where they're seated on the couch.

Pickle only raises an eyebrow and shrugs before turning back to the game set with an unbothered "Sure, we're almost done anyways."

Knife however shoots Trophy a contemplative look, his eyebrows furrowing. The two exchange a knowing glance.

He knows what Trophy actually means.

With a shake of his head and a quiet huff that can barely pass as a laugh, Knife turns back to the game and focuses on finishing the round with Pickle before Trophy takes over.

He eventually loses to Pickle: 41-50.

Trophy takes the controller from Pickle all too eagerly, quickly taking his spot on the couch. Knife loses the lax, casual slump he kept while playing against Pickle and straightens up in his seat, squaring his shoulders as he prepares himself for the next round. His focus is unwavering, and he doesn't have to look to know Trophy's is much the same.

They begin the game and quickly delve into an intense match.

Eventually, the game draws to a close. The scoreboard is barely on screen for more than a second before the system is shut off.

Trophy is quick to abandon his controller, letting it clatter against the coffee table as he jumps off the couch and heads back upstairs with no more than a "See ya." directed at Knife.

Knife only slowly exhales, his hold on the controller loose.

Pickle re-enters the room with a half-eaten sandwich, amused by Knife's disposition.

"How'd it go?" He asks.

Knife shoots him a grimace.

"I lost."

Pickle only laughs, joining Knife on the couch.

"Yeah, Trophy's really been practicing that game, huh? I think he plays it more than we do, dude." Another laugh escapes him as he chews his next bite.

"How badly did you lose?"

Knife sets his controller down.

"47 to 65."

"Wow." Pickle takes the TV remote in hand and swaps the television to a random cable channel. "He really wanted to put you in the ground."

"Yeah, well." Knife pushes himself off the couch. "I gotta go. See you later man."

Pickle wordlessly raises his sandwich and watches as Knife heads upstairs.

Reaching once more for the remote control, Pickle amps up the volume on the television by several bars with an amused shake of his head.

Those two aren't as clever as they think they are if they really think he hasn't caught on to this little game of theirs already.

------

Knife groans from where he lies underneath Trophy, the sound pained and tense. But he keeps a hand atop Trophy's where he has Knife by the hips anyways, squeezing his hand just as tightly as Trophy squeezes him. His body rocks with the force of Trophy's thrusts, his hips slamming against Knife's in painful wet slaps- yet Knife stays on his back and watches as the tapered tip of Trophy's cock disappears between the tight press of his thighs and reappears each time he fucks back in, sliding wetly against Knife’s own leaky cock.

They're both breathing hard.

"Let me fuck you." Trophy demands from where he looms above him, not for the first time.

Knife only growls, squeezing the hand Trophy has on his hips all the tighter. He knows it'll bruise later.

"I'm not doing that." He hisses, to which Trophy curses and fucks against him harder- more aggressively.

"You'd fucking love it. Would beg me not to stop." Trophy tears his hands away from Knife's hips- forcing him to let go- and grabs him by the thighs instead, squeezing them tighter around his cock. Knife helps by slightly overlapping his thighs, forcing a desperate, wavering sob of a moan out of Trophy that he quickly follows up with a panting, jaw-clenched growl. The sound goes right to Knife's cock, throbbing in hard pulses and leaking a sticky wet stream of precum that only adds to the squelching wet mess between their bodies.

"I don't c-care." Knife stammers on a particularly hard thrust, curling his fingers into the sheets beneath them. "You're not gonna fuck me."

Trophy's breathing starts to come in short, frantic huffs.

"Fucking coward. You know you'd love it, you're just too afraid to s-show.. to show me.. show how m-much-... hah. Hh. Fuck."

He slumps down and curls in on himself, pressing the smooth curve of his forehead against the flat blade of Knife's own. Their breathing quickly condenses into a white fog on each of their surfaces.

"Keep asking and I'll make you regret it." Knife sharply whispers, their faces so close that he can taste the mintiness of Trophy's panting breath as he speaks. Had he not been distracted by the wet heat of Trophy's cock fucking against him and rubbing against his slit and hole with every thrust, he might have found amusement in Trophy's precautionary bedroom etiquette.

As it stands, all he can do is glare at the other object, reaching up to place his hands on Trophy's shoulders as he gruffly pants through the pleasure.

Misreading his warning and the actions that accompany it, Trophy leans into his touch and only groans, focusing his desperate gaze onto Knife.

"Let me fuck you." He pleads.

Narrowing his eyes, Knife ignores the flush that crawls up his blade and colors his face as he speaks next.

"You're s-such a fucking dick." He snaps. His breathing picks up at the same time that he separates his thighs and starts to rock his hips upwards, meeting Trophy's frantic humping. "Ask again and see what happens. Tell me how m-much you fucking want it. See what it gets you."

"K-Knife." Trophy chokes. Without Knife’s thighs in the way for him to fuck into, Trophy instead fucks against Knife's cock as hard as he can. At first, Knife thinks that he's finally dropped the subject, too preoccupied with chasing his orgasm to probe him any further. But as Trophy props himself back up on his arms for leverage and fists the sheets between his fingers, Knife starts to notice the slow, gradual change in the slide of Trophy's cock.

His hips are dipping lower, the force of his thrusts centering less against Knife's cock and more against the base of his handle- until his cock is rutting solely against Knife's hole, slicking him up with each pass.

Knife knows what's coming next. He braces his feet against the mattress, tightens his grasp on Trophy's shoulders, and props himself up into a slightly seated position- readying himself.

Again, Trophy misreads him. His heart excitedly pounds in his chest as he watches Knife.

To an outsider, it might have looked as if he was fitting Trophy more comfortably between his legs and finally submitting to Trophy’s relentless requests to fuck him- especially with the way he used his tightening hold on Trophy’s shoulders to bring them closer to one another.

It’s exactly what Trophy thought Knife was doing.

"Y-Yes, god yes, Knife." He praises, squeezing his eyes closed as he rocks Knife's body with a few more thrusts before stopping just long enough to reach down and takes his cock in hand. Knife notices the way Trophy's hips jolt a few times, as if his body was fighting to keep fucking against him.

Trophy separates their hips by a few inches- just enough for him to redirect his cock and glide the tip against Knife's soaked entrance.

"God yesss Knifeee." He hisses out, his breathing coming shakily. "Knew you wanted it. K-Knew you thought about it all t-the time too. Just... Just let me..." He pants, pressing the tapered tip of his cock against Knife's hole. He moans at the burning heat that kisses his cock.

Knife can't help the shiver that travels through his body as he feels the slick heat of Trophy's cock press against him, nor the soft moan that escapes him either, much to Trophy's delight. His lips part with a shuddering breath and Knife almost lies back down when he feels the tip of Trophy's cock carefully pressing into him.

"Just let m-me finally fuck you." Trophy breathlessly and shakily exhales, slowly working the first inch inside of Knife as he returns his hands to his hips.

He doesn't get any further than that before Knife uses the hold he has on his shoulders to shove him off. Before Trophy even realizes what's happened, he finds himself on his back, pinned down by his shoulders.

Wide eyed and bewildered, Trophy can only watch as Knife stares down at him from where he has him pinned, flashing him his teeth in a sharp grin before he reaches between Trophy's legs and takes his cock in a tight grip. Without warning, he starts pumping him as fast as he can.

His reaction is immediate. Trophy arches his back and squeezes his eyes closed, digging his heels into the bedsheets as he lifts his hips.

"A-Ah! Wh-What are you-! Mmnh! Fuck! F-Fuck!" He desperately pants, grabbing at Knife's arm in an attempt to stop him.

"47 to 65." Knife reminds him, ignoring the lingering heat that warms him from where Trophy had tried to nestle his cock inside of him; bringing his second hand into play by smothering his palm against the tip of Trophy's cock punishingly. He snickers as Trophy throws his head back with a long, drawn out moan that hitches into a pathetic whine. "That's an 18 point difference."

"Knife. Knife. K-Knife." Trophy begs.

"Penetration is a 20 point difference reward. You know that." Knife continues. He stops pumping his cock and instead forms a tight ring around the base of Trophy's cock using his thumb and forefinger, focusing all his attention instead on dragging the flat of his palm against the head of Trophy's cock as hard as he can.

"I-I'm.....hhah... Hhh-! Sorrrryyy!" Trophy moans mournfully, fucking his hips into Knife's touch. His legs tremble as he throws his head back.

"G-Gonna cum. Knife. Knife. D-Don't...! You s-said I could cum f-fuh.. fuck-! F-fucking your-!" His words taper off into a whimper. Knife feels a hot gush of precum against his hand.

"Yeah, the 15 point difference reward lets you pick how you want me to make you cum. You chose the closest thing to fucking me." Knife hums with satisfaction, pleased by Trophy's desperation.

"And then you forfeited that when you pushed for a reward you didn't earn."

Trophy chokes on his sobbing moan, his breathing passing through his clenched teeth in hard, frantic pants. Tremors wrack his entire body as he grabs at his own thigh, digging his fingers in deep. Knife quickly realizes he's trying to hold off his orgasm by combatting it with pain- something that makes the coiling heat in his gut jolt.

"Please. Please. Please please pleasepleaseplease." Trophy gasps.

Knife hums, slowing the hard press of his palm against Trophy's cock to a stop.

"Mm. Alright." He relents, grinning smugly as he traces his finger over the small, leaking slit of Trophy's cock. "Pick a new way for me to make you cum."

"Ghhh-" Trophy wordlessly chokes out, struggling to catch his breath.

"You should probably hurry. I swear I can feel your dick swelling up with cum."

"S-Suh... Sit... sit on..." Trophy catches his bottom lip between his teeth, his hips trembling as a fat droplet of precum seeps out from the tip of his cock and dribbles down Knife's fingers, all accompanied by a frantic few throbbing jerks from his cock. Knife was surprised to see nothing more follow afterwards; those spasming throbs really looked like he was about to shoot his load.

"Sit on your lap?" Knife guesses, figuring that Trophy would take the closest thing he can and fuck against the hole he wasn’t allowed to slip inside of.

But he's surprised when Trophy wordlessly shakes his head, though not without a broken moan at his suggestion.

"F-Face..." He finally utters, his face an even brighter red than when this whole thing started.

Had Knife not been carefully watching him, he might have missed the lone word for how quietly spoken it was- nothing more than a raspy breath. But he catches it anyways, and he feels his own face burn too.

"U-Uh." He stammers, taken aback. He clears his throat. "Yeah. Yeah, alright."

He loosens his grip on Trophy's cock and lets the golden appendage slip from between his fingers. It coils around his hand, almost as if reluctant to lose his touch, before settling back against Trophy's abdomen with a wet slap.

Slowly, Knife crawls his way up Trophy's body. He doesn't miss the way Trophy's breathing starts to pick up, nor the quiet, excited murmurs that escape him.

An uncharacteristic wave of bashfulness hits Knife when he finds himself straddling Trophy's head, looking down at him from above, while Trophy’s flushed face peers up at him from between his legs. Hovering over his face like this, Knife finds himself overwhelmed with the desire to reach down and put Trophy's handles to good use.

Maybe another time.

Knife struggles to readjust himself, turning the other way.

"Uh, lemme just..." He mumbles, peering down between his legs as he turns around so as to make sure he doesn't accidentally knee Trophy in the face- though something tells him this would do little to discourage the other object.

When he finally has his back to Trophy and can brace himself with his hands on the smooth curve of the other's body, Knife lets a trembling sigh escape him. He watches Trophy's cock from where it stands between his legs, eagerly coiling and writhing against itself. The hands at his hips almost make him jump, but he composes himself quickly enough with another clear of his throat.

"Uh, let me set the pace, Trophy." He requests, and while Trophy rambles a quick "Yeah, yeah, sounds good." to him, he does nothing to remove his hands from where they squeeze Knife's hips.

Exhaling slowly, Knife steels himself and reaches forward to take Trophy's cock back in hand. Trophy's body jolts at the touch, and the heated breath of his moan ghosts against Knife's underside as his cock eagerly throbs in Knife's grasp.

Slowly, he starts pumping him.

Again, Trophy shakily moans from underneath him. His panting breaths quickly warms the space between Knife's legs, and the grasp he has on his hips tighten.

"S-Sit already, damn it." Trophy hisses from below.

Gritting his teeth, Knife shoots him a glare from over his shoulder.

"Bastard." He snaps, before ripping the figurative band-aid off and firmly seating himself against Trophy's face. Flustered, he pumps Trophy's cock even harder in an attempt to distract himself and with the hopes of ending this quickly.

His extra efforts were unnecessary. Trophy seems to unravel beneath him from the moment Knife plants his weight on him, his legs spreading apart as widely as possible as the slow thrust of his hips turns into a desperate, frantic fuck into Knife's hand. His tongue is hot and slick against Knife's hole, and a shiver runs up Knife's back as he feels the wet press of Trophy's tongue desperately lapping at the soft give of his entrance.

Distantly, Knife wonders if Trophy can taste himself from when he slipped the tip of his cock inside.

The moans that are muffled against his underside sound crazed, desperate, and pained. As if it was physically unbearable for Trophy to undergo this much pleasure. But the grasp he has on Knife's hips is unrelenting, his fingers digging in so deeply into his sides that Knife knows without a doubt he'll find himself bruised and decorated with crescent marks embedded into his handle.

Shivers run up and down his body as the heat pooling in his lower abdomen coils tighter at the way Trophy's muffled moans almost seem to vibrate against him, his tongue relentless in the way it aggressively traces his hole for just a few swipes more before forcing its way inside in a single plunge. This time, it's Knife's turn to groan- the sound inspired by equal parts pleasure and burning embarrassment.

Trophy doesn't seem to notice the difference, though, and answers him eagerly with a muffled, panting moan of his own.

His tongue is desperate in the way it licks at his insides, tugging at the rim of his hole as Trophy does his best to test the extent to which he can spread Knife's entrance using his tongue alone. The sensation is a foreign one, and Knife shifts atop Trophy, torn between mild discomfort and buzzing pleasure. His cock leaks wetly onto the curve of Trophy's chest all the same.

The pace they've set for themselves lasts a few moments longer. Trophy fucks into Knife's hand and strokes his insides using his tongue, and Knife keeps a tight grip around Trophy's cock and occasionally runs his thumb over the tip, breathing heavily as he shifts against the surface of Trophy's face.

Their rhythm starts to slip however when Trophy presses his tongue against a particularly sensitive spot inside of him, and Knife lets slip a shameless, guttural groan at the same time that he sinks down and ruts his hips against Trophy's mouth, the warmth of his insides tightening around Trophy's tongue. The hungry press of Trophy's tongue and the enthusiastic reciprocation on Knife's end unlocks something in them both.

Trophy inhales sharply- a long, drawn out intake of breath- before letting out the most pathetic, sobbing moan that Knife has ever heard uttered. Even muffled against him, it's not enough to hide just how stupidly pathetic of a noise that was.

God did it do something to him.

Frantic, as if he needed it more than life itself, Trophy reached around Knife’s body and shoved an uncoordinated, trembling hand between Knife's legs. He blindly pat the flat surface of his handle before finding the slick girth of his cock, which he tightly wrapped his fingers around and started to messily, desperately pump.

"F-Fuck! Trophy! Fuck!" Knife barked, slumping forward and curling in on himself- foregoing all shame in favor of chasing that quickly climbing pleasure, grinding down against Trophy's mouth in earnest and fucking into his hand in the same motion.

He could hardly focus on the grasp he had around Trophy's cock, which he now held limply- distracted by his own mounting pleasure. It didn't seem to matter much to Trophy though, because he reached down with his free hand to take Knife's hand in his own and tighten his grasp around his cock himself. He squeezed Knife's hand hard enough to hurt, and judging by Trophy's pitiful cries and moans as he continued to fuck his cock into the narrow space, it hurt him too- in the way he most craved.

Knife regained a small semblance of focus at the sensation of something hot and wet hitting his face. He opened his eyes- unaware he ever closed them- and saw Trophy's cock mere inches away from his face, spurting precum in hard, eager ropes. Knife would have mistaken it for an orgasm if it wasn't for the clear fluid.

"F-fuck." He hoarsely groans, stilling his hand in spite of the urgency in which Trophy tried to make him keep going. He leans in the rest of the way, parts his lips, and takes the first few inches of Trophy's cock into his mouth.

For a few seconds, Trophy freezes. His tongue stops, buried deep inside of Knife. The hand wrapped tightly around Knife's cock sits still, dripping with precum. Even his hips are frozen mid-thrust, trembling with the effort of maintaining that raised position. Knife is convinced the guy wasn't even breathing- all he could hear was the wet, slurping sounds of his own mouth working on Trophy's cock, guiding it in and out.

He was about to pull off and ask Trophy if he's alright when he finally hears it- the smallest, quietest whimper.

The tremors in his hips and thighs that shook Trophy from the effort of maintaining that same, suspended position began to spread all throughout his body.

Knife would be concerned if it wasn’t for the frantic heartbeat he could feel throbbing in the length of Trophy's cock. A hard spurt of precum coats his tongue, and Trophy lets out another sound- deceptively quiet and pitiful.

"Nnnhhhh-!" Trophy breathlessly whines- whines, Knife's mind repeats- and then he's slowly, shakily raising his hips the last few inches it takes for Knife to take him all the way into his mouth, his lips touching the soft slit that his cock protrudes from as he swallows around his length.

Trophy lets out one last shivering whimper, one that he barely has the breath for- and that's all the warning Knife gets before Trophy’s cock starts pumping cum down his throat.

"Ghhk!" Knife chokes, his throat spasming from the sudden intrusion. He struggles to swallow, but Trophy's cock is jerking and spilling thick ropes of cum at faster intervals than he can keep up with. He squeezes his eyes closed and does his best anyways, swallowing what he can and ignoring the mess that starts to dribble from the corner of his mouth.

Trophy, finally finding his voice after those first few spurts, inhales deeply- shakily- before letting out a long, trembling moan that tapers off into a sob. His hips find their previous tempo and he goes back to frantically fucking his hips upwards, this time into the tight warmth of Knife's throat. The hand wrapped tightly around Knife's cock resumes at a greater urgency, stroking and pumping him as if it was his own orgasm he was trying to prolong.

The obscene, wet, hungry slurping of Trophy's mouth working against Knife's hole with renewed vigor would have embarrassed Knife if it wasn't for the quickly building pleasure. In the face of a rapidly approaching orgasm and the dizziness that came with having his breath withheld by the thick girth of his rival's cock fucking and spilling down his throat, it was all Knife could do to hold on and keep himself conscious.

His orgasm was rapidly approaching, and he could tell Trophy knew too, obvious with the way his insides began to squeeze around Trophy's tongue- tighter and tighter the closer he got to reaching his peak. Knife's not sure who moaned louder. Him, gurgling around Trophy's cock, or Trophy, who brought the hand he was using to guide Knife on his cock back to his hole, using his thumb to rub hard circles around the rim of Knife’s hole before dipping inside and letting the digit nestle in alongside his tongue.

The uncomfortable stretch on his already tight hole, swollen and feverish with the relentless efforts of Trophy's lips and tongue, was all it took to push him over the edge.

Knife choked around Trophy's cock, his heartbeat loudly pounding in his head as his cock spilled ropes of cum across Trophy's abdomen in hard spurts. His vision was growing dark around the edges without the breath to support him through an orgasm that had his whole body flushing with heat and sweat, but he made no move to pull himself off of Trophy's cock just yet. Not when he was still thrusting into his mouth.

His orgasm seemed to have just as much of an effect on Trophy, because the combined sensation of Knife's fluttering insides gripping his tongue and thumb alike, alongside the warm, throbbing pulse of Knife's heartbeat thrumming against his fingers as he warmed Trophy's abdomen with cum made him moan incoherent words of filth and praise.

Trusting that Knife was too preoccupied with his orgasm to notice anything he might do, Trophy took the opportunity to bring both trembling hands to Knife’s hips and pull him more firmly against his mouth. He aggressively lapped at the slick dip of his hole while it was still fluttering with his orgasm, occasionally forcing his tongue (and thumb) back inside before soothing the flushed entrance with several more swipes of his tongue.

He also tried to tell himself that Knife wouldn’t notice if he mouthed and sucked at his hole a little more either- something he took the time to indulge himself in while Knife was still riding the highs of his orgasm.

Eventually, after several seconds have passed and Knife finally pulled off of Trophy’s cock to catch his breath, things finally began to settle down. Trophy slowly dropped his hips back down onto the mattress, his spit drenched cock occasionally twitching with every small pang of arousal that lingered. The two of them were breathing hard, slumped against each other.

Knife, who was practically draped over the length of Trophy’s body, shivered against the ministrations of Trophy’s tongue. He sighed shakily, pleasure buzzing through his body, and chose to return the favor by licking up the mess of cum and drool that coated Trophy’s cock.

They worked together in tandem, lazily licking and mouthing at each other as their breathing slowly fell back to calmer levels. Both of them stifled quiet moans, their touches uncharacteristically gentle as they cleaned each other off; Knife idly ran his hands up and down Trophy’s thighs as he lapped at his cock and the space between his legs, whereas Trophy slowly stroked the expanse of Knife’s back and caressed his sides while savoring Knife’s hole for the few moments he had left.

It would have been nice if they could have stayed where they were, lazily enjoying each other’s bodies until arousal burned fiercely enough within them to inspire another round. But this was a spontaneous encounter, and they each had their own responsibilities to tend to for the day. So, his movements sluggish, Knife was the first to start the process of separation.

He braced himself against the mattress and slowly started pushing himself up into a seated position, forcing Trophy to follow the motion of his hips and lay his head back down- his mouth and hands still working. The way Trophy’s cock gives an excited twitch at the return to this position doesn’t go unnoticed by Knife, but he chooses to ignore it.

“Trophy.” He sighs, reaching back and tapping his fingers against the hull of Trophy’s cup. He’s answered with a noncommittal hum, the hands running over his back finding their place on his hips once more.

Without the sound of his heart pounding in his chest or the overwhelming noise of sex to distract him, Knife is a lot more aware of just how… wetly Trophy mouths at him. Embarrassment colors his face and he moves to raise his hips, eager to put an end to those… sounds.

 “C’mon.” He insists, this time shoving at Trophy’s head- much to the other’s annoyance. “We gotta clean up.”

They separate, but not without an embarrassingly wet, vulgar “shlick” as Trophy’s tongue slips out from inside of him and his lips part with Knife’s entrance- the latter of which sounded too similarly to the smack of a kiss for either of them not to feel some kind of embarrassment.

“Prude.” Trophy snaps, but there’s little to no bite to the word when he’s looking away and burning red-hot.

“Stupid jock.” Knife replies automatically, pushing himself up and off of Trophy. “And a damn cheat too.” He adds as he slides off the edge of the bed and immediately grabs a box of tissues off of the bedside table. He takes a few for himself and tosses the rest towards Trophy, who catches it with ease.

“You know damn well you weren’t supposed to be putting anything in me.”

Trophy scoffs, rolling his eyes as he yanks a few tissues out by the handful and dabs at the streaks of cum dripping from his chest.

“I barely did anything.” He contends, tossing the used wads of tissue paper off to the side of the bed. “I like, grinded against you.”

“If that’s what we’re calling it, then you really did a lot of grinding with your dick, tongue, and fingers.”

Trophy flushes, but he doesn’t give in, scowling as he shuffles back until he can prop himself up in bed against a few pillows.

“It was like two points; you really couldn’t round it up?”

Knife crosses his arms over his chest, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You really couldn’t play two points better?” He retorts, laughing at the menacing glare Trophy shoots his way.

Flipping him off, Trophy blindly reaches underneath his pillows and pulls out a random magazine that he quickly occupies himself with.

“Whatever, just get out of my room.”

Knife chuckles to himself, checking himself in the mirror to make sure neither his cock, slit, nor hole were still visible. Satisfied, he turns to leave.

 It’s not until he’s pried the door open and has one foot in the hall that he turns back to face Trophy.

“Hey.” He starts.

Trophy looks up at him, curious.

For whatever reason, he almost looks hopeful.

“Yeah?” Trophy answers, setting his magazine down on his lap.

“Because of that whole stunt you pulled, you’re indebted to me by 20 points. We’re subtracting it from your score next time.”

Knife is quick to slam the door shut just in time to muffle Trophy’s shouting and avoid whatever it was he threw at him. He laughs to himself as he makes the trek to his own suite, already looking forward to their next round.

Something tells him he’s gonna have plenty of time to make his list of demands.

Chapter Text

Their next conversation goes just about exactly as Knife expected it would.

"I don't understand why you're so upset about this. You knew what you agreed to when we started this whole thing." Knife sighed, pinching at the space between his eyes as he leaned forward against the dining room table, his elbows the only thing keeping him from letting himself drop face-down on the table.

It was never easy having any sort of conflict with Trophy.

"I never agreed to any kind of debt." Trophy hisses, stamping his fist against the table just hard enough to rattle the cutlery sitting atop it. "Am I fucking the IRS now? What the fuck is this?"

"You're the one who tried using points you didn't have!" Knife exclaims in exasperation.

Again, another slam of his fist against the table- much harder this time.

Sensing Trophy's mounting anger, Knife picks up his glass of juice from the table and holds it close, sipping from it while watching as Trophy rears up to tear into him.

"And why are we just starting this now?!" He very nearly shouts, pushing his chair out from the table as he stands so that he can come in close and jab a finger into Knife's chest with every emphasized word.

"I know for a damn fact that there have been several times that you and I both pushed the points boundary, but we never kept a tally of who did what."

Knife raises an eyebrow, a small twitch of amusement tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Yeah," he confirms, using his free hand to push the hand at his chest away with a gentleness that only serves to further piss Trophy off. "And you should be glad I didn't."

"Just what exactly is that supposed to mean?" Trophy snaps, glowering.

"Listen," Knife muses- and he can't fight off the grin that plays at his mouth when Trophy instantly recognizes his tone of voice with an "Oh god damn it, not another lecture."

"When we started this whole thing," he continues, unfazed. "You and I were still adjusting to the whole concept of having someone to mess around with like this." He tilts his glass side to side as he speaks, rolling the liquid inside.

"Considering we're "rivals" and all, I knew the whole thing must have been particularly exciting to... some of us." He pauses to watch the way Trophy's face starts to color, his glare greatly contrasting Knife's amused grin.

"So I decided to be nice and not be too hard on any accidental oversteps while we both figured this game out together."

He takes another sip of his drink.

"But it's been a few weeks now. You should know better. I'm not gonna hold your hand through this anymore." Knife sets his glass down and turns his attention back to his plate of breakfast, gesturing for Trophy to return to his seat and do the same.

"The tutorial's over." He finalizes, cutting into his pancakes. "Expect consequences from here on out."

He pauses to chew, savoring both the sweetness of his pancakes and the suspense in which Trophy watches him- ever attentive when it comes to this game of theirs. When he swallows, Knife briefly turns back to the other object, shooting Trophy a meaningful stare.

"Otherwise, you're more than welcome to back out of the game." He states.

For a moment, nothing happens. The silence between them stretches itself thin, occupied only by the clinking of silverware as Knife tends to his meal, adamantly refusing to look at Trophy in order to cement the non-negotiable terms that he just laid out for both of them.

Eventually, Knife hears the scrape of a chair against the ground as Trophy takes his place back at the table. A quick glance in his direction shows Trophy looking perturbed, his brows furrowed as he takes his fork in hand and slowly works on finishing his hash browns.

He doesn't look up from his food for a while, seemingly lost in thought. Knife accepts this and allows him the chance to collect his thoughts, knowing this conversation is far from over.

Soon enough, Trophy speaks back up, his annoyance present in the way he huffs.

"That still doesn't make this any more fair." He argues, leaning back in his seat as he pokes at the eggs on his plate.

"I get that I owe a debt now, but what good is it playing a round when I already know I'm going to lose once you hit me with that tax?"

Knife fights back the smile that threatens to show itself as he recognizes Trophy's complaint for what it actually is; a silent refusal to give up the one excuse he has to actually have sex with Knife.

All the same, Knife hums thoughtfully.

It's a good point, now that he thinks about it.

"How about we subtract the points from your score bit by bit? That way it doesn't hit you as hard."

Trophy frowns.

"By how much? I don't want to drag this stupid thing out any longer than it needs to go."

With an air of consideration, Knife rolls his wrist, searching for the right number that could satisfy both of their demands.

"You owe me twenty points, so it'll only take four rounds for you to pay your debt if we subtract five points from your score each time."

At this, Trophy scoffs.

"Five points is a pretty big payment to make when our whole system goes by fives. That's enough to bring me a whole reward lower." He huffs, slumping in his chair. "And for four rounds, too? I don't think so."

Knife rolls his eyes.

"It's not like this is meant to be easy to deal with, Trophy. Debt is meant to be a punishment."

"Doesn't mean it can't be a fair punishment!" Trophy loudly snaps, stabbing his fork into his eggs.

"Alright, alright." Knife raises his hand in an attempt to placate the other object, bringing his own voice down to a lower volume in the hopes that Trophy will do the same. "Just give me a second to think, man. Don't lose it like this."

Trophy huffs once more, shooting Knife a glare. But he abides by his request anyways and opts for eating the remainder of his breakfast.

That silence lasts for all of a few seconds before it's interrupted once more.

"Debt. That's such a stupid concept." Trophy angrily mutters to himself. "Since when do people go into debt over sex?"

"Trophy, quiet." Knife hushes him, dismissively waving a hand in his direction as he searches his brain for a solution.

"You be quiet." Trophy seethes, aiming a hard kick at Knife's leg under the table- grinning at the other's wince and sharp intake of air when it lands. "Shouldn't have given me the chance to break the rules if you cared so much."

"Agh! What is wrong with-!" Knife starts, his words spoken in a growl that passes through grit teeth. His anger is short lived however, and he cuts himself off as Trophy's words register in his head.

"Chance..." He murmurs, realization dawning on him.

Trophy raises an eyebrow.

"Chance?" He questions.

Knife nods, pushing his chair away from the table as he gets to his feet.

"I think I've figured it out." He says in passing as he walks past Trophy, leaving the jock befuddled as he watches Knife make his way to the living room, and then up the stairs.

------

"Here." Knife announces as he approaches Trophy from behind, making Trophy jump in his seat as he's torn from his absent-minded train of thought.

Trophy turns and looks up at Knife, shooting him an aggravated expression.

"Do you fucking mind not sneaking up on me like that?" He hisses, narrowing his glare when Knife only chuckles.

"My bad." Knife answered unapologetically. "But look."

Trophy follows his gaze, turning to look at the hand Knife has extended in front of him.

Atop his palm sits a six sided die.

"A... die?" Trophy questions, plucking the small item out of his hand and turning it over, expecting to find something interesting about it.

Nothing. It just looks like a normal six-sided die.

"Yup." Knife confirms, taking the game piece back into his own hand. "I thought about what you said, and I feel like this is the best way to do it."

Trophy's brows furrow and his frown deepens.

"I'm not following."

"Chance, Trophy." Knife steps to the side of the table. "Leaving it up to chance will make it a lot more fair for you. We play a game, tally up the points, and then you roll the die to see how many points will get deducted from your score."

He demonstrates by shaking the die in his hand before rolling it onto the table.

It lands on a two.

"See? Just like that, you would have only lost two points and had them go towards your debt."

Trophy hums, his expression much more welcoming as he reaches out and takes the die into his hand. Knife grins, thankful he landed such a low number- knowing that Trophy may not have been so easily swayed if he hit a six on the first roll.

"Hmm... alright, yeah." Trophy agrees, rolling the die between his fingers. "This works."

Knife sighs in relief, thankful to have finally found a solution that satisfies both of them.

Just in time, too. Knife barely had the time to return to his seat before a few groggy faces entered the dining area.

"Ooh," Lightbulb aw'ed as she spotted Knife's unfinished stack of pancakes. "That looks good... I'm kinda hankering for some panckering myself..."

Knife only hums dismissively, forking a decently sized mouthful of pancakes into his mouth.

"Make 'em yourself." He tells her, knowing well enough she was on the verge of asking him to make her some.

"Aw, c'mon blade bud!" She huffs, grabbing him by the shoulders and giving him a small shake. "You're almost done anyways! Fan'll do the dishes for you if you make us some pancakes!"

Fan's protests begin with a few nonsensical stammers, the likes of which Lightbulb shuts down with a hush.

"Nope." Knife refuses, speaking around his mouthful. "I'm busy."

"Yeah, Knife and I are gonna be playing a few games in the living room after this." Trophy adds, leaning back in his seat.

Knife shoots him an incredulous look.

'Really?' His expression says. Trophy reads him, and only sends him a grin of his own.

He tosses the die upwards before catching it in his hand.

"We have a new strategy to try."

------

"You know you only raised questions by putting our business out there like that, right?" Knife states as he sets the game system up while Trophy switches the television to the appropriate channel.

"Oh boohoo, they know we play video games now. Big deal."

Knife scoffs and rolls his eyes. Typical.

"Alright man, just don't go whining when people start sticking their noses in our business."

"They already do that." Trophy sneers, taking a controller in hand and waiting for Knife to join him on the couch.

With the game's start menu flickering to life on the screen, Knife stands from where he was kneeling in front of the television set and takes his place next to Trophy.

He wordlessly takes his own controller in hand and starts the process of setting the round up; starting by selecting their characters.

As he considers his options, while Trophy insta-locks his favorite character, Knife takes a subtle side glance at the other object.

He looks impassive; bored and unbothered. But there's a tension to his frown and a crease to his brow that tells Knife that his air of indifference is nothing more than a front to conceal the determination that lies underneath.

He tests his theory by selecting his character and letting the match start, watching as Trophy's nonchalance immediately dissipates. He sits up and leans forward, focusing all attention on the television sitting before them. His shoulders square and his face hardens into one of complete focus, paired with the pink of his tongue sticking out.

Knife can't help but chuckle as he too turns his focus on the game.

The sound doesn't go unnoticed.

"What?" Trophy asks, not once looking away from the screen.

"I didn't think you'd want to do this again so soon after last time." Knife answers over the game's sound effects, the calm press of his controller's buttons contrasting Trophy's aggressive button mashing.

"What?" Trophy repeats, this time more accusingly. "It's a game, of course I'm gonna wanna play. Pickle plays this stupid thing damn near all day, every day and you never say anything." He deflects.

Knife rolls his eyes.

"You know that's not what I meant."

His character knocks Trophy's onto the ground. An aggressive guitar riff accompanies the announcer's voice as the letters K.O flash on the screen.

That's point one for Knife.

The next round starts, and after a moment of silence in which the two of them focus on blocking each other's moves and getting their hits in, Trophy speaks up once more.

"Yeah, well. I wanted to see you lose again."

"Yeah?" Knife challenges, raising an eyebrow.

"Mmhm." Trophy hums. He bares his teeth in a grin, laughing quietly.

"Losing really suits you."

Trophy's character slams Knife's onto the ground- hard.

"K.O!"

That’s one point for Trophy.

Knife hums thoughtfully.

"You say that, but I can't really say I felt like much of a loser after what happened yesterday." He comments, taking care to avoid the finer details of yesterday's events. Knife has no way of knowing when someone might have joined them in the living room, and he'd prefer not to risk breaking his focus by looking around and checking each time he wanted to talk about their little game in detail.

"In fact," Knife continues, grinning knowingly. "I'd say I felt pretty worshipped."

Trophy stiffens next to him.

Knife is quick to take advantage of the other's shock, unleashing his character's combo on Trophy's own.

"K.O! Final Round!"

That's two points for Knife, one for Trophy.

Recovering, Trophy huffs and aims a blind kick in Knife's general direction, which Knife easily avoids.

"I'm not surprised- I can imagine it'd be hard to feel any different when you're so used to feeling like a loser." Trophy bites, the last word spoken with venom.

Knife can't help but laugh at Trophy's clear attempts at avoiding the true subject matter of their conversation.

"Is it really so hard for you to just admit you're excited to get to the fun part of our game again?" Knife leans back in his seat, watching as Trophy parries several of his moves- something he couldn't even manage just a few days ago.

"Look, you've gotten significantly better at this game in the past few days alone. There's obviously something motivating you."

"Can you just shut up and play already?" Trophy snaps. Knife takes a quick glimpse in his direction.

His face is flushed.

Knife laughs and abides by his request, his amusement satisfying his need to tease Trophy for the time being.

They play the next few rounds in relative silence, save for the occasional meaningless trash talking on both ends- and a few aggravated swears on Trophy's end.

They're looking at a point difference of 23 to 20 with Knife in the lead when Trophy suddenly speaks up.

"It's sex." He finally declares after a quick glance around the room to ensure they were alone. "Anyone would look forward to that."

Knife's amusement tugs the corners of his lips into a lopsided grin.

"You saying you like doing it with me?" He prods.

Trophy grits his teeth, glaring at the screen and handling his controller a lot more aggressively than he already was.

"I'm saying I'm a simple guy with simple needs. If someone wants to throw themselves at me, I'm not gonna say no."

Knife hums.

"That makes you sound easy."

Trophy is quick to nip that perception in the bud.

"You wish. I have standards, like any self-respecting person might. You don't wanna know how many people I've rejected."

"So you do say no." Knife corrects.

Trophy huffs, rolling his eyes.

"Sure, whatever."

"Then what you're saying is: I meet your standards, and you don't want to say no to me?"

Knife glances over at Trophy just in time to catch the way he glares at him, his expression as dark as the flush that quickly creeps on his cheeks.

Trophy doesn't answer him, choosing instead to focus on the game.

A few more matches pass.

They're 28 to 26. Trophy's in the lead now.

"Why do you wanna beat me so bad?" Knife asks.

Trophy's mouth presses into a thin line. He casts a quick sideways glare in Knife's direction before quickly looking back at the game.

"You're really running your mouth today, huh." He comments dryly.

Knife shrugs.

"A guy's gotta satisfy his curiosity."

Trophy huffs at this, a hint of amusement in the sound.

"You know what they say about curiosity. Kills the cat, doesn't it?"

Knife grins.

"Yeah," he confirms with a dismissive shrug. He then leans in close, dropping his voice to a whisper.

He can see his breath clouding on the metal of Trophy's cup as he speaks.

"But satisfaction brought it back, didn't it?"

A noticeable shiver runs up Trophy's body, and that quiet, shaky exhale that Trophy lets slip pairs nicely with the way he subtly brings his legs together.

Pleased with the reaction, Knife returns to his spot with a chuckle.

"So, I'll ask again."

He slams Trophy's character into another K.O.

"Why do you want to beat me so badly?"

Trophy wordlessly grumbles, the repetitive clicking of his thumb against the controller's buttons as the end-match cut scene plays out a damning sign of his nerves.

"Same reason you want to beat me, I guess." He answers after a few incoherent huffs and mumbles.

Knife takes a good look around the room, knowing that Trophy is taking advantage of his inattentiveness as the next match begins- but he doesn't care. What he's about to do next is gonna be worth the few missing points.

"What, you're too proud and competitive to lose to your rival?" He asks, looking back to the screen once he's confirmed that they're alone.

He can't fight back the grin on his face, amusement already welling up in his chest.

"No shit, Sherlock." Trophy snidely remarks. "I'm not about to lose to a pathetic loser like you."

"K.O!"

That's 29 for Trophy, 27 for Knife.

Knife hums in feigned agreement, scooting closer to Trophy- close enough that their shoulders touch.

Trophy casts a questioning look at him, his gaze flickering between the screen and Knife before looking downwards when Knife lets their legs brush against each other too.

"Why are you so-" Trophy starts to ask, before suddenly getting interrupted by Knife.

"Ohhh, wait. You meant the other reason I want to beat you at this game." Knife feigns an air of realization, bringing a hand to his forehead- ignoring the vibrations of the controller in his hand warning him of his character's low health.

Trophy can have his fun fighting his inactive character. Knife is taking a minute to have his own fun with Trophy.

Trophy is silent, but the warmth that begins to collect in his face and his subtle, anxious shifting tells Knife that he knows where this is going.

"You want to beat me so badly at this game for the same reason I want to beat you, that's what you said right?"

Emboldened, Knife leans in close once more.

"So what you're saying is, you really, really wanna put me in my place, huh?"

"K.O!"

30 to 27.

"Sorry, communication really is key isn't it? I should be a little clearer."

He drops his voice to a lower volume, his next words coming in a low, husky rasp.

"You really, really wanna fuck me."

Leaning in this close, Knife can see the way Trophy's fingers clench around the controller, his button-coordination sloppy and unstrategic. He can hear the hitch in Trophy's breathing.

"That's it, isn't it?" He sets the hand holding his controller down on Trophy's thigh, letting the device buzz against his leg. His grin turns sharp at the shaky sound of surprise that escapes Trophy, drawn to it in the same way a shark is drawn to blood in the water.

"Poor Trophy..." He mocks, slowly raising the controller further up along Trophy's thigh. "I've beaten you at this game and bent you over more times than we can count, but you haven't had your turn to do the same with me yet, have you? Oh you must be so pent up."

Trophy's breathing comes heavier now. In the background, Knife can hear the sound of Trophy's character jumping and ducking.

But not a single punch is thrown.

Seems like he doesn't quite want to get rid of Knife's low health just yet.

Oh, I wonder why that is, Knife muses to himself as he drags his controller to the inner part of Trophy's thigh.

"It must be so frustrating. I know I'd be frustrated, having someone I desire so deeply close to me, touching me, enjoying me, but not having the chance to do the same with them."

"Knife," Trophy shakily sighs, ever so slightly parting his thighs and widening the space in between.

Knife brings the controller between Trophy's legs, setting it on the couch and letting it sit in the empty space between Trophy's legs. It's not touching him in any way, but the proximity is enough to paint a picture in both of their heads as the device continues to rumble and vibrate.

"Tell me, Trophy." Knife prods, leaning in closer.

"What's motivating you to get so good at the game?"

Trophy flushes and averts his gaze, looking off to the side.

That won't do.

Knife grabs him by the handles, forcing him to turn his head and look Knife in the face.

Trophy's eyes are wide. His gaze flickers down to Knife's mouth before looking back up into his eyes.

Knife grins.

The distance between them draws smaller, until their faces are mere inches apart. Knife can feel the warmth of Trophy's quiet, shaky breaths ghosting against his mouth.

The controller is still buzzing in the space between Trophy's legs.

Swallowing hard, Trophy squeezes his eyes closed. When he opens them again, there's a new, hazy look to them.

A shaky hand finds Knife's side.

"Knife..." Trophy whispers.

"Trophy." Knife answers, just as quietly.

A quiet, pathetic noise escapes Trophy. The sound of it immediately sends both of them back to where they were yesterday; with Trophy under Knife.

Worshipping him.

"Say it." Knife presses.

The hand at his side squeezes him.

"You already... said it yourself." Trophy meekly tries.

"I want to hear it from you." Knife counters, relaxing his hold on Trophy's handles and letting one hand settle on his thigh while the other slides down the curve of his handle.

"I..." Trophy starts, swallowing. "I just really... I think you're..." His gaze falls back down towards Knife's mouth. "I... I really want... n-need..."

A voice stops both of them in their tracks.

"Oh, hey Soap."

"Hey Pickle!" A cheery voice answers. "Are you heading down for some breakfast too?"

"Nah, I'm not too hungry just yet. I'm gonna try playing a few rounds on the game system till I'm hungry enough for breakfast."

A quiet giggle echoes down the stairway, accompanied by the heavy footfall of the two making their way downstairs.

"Knowing you, that probably won’t be until mid-afternoon."

"Yeah, probably."

His laugh can be heard.

"I just can't wait to beat my high score. I wonder if Knife would be down for a game."

Eyes wide, Trophy and Knife break out of their frozen stupor and rip apart from each other, hurrying to make themselves look as presentable as possible.

Knife snatches his controller back from in between Trophy's legs and nearly throws himself to the other side of the couch in his rush to maximize the distance between himself and the other object as much as possible.

Trophy, wide eyed and paranoid, looks down between his legs several times- desperate to make sure he isn't exposed, before squeezing his legs shut and taking his controller back into both hands.

At the same time, Knife and Trophy start to mindlessly spam their attacks just as Pickle and Soap round the corner and enter the lobby.

"Oh, hey guys! Good morning!" Soap greets in passing as she makes her way to the kitchen.

"Morning," Knife and Trophy both answer in unison, the word coming strained.

"Damn," Pickle comments as he nears the back of the couch, draping his arms over the top of it. "You guys beat me to the game."

"Yeah, well," Knife starts, only to get interrupted by Trophy.

"We're done playing." Trophy finalizes, landing the last few hits it takes to diminish what little was left of Knife's health.

"K.O!"

That's 31 to 27.

A four point difference.

"Aw, I wanted to watch you guys go at it some more." Pickle complains, making both Knife and Trophy tense at his wording for a brief second.

"It's always funny watching you guys fight. The trash talk is insane between you two." He clarifies.

"Maybe next time." Knife answers, dropping his controller on the coffee table in front of him. "I need to go shower."

"I'm gonna get some reps in." Trophy mutters, following suit and moving to stand up from the couch.

"Wait, who got more points?" Pickle questions.

"Me." Trophy is quick to answer, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"By how much?"

Knife answers that one.

"Four points. But," he speaks up, increasing the volume of his voice to catch Trophy's attention just as he starts to make his departure. "We're not done yet."

Trophy and Pickle both wordlessly stare at Knife; both equally confused, though Pickle looks far more intrigued. He looks between the two of them.

"The die, Trophy." He emphasizes. "You have to roll the die."

Trophy utters a sharp curse, to which Pickle raises his eyebrows.

"The die?" He questions, watching as Trophy fishes out a small six sided die.

"Yup." Trophy answers, his reply curt as he approaches the coffee table once more. "The die."

He cups his hands around the die, blows into the small space in between, and gives his hands a good shake.

Knife and Pickle watch him closely, the tension rising as the seconds pass in silence.

Unclasping his hands, Trophy rolls the dice onto the smooth surface of the coffee table.

The small cube rolls and bounces across the surface before sliding to a stop.

Knife and Trophy draw in close, peering down at the small die.

Six.

He rolled a six.

Knife snickers at the same time that Trophy clenches his fist with yet another sharply whispered curse.

"Hey, lucky six!" Pickle grins, looking towards Trophy. "Nice, man."

"No, not nice." Trophy grumbles, snatching the die into his hand and turning to leave. "I'm gonna go do my reps now."

He pauses as he walks past Pickle, looking past him and turning his attention to Knife.

"If anyone needs me, I'll be free in an hour." He waits a beat, frowning as he watches the gears turn in Knife's head.

"...Yeah, I'll be busy showering." Knife slowly starts. "Shouldn't take more than half an hour, if anyone needs me."

Knife takes care to look at both Trophy and Pickle, hoping this lessens any suspicions on Pickle's end.

Trophy nods in confirmation.

"See you losers in an hour." He dismisses, making his way out of the hotel and letting the door slam closed behind him.

Sighing, Knife finally lets some of the tension seep from his figure. He glances up at Pickle before looking away when he finds him staring.

"It's... something new we're trying." Knife offers as a way of explanation, hoping this will be enough to sate his curiosity; though he knows fully well it isn't.

"Right," Pickle answers. He makes his way around the couch before taking Trophy's previous spot. "And rolling a six is bad because...?"

Knife coughs into his hand.

"It's uh... just think of it similarly to golf rules. A smaller number is better."

Pickle slowly nods, though he clearly doesn't fully understand.

"Well, Trophy rolled a six. What does that mean for him?"

Knife chuckles.

"It means he doesn't have four points over me anymore."

Pickle blinks, realization dawning over him.

"You have two points over him now." He states, grinning when Knife nods. "Ha! No wonder he looked so pissed."

"Heh, yeah. That's Trophy for you."

"Always the rager, that one." Pickle laughs, taking the same controller Trophy was using and nodding towards the other sitting atop the coffee table.

"Wanna play a few rounds?" He asks, shooting Knife a friendly smile.

"Ah, well, I did say I was gonna shower." Knife sheepishly grins.

"C'mon man, you said it would only take you thirty minutes. You can wait a bit, right?" Pickle reaches over and grabs the second controller, holding it out towards Knife. "Spare a poor man a few games?"

This earns him a gentle laugh, one that has Pickle smiling in turn.

"Yeah, alright. Just a few." Knife holds out his hands, catching the controller as it's tossed in his direction.

"Just a few." Pickle confirms with a smile.

The game starts, and the two quickly fall into their usual lighthearted banter.

But as they share their laughs and exchange the occasional quip, Pickle can't help but think back to the scene he walked in on.

Before he announced himself.

He could hear them before he saw them, halfway down the stairs. Their voices had been hushed, but he recognized them immediately.

Knife and Trophy.

They didn't seem to hear him coming downstairs. He couldn't be blamed for that.

What he could blame himself for, however, was the way he intentionally softened his footsteps as he went down the rest of the steps...

...and the way he carefully peered around the corner and didn't immediately look away when he saw Knife and Trophy face to face, touching each other.

He doesn't know how long he stood there for, watching them.

But when he heard the creak of a door opening upstairs, and the sing-song hum of a voice, Pickle knew he had to act fast; for his sake and that of Knife and Trophy's.

He quickly scaled the stairs as quietly as he could and did his best to pretend as if he just reached them right before Soap did.

"Oh, hey Soap." He had greeted, intentionally projecting his voice the whole conversation in the hopes that Knife and Trophy would hear their approach.

Pickle shakes his head, blinking the thoughts away as the announcer's voice blares over the speakers.

"K.O!"

Knife laughs, elbowing Pickle.

"You awake there, dude? That's the second time in a row you let me K.O you. Don't tell me you're losing your touch!"

Pickle quickly recovers, snorting a laugh.

"You wish! C'mon, lemme show you how a real pro does it."

The next round starts, and while Knife might be carelessly enjoying himself, Pickle is a bit more preoccupied.

He runs over a few numbers in his head.

Two K.O's in a row, Knife had said.

That puts them at a score of 9 to 6, with Pickle still in the lead.

He makes a mental note, reminding himself to write down their final score once Knife leaves.

And to make a note of the point difference.

Chapter Text

Trophy doesn’t look very happy to see him when he finally shows up at his bedroom door.

“You’re late.” Trophy deadpans, irritation clear in both his expression and tone of voice.

Knife raises an eyebrow, sidestepping the irritated jock. “No…?” He argues, making his way into Trophy’s bedroom. “I came just in time; an hour after you left.”

“You said your shower would only take you thirty minutes.” Trophy accused, shutting the door to his suite and taking care to lock it.

“Yeah, and it did.” Knife laughs in mild disbelief, perplexed by the situation. “What’s the problem?”

“I finished my workout early, asshole. I was waiting for you.” With an irritated huff, Trophy draws near, setting a hand on the flat edge of Knife’s blade. “Your blade is still hot… did you really just get out of the shower?”

Knife leans away from the other’s touch, his own irritation starting to surface.

“Yeah, and it’s not my problem that you decided to end your workout early. You said you’d be ready in an hour, so here I am an hour later.” Knife sits himself atop Trophy’s bed, leaning back on his arms and shooting Trophy a glare. “If you’re gonna make plans, stick to the schedule you make.”

“Whatever.” The conversation ends with a roll of Trophy’s eyes as he walks away and swipes a sheet of paper off his dresser. He clears his throat and looks down at it.

“Alright, Knife. You beat me by an incredible, unimaginable, stupendous two points,” he exaggerates, shooting Knife a crude smile before letting it drop back into a displeased scowl. “So, you’ve got two options to pick from in the 1-5 points tier; touching and mouth-stuff.”

“And by ‘touching and mouth-stuff’ we mustn’t forget the asterisk at the end!” He turns the paper so that it faces Knife, tapping his finger against the aforementioned asterisk- much to the other object’s unamusement. “Asterisk: with the exemption of direct contact with each other’s sex.” Trophy finalizes with an exaggerated emphasis to each word.  

Trophy slaps the paper back down onto the dresser with enough force to rattle the whole thing, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes at Knife.

“What kind of cocktail is the grand winner gonna make with those two options, hm?”

Now it’s Knife’s turn to roll his eyes at Trophy’s theatrics.

“You’re pissed.” He states observantly.

“No shit I’m pissed.” Trophy bites, crossing his arms over his chest. “That die screwed me over.”

Sighing, Knife scoots further back onto the bed and gestures for Trophy to join him. Although ill-tempered, Trophy does begin to approach.

“It’s not the die’s fault, Trophy. It’s all just up to chance now. Makes things as fair as possible.”

Their conversation continues as Trophy climbs atop the mattress and sits himself in front of Knife, the former’s frustration still present even as Knife’s hands find his arms and gently coax him into sitting closer to him.

“Wasn’t just the die either.” Trophy argues, letting himself get guided closer to Knife. They’re sitting directly in front of each other now; both kneeling.

“Oh?” Knife asks, letting his hands slowly run up and down Trophy’s arms before settling them at his shoulders. He pulls Trophy close, their faces inches apart.

“Yeah.” Trophy mutters, his scowl ever-present even as color begins to flush his face.

Knife grins, knowing where this conversation is going. But he humors Trophy all the same, even as he leans in closer, his breath softly brushing against Trophy’s lips.

“What else could have caused this devastating defeat of yours, Trophy?” He mocks, his sharp grin contrasting the slow, soft rasp of his voice.

“You.” Trophy narrows his eyes into thin slits.

Even so, Knife still catches the way Trophy’s gaze flicks down to his mouth before resuming eye contact once more.

“You and your stupid-” His voice cuts off into a muffled sound as Knife presses his lips to Trophy’s, the kiss sensual and deep. Trophy’s hands quickly find their place on the sides of Knife’s handle, pulling him closer.

Their breaths intermingle, each exhale coming out in soft huffs and sighs of pleasure as they mouth at each other.

Soon enough, they part for a quick gasp of air.

“You kept distracting me from scoring more-” Trophy tries to continue, only for Knife to interrupt him once more, this time with a rougher, hungrier kiss.

Knife licks and bites at the soft give of Trophy’s lips, relishing in the sound of approval that Trophy gives him- a deep groan that wavers into a trembling breath as he parts his lips and eagerly meets Knife’s teeth and tongue with his own.

They openly mouth at each other, their tongues rough and forceful as they each try to continue the kiss in the other’s mouth. Neither one of them holds back on their biting.

Slowly, Knife starts to push Trophy backwards.

Trophy lets him.

They hold each other close, their grasps tight and unrelenting. Neither one lets the other separate from the kiss for more than a second.

“You’re such a piece of shit-” Trophy breathily gasps out when Knife pulls back for air, letting him get a few short, panting breaths in before Trophy is yanking him back into the kiss.

Lying on his back with Knife’s gentle guidance, Trophy parts his legs and lets Knife accommodate himself in between. The slick, wet smack of their kissing is noisy in the silence of the room, with only the sound of their heavy breaths and pounding hearts to accompany it.

When Trophy pulls away from the kiss to catch his breath once more, with a quiet few muttered insults shot towards Knife, he licks his lips and bares his teeth up at the other object. Knife can’t tell if it’s meant to be a grin or a snarl.

It gets his heart racing all the same.

“C’mon.” Trophy goads, his voice breathless. “Show me what you can do with those two stupid points of yours.”

Oh, he will.

Pinning him by the shoulders, Knife dives back in and attacks Trophy with a series of mouth-bruising kisses, locking lips with him as if he was trying to devour him.

Trophy reciprocates the exact same energy perfectly, growling into the kiss and fighting the hold Knife has on his shoulders. He shoves Knife’s hands away from his shoulders and reaches upwards, digging his fingers into Knife’s back and raking them downwards.

“Fuck-! God, Trophy.” Knife hisses.

Trophy laughs darkly at the other’s wince, even when Knife retaliates by biting his bottom lip hard enough to bruise.

“God, you want me so fucking badly.” Trophy sharply pants as Knife pulls back with a wavering, gasping breath before bringing a gentle hand to the side of Trophy’s face and reconnecting.

Each time Knife separates from him, Trophy lets his thoughts ramble free; losing himself to lust and desire the longer this goes on.

“You’re so fucking addicted to me.”

Kiss.

“Can’t fucking live without me.”

Kiss.

“You’re obsessed.”

Bite.

“Bet you-”

Kiss.

“Think about me-”

Lick.

“Every fucking night-!”

Grind.

That last one gets Trophy groaning sharply into their kiss, his hips eagerly meeting the rough press of Knife’s own. His hands travel down Knife’s backside, grabbing him by the hips and pulling him in tighter.

The hard press of their hips is almost unbearable; uncomfortable and painful.

It’s exactly the way they both love it.

“Fuck.” Trophy gasps out as they separate once more; only this time Knife doesn’t bother catching his breath. He dives back in almost immediately, cupping Trophy’s face and taking advantage of Trophy’s open-mouthed panting to drag his tongue over Trophy’s.

A low moan tears from the depths of Trophy’s chest as he eagerly meets Knife’s hungry licking, relishing in the taste of Knife’s tongue and the raw, animalistic desire that drives them both. Neither one has the breath to lock lips again, but they don’t bother breaking apart for air anymore. They just openly pant against each other’s mouths, licking and sucking on each other’s tongues and biting each other until they have just enough breath to kiss again.

Their hips move in tandem as they continue to grind against each other, their slits a wet, burning point of contact.

It’s not long before they’re losing themselves to their lust.

Trophy hisses out a moan as his slit spreads with the girth of his cock, the golden appendage eagerly rising to meet the grind of Knife’s hips. A shaky exhale escapes them both when Trophy’s cock gets trapped between the rough grinding of their hips, the length eagerly sliding against the soft give of Knife’s own slit.

They share a look with each other as the rocking of Knife’s hips starts to slow to a stop, their faces flushed and their eyes hazy with lust. There’s a pleading glint in the shine of Trophy’s eyes as he stares up at Knife, and a look of hesitation in Knife’s gaze as he stares down at Trophy.

Ultimately, self-perseverance and an infuriating amount of self-control wins overall, and Knife eventually slows to a complete stop and shakily separates his hips from Trophy’s.

The two of them let out a long, shaky exhale.

“Fuck.” Trophy sighs out once more, panting as he lets his head fall back against the mattress. His eyes squeeze closed.

“Yeah,” Knife agrees, his own breathing coming heavy. “Sorry.”    

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” Trophy waves his hand dismissively, irritation lacing his features as the corner of his mouth pulls into a disapproving grimace- an expression that unexpectedly compliments the heated flush coloring his face. “Two-pointer can only do so much without breaking the rules of the game.”

They take a moment to catch their breath.

Sitting back, Knife brings his hands to Trophy’s thighs, idly running them up and down his thighs.

It takes a minute, but they eventually collect themselves enough for their panting to subside.

“Lean against the headboard.” Knife directs, shuffling out of the way. “It’ll be easier for me to feel you up without our dicks accidentally touching if you’re sitting against it.” He explains.

“Not too sure about that one, man.” Trophy quietly interjects, but he does as told anyways and props a pillow up against the headboard before sitting against it.

He feels a little embarrassed, sitting here with his hands on his lap while he waits for Knife to come up to him; something about sitting and waiting for Knife to touch him, to kiss him, it makes him feel…

Eager?

Loyal?

Obedient?

It’s something he can’t quite name, but he doesn’t have the chance to figure it out because Knife is already crawling up to him, setting both hands on Trophy’s shoulders as he stays on his knees.

With Knife’s hips elevated and Trophy’s planted firmly against the bed, they share a decent amount of space between their bodies that- on paper- should keep them from accidentally grinding against each other; allowing them to play by the rules of the game.

Now it’s just a matter of whether they can actually maintain that distance, without either one of them closing it.

Knife is leaning in close, his lips parted, and Trophy eagerly parts his own and drapes his arms over Knife’s shoulders as he goes in to meet him halfway. But he’s taken off guard when- rather than kissing him, Knife instead brings his mouth to Trophy’s neck, where he breathily runs his tongue in hot swipes.

“Oh-…” Trophy shakily sighs, melting under the ministrations of the other’s mouth. He tilts his head to the side, allowing Knife more room to work with, which he immediately takes advantage of to- for lack of better word- make out with Trophy’s neck.

Trophy’s hips twitch as the warmth of Knife’s mouth against his neck sends a burning heat down to his core, where it twists and writhes before trickling out of him in slow, leaky strings of precum. His breathing picks up, and it’s not long before he’s fallen back into slow, shuddery, panting breaths.

“Knife…” he sighs, letting his head fall back as Knife licks and bites at his throat. He tugs at Knife’s shoulders and brings him in closer- much to the other’s mild protests. But it’s nothing more than a breathy, huffed out “Trophy, our dicks,” that Trophy quickly dismisses with his own, shakily panted- “It’s fine, it’s fine. Won’t touch.”

They’re chest to chest now, and Trophy can’t tell if his heart is beating harder or if that’s Knife’s pounding heartbeat that he can feel against his own chest now.

Maybe he shouldn’t have tugged Knife too close, because he swears that his dick can tell the difference now that Knife’s chest is against his. As if it can detect Knife’s body heat more easily, and god does his cock fucking writhe and throb and leak for Knife’s touch. It takes everything for Trophy to keep his hips planted against the bed- and even then, he can’t help the occasional twitch of his hips, especially when his cock throbs and a particularly thick trickle of precum follows it.

Knife’s hands drift down from Trophy’s shoulders and travel along the curves of his sides, drawing a hissed-out hitch in Trophy’s breathing as his cock jolts excitedly.

“Trophy,” Knife breathes against his neck, interrupting himself with another wet lick and suck to his throat. “Where do you like being touched?” He asks, as if they haven’t done this dance several times before.

“My dick.” Trophy is quick to breathlessly answer, and even in his flushed, aroused state he still has the cockiness in him to grin and laugh at Knife’s exasperated groan- his eyeroll practically audible in that lone sigh.

But then Knife chuckles, the sound soft and quiet, and presses one last kiss to Trophy’s throat before letting his lips brush against the gold surface of Trophy’s body as he draws lower, placing a kiss to Trophy’s chest.

“Alright, go ahead.” Knife goads instead, bringing his hands to rest on the curve of Trophy’s base. “Touch your dick for me.”  

“Hhh…” Trophy unintelligently shudders out, both at the feel of Knife’s lips on his chest and the command he utters- all actions that get his mind swirling when Knife does it with a squeeze to his hips. Without another word, Trophy is quick to bring his hand down and wrap it around the girth of his cock.

His face burns as the slick wet slide of his hand running up and down his cock goes immediately noticed by both of them; it’s hard to miss it when the only other sounds are that of their excited breathing and Knife’s mouth and tongue making work of Trophy’s body.

“Man, you’re soaked.” Knife whispers against the gold of Trophy’s chest, laving his tongue over the generous swell.

“Shut u-up.” Trophy stammers, letting his head fall forwards with a slight tilt as he looks between Knife’s legs from where he’s kneeling in front of Trophy. He spots Knife’s cock parting the soft lips of his slit- slick, shiny, and so tantalizingly glossy in the light of his bedroom.

Trophy swallows and struggles to summon up enough snark for his next response.

“You’re wet too, dumb whore.” He snaps, but there’s little bite to the words. In fact, much to his embarrassment, his sentence ends with a trembling waver of his breath- a testament to his growing excitement at the sight of Knife’s own arousal.

Knife simply hums in amusement, clearly directing his focus more towards the sounds Trophy is making, rather than the words he’s saying.

He mouths at Trophy’s chest, his breath hot and steamy against the gold surface of his body. Knife takes care to clear away the white cloud of his breathing condensed against Trophy’s surface with hot, wet swipes of his tongue- tracing mindless patterns into the steam with his tongue.

Trophy, meanwhile, struggles to keep his mind straight. Everything is telling him to lean into Knife’s touch, to raise his hips and let his cock wrap around Knife’s own- to let his body curl his dick tightly around Knife’s and keep him from pulling away. His mind grows heady and dizzy with the thought as he imagines it; what it’d be like for his cock to wrap around the girth of Knife’s own and to hold him tight enough that their pulses throb against each other.

He thinks about what it’d be like, if Knife’s dick wrapped around his, and gave him the tight space he needs to fuck into. The blue of his cock wrapping around Trophy’s golden, giving him a nice, warm clutch for him to slip in and out of.

The thought rips a moan out of him- one that comes embarrassingly sudden. He clamps his mouth shut afterwards, clenching his teeth as his breathing escapes him in shaky pants.

“Oh, you’re really enjoying yourself there.” Knife comments, amused. But there’s a breathlessness to his words that makes Trophy feel a little better for getting so worked up by his own imagination.

“What’re you thinking about?” Knife questions, pressing his lips to Trophy’s shoulder in a soft kiss. “Still thinking about how badly you wanna fuck me?”

Well, now he is.

A low moan draws out from deep within him, and a quiet, pathetic sound- higher pitched than the one before it- drifts into his words as he speaks next.

“Y-Yeah,” he sighs, closing his eyes as he wraps his fingers more securely around his cock and starts pumping himself a little faster.

He lets the images dance behind his eyes; fantasies of Knife letting Trophy bend him over, offering his soft slit up to him, or the tight, silky give of his hole- so tight and un-fucked that Knife would surely quiver and urge Trophy to slow down, asking him to feed the girthy length of his cock into him more gently in that husky, gruff voice of his.

Trophy’s panting grows heavier. He lets his mouth fall open, bringing his free hand to the back of Knife’s blade and holding him close as Knife continues to lick and suck at his chest and abdomen.

He thinks about Knife, asking him to stop before he’s even fed his body all the inches he has to offer him; forcing him to still his hips and, subsequently, letting him watch the way his hole would struggle to adjust around the wide stretch of Trophy’s cock, fluttering as it tightens and loosens around him- looking for all the world as if it was trying to suck Trophy in deeper. As if, despite Knife’s words, his body knew better what it wanted; urging Trophy to keep moving, to fill Knife up the rest of the way.

“God, fuck.” He gasps, his fist moving quickly on his cock now.

“You really, really wanna fuck me, man.” Knife quietly laughs, bringing a hand between his legs to give himself a bit of relief, taking his cock in hand and stroking himself slowly as he watches Trophy closely.

“Should tell me why.” He continues, leaning up to lazily lick at Trophy’s throat as he brings his free hand to the inner part of Trophy’s thigh- squeezing him.

“Hhuh?” Trophy drawls out, blinking his eyes open.

Knife looks up at him with a grin, pulling away so he’s face to face with Trophy. He presses a kiss to Trophy’s lips, licking at his tongue before pulling away just far enough for him to speak- his lips brushing against Trophy’s own with every syllable.

“You should tell me why you’re so desperate to fuck me.” He repeats, his voice a quiet rasp. “Might convince me to do something nice for you.”

Trophy latches onto the unspoken promise a lot more eagerly than he’d like to admit, a full body shiver running its course through his figure.

“O-Oh.” He dumbly answers, his dick throbbing in his hand as his mind runs through all the possibilities of what this ‘something nice’ that Knife was offering could be.

He licks his lips, letting his gaze fall to the side as he squirms underneath Knife’s watchful stare.

“I-I… uh.” He stammers, falling silent as he tries to find the least humiliating way to defend his innate desires.

Trophy swallows, his face burning hotter as he falls silent.

“C’mon,” Knife encourages, letting the hand on Trophy’s thigh trail dangerously close to where he’s pumping his dick. “The words are in there somewhere, Trophy. You found them in you last time.”

“Y’know,” he smirks. “When you begged me to let you eat my ass out.”

Trophy chokes on his next groan, embarrassment and arousal fighting over the rights to make his face burn red-hot.

His hand doesn’t stop moving.

“Yeah, that was really something, Trophy.” He continues, caressing Trophy’s inner thigh with his thumb. “Kinda embarrassing, to be honest. Asking me to fuck myself against your face like that.”

Knife sighs, giving his cock a squeeze and letting the precum beading at the tip of his cock trickle down his fingers.

“Y’like my hole that much, Trophy?” He pries, teasing.

“Yes.” Trophy answers honestly, the lone word coming out in a harsh moan.

It’s a lot more of an honest answer than Knife expected, but he’s quick to push for more.

“Yeah? Can’t stop thinking about it? Wanna sink your cock into me that badly?”

Trophy answers him with another guttural moan, his hips rolling upwards into his fist as he pumps himself even harder.

“Use your words, dumbass.” Knife goads, picking up the pace of his own stroking. “Tell me.”

Trophy bites his lips, his heart pounding in his ears as he listens to the slick, wet slide of his hand on his cock- so much louder, so much wetter than that of Knife’s hand on his own length.

He’s panting hard now. The heat in his guts is starting to coil and writhe inside of him.

“Trophy.” Knife demands, grabbing him by one of his handles and giving it a firm squeeze. “Tell me why you wanna fuck me,” he shakily breathes. “Or else I won’t even consider letting you have it.”

It’s a lie, they both know it. But it gets the ball rolling all the same.

“F-Fuck.” Trophy finally gasps out. “You’re so fucking h-hard edged, man. So fucking tough.” He squeezes his eyes closed, embarrassed to be saying all of this out loud.

“Makes m-me wanna fuck you up bad.” He confesses, bringing his gaze back to Knife so that he can look between his legs and watch the way Knife runs his hand over his cock. “Wanna… wanna see you fucking beg for it.”

His breathing gets harsher. The grip he has on his cock tightens at the same time that it speeds up.

“Wanna fucking m-make you beg for it. See your u-unfucked hole s-stretch around- mnh… m-me.”  

Knife lets out a breathy, trembling laugh.

“You think I’ve never been fucked before?” He questions, his face flushing warm as he pants. “I’ve taken m-my fair share man.”

Trophy swallows hard.

“Recently?” He asks, the thought making something weird and unpleasant twist in his chest at the same time that it sends a pang of arousal through his cock.

Knife shakes his head, sighing shakily.

“Been a few years.” He admits.

That weird unpleasant feeling dissipates, and Trophy shoots Knife a shaky grin.

“Unfucked.” He declares.

Knife lets out another airy laugh.

“Whatever, man.” He chuckles, before starting to climb atop Trophy’s lap.

“Wh-… W-What…” Trophy stammers, the hand on his cock stilling as he watches Knife climb atop him. His hand stills, but his heartbeat pounds excitedly in the slick length of his cock.

“Incentive for you to slow down,” Knife explains, settling atop Trophy’s midsection. “You’re going way too fast, dude. Gonna cum too fast, too soon.” He tells him, setting his hands on Trophy’s chest.

Trophy doesn’t understand, but he licks his lips all the same.

“Okay,” he breathily whispers.

Knife utters careful instructions, directing Trophy into lowering himself against the headboard until he’s sitting in a slight slouch- almost lying down- which is just enough for Knife to comfortably sit atop his abdomen.

With their new position, Knife settles both hands on the sides of Trophy’s chest, giving him a groping squeeze.

“Watch,” he tells him, raising his hips. “You see your dick behind me?”

He does. It’s a tantalizing sight, the golden slick of his cock standing erect behind Knife, so close to where Trophy desperately wants to bury it inside of him.

“Y-Yes…” Trophy answers breathily, giving his cock a squeeze at the base.

“Bring your hand up to the tip of your cock and copy the movements of my hips with your hand.” He instructs.

Trophy does as told, keeping a tight grasp on the first few inches of his cock. He watches closely as Knife slowly drops his hips back down atop his abdomen, and when Trophy follows his movements with his hand- slicking it down the length of his cock- and then back up and down again when Knife repeats the motion, the picture quickly clicks in his mind.

A full body shudder wracks through him and he moans- hard.

He gets it now.

“O-Oh god.” He gasps, heat seeping into every inch of his body.

Watching his cock disappear and reappear behind Knife as he works himself up and down, coupled with the tight, warm grasp around his cock… it’s driving him mad.

His hand is moving a lot more slowly on his cock now, following the pace Knife set, but it’s doing nothing to push back his approaching orgasm. In fact, he can feel it even closer than before, his load desperately throbbing in his cock.

He’s not about to say anything and risk making Knife stop, though.

“Good?” Knife asks, returning a hand to his own arousal and pumping himself in equally slow strokes.

“So gooood.” Trophy breathes out, dragging out the vowel in the last word until he’s openly, shakily panting.

Knife grins down at him, his face flushed warm.

“Good,” he sighs, giving Trophy’s chest a squeeze with his free hand. “Keep talking. Don’t think I forgot about how fucking desperate you were to ask me to fuck myself against your mouth.”

A low whine rumbles within Trophy’s chest, and he squeezes his eyes closed for a few seconds as he burns.

“Look at me, Trophy.” Knife orders, the hand on his cock picking up speed. When Trophy cracks his eyes open, his gaze immediately falls down to the hand Knife has on his dick, before looking back at the way his own cock disappears and reappears behind Knife’s hips.

“Talk to me.” He breathes, running his hand up and down Trophy’s chest.

“Ghhh-…” Trophy’s trembling now, his cock aching with every pleasurable throb.

“Y-You…” He stammers, his shaky breathing making it hard for him to talk. “Wanna r-ruin you.” Trophy gasps, rocking his hips upwards into his hand when Knife sinks down onto his abdomen. “Y-You’re such a f-f…fucking asshole. W-Wanna be the one to… to…”

His cock jerks, and a hard spurt of precum slicks his fingers.

He’s close.

His hand is moving no quicker on his cock, but he’s close.

“Trophy…” Knife breathily exhales, quietly encouraging him to keep going.

Hearing his name come out of Knife like that… it’s all the encouragement Trophy needs.

He breaks out into a quick, lust driven ramble- desperate to hear Knife speak his name like that again.

“N-Need to be the one to fucking- hah- to f-fucking make your insides hurt.” Trophy blurts, the words slipping out of him as easily as the precum leaking from his cock. “You’re s-such a fucking dick, so fucking annoying, god I want to fucking ruin y-you. Make you scream my…m-my name.”

“Y-Yeah?” Knife asks in a trembling breath, the hand on his cock working faster, his hips moving quicker. Trophy is quick to match his pace, molten heat settling deep in his guts as he nods.

“I…” Trophy swallows hard. “I-I’m gonna cum,” He warns, his breathing coming fast.

“You’re not gonna cum.” Knife interjects, the words spoken like reassurance- but Trophy’s not sure if he should take it as such or as an unspoken instruction for him to hold on a little longer.

“Keep going,” Knife tells him. So he does.

“Hah… B-bet you’re so fucking tight. Can’t stop fucking thinking about… A-Ah…fuck. A-About how good I-I’d make you feel, filling you up so m-much more than anyone e-else ever has.” Trophy pants, bringing his free hand to Knife’s hips and squeezing tightly. “Y-You’re so fucking flat. So slim… know I’d m-make you bulge w-with it… Would see my cock pressing against y-your insides.”

Knife groans at that, pumping his cock harder- faster. He’s starting to drip precum onto Trophy’s chest.

Trophy continues, his rambling getting crazed.

“You’d be s-so fucking hot, Knife. So burning hot o-on my cock, oh my god. S-So tight, so f-ff…f-fucking hot.” He pants. “I’d c-cum in you again a-and again and again.”

Trophy inhales sharply, gritting his teeth tightly. His hand is painfully tight around his cock.

“M-Make you mine.” He shakily utters, the tight coiling heat in his guts winding tighter. “K-Keep you every fucking-…hah. Hh. E-every fucking night. Make you my b-bitch.”

Knife is breathing hard atop him, bracing himself with a hand to Trophy’s chest as he rocks his hips up and down and lets himself make a mess of Trophy as he pumps his wet cock.

“W-Want that?” Trophy asks, the words trembling past his heavy panting. “Wanna be my bitch, K-Knife?”

He gulps down a panting breath, his face burning red-hot as he wills his arousal into courage for his next words.

“Wanna b-be mine?” He asks; the words far less vulgar than the ones prior, but the impact behind them hitting deeper, heavier.

Maybe Knife doesn’t get what he means by it; maybe asking something like that, so subtle and so easy to misunderstand during sex wasn’t the best idea, because Knife only lets out a shaky, airy laugh and shoots Trophy a lopsided grin.

“I dunno, Trophy. F-Feels more like you wanna be my bitch.” He teases, bringing a hand to the side of Trophy’s face and running his thumb over his bottom lip. “W-Worshipping me… licking my insides… t-thinking about me so… fuck-… s-so much.”

The words punch a lustful moan out of him, and his cock jerks as another hard spurt of precum coats his fingers- but Trophy can’t help the disappointment behind his weak, shaky laugh.

“H-Ha…. Fuck you man, y-you fucking loved it.”

“Bet you l-loved feeling my hole fucking s-strangling your tongue even more, s-stupid.”

He did. God, he did.

Trophy groans, hard.

“I-I’m gonna cum.” He warns again, his breathing sharp and ragged. “Gonna cum.”

Knife answers his groan with one of his own, curling in on himself and letting his hand make quick work of his cock.

“W-What’s making you cum?” He asks, his grin shaky. “T-The thought of fucking me? Mngh, eating me out?” Knife bites his lip, his breath hot and heavy as he keeps rocking his hips. “Or d-do you just like me that much?” He teases, clearly not expecting Trophy to take his last suggestion as an honest one.

But, god.

Yes.

God, yes.

It’s everything.

All of the above.

Trophy’s hands tremble as he grabs Knife by the hips, yanking him down against himself at the same time that he desperately fucks upwards. But he hisses out a sharp swear when his cock is met with empty space; the illusion that Knife is fucking himself on Trophy’s cock broken.

“F-Fucking asshole.” Trophy sharply insults him, digging his fingers into Knife’s hips. “Use y-your mouth,” he pants, lightheaded and dizzy as he keeps fucking his hips up into the air. “You’re supposed to be using y-your- hah-! Your fucking h-hands and mouth, u-useless piece of shit!”

Knife gets the message loud and clear, his mind easily translating Trophy’s demands.

Kiss me. Please.

So he does, closing the gap between their faces and pressing his lips to Trophy’s, mouthing hotly at his lips and dragging his tongue over Trophy’s own.

Trophy moans brokenly into the kiss, his gasping, panting breaths coming more quickly, a desperate, frantic edge to them as he keeps fucking his hips into nothing- the mere action paired with Knife’s weight seated atop him enough to push him close to the edge.

“K-Knife…!” He pants, urgent, as Knife pulls away from the kiss to give them both the space to breathe. His hand shoots down to grab at his cock, pumping it hard. “Oh, Knife-!” He cries out.

“Fuck-!” Knife grits, clenching his teeth as his hand flies up and down his own cock. “I-I’m close too, I’m almost there, Trophy.” He pants. “I’m close.”

If he was trying to keep Trophy from falling over the edge before him, then Knife went about it the wrong way. Because hearing him talk like that- it’s all it took to push Trophy past the brink of no return.

“Knife,” Trophy moans, broken. “I-I’m gonna cum.”

He pants sharply through the clench of his teeth.

“Gonna cum,” he whispers again, trembling.

“Knife,” he begs, his voice strained. “Hurry. Hurry. I’m…! I’m gonna cum-…!” Trophy sharply inhales, his voice rising in pitch.

Knife swears above him, pumping his cock as hard and fast as he can.

“Knife, Knife, Knife, Knife, Knife-!”

With one hand on Knife’s hip and the other flying up and down his cock, Trophy is helpless to the pleasure overtaking him.

That tight coil in his guts, burning hot and aching, snaps.

His cock throbs several times, and he chokes on his moan as he looks up at Knife desperately, watching him move- watching him touch himself, seated atop Trophy as if he was already taking him in deep.

A warbling, pathetic, shaky noise escapes him, and he tries to say Knife’s name one more time- but then Trophy feels his cock jerk so hard it almost hurts- and the first rope of cum shoots from deep inside of him.

He sobs, fucking up into his hand and jolting Knife with the force of his thrusts as he frantically works the rest of his orgasm out of himself. He can hardly hear the way Knife swears from above him, his eyes squeezed shut as he fucks his cock into the tight squeeze of his hand and pumps thick rope after rope of cum out of himself. Every spurt aches, the heat of his core spilling out of his cock in hard, forceful spurts that coat his fingers and- unbeknownst to him- streak across Knife’s back.

“God, fuck-! Fuck! Trophy!” Knife cries out, panting harshly- and suddenly Trophy feels a burning wet warmth coating his chest.

Somehow, that makes his orgasm hit him even harder, and his cock jerks anew- the next throbbing pulse of cum almost painful with how hard it throbs out of him.

Trophy blindly reaches up for Knife with his free hand, trembling as he yanks him down by the shoulder and smashes their lips back together.

It’s messy, uncoordinated, painful, and dizzying, but god it’s so good. They messily mouth at each other, swallowing each other’s desperate moans and heavy breaths and relishing in the taste of each other’s tongues as they kiss through their orgasms.

Eventually, Trophy’s hips start to slow, his thighs trembling as his load goes from a forceful ejaculation to meek, wet dribbles of cum that slick his fingers. His cock aches, every lingering throb wringing a simpering, quiet moan out of him.

Knife is in no better state, panting heavily against Trophy’s mouth as his hand runs slowly over his cock, working the last of his orgasm out of himself.

“F-Fuck.” Knife shakily pants, his breath hot against Trophy’s lips. He leans down a little and licks at Trophy’s chin. “S-Sorry, kinda… kinda got some cum on your face.” He explains in a weak, gasping breath.

“Ghuh…” Trophy groans, wrapping an arm around Knife’s shoulder and pulling him close, urging Knife to rest on top of him. “Hot…” He murmurs dazedly.

Knife however resists his pull, keeping the distance between their bodies.

“Hold on,” He shakily utters, pushing himself up the rest of the way- despite how Trophy initially tightens his hold on him before letting go.

Trophy frowns, and there’s a pang to his chest as he pushes himself up onto his elbow and watches Knife slip out of bed.

But then he’s relaxing and letting himself lie back down when he realizes Knife is only going for the tissues at his bedside. Sighing and taking the time to catch his breath and calm down from the excitement of it all, Trophy closes his eyes and listens to the rustle of Knife cleaning himself off. When he’s done, Trophy lazily holds his hand- dripping with cum- out towards Knife.

Without any need for explanation, Knife takes Trophy’s hand into his own and wipes it clean.

The bed dips as he crawls back into bed, and Trophy shivers at Knife’s gentle touch as he dutifully cleans him off, dabbing at his thighs, his abdomen, his chest, and even his neck- where he’s soaked with sweat.

With the highs of his orgasm still lingering in a warm, pleasant glow and exhaustion kicking in, Trophy can feel himself start to drift off. He lets his breathing even out and takes a moment to simply enjoy Knife’s presence and the warm feeling that getting taken care of by Knife as he cleans him off gives him.

He’s still awake, though. So, he’s aware when Knife finishes up and tosses the tissues to the side.

Trophy hears it when Knife pauses, and he can feel the weight of his stare as Knife looks down at him.

“Trophy?” Knife quietly asks.

He doesn’t answer, letting his chest rise and fall with each deep, lax breath he takes.

There’s another pause, the silence stretching itself thin between them.

Then, he hears Knife shuffle out of bed, walk to the end of Trophy’s room, and flick the light switch off.

He joins him back in bed shortly afterwards, pulling the blankets over the both of them as he shuffles closely to Trophy.

It takes a while, and Trophy listens to the soft rise and fall of Knife’s breathing before it eventually drifts into a quiet, gentle snoring.

He waits a while longer afterwards before finally moving, shifting closer to Knife and turning on his side so that he can look at him.

It’s hard to see him in the dark, but the sliver of light from the hallway that slips past the gaps between his door and its frame gives him enough light to see the relaxed expression Knife wears in his sleep, one arm tucked under the pillow he rests his head atop and the other simply laying on his side.

Trophy watches him, unsure of why he’s so captivated by Knife when he looks like this.

When he’s so… relaxed. Comfortable.

Vulnerable?

No. That’s not quite it.

Maybe the word Trophy is looking for is “trusting.”

Trophy leans in close, his heartrate picking up.

Knife’s breath is soft and gentle against Trophy’s face, a great contrast to how harshly he was panting against his mouth earlier.

With his face warm and his heart thundering in his chest, Trophy closes the gap between them.

His lips brush against Knife’s own, nothing more than the ghost of a touch; as light and airy as Knife’s sleepy breathing.

In a slow, careful move, Trophy drapes his arm over Knife’s side.

When Knife doesn’t stir, his quiet snores undisturbed, Trophy lets himself relax.

With the warmth of Knife’s body flush against his own, Trophy can feel himself starting to drift once more.

This time, he lets himself give in.

He keeps his sleepy gaze on Knife’s face, for no reason other than the fact that he wants to enjoy that expression he wears for as long as possible, before it inevitably disappears.

He’s still looking at him, admiring him, even as his eyes grow heavy.

His words from earlier echo in his mind.

“I’d keep you every night.”

He wonders if Knife knows that this is the kind of thing he meant when he said that.

Trophy’s mind is clouding over, and it’s getting harder to think as sleep starts to claim him.

He yawns, letting his forehead gently press against Knife’s.

“Night, Knife…” he sleepily utters, the words barely a whisper.

The last thing he sees as he’s falling asleep is Knife’s mouth barely parting as he sleepily murmurs his response.

Whatever it was, Trophy doesn’t catch it. He’s already asleep.

Chapter Text

Consciousness seeps into Trophy’s mind at a slow trickle, the edges of his vision muddied and blurry as he opens his bleary eyes. For a moment, he has no idea where he is or what’s going on, and the darkness that he opens his eyes to doesn’t help. But what he does know is that he’s warm, and in this fuzzy state of mind- that’s all that matters to him.

He yawns, closing his eyes and nuzzling against the source of warmth and instinctively hugging it closer to himself.

With his eyes still closed, he lets himself give into the comfort of his bed and the soft, fluffy fabric of his blanket- because he remembers now, after taking a few seconds to think about it. He’s in bed, after falling asleep. Of course he is, what else could have brought him here?

His mind sluggish, Trophy sees no reason to get out of bed and put an end to this hazy, dream-like state he’s in just yet. So he lets out a sleepy sigh and buries his face into whatever he’s hugging close to himself, solely for the fact that doing so feels nice.

He can feel himself quickly falling back asleep, the darkness of his earlier slumber enveloping him once more as his breathing slows.

Trophy’s descent into sleep is interrupted however, when an arm drapes across his waist, and he’s given a gentle pull.

Confused, Trophy drowsily murmurs as he blinks his eyes open and takes a moment to adjust to the darkness of his bedroom- struggling to identify whatever’s grabbing him.

Eventually, after several seconds spent squinting in the dark, his mind finally makes sense of the figure in front of him.

It’s Knife, who’s holding him close and softly snoring against Trophy’s shoulder in warm, gentle breaths.

For a moment, nothing seems particularly wrong with this revelation. Trophy accepts it easily, letting himself relax and allowing his confusion to clear in favor of that same peaceful, fuzzy state of mind that he woke up in.

He yawns and lets himself sink into Knife’s embrace, deepening it by draping his leg over Knife’s and giving him a gentle, squeezing hug back.

With his confusion clear and his mind at ease, Trophy goes back to trying to fall asleep, indulging himself in the pleasant warmth and comfort of his current situation; tucked into bed and sharing a snug embrace with Knife.

But as the seconds pass, Trophy finds himself struggling to drift back to sleep as easily as he did before.

The sleep fogging his mind is still there, but something about discovering that Knife was the one holding him keeps Trophy’s mind from resting.

At first, it’s because the thought that he and Knife are holding each other like this makes something glow in his chest. A fuzzy, fluttery feeling of warmth that makes him sigh contentedly as he nuzzles against Knife and lets his thumb gently caress the side of Knife’s handle in slow, soft strokes.

It’s nice, having Knife like this.

But then, the more he thinks about it, the more the fog starts to clear.

It…is nice having Knife like this.

Why is it so nice having Knife like this?

His brows furrow, and Trophy blinks his eyes open again. He pulls back just enough to look at Knife, looking over the calm, relaxed expression he wears in his sleep.

Bit by bit, Trophy starts recalling the events that brought him here.

The touching.

The making out.

The sex.

Trophy’s eyes slowly widen, and his heart rate picks up as a cold chill eradicates whatever was left of the haze of sleep in his mind.

This is…

They don’t usually do this.

They’re not supposed to be doing this.

That’s… that’s why it felt so nice having him like this. Because he doesn’t usually get to have this. He’s not supposed to have this.

Then he remembers. Looking at Knife’s sleepy expression, so gentle and trusting. Trophy remembers.

He kissed him.

Not in the middle of sex, not during foreplay. No.

He kissed him, of his own free will, for no reason other than just because.

The mortification is already settling in, but as if his brain was out to torment him, as if it was telling him “You forgot something,” one last piece of information is dug up from the recesses of his mind.

The realization that he and Knife were holding each other in their sleep…the true reason why that discovery made him feel so warm and at ease.

It felt so nice to him because it was Knife.

Trophy physically recoils from Knife and yanks away from him, separating himself from him completely- as if Knife was the one telling him this. As if he truly believed that, if he separates himself from the other object, then he’ll be creating the same distance between himself and these thoughts plaguing his mind.

His heart hammers in his chest as he widens the space between them as much as possible, pressing his back to the wall that his bed sits against. It gets worse as he watches Knife grumble in his sleep, roused by Trophy’s movements. Wide-eyed, Trophy watches Knife’s movements in a terrified silence, his mind scrambling to quickly put together an explanation as to why they’re both in his room, in the dark, sleeping in the same bed.

But Knife doesn’t wake up, and he doesn’t ask Trophy why they’re in his room, in the dark, sleeping in the same bed.

He just murmurs something Trophy can’t make sense of before pulling the blankets Trophy misplaced back over himself and readjusting into a new position with a sigh.

And then a few seconds later he’s snoring again.

The relief that floods Trophy’s system is enough to make him shakily exhale, a portion of the tension in his body leaving him with that same breath.

But it’s not enough to relieve him of his nerves.

Trophy falls back into his frantic line of thinking, bringing a hand to his forehead.

Why the hell are they sleeping together?

He knows fully well how it happened. The memories are there.

But…why?

Why did he do it?

Why did he pretend to sleep just so that Knife would stay with him? How and why does he know Knife well enough to have accurately predicted he’d stay; knowing fully well that Knife wouldn’t be the type to slink away and leave him to wake up alone after what they did together?

Trophy’s stomach churns as he struggles to find the answers within himself, not liking the reasons his mind provides him with.

And then he thinks about what he did after Knife fell asleep.

The sex, the touching, the making out; that’s all normal. He doesn’t have to worry about that. It’s all in the name of the game, an outcome written in the rules. It’s the appropriate reward and punishment for two guys involved in a competition of skill and power. Play the game, get your points, pick your prize. Enjoy each other. Overpower each other. That’s just how things are between them. That’s fine.

There’s nothing special about it.

But…tricking Knife into staying over and sleeping with him?

Why the hell did he do that?

An unexplained panic roils through his stomach as he struggles to find the answer to that one.

Did he do it so he could make fun of him for it?

No, that doesn’t make sense. If he wanted to make fun of Knife, he wouldn’t have gone and fallen asleep with him too. He would have snapped his pictures, left the bed, and waited elsewhere for Knife to wake up so that he could rub his weak, soft natured habits in his face.

If he made the claim that he was just looking for an opportunity to make fun of him, Knife would call him out on his bullshit so quickly.

He mentally strikes that idea out.

Trophy brings a hand down to his stomach, where he can feel an inexplainable whirlwind of emotions nauseating him.

Did he do it to try and get more sex out of Knife?

No, too much time has passed since they fell asleep. Plus, he’d have to admit that he actually wants to have sex with Knife, and that’s not something he’s looking to do. They have their game for that, and he’s going to keep clinging to the easy opportunities it gives him with every point he earns, rather than put himself through the mental and emotional complexities of figuring out what it would take to have this with Knife under normal circumstances.

Another strike. Another possible explanation lost.

He can feel himself getting pushed towards a conclusion he doesn’t want to make yet.

He did it because he thought it’d be funny?

No. That’s stupid. Even he can admit that.

Strike.

He did it to see how ridiculous Knife looks when he sleeps.

That’s just the same as trying to claim he did it to make fun of Knife. Same idea, different wording. Same potential outcome.

Strike.

Another push towards that looming, dooming conclusion.

Trophy watches Knife as he sleeps, his slow, peaceful breathing contrasting the quiet panic in Trophy’s own.

He did it to trick Knife into admitting he’s a weak, soft-hearted fool.

 “What does that make you, then?”

Trophy can already hear Knife’s voice cooly answering him in his head.

Strike.

He did it to make Knife admit he likes Trophy.

Why the hell would he want Knife admitting something like that? Absolutely not.

Strike.

He did it to prove to Knife that he’s worth spending the night with even without the sex.

No. Definitely not. That’s too much to unpack.

Strike.

Each failed explanation is getting him closer and closer to those three words he’s been avoiding ever since he and Knife started spending time together, tolerating each other, even before this game. Three words that initially started as a guess, and then a thought, before eventually evolving into a dreadful possibility. A conclusion.

Those three words, they’re seeping into his failed explanations.

He did it to feel what it’s like not to sleep alone.

Strike.

He did it to feel what it’s like to sleep with Knife.

Strike.

He did it to feel Knife hold him.

Strike.

He did it to feel what it’s like having Knife to himself.

Strike.

He did it to feel what it’d be like having a relationship with-

Strike.

Trophy has his hands over his face now, his eyes squeezed shut as he runs through each idea quicker than he can finish them. His heart is pounding in his chest, warmth blooming in his face despite the cold chill that settles in his guts as he fights against every possibility that paints him as something he’s not; something he doesn’t want to be. Not with Knife.

He can’t be that with Knife.

“Why not?” His mind seems to ask.

Before he can stop himself, before he can even try to come up with a lie or simply push the question to the far, dark corners of his mind where he can forever ignore it and pretend it doesn’t exist (just like with everything else he doesn’t know how to handle), his inner voice answers honestly.

“Because I don’t want to ruin what little I have with Knife.”

His heartrate picks up, thundering in his chest, the sound loud and deafening. He peers between his fingers and watches Knife, oblivious to Trophy’s silent breakdown as he fights against his internal struggle.

Each idea, every explanation he has to offer, explanations that he desperately tries to use to increase the distance between himself and that conclusion, where it sits nestled in the shadowed parts of his mind he never visits, fails.

Sensing his oncoming fate, Trophy brings his knees in and hugs them close to his chest, watching Knife with a pained, frightened stare. As if he truly believed that, if he reached that conclusion, Knife would somehow know.

And he’d put an end to everything.

They wouldn’t have this anymore.

Trophy wouldn’t have this.

“Fuck.” He shakily whispers, his voice strained.

He doesn’t know what to do.

What would he tell Knife?

What would he tell himself?

He can’t admit it. He can’t. It’s not true.

He can’t…lose this. What other excuse would he have to get it?

“You don’t need one.” His mind tries to tell him.

No. He needs one.

Their game, it’s a reason for what they have. A safety net for Trophy. Without it, he wouldn’t have this.

He wouldn’t have Knife.

“Fuck.” He hisses sharply, the lone word almost getting caught in his throat as it tightens; as he chokes on his fears and his emotions.

Why is this so complicated?

Why is he so complicated?

This would have been so much easier if he had actually fallen asleep after everything they did, Trophy mournfully thinks to himself.

The force pushing him towards the darkest recess of his mind, the conveyor belt that rolled beneath him as it marched him towards those three words, halts.

A spark of clarity shines through the storm in his mind.

Knife…

Knife doesn’t know he was pretending to sleep.

Trophy lifts his head up, blinking away the emotion that was starting to blur his vision.

Knife is the one who made the decision to join him in bed.

Knife is the one who made them sleep together.

For all he knew, Trophy really did fall asleep.

Trophy didn’t do anything wrong. In fact, he had fallen asleep! It wasn’t a trick. He really did fall asleep.

“Liar.” His mind spits, but he ignores it, quick to finally trace back the steps his mind forced him to take.

Trophy fell asleep. What happened afterwards wasn’t his fault.

He had nothing to do with the fact they fell asleep together.

He fell asleep in his own bed. That’s that.

The relief that washes over him is palpable, and he lets out a long, shaky breath.

He has his answer now.

Everything is okay.

The game can continue.

Knife doesn’t have to know a thing.

Trophy doesn’t have to know a thing.

Nothing is out of place.

He takes a few minutes to let his breath even out, closing his eyes as his heartrate finally slows down.

When he opens his eyes back up, he looks back to Knife’s sleeping figure, as calm and peaceful as it ever was.

Trophy shoots him a glare.

“You’re such a loser.” He hisses, his face pulling into a sneer. “Soft and weak.”

It feels good, not having to shoulder the blame for the situation they’re in. Not having to admit anything. Knowing himself in the same way everyone else knows him.

Why work so hard presenting yourself in a certain way, trying so hard to get people to see you in a certain light, if you’re not going to believe it yourself?

Trophy drops to a kneel and leans in close to Knife, confident.

He feels powerful like this.

Awake.

Aware.

His walls are up. His barriers are kept in place. Nothing’s going to knock him over.

Nothing is going to change unless he lets it; and when he has the opportunity to overpower the toughest guy in this hotel through a stupid little game and finally prove his own superiority, why would he ever want anything to change?

Knife is the one leaving himself open. Treating their game like something it’s not. Sleeping in Trophy’s bed, holding him close, making the choice to turn Trophy’s simple actions into something stupid. Something soft.

“This is your fault.” He whispers, taking glee in the fact that he doesn’t have to question himself anymore. He doesn’t have to worry about Knife saying anything to him about this when he wakes up.

He’ll know exactly what to say.

He has nothing to explain.

“I would never do something like this with you.” Trophy grins, his words slow and venomous as he leans in close enough for his breath to ghost against Knife’s face.

“You’ll never be anything but my enemy.” He promises.

“My rival.”

“I’ll crush you the first chance I get. Prove you belong beneath me. Show you how much better I am than you.”

Trophy touches the sharp, curved side of Knife’s blade, letting his finger trace the part of Knife that he’s always careful to keep pointed away from everyone.

“You’re not as tough as you think you are.”

And then his mind speaks up.

“What about the kiss you gave him?”

Trophy grits his teeth and yanks his hand away, as if Knife himself spoke those words to him.

He stares down at him, his heartrate picking up again.

He looks so calm. So peaceful.

So trusting.

Those same thoughts that brought him into this whole mess are coming back.

Trophy slowly works himself away from Knife, careful not to disturb him as the bed dips with his movements. When he feels he’s at a safe enough distance, Trophy is quick to shove himself out of bed, using greater force than he normally would.

He’s done enough thinking for today.

He’s going to take a shower.

Wash everything off.

Standing at the foot of his bed, Trophy looks towards the door that leads into the bathroom connected to his suite. He briefly considers using the shower there.

But when he thinks about Knife waking up, and Trophy walking out of the bathroom to find Knife relaxing in his bed, and how domestic it’d all feel, he immediately dismisses the idea.

Walking over to his closet and swiping a clean towel, Trophy makes his decision.

He’s going to use the communal showers; the ones connected to the hotel’s gym.

He’s at the door leading into the hallways of the hotel, his towel tucked under his arm as he pries it open, when he looks back at Knife.

For a brief moment, he considers leaving him a note and explaining his absence, should he wake up while Trophy is gone.

But then he curls the corner of his lip and bares his teeth, shooting Knife a glare.

Knife is lucky he hasn’t kicked him out. He doesn’t need anything more than what Trophy has already given him.

Stepping into the hall and closing the door on Knife- and on the thoughts he’s had to face today- Trophy slips his hotel keycard into the scanner sitting above the door handle.

The lock clicks into place.

He turns on his heel and walks away.

Chapter Text

Maybe Trophy was a little stupid to think that the best way for him to avoid the hyperactivity of his troubled mind would be to isolate himself completely, and to leave himself with nothing to do but think.

Standing under the spray of the showerhead and leaving himself occupied only with the monotonous act of washing himself really didn't do him any favors in escaping the very same thoughts that drove him to the communal showers in the first place. He found himself glaring at the tiled floors of his shower stall more than once, lost in his thoughts as he fought against his internal voice and everything it stood for.

By the time he finished washing himself up, he wasn't sure just how much time had passed since he began his shower.

 But at least Knife wasn't around to witness his internal struggle, or worsen it, and for that Trophy decided that his impulses were- once again- in the right.

He towels himself off before fetching a smaller, softer hand towel from his locker and using it to rub a thin layer of polish across the expanse of his body. He looks himself over in the small mirror attached to the inside of his locker door and takes a moment to admire himself.

A spark of pride shines within his chest as he’s greeted with his pristine, well-kept appearance. The light reflects off of his golden surface in a bright sheen, and he finds that he hardly has to lean in close to see the surrounding environment reflected on the surface of his polished body. He huffs a small chuckle at the thought that he may be able to cast a reflection as clear as a mirror could- if a bit warped with the contours of his figure.

His pride quickly shifts into smug confidence as he compares his metal body to that of Knife’s blade and handle.

He hardly doubts Knife takes as much care of his body as Trophy does his own. The guy’s handle is covered in tiny little divots, cuts that he’s no doubt obtained through numerous violent encounters. Trophy shakes his head with amusement, already imagining what Knife might look like in a few years’ time.

Chipped. Scarred. Beaten. Rusty.

While Trophy remains perfect and unmarred.

He snickers to himself.

Oh well, he’s sure someone would find some kind of rugged charm in Knife’s appearance, once he gets to that point.

Then his thoughts wander, and he finds himself curious.

What does Knife do to take care of himself? Does he even perform any kind of routine maintenance on his blade?

Trophy’s seen what it takes to keep knives sharp.

It’s not that he looked it up or intentionally sought the information out or anything. He’s watched a few cooking shows on television, and sometimes they show that kind of thing.

He’s a late night T.V. watcher, sue him.

But because of it, he knows what knife maintenance can look like.

Maintaining a trophy’s sleek appearance is relatively easy work, but knives tend to be handled roughly, sharpened through a constant friction between their blade and a strange block of stone called a “sharpening stone.” When he had watched the demonstration on the screen of the hotel lobby’s television one late night, his mind had immediately wandered to Knife.

The show host providing the demonstration at the time seemed as if he knew folks like Trophy might be watching the show, because he took care to address them during his demonstration.

“And for those of you with knife pals, or buddies with their own blades, keep this in mind next time they tell you they’re off for a sharpen- and wish them luck! It ain’t easy getting manhandled against a rock and a hard place every time you wanna look nice!”

The show’s audience had laughed, and that’s how Trophy realized that what the host said was meant to be funny. But at the time, it only got Trophy thinking.

It has him thinking now, too.

Does Knife…really have to get manhandled every time he goes in for maintenance?

He can see a thoughtful expression take its place in his features through the reflection of his locker door mirror as he ponders the idea.

He imagines what it must be like for Knife, to entrust his appearance in the hands of another, and to let them handle him the same way Trophy has seen those late night chefs handling their knives.

Does he let someone press his blade into a sharpening stone? Do they hold him by the handle, moving his body back and forth against the coarse surface of the stone block?

To account for his size, the stone would have to be large. About the same shape and size as a table. Probably the same height too, for convenience’s sake.

For a normal sized object to manipulate his body that way, Knife would have to…bend himself over the surface of the sharpening stone.

Trophy swallows.

Or maybe he’d have to lay across it, and let the other person simply carry the weight of his lower body.

He’d have to let someone hold him by the handle, and guide his body back and forth across the coarse, flat surface.

A few times face down, and a few more on his back- to get the other side of his blade.

At one point he’d be facing the person handling him. Maybe even holding onto them.

Something ugly twists and writhes in Trophy’s stomach, curling tightly around his chest. It doesn’t feel great. Further beneath it though, he can feel a subtle heat beginning to simmer.

Is it an intimate practice? Sharpening one’s blade? Maybe it’s the knife equivalent to getting a full body massage…the kind where you’re stripped down to a towel and get rubbed up in oil and you get touched all over and the person taking care of you gets to hear you make all sorts of interesting noises and…

Trophy tightens his grip on the edge of his locker room door.

Does Knife make any noises when he gets his blade sharpened?

Does it hurt?

Does it…feel good?

Anger starts to prick at Trophy’s heart, alongside something he knows he’s felt before, but refuses to acknowledge. None of it is very pleasant.

The thought of someone getting to see Knife that way, getting to hear him make the same sounds Trophy draws out of him during their little “reward sessions” after each game played against each other- it infuriates him.

They didn’t earn that right. They didn’t win the right to hear Knife, to see Knife, to touch Knife that way.

Did they go through the effort of besting Knife in a competition of skill just for a chance to see him that way? Do they work tirelessly to practice and better themselves at something they were never really involved with before, all for a chance to finally obtain the impossible with Knife? To really prove their superiority over Knife, to show him that they are, without a doubt, better than him in every way? To prove that Knife belongs under them?

No.

Trophy’s the one who does that. He’s the one who works hard to prove himself worthy, he’s the one who earns the right to enjoy Knife that way.

They don’t deserve to see Knife like that.

They don’t deserve to have such a great reward so easily handed over.

Why would Knife ever do something like that? With a stranger, no less?

This train of thought, it’s quickly raising his temper. His jaw is clenched tightly, and his hands- both grabbing at his locker now- are tense and rigid.

His breathing is starting to pick up.

But he keeps thinking about it.

He keeps thinking about Knife, letting himself get manhandled by a stranger. Bending himself over a sharpening stone table, letting a stranger grab him by the hips and rock him back and forth across the table. Maybe even letting them press their hand against the back of his head, so that they can really shove his face into the table (and sharpen his blade properly.)

Whoever gets to handle Knife that way, there’s no way they don’t get affected by the sight, the sounds, and the feeling of Knife beneath them like that. If Trophy had the chance to rock Knife back and forth against a table like that, with the expectation that he keeps his hands on Knife’s hips, he knows damn well his body would be a huge, huge fan of that. There would be nothing he could do to keep his desires in check.

So it’s with that logic and reasoning that Trophy convinces himself that there is, without a doubt, no chance that Knife doesn’t get his brains fucked out every time he goes in for a sharpen.

His anger starts to burn hotter, and he can feel a fire starting to rage in his chest.

It’s raging a little lower in his body too.

That mounting aggression, the irritation, the frustration, the jealousy, he projects it onto the imaginary person handling Knife in this fantasy.

They’d probably fuck him hard. Really make sure they get his body rocking across the table, get his blade grinding nice and hard against the rough surface of the smoothing stone. It’s what Knife would probably want anyways, whoring himself out like that to a stranger.

Trophy inhales shakily.

Smoothing stones… they usually require a significant amount of water to serve their function. This means that this whole scenario would take place in a tiled room, like a bathroom of sorts. A shower room. The kind of place where the tiled walls and floors would make Knife’s voice echo so perfectly and every little sound the two share; sighs and groans and moans and the wet, slippery slick and slide of the handler’s cock fucking in and out of Knife, it’d all reverberate within the confines of the wash room, loud and vulgar. Neither would be able to escape it.

Knife would be forced to hear just how fucking whorish he sounds.

Trophy’s breathing heavily now.

When was the last time Knife had his blade sharpened? It certainly wasn’t any time recently. Trophy has seen it himself, he’s felt it for himself; the dullness of Knife’s blade that allowed him to trace the sharp edge without too much of a fear of accidentally cutting himself.

He tries to estimate how long ago it might have been that Knife’s had his blade sharpened, how long ago it’s been since he’s offered himself up to the hands of a stranger- when he suddenly recalls a piece of information Knife shared with him just a few hours ago.

When Knife had confessed to him that he wasn’t a stranger to getting fucked.

“Been a few years…” He had shakily sighed, answering Trophy’s question on when he had last allowed someone to enjoy the warmth of his insides.

The wear on Knife’s blade…that has to be the work of a few years of negligence. A few years without proper maintenance.

As if he’s collected enough irrefutable evidence, Trophy comes to two conclusions.

Conclusion One: Knife has definitely been letting his handler fuck him onto the sharpening stone.

Conclusion Two: Knife is due to get his blade sharpened any day now.

Trophy bites the inside of his cheek, hard.

He can’t let Knife see someone else just to get his blade sharpened.

It can’t be that hard. Trophy could do it for him. Knife doesn’t have to see a professional. All Trophy would need is a sharpening stone big enough to fit him- and he could easily get that from Mephone. Bully the guy into manifesting a sharpening stone table into existence and voila, Knife can go to Trophy anytime he needs to get his blade sharpened.

Maybe feeling what it’s like when Trophy holds him that way, the tight squeeze of Trophy’s grasp on his hips as he effortlessly rocks Knife back and forth against the table- maybe that’ll help convince Knife to let Trophy handle him this way more often.

Maybe when Trophy flips Knife over on his back and starts working the back of his blade against the sharpening stone, Knife will see just how fucking good Trophy looks from below, and how much it looks like they’re already fucking, and maybe Knife would spread his legs to fit Trophy in between, maybe even wrap his legs around Trophy’s waist and pull him in close. Watch him from below as Trophy dutifully rocks him back and forth against the table.

Maybe he’d put his hands on Trophy’s arms and stop him mid-rock.

And maybe he’d tell him, in that gruff, raspy voice of his-

“You should try rocking me against the table a different way.”

And, fuck, maybe he’d go the extra mile and reach down and take Trophy’s cock into his hand. And he’d grin when he finds Trophy already hard and exposed, but he wouldn’t laugh, because Knife’s slit would be parted by the girth of his own cock too. He’d give Trophy’s cock a squeeze before taking initiative himself and guiding it inside of himself for Trophy. Show him that he really does want Trophy to fuck him, that he wants Trophy to be the one he offers his body up to this way.

Knife wouldn’t ever need anyone else. Not to get his blade sharpened, and not to get bent over a table. He’d have Trophy.

He’d have Trophy for everything.

There’s never going to be a reason for Knife to have to seek anything from a stranger when Trophy’s right there.

Trophy can give him anything.

Trophy can give him everything.

A loud, heavy, metallic creaking rings sharply through the air, echoing off of the tiled walls and floors of the shower rooms.

Trophy startles, bringing his hands up to his ears as he’s jolted out of his fantasies.

His heart races from the shock, and then it starts to pound in his chest when he realizes what that sound was.

The communal shower door.

Someone’s coming in.

Trophy’s eyes go wide, and he scrambles to shove everything into his locker, embarrassed to have allowed his mind to drift to such a place while he’s out in public. As he bends down to pick up the towel he dropped however, he catches a glimpse of his lower body and comes to a terrible, terrifying realization.

He’s hard.

He’s so despairingly hard.

His cock is almost fully unsheathed, and his slit is already leaking onto his thighs.

Mortified, Trophy hurries to wrap the towel around his hips to the best of his ability. But his hands are shaking too hard for him to tuck the towel in properly, and the grease from the polish he coated himself with is making it near impossible for the towel to stay in place.

Worse yet is the way the towel doesn’t even do anything to hide the shape of his cock pressing against it, with it occasionally even peeking out from underneath the cloth barrier as it eagerly searches for a point of contact. Searching for stimulation that Trophy can’t, and will not give it.

With the echo of footsteps announcing the intruder’s arrival, Trophy makes the split, last second decision to abandon the towel and instead rush for the showers. He turns every single one of them on, spinning the dial to the highest heat setting for each one. He does so with the desperate hope that enough steam will form to cloud his appearance and shield him from view.

Shield his arousal from view.

But the steam isn’t forming fast enough, and it’s not thick enough either.

Trophy is so terribly, horribly fucked.

In a last ditch effort, Trophy rushes into one of the shower “stalls”- damning the fact that none of the stalls have an actual barrier to separate them- and quickly stands under the spray of one of the showerheads.

Breathing hard, and struggling to hear over the loud spray of water pattering against the surface of his metal body and pouring into his cup, Trophy strains to identify which direction the footsteps are coming from.

He gets his answer as the intruder rounds the corner, entering the shower rooms from the left entrance.

Trophy quickly turns his back to the other object, facing the right and desperately trying to make himself look preoccupied as he rubs the burning hot water into his arms.

It was just a glimpse, and it lasted less than a second, but it was enough for Trophy to identify the newly arrived object.

“Whoa, it’s like a sauna in here.”

Pickle.

Trophy bites the inside of his cheek hard as he listens to the opening and closing of a locker door a little ways behind him.

“Hey Trophy…” Pickle sounds like he’s trying to casually greet the aforementioned object, but the confusion in his tone gives it an awkward lilt. “What’s with all the showers? Why are they all turned on?”

His voice draws from a lot closer than Trophy would like it to be.

“For the steam. I need it.” He answers, his voice tense and his words curt.

At least it’s not an outright lie. God, it really isn’t a lie. Pickle doesn’t know just how much Trophy is depending on the steam to thicken and cloud right now.

Trophy does his best to focus on which direction Pickle’s voice is coming from, so that he can keep the front of his body angled away from it as much as possible.

He’s not sure if his dick has retracted any yet, but he doesn’t want to risk tilting his head down and possibly giving Pickle a reason to try and look too.

“Uh…huh…” Pickle replies slowly, the confusion ebbing deeper into his voice. “Well… I need to take a shower, so…”

“Awesome.” Trophy snaps, doing nothing to conceal the anxiety induced aggression in his tone. “So glad you told me, I really needed to know.”

It’s barely audible over the loud pattering of water reverberating within his cup, but Trophy still catches the huff-almost-scoff that Pickle exhales.

“I need you to turn one of those off man. I can’t reach in and do it myself when all the showers are scalding hot.”

Trophy stiffens.

He slowly looks over his shoulder, casting Pickle a scandalized glare.

“You’re fucking joking.”

Finding amusement in Trophy’s absurd expression, Pickle lets out a small chuckle.

“I’m really not dude. I’m not made out of metal like you are; I’m organic. You might be able to handle those kinds of temperatures, but I can’t. I’ll end up scalded or worse.”

Damn it.

Unsure of what to do, Trophy turns his head so that he’s back to facing straight ahead, with his body still completely angled away from Pickle. He mulls his options over, clenching and unclenching his fists as he struggles to think over the pounding of his heart and the anxiety eating its way through his stomach.

Pickle’s shadow casts against the wall as he leans in slightly and peers at Trophy from the same side he’s trying to angle himself.

“Dude?” Pickle asks, a slight hint of impatience in his voice. “You gonna turn one of these off for me or what?”

Startled, and quickly turning away from Pickle in the opposite direction, Trophy stammers his response at a near shout.

“A-Alright! Sheesh! If it’ll stop you from trying to fucking join me in the shower! Back off will you?!” He snaps, blindly waving a hand behind himself and shoving Pickle away.

Trophy looks towards the showerhead closest to him.

It’s really not ideal. But he can’t risk moving from his spot and letting Pickle see his current… predicament.

So, reaching towards the shower dials closest to him, Trophy works quickly to turn them until the water shuts off. He’s even quicker to fully retreat back under the spray of his own showerhead, hoping Pickle isn’t still looking at him.

“There, happy?” He bites.

There’s a long pause before Pickle finally answers.

“You’re…giving me the shower stall right next to yours?”

An embarrassed flush starts to burn hot across Trophy’s face at the indirect confrontation.

“Yeah, so?! We’re both guys, don’t be weird about it. Guys always have to shower next to other guys in the locker rooms.” He scoffs, huffing and puffing a lot more than he should. “What, you too scared to shower next to a guy? Grow up and man up, why don’t you!”

Trophy can hear the amusement in Pickle’s voice as he speaks next.

“Alright man. Whatever you say.”

And then he’s finally stepping into the shower to Trophy’s left.

Relieved to finally have a direction he can face without having to worry about Pickle moving around and seeing him, Trophy turns back towards the right and goes back to pretending to wash himself.

He chances a glimpse down at himself, and finds that, to his relief, the steam has finally started to condense into a thick enough fog that makes it a little harder for others to see the…finer details of his features.

It’s not the perfect cover, but it’s better than nothing.

The shower next to him starts back up and at first Trophy doesn’t pay it any mind.

But then he notices the fog concealing him starting to thin out a little.

Alarmed, Trophy looks over his shoulder towards Pickle.

“Are you taking a cold shower?” He asks incredulously.

“Eyeeup.” Pickle exaggerates the sound, taking his wash cloth in hand and running it against his arms. “It’s what works best for objects like me.”

But of course. Damn it.

“Right.” Trophy answers flatly. “Of course.”

“Y’know,” Pickle starts. “I didn’t think you were the type for shower room talks, Trophy.”   

He really isn’t.

“But I guess that makes sense, what with you being a jock and all. Jocks always talk a lot in the shower rooms don’t they? Like in the movies and all?”

“Right.” Trophy lies, his jaw clenched tight.

Talking is the last thing he wants to do right now. It brings too much attention to him.

“Well, I guess since you don’t mind talking in a place like this, can I go ahead and ask you something?”

“Sure, whatever.” Trophy tilts his head to the side, pouring out a bit of the water that’s begun to accumulate within his cup.

He’s still pouring it out when Pickle shoots his question.

“You and Knife have been hanging out a lot lately, haven’t you?”

Trophy’s blood runs cold.

Normally, his initial reaction would be to turn around and confront Pickle and demand what he means by that. To vehemently deny all unspoken accusations and maybe even shove Pickle around for even implying anything by asking such a thing.

But the circumstances at hand are a little different right now. For once, he has to be careful and actually think about what he does before he does it.

Lest Pickle see what Trophy’s trying to hide.

So, with a moment’s hesitation, Trophy gives a careful answer.

“I really don’t know why that matters, but sure, if you wanna call it that. Knife and I have occasionally been in the same room as each other here and there.”

Pickle laughs a little at that.

“I mean, you guys have been playing video games together a lot lately. I think I’d call that hanging out.”

Trophy gives a roll of his eyes and an irritated huff.

“Alright great, you asked a question you already knew the answer too. Fantastic.”

Pickle hums, the sound lighthearted and entertained.

“I’m asking because I was curious about something.”

And then, to Trophy’s quickly growing dread, Pickle actually hesitates.

There are a million logical reasons that could explain Pickle’s hesitation, but every single reason that Trophy’s mind provides him with all points to Pickle somehow knowing more about his arrangement with Knife than he’s letting on, and the thought is enough to make Trophy’s nerves draw tense. Especially with the idea that Pickle might be preparing to ask him about it here and now.

He’s just about to tell Pickle to spit it out already, uncomfortable with the way his anxiety and paranoia is amplifying with every second that passes behind Pickle’s silence, when the other suddenly speaks up.

“Do you and Knife talk a lot?” He asks.

Okay. That’s an innocent enough question. Trophy doesn’t like how Pickle keeps asking about the two of them, but it’s innocent enough.

Trying to push aside his nerves, Trophy does a weird gesture with his head, something in between a shake and a nod, before answering.

“Kiiind ooof?” He hesitantly draws out. “I mean. We talk more than we used to.”

Pickle hums in understanding, and Trophy has to assume that he’s nodding too.

“Well,” Pickle continues, and there’s a strange, sheepish quality to his voice. As if he’s nervous to broach the next topic, and that in turn starts playing at Trophy’s nerves too.

God, don’t try to dig any deeper than you’re already doing, Trophy mentally begs.

“Does Knife…” He trails off, and Trophy’s heart rate starts to pick up.

“Y’know…” Pickle drags out, his voice falling a little quieter.

Oh here it goes. Fuck.

After a brief moment’s pause between the two of them, Trophy opens his mouth to answer Pickle, to tear into him for insinuating something like that.

Or at least, what he thinks Pickle’s insinuating with those pauses and awkwardly evasive wording.

But he’s only just taken in the breath he needs to lash out at Pickle when the other is suddenly interrupting him before he can even start, completing his question.

“Does he ever talk about me?”

…

What?

Shocked, and taken off guard, Trophy turns to look at him.

“What?” He asks, his expression one of complete befuddlement and, to the faintest degree, alarm.

“Ah, so now you look at me.” Pickle laughs, but it comes a little sheepishly, and it’s his turn to look off to the side and avoid Trophy’s gaze.

“What do you mean by that?” Trophy presses, ignoring Pickle’s observation. “Why are you asking me something like that?”

Pickle shrugs, idly running his wash cloth over the sides of his body.

“Just curious is all.”

“About whether or not Knife’s been talking about you?” Trophy accuses. “What, do you think he’s like…talking behind your back or something?”

He’s a little hopeful asking that one.

Pickle however diminishes that small shred of hope with a shake of his head.

“Nah, I know Knife would never do that. He’s chill. We’re chill.”

“I just wanted to know what he thinks of me.” He continues with yet another shrug, feigning an air of nonchalance to conceal the hint of bashfulness to his words.

Trophy’s breath hitches, and a cold flash of panic strikes him to his very core, branching out and spreading across his body in a cold wave.

He acts out before he can even begin to question the reason behind his panic.

“Okay, well!” Trophy starts, a little louder than he means to. “If the two of you are so chill, then why don’t you ask him yourself if he’s been talking about you? I don’t know why you’re asking me!”

This time, Pickle graces him with a strange look, his eyebrow quirked as he studies Trophy’s expression.

“Well…you know how friendships can be.” He starts slowly, still looking at Trophy somewhat oddly. As if he’s searching for an answer.

Or an explanation.

Trophy clears his throat, looking off to the side and willing his heartrate to go down and for his nerves to settle.

Calm down man, his mind tells him.

Take it easy.

“Friends don’t always tell each other every little thing. It’s usually other people that we share thoughts about our friends with.” Pickle explains, his voice level and casual.

“Yeah, w-well.” Trophy stammers, struggling for an answer. “I don’t know. I don’t really pay attention to what Knife says, so.”

Trophy works to distract himself from the uncomfortable lull in conversation following his incomplete non-answer by tilting his head to the side once more and letting the water pour out of his cup.

Pickle watches him in silence, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“Look, man,” Trophy starts, desperate to fill the uncomfortable silence. “He’s your friend. Not mine. If there’s anything he thinks about you that he’s not telling you, well, he’s not exactly gonna be rushing to tell me of all people.”

This seems to take Pickle by surprise, if his raised eyebrows are anything to go by.

“You guys aren’t friends?”

The bark of laughter that echoes off the shower walls comes a little meaner than Trophy intended, and maybe a little hysteric, but he doesn’t let it bother him too much. Maybe.

“Are you kidding me?! Dude, did you miss the memo? We’re rivals!” He laughs disbelievingly, crossing his arms over his chest and mockingly tilting his head to the side. “Everyone in the hotel knows that.”  

Pickle gives a little laugh of his own, though his bewildered expression remains.

“I don’t know if I’d say everyone, exactly. Yeah you guys fight a lot, but you’ve also been spending a lot of time around each other. A lot of us thought you two were starting to get close.”

Close. Now there’s a deceptively small word that can carry a lot of weight and meaning behind it.

Close can mean a lot of things. It doesn’t necessarily have to imply anything Trophy doesn’t want it to.

But Trophy’s not so level headed, and all he can focus on is the fact that people are apparently talking about him and Knife, and that they think there’s something going on between them that could warrant others to describe what they have as “close.”

And that goes against everything Trophy’s trying to paint himself as.

The flames of his anger flicker to life in his chest.

“We are not close.” He spits, his voice dropping low. “I don’t know what you think you’ve been hearing or seeing but get this through your head,”  

Trophy draws in near, ignoring the icy cold chill of Pickle’s shower water as he steps into his stall. To his satisfaction, Pickle takes a step back, his eyes looking Trophy up and down before darting to look elsewhere, a slight strain of alarm in his expression.

Trophy reaches out to grab Pickle by the arm, his grip punishingly tight and unforgiving as he keeps him from pulling further away.

“I hate Knife’s guts.” He hisses, glaring hatefully into Pickle’s eyes. “Knife hates my guts. We want each other dead, and that’s that. That’s the way it is, and that’s how it’ll always stay.”

“Everything we do, it’s to prove that we’re better than the other. We’re out here to overpower each other. Nothing more, nothing less. Got it?”

Wide eyed, Pickle’s gaze once more flicks downwards before finally meeting Trophy’s burning glare with his own alarmed stare.

“Okay man.” He finally answers, though his tone doesn’t quite match his expression. He sounds a lot more placating than he does frightened. “Sorry I asked.”

Huffing, Trophy accepts the other’s submissive surrender with a hard shove to Pickle’s arm as he lets him go before returning to his own stall, where his water still runs burning hot.

“Make sure you share that little piece of information with anyone else who’s been thinking the same way as you.” Trophy orders. “I don’t need any more idiots spreading rumors like those.”

“I’ll be sure to tell them.” Pickle answers flatly.

For a few minutes, there’s nothing to interrupt the echoing sound of the shower water hitting the tiled floors. They work in silence; Pickle using his washcloth to rub himself clean while Trophy simply stands underneath the spray of water, his frown etched deep and his eyebrows furrowed with displeasure as his thoughts return full force.

It takes a while, but it’s Pickle who eventually breaks the silence.

“I take it that’s why you guys have been playing video games and keeping track of your scores so aggressively lately?” He asks. “Trying to outplay each other? Use your scores as proof of your skill?”

Relieved for the distraction, some of the tension eases from Trophy’s shoulders as he shoots Pickle a sharp, triumphant grin.

“Damn right,” he answers with a confident chuckle. “It’s a good test of skill, and it’s all worth it to see the look on Knife’s face when I absolutely cream his ass.”

Pickle freezes where he’s running the washcloth over his abdomen, turning his wide eyed gaze towards Trophy.

Trophy has enough self-awareness to recognize the mistake in his wording, and a hot flush of color starts to warm his face as he stammers to correct himself.

“Y-You know, like.” He punches his fist into the palm of his hand. “Pound him? Into the ground?”

Pickle’s eyes grow wider.

“Violently!” Trophy desperately rushes to clarify, but even he grimaces with the realization that this does nothing to help the situation.

“Ugh,” He groans, slapping his hand over his face so that he doesn’t have to look at the way Pickle is staring at him. “You know what I mean.”

 He can hear the strange noise Pickle makes next to him as he turns his back to Trophy, a weird, choking sound that cuts into his words as he speaks next.

“Y-Yeah, no. I get you man.” He replies, his words strained and stifled.

God damn it.

He should have stopped while he was ahead. Trophy chastises himself as his face burns hot with embarrassment.

“Alright, I’m done here.” He irritably announces, reaching out to shut the water to his stall off. The dial squeaks with the turn of his wrist, and he leans over one last time to pour the water out of the inside of his cup. He can feel the weight of Pickle’s gaze as he exits the stall, but does nothing to acknowledge it as he starts towards the line of lockers.

“Uh, Trophy.” Pickle begins, calling for the other’s attention. Once he has it, although Trophy shoots him a glare for the interruption (that does nothing to combat the hint of embarrassed coloring to his face), Pickle gestures to the other showers- all still running.

“Mind turning those off before you go? I wouldn’t be able to without getting burned.”

Exasperated, Trophy throws his arms up into the air.

“God, do I have to do everything here?” He exclaims, equal parts aggravated and embarrassed as he’s kept from his retreat after making a fool of himself. “Fine, whatever!”

He goes up to each running shower head, quickly turning each knob and shooting Pickle a glare as he passes him so that he can get the ones to the right of him.

Finally, with the communal shower at a significantly lower volume with only one showerhead running, Trophy turns back to Pickle with a scowl at his lips.

“There, happy? Need anything else, princess?”

Always amused when it comes to Trophy’s antics, Pickle simply shakes his head with a grin.

“Nah, I’m chill. Thanks, though.”

“Great. Well, I’m leaving then.” Trophy huffs, going up to his locker to nab a towel. Unenthused by the idea of taking his time to redo his maintenance routine in front of Pickle, Trophy simply wipes at his face using his towel before slinging it around his neck and letting the ends drape over his shoulders. He slams his locker door shut with a loud clang and goes to turn on his heel.

“Uh, hold on. Trophy?” Pickle speaks up from behind him.

Groaning, Trophy turns back towards Pickle with a dramatic, exaggerated twist.

“What did I just say?” He barks out.

Ignoring Trophy’s outburst, Pickle shoots him a sympathetic grin.

“You should probably uh. Wear that towel down a little lower.”

He gestures vaguely towards his own hips, miming the act of tying a towel around it.

At first, Trophy only looks at him oddly, a confused yet annoyed expression tugging at his features as he tries to make sense of Pickle’s suggestion.

“What the hell are you-?”

But then he remembers.

Cold dread sinks from the top of his chest to the bottom of his guts, violently taking everything in its path down with it. His eyes widened, and with a frantic sweep, he yanks the towel away from his neck and fumbles to tie it around his waist.

Looking down at himself as he does so, he sees it.

It’s nowhere near as exposed as it was earlier, with only an inch or two still parting his slit in its retreat, but somehow that just manages to make the whole situation feel even worse.

With his face burning hotter than even the scalding water of his shower, Trophy turns his desperate gaze to Pickle as he fumbles with the ends of his towel, struggling to tie them into place.

Trying and failing to work an explanation out, Trophy can only wordlessly and helplessly gawk at Pickle, who has the consideration to look off to the side while Trophy scrambles to conceal himself.

In the end, the best he can come up with is:

“I-It’s… It doesn’t usually look like that.”

With a slight upwards quirk to the corner of his lips, Pickle keeps his gaze casted to the side.

“I believe you.”

Maybe it’s just Trophy, but he can’t help but feel like Pickle doesn’t sound very convinced.

Thoroughly humiliated, Trophy’s left with nothing more but to do what he does best.

He takes the emotions he doesn’t know how to deal with and turns it into rage.

“God damn it!” He shouts, turning to a random locker and slamming his fist into it. The metal door bends under the force of his punch, and a few random belongings from inside are sent flying out through the now exposed gaps between the locker door and its frame, but that does nothing to calm the anger and embarrassment that burns molten hot across the entire expanse of Trophy’s body.

Pickle seems alarmed when Trophy turns back to him, but he does nothing in the face of Trophy’s approach as he stalks a few feet closer to Pickle, his finger pointing threateningly towards him.

“Tell anyone about this and I swear to god, I’ll be telling every single last person about your little crush on Knife. I’ll make it all hell for you. Make you wish you crawled into a hole and died there sooner.” He spits, his voice low and full of a dark sincerity that tells Pickle he means every spoken and unspoken threat behind his words.

Raising his hands in a submissive manner, Pickle only shoots Trophy a grin.

“Hey, I won’t tell if you don’t.” He easily answers.

Trophy’s teeth are still clenched tight, and he’s still posed angrily in front of Pickle, but he can’t help his initial internal reaction to Pickle’s casual response.

What, aren’t you gonna deny it? He wants to ask him.

Aren’t you gonna say that you don’t have a crush on Knife?

Watching Pickle for a few seconds and looking him over, waiting for him to continue but only getting silence in return, Trophy comes to the realization that, no. Pickle isn’t going to deny it.

Seems like such a statement might just be a matter of fact now.

All too suddenly, Trophy feels a flash of that same emotion from earlier, that weird ugly feeling that winds tightly around his chest and uncomfortably constricts and squirms around his organs. Only this time, the perceived threat that triggered the response isn’t quite so imaginary anymore.

Instead, it’s standing right in front of him.

 This is too much.

Bringing a hand to his forehead, Trophy squeezes at the space between his eyes.

He has a million questions he could ask.

But, deciding that the humiliation would be one of the easier emotions for him to deal with right now, out of the hundred others broiling within him, Trophy asks only one question out of the millions rushing through his mind.

“How…how long did you know it was out?” He asks.

Damn it, if there’s nothing he can do to change the fact that Pickle saw his shlong, then he’d really prefer to know that Pickle at least saw it while it was at full length.

Pickle hesitates, his mouth opening and closing as he struggles to answer.

Then, finally, he just kind of laughs and sympathetically smiles down at Trophy.

“I don’t think there’s any answer I could give that would make you feel any better right now, dude.”

He’s right, but Trophy doesn’t like it.

Groaning, Trophy decides that he’s had enough for today.

“God damn it.” He utters, far more resigned this time. “Whatever. I’m going back to my suite.”

Pickle nods, giving Trophy a quick two-fingered salute from where he remains in the shower.

“Your secret’s safe with me, boss.”

Keeping his fist raised towards Pickle as he finally walks towards the exit of the communal showers, all fingers but the middle one curled inwards, Trophy gives Pickle his own farewell.

“Go fuck yourself.”

He doesn’t even have to look back to know that, as always, Pickle is just unbothered and most likely just grinning while he watches him leave.

Trophy makes the trek back to his suite in silence, making sure to keep his hand on the tied portion of the towel around his waist.

The humiliation behind everything that just happened is still there, but slowly overwhelming it is the oncoming sense of unease as he thinks back to the threat he made towards Pickle, and how he had reacted to it.

Trophy only accused him of having a crush on Knife to mock him; to take his own mortification and force it onto Pickle instead. He didn’t realize Pickle would accept it so easily.

The fact that Pickle was so easy going and accepting of the accusation that he has a crush on Knife makes Trophy feel oddly. It makes him feel as if Pickle took his threat and turned it around on him. It takes every weird, bad, unfamiliar feeling that he’s felt today and amplifies it tenfold.

The insides of his chest feel like they’re being squeezed in a tight fist, kneaded and twisted by a cold, merciless hand.

He knows what he’s feeling. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he knows what it is.

It usually only ever occurred in sudden flashes that left as quickly as they came; instances in which he’d let his thoughts run haywire and doubt would settle deep in his guts before he eventually found a way to either comfort himself in his own, weird little way (something people liked to call repression), or he’d have a moment of clarity in which he realized he was being ridiculous and his perceived threats existed only in his mind.

But this is the first time he’s ever felt directly challenged for the role he plays in Knife’s life. This is the first time he’s ever had the source of his worries come from somewhere outside of his mind.

Trophy isn’t sure what to do.

Is their game going to end?

Is Knife going to start turning his attention towards Pickle?

Maybe he shouldn’t have been so hasty to deny his connection with Knife. Sure they’re not friends, but…

But.

But what? That voice in his mind, the same one that always pushes him into addressing things he’s just not ready to face yet, urges him to continue. To finish that thought.

Trophy isn’t sure he’d know how to finish it if he tried.

The panic is starting to set in, and his heart rate is already picking up.

But, as he enters the hotel lobby and makes his way towards the stairs that will take him up to his suite, he starts to come to a realization. A small mercy.

Pickle could hardly broach the subject with Trophy. The guy was all awkward pauses and hesitance, and he asked for Trophy to keep the whole thing a secret. He’s probably not going to be pursuing Knife anytime too soon.

And Knife? Well, he’s been pretty occupied having fun with Trophy.

If Trophy plays his cards right, he won’t have to worry about a thing.

He makes his way upstairs and follows the hallway to his suite.

Besides,

And this is the part that’s really saving him from the onslaught of another unexplainable breakdown,

Which one of them currently has Knife sleeping in their bed?

Definitely not Pickle, that’s for sure.

Trophy unlocks the door to his suite and steps inside with a sigh, undoing the towel from his waist and letting it drop to the floor as he closes the door behind himself and flicks the light switch on.

And only then does he see his bed.

It’s empty.

Trophy wordlessly stares at the empty space of his bed, feeling the pounding of his heart beating against his chest harder and harder with each passing second, his senses heightened as every single emotion that he tried so hard to leave behind in this bedroom returns to him all at once.

Despite himself, despite the fear and anxiety and uncertainty and inferiority clawing their way into his chest, Trophy tries to self soothe with a few words of comfort.

Maybe Knife is just in the bathroom?

Moving slowly, as if something else was controlling his body while he watched from the outside, Trophy made his way to his bathroom door.

He carefully rapped his knuckles against it, leaning in close.

“Knife?” He calls, his voice quieter than usual.

Nothing.

He pushes the door open and peers inside.

Again. Nothing.

Trophy closes the bathroom door.

He makes his way across his bedroom and goes back to the light switch, flicking it back off.

There are a million thoughts running through his head, and a million more emotions squeezing and tugging and tormenting his heart and stomach and everything in between.

But he stays silent. He forces himself to remain impassive.

He gets into bed and draws the blankets back over himself as he lies on his back.

Everything’s fine.

It’s not like they usually spent time together after their games anyways. He should have known Knife would leave.

After all, Trophy did leave him to wake up alone.

They were already pushing it by sleeping together- in the literal sense. That’s just not the kind of thing they do. So he shouldn’t be surprised.

Knife is probably off doing who knows what now. With who knows who.

Trophy, in turn, had the same opportunity to do whatever he wanted to too, now that he was alone.

It’s nothing out of the ordinary. This is how things always go.

He closes his eyes against the onslaught of thoughts, worries, fears, and despairs that his mind tries to feed him. It all jumbles together into a loud cacophony of noise; all of it fearful.

It’s going to be fine.

You need to get your act together soon. Pickle’s braver than you are. He’s going to beat you to it if you don’t start pulling yourself together.

Beat him to what? He’s not aiming for anything. He’s fine. Everything’s fine. Everything is perfect.

He has everything he needs.

Trophy rolls onto his side, staring into the darkness as he looks at the empty space Knife took up not too long ago.

There’s nothing for the light from the hotel hallway to reflect off of now.

But that’s fine. Who needs light getting reflected into their eyes anyways? Talk about an eyesore.

Those two are friends. Good friends. Pickle’s chances are better than yours.

Who cares. Who cares? Trophy really doesn’t.

 He reaches out and lays his arm across his mattress, thinking back to when he did the same just a few hours ago, while Knife was asleep.

It feels different without Knife’s side underneath his arm.

Trophy shifts closer to that empty space. He tells himself that he’s doing it for the elbow room, so he’s not crowded against the wall that his bed sits against. When he takes the same pillow that Knife rested against and hugs it close to his chest, he tells himself that it’s because this pillow is nicer, and that the cool surface of it is refreshing against his body.

This game isn’t going to last forever. You know that right?

Trophy buries his face into the pillow.

It’s going to end someday. How it ends depends on you.

He catches a hint of Knife’s scent and closes his eyes, pressing his face deeper into the pillow.

You’re not going to have this again if you don’t make up your mind about what you want.

You said it yourself. The two of you are rivals.

Pickle is Knife’s close friend. Maybe even best friend.

You’re already a lot farther behind than Pickle is.

Trophy’s grip on the pillow tightens.

You’re running out of time.

His breath hitches.

The tightness in his throat makes it hard for him to breathe right.

Still, he keeps his face buried against the pillow, engulfing himself in Knife’s scent.

Enjoy it. It might be the only smart thing you’ve ever done.

Because who knows if he’ll ever come back to your room? By tomorrow, it might already be too late.

A choked sound escapes Trophy.

He muffles it against the pillow, digging his fingers in tightly as he tries to keep more from escaping him.

But it’s a losing battle, and that internal voice finally falls quiet as Trophy gives in.

Out of all the humiliating instances in which he’s made a fool out of himself today, he’s thankful that no is around to witness this one.

It’s a small mercy.

Whatever’s looking out for him, if anything even cares to keep him in their thoughts, he hopes it has more to spare in the coming days.

Because he’s really going to need it.

Have mercy on this stupid, stupid boy.

Chapter Text

Trophy’s been acting weird lately.

At least, that’s how Knife could put it if he wanted to be nice about everything going on.

In truth, he thinks Trophy’s been a bit of a nuisance.

For the past several days, it feels as if Trophy’s made it his mission to harass Knife over every little thing he took part in, nosing his way into Knife’s business and finding some way or another to include himself no matter how inappropriate it was for him to do so.

If Knife was engrossed in a conversation with someone, it was never long before Trophy’s voice would pitch in, scoffing at whatever topic Knife had been discussing and offering nothing of value to the conversation with his meaningless, critical comments. It’d start this way, and when Knife would ignore him, he’d change tunes — taking on a more confrontational and aggressive approach that, more times than not, lead to the two of them butting heads.

Whenever Knife would head outside and lounge underneath the shade of a tree, closing his eyes and relaxing in the gentle wind of the warm season, he’d have maybe a few minutes of peace before it was interrupted by the inexplicable sound of exercise. His expression always pulled into a frown, and he’d stubbornly keep his eyes closed for as long as he could even as Trophy called out to him — trying to work a reaction out of him.

“Hey, ‘betcha you can’t do this, pillows-for-fists.” Trophy would tease, a mocking laugh lacing his words as he’d show off by doing some kind of athletic trick.

Sometimes it was a soccer ball, which he’d balance atop his foot before kicking it side to side, letting the ball arc over his legs as he juggled it with his foot.

Sometimes it was a set of weights, which Trophy would make a show out of lifting the biggest ones. But only for as long as Knife looked at him, before shortly setting them down with the excuse of “measuring just how much those few reps bulked my biceps up already” whenever Knife looked away.

That one was funny, Knife would admit. He never gave into Trophy’s obvious search for compliments, or positive attention of any kind, but he did think it was funny hearing Trophy make excuses for why he couldn’t lift his heaviest weights for as long as he wanted to.

It was especially entertaining when Knife wouldn’t look away, and would intentionally keep watching Trophy long past the usual time he would normally set the weights down to give his arms a break. That’s when Trophy would break out into a sweat, a shaky grin at his mouth as he announced to no one in particular (even if it was obvious the message was meant for Knife) just how easy this was for him.

Whenever Knife pushed it though, and by extension pushed Trophy far past his limits, that’s when Trophy would turn aggressive and confront Knife for his staring — too stubborn to simply admit that his physical strength had its limits.

It usually led to a fight, which wasn’t as funny.

Well, it was a little funny. But not as funny as it was maintaining the careful balance between staring enough to watch Trophy torment himself for the sake of his reputation, and looking away to give Trophy just long enough of a break before he’d go back at it again.

But Knife could only handle so much of Trophy’s obvious attention seeking.

Everywhere he went, it felt like Trophy turned up soon afterwards.

The kitchen? Trophy would show up just minutes later, pestering Knife about what he was making, and judging him for his eating habits.

The living room? Knife could get maybe just a few minutes of television in before Trophy popped up out of seemingly nowhere, always poised with some kind of judgement to share about Knife’s choice of entertainment — yet making no move to leave.

The gym? Well, that one was a little more appropriate. Knife was never too surprised when Trophy showed up there. What bugged him, though, was how Trophy could never keep to himself, always targeting him about something or another mid-workout.

The teasing and mockery was expected, honestly. It’s annoying, sure. But it’s to be expected.

What stood out to Knife, though, was the fact that Trophy has been insistently fishing for compliments, or recognition of any sort. More so than usual.

“Man you watch some lame shit. Hasn’t anyone showed you any of the good stuff yet? I watch it all the time. I know all the good stuff on T.V. Lucky you, huh? Not everyone has someone with such perfect taste in television.”

“Where the hell did you learn to work out like that? Your technique is all wrong. Let me show you how a real pro does it, and maybe then you won’t look like such a dweeb doing his first ever work out. You can thank me all you want later, because you and I both know you won’t be able to find someone else as skilled as me to help you like this. Right? Right.”

“Heh, check it out Knife. Don’t you wish you were as ripped as me? Bet your biceps feel nothing like mine. Come see what real muscles are like.”

“Bro it’s almost depressing how no one else is as cool or as fit as I am. Don’t you think so? Like no one is as cool as I am, or as fit and athletic and attractive as I am. The closest might be you, and even that’s stretching it. Don’t you think I’m like, the only one who’s like this here? The only cool, athletic guy?

You’re a jerk who sometimes works out, but no one else comes close to what I am. Isn’t that depressing? Maybe not to you, since I’m always around you. But it must be depressing to everyone else who doesn’t get to be around someone like me as much.

Can you imagine that? Not being around me? That’s gotta suck man. You’re real lucky Knife.”

It just went on and on and on. Knife would have thought that Trophy was just talking for the sake of hearing himself talk, if it wasn’t for the breaks he kept taking in between his rambling to wait for Knife’s response — seeking out an affirmation to his claims.

Knife never gave it. He wasn’t sure what Trophy was up to, or why he was suddenly so interested in Knife’s opinion, but one thing’s for sure.

If Trophy didn’t stop trying to insert himself into every little thing Knife did, Knife was going to lose his mind.

It wouldn’t be so bad, if Trophy could be normal about it.

But no.

Trophy was always either one of two things.

Attention-seeking.

Or confrontational.

Bewilderingly enough, Trophy’s behavior would always somehow reach its crest when Knife was with Pickle.

It’s like a flip would switch in Trophy whenever he saw Pickle. One second he’s at least trying to fake an indifference towards Knife — despite his weird search for compliments — and then the next, he’s taking it to a whole other level, aggressive in the way he tries to get Knife’s attention. Usually by trying to spark a fight between the two of them; first by insulting Knife, and then by insulting both Knife and Pickle in the same breath.

Sometimes it worked, and Knife would be so preoccupied matching Trophy’s aggravating aggression with his own combative defense, falling for every insult and even going as far as to exchange blows with him, that he wouldn’t even realize that he and Trophy fought themselves into another section of the hotel completely — entirely removed from where he and Pickle had been.

Once he recognized the pattern in Trophy’s behavior, however, Knife made an effort to put a stop to it.

He doesn’t understand what it is about him and Pickle that brings the worst out of Trophy, but he’s not about to let Trophy make a habit of this.

So, when Knife once again finds himself lounging under a tree— forced to witness Trophy’s desperate display of strength and power through his exaggerated exercise regimen— and he notices Pickle walking his way towards the hotel, he makes a quick decision.

“Hey, Pickle!” Knife calls out, raising his hand to greet Pickle as he pushes himself up and off of the ground.

Pickle, seemingly having just noticed him, visibly brightens once his gaze lands on Knife.

“Knife!” Pickle greets happily, stopping in his tracks to the hotel and redirecting his path as he jogs up to Knife, who meets him halfway.

“Come out to enjoy the sun too?” Pickle asks, giving Knife’s shoulder a light, friendly punch.

Knife, meeting Pickle’s smile with one of his own, gives a lopsided shrug.

“Yeah, but I’m ready to head back in now.” He answers.

Pickle’s smile grows, and he moves to stand next to Knife, gently elbowing his arm.

“Hey, great minds think alike. I was heading in too; was looking to grab something to eat. Wanna join?”

Giving Pickle’s shoulder a nudge with his own as he steps past him, Knife starts them on their walk towards the hotel. He answers Pickle with a nod, before shooting him a playful grin.

“Sure, if you’re offering to make something for the both of us.”

At this, Pickle laughs and walks alongside him.

“You know neither one of us wants that. I suck at cooking.”

“No cooking’s involved in making us both a sandwich.” Knife refutes.

“Oh, I see how it is.” Pickle drawls, crossing his arms over his chest as the corners of his lips tug into a smirk. “What, you gonna start chucking empty beer bottles at my head next, mister make-me-a-sandwich?”

A loud bark of laughter escapes Knife, and he answers Pickle with a hard shove.

“Shut the hell up man, you’re so stupid.” He snickers, shaking his head as the two of them share a laugh.

They reach the entrance to the hotel in a matter of seconds, and it’s with an exaggerated flair of spontaneous chivalry that Pickle opens the door for Knife, bowing deeply and gesturing for Knife to enter.

“After you, m’knife.” Pickle invites, the mischievous grin never leaving his face.

Amused, Knife brings a hand to his own hip, leaning his weight onto one leg as he cocks his hip to the side.

“Oh, so I boss you around a little and indirectly threaten you with bottles to the head and suddenly you’re dropping to your knees and kissing the ground I walk on?” He asks, amusement heavy in his voice.

“There’s a word for people like you.” Knife continues teasingly as he takes the offer anyways, walking past Pickle and into the building.

“You gonna call me it? Or are you chicken?” Pickle prods, his grin turning sharp as he follows after Knife and closes the door behind them.

It’s only once the door clicks shut that Knife finally feels the weight of Trophy’s intense stare lift from his figure. Despite himself, Knife can’t help but shudder; it took a lot of effort to ignore that.

He wonders if Trophy knows just how intense his stare can be sometimes, and whether or not Trophy cares about subtlety. Maybe he’s unaware of the weight his gaze holds when he’s so occupied with whatever’s running through his mind to cause him to stare like that.

Or maybe he wants Knife to know he’s watching him.

Regardless, his line of sight has been broken. Knife can relax a little more now, and focus instead on his friend.

At least until Trophy inevitably shows up again.

Knife gives it maybe five minutes.

Returning to the present conversation, Knife offers Pickle a roll of his eyes paired with the grin he wears as he turns away from him, waving him away.

“Yeah, yeah, beg harder.” Knife dismisses, a hint of laughter making his words hitch slightly. “C’mon, let’s go to the kitchen.”

 “Whatever my dearest Knife demands.” Pickle teases, earning himself another shove to his shoulder before the two break out into a small fit of laughter.

They enter the dining room together, and when they find the kitchen empty they’re both quick to situate themselves. Knife takes a seat at the table, making himself comfortable as he watches Pickle gather the ingredients for their sandwiches.

They make comfortable, idle conversation, taking breaks in between to discuss how Knife wants his sandwich. They exchange lighthearted banter, smiling even as they tease and insult each other— all while sharing the same laugh.

It’s nice. Knife always feels at peace when he’s with Pickle.

And then he hears the front door open and close.

That couldn’t have been more than three minutes, Knife thinks to himself with a mild grimace as he stifles a groan before it can escape him.

Just what was it with Trophy lately?

Why does he keep following Knife everywhere?

Why does he keep causing him so many problems?

It’s gotten to the point that others have noticed, and someone even brought the issue up to Knife with lighthearted amusement, comparing Trophy to a lost puppy who’s imprinted on him.

With the way Trophy acts whenever he’s around Knife, however, he couldn’t help but feel that a better comparison to Trophy’s misbehavior would be more akin to that of an irritating rash that just wouldn’t stay away.

Knife lets out a tired sigh, irritation already crawling its way up his spine.

With his back to the entryway of the dining room, he has no way of seeing when Trophy makes his entrance. But he doesn’t have to; Trophy always takes care to announce himself some way or another.

“Hey.” Knife hears him flatly greet from behind, his tone carrying disinterest as he makes his way into the dining room. “What’re you two losers doing?”

“Hey Trophy!” Pickle greets, his words far happier and much more vibrant than Trophy’s own. “We’re just getting some grub. I’m making us both sandwiches, you want one?”

The scoff that Trophy utters from behind Knife comes so forcefully that Knife swears he can feel the gust of Trophy’s breath against the back of his neck. He leans forward and rests his elbows on the table with a slump, leaning his head onto one of his hands as he hears—and then sees—Trophy make his way around the table, taking the seat opposite to Knife.

“Like I’d need someone to make my food for me. What is he, your girlfriend?” Trophy mocks Pickle, a sneer at his lips as he turns his attention from Pickle to Knife. “I knew you could be girly sometimes, Knife, but this is just a new low for you.”

Knife’s expression twists into a glare.

“Haven’t you ever ordered fast food?” He irritably challenges. “People make food for other people all the time, idiot.”

Smug, Trophy leans back in his seat with an irritating grin.

“Nope. I don’t eat fast food. Unlike you two, I actually care about what I put into my body.”

Knife’s jaw tenses as he grits his teeth.

“Whatever, I don’t care.” He decides, turning in his seat so that he’s facing away from Trophy and instead facing towards Pickle, watching as he works on their sandwiches.

“Hey Pickle,” he starts, his tone significantly lighter. “You wanna watch something together once the food’s done?”

“Oooh,” Pickle makes a noise of interest from his spot in the kitchen. “I’d be down for that.”

A sudden, forceful laugh jolts the both of them, their attention immediately snapping towards Trophy.

“Oh, the two of you are just so much worse off than I thought!” Trophy exclaims, forcing another laugh from where he sits. “Are you serious right now? Making food for each other? Watching stupid chick flicks together?” His expression twists into something cruel, the sharp toothed, snarky grin at his mouth not quite reaching his eyes.

“Should I make the announcement to the whole hotel and tell everyone the two of you are officially girlfriends now?” He mocks, leaning in his seat as he interlocks his fingers behind his head. “Credit where it’s due, I should applaud the two of you for your bravery. It takes real guts to give up your manhood like that.” He spits, his words all but kind.

“Not that either one of you had much to begin with.”

Knife pushes himself up onto his feet in a rush, slamming his hands atop the surface of the table as the chair he was sitting on scrapes against the floor.

“Knife—” Pickle tries to interrupt, but his attempt goes unnoticed. Knife is already making his way around the table, his shoulders set and his fists clenched as he stomps his way up to Trophy.

“Listen you little cretin,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous. “You need to learn when to shut the hell up before I teach you the hard way. And trust me when I say I’m going to make sure the lesson sticks.”

Trophy, defying all reasonable explanation, positively beams under Knife’s attention. His sharp grin grows wider, his eyes twinkling gleefully as he rises up to the challenge. He stays seated, turning in his chair to face Knife—irritatingly carefree in the way he leans against the table and props his head up on his hand.

“Oh yeah?” He challenges. “What’re you gonna do, slap me?” His eyes narrow into thin slits, the sharp corners of his smirk spreading widely across his face. “Careful Knife, or you might break a nail.”

He snickers, like it’s the funniest thing in the world, before shooting Knife a condescendingly pitying look.

“If you do, then your little ‘girlfriend’ won’t find you so pretty anymore, flawed as you are, and he’s gonna leave you crying yourself to sleep when he finds someone better worth his time. Someone who isn’t so incomplete and worthless. What purpose would your miserable, lonely life have then?”

The grin returns to his lips.

“But hey, look on the bright side. You’d still have me around. I mean, at least until I find someone better to hang out with too.”

And then he bursts out laughing, the sound cruel, mocking, and loud.

Knife lunges at him without thinking, immediately reaching for his throat.

The two of them fall to the floor in a violent tumble, the chair following after them with a slam against the hardwood floor.

It’s a flurry of limbs, blows exchanged between the two of them that land across their abdomens, their jaws, their faces, everywhere they can reach as they fight and thrash like wild animals.

To Knife’s disbelief, Trophy actually laughs—he laughs in a way that makes it sound as if he finally got what he wanted, satisfaction and elation drastically noticeable in the sound of his manic laughter.

It throws Knife off, but he still rushes to follow Trophy when he manages to squirm out of Knife’s grasp and get himself to his feet.

They stare at each other from where they stand, both already bruising and small splotches of blood beginning to dot their scraped knuckles.

Their panting breaths synch, their shoulders rising and falling as they glare at each other; with Knife’s mouth set into a scowl as he bares his teeth at Trophy, while Trophy’s is upturned in a wicked grin, his own teeth proudly flashing.

Frustrated to have fallen for Trophy’s tricks yet again, Knife makes the conscious effort to recompose himself. He closes his eyes, breathing hard through his nose as he tries to ground himself.

Knife hears the low huff of displeasure that escapes Trophy, and it’s the only warning he gets before he’s getting shoved backwards.

Narrowly catching himself as his arms flail and he stumbles, Knife returns his glare towards Trophy.

Again, Trophy shoves him—harder this time.

“What, you tired already?” He asks condescendingly.

He shoves at Knife once more, forcing him backwards.

“You really losing yourself that much, Knife?” He mocks, punctuating the question with another shove. “Can’t even fight me for more than a few seconds anymore?”

Knife growls as he’s forced backwards with another shove to his shoulders, his fists clenched tightly as he fights to keep himself composed, going against every fiber of his being that tells him to unload onto Trophy and smash his teeth in.

“C’mon, say something.” Trophy starts, walking towards Knife and giving him a hard shove each time he gets close enough.

“Use your words, dumbass.” Trophy hisses, the tone of voice he uses unbefitting of the situation they’re in; his words come out too breathily, the exaggerated drawl of the vowels intentional—as if he was trying to give the impression that the words escaped him in a sigh, rather than an angry hiss. There’s a mockery to his voice, but it’s different than the one he was using before.

“Talk to me.”

It takes him a second, but Knife’s eyes widen as realization strikes.

He knows that Trophy can see it in his eyes when that big, stupid grin of his returns. He recognizes that the pieces are clicking in Knife’s mind, and the satisfaction behind the fact is apparent in the way Trophy chuckles lowly.

That weird bastard.

He’s quoting Knife from back when they last fucked.

“Why the fuck—?” Knife starts to ask, before looking behind Trophy as movement catches his eye.

From far behind Trophy, Pickle appears, a frown to his face as he watches the two of them from within the dining room.

The dining room which, Knife realizes, had been growing farther and farther away with each push and shove Trophy gave him.

His eyebrows furrow.

A few more pieces start to click in his mind.

Was Trophy… deliberately trying to separate him from Pickle?

Is this what he’s been doing this whole time?

Trying to separate him from the others?

Intentionally isolating him to another part of the hotel with each fight?

Why?

He thinks back to when they last interacted; before Trophy started acting this way, hoping to find some kind of explanation for his behavior.

The last time they interacted before this whole mess was…when they had their last gaming session, Knife recalls.

He had won, with nothing more than two points over Trophy—thanks to their new mechanic using the die.

Nothing really strange had happened that day.

They played by the rules and had their fun.

And after that…

Knife’s lips press into a thin line.

He supposes they did change things up a little when they ended up falling asleep together afterwards.

But really, was it such a big deal?

Trophy fell asleep first, and Knife didn’t like the way he felt at the thought of leaving Trophy to wake up alone after what they did; like he was some kind of callous, careless one night stand who didn’t care about Trophy beyond what his body had to offer.

So he chose to stick around.

And when Knife woke up to find himself alone…he couldn’t say he was surprised.

Knife might have had the foresight to concern himself with the way Trophy might feel, waking up to an empty bed after involving himself with something he had such a fragile standing with—because believe Knife, he knows what goes on in Trophy’s head sometimes. He’s not stupid.

Trophy has a very fragile connection with what they do. You’d have to be blind to miss it, considering how desperately Trophy tries to overcompensate with his toxic hypermasculinity.

Knife knows Trophy likes the sex they have. But he also knows that Trophy doesn’t like that he likes the sex they have.

So yeah, while Knife had the foresight to concern himself with Trophy’s feelings, it wasn’t surprising to him that Trophy couldn’t do the same and left him to wake up alone.

It was disappointing, sure. But not surprising.

Of course, Knife didn’t let himself dwell on that disappointment for very long after he woke up; taking care to snuff it out before it could grow into something bigger.

After all, what reason did he have to be disappointed?

It’s not like what they had meant anything beyond the sex.

Sure, Knife liked Trophy’s company. They’ve grown to tolerate each other, and when Trophy isn’t being a confrontational dickhead, he can actually be kind of fun to spend time with.

And if Knife wanted to be honest with himself, he could entertain the idea that he might even like Trophy.

Maybe a little more than he should.

Not everyone could handle the intensity Trophy had to offer. The aggression, the competitive streak, the brute nature of his personality. It’s a turn off for many.

But not Knife.

Knife always had an eye for the rough and tough. The mean and nasty. The ones who could match his energy.

The ones who could handle him in all his raw, uncensored glory.

Maybe that’s what always drew him back to Trophy, even back when they were genuine rivals with nothing but bad blood between them.

Now though? He’s not sure what they were anymore.

It didn’t feel like a true rivalry; at least not to him.

It felt more like…a friends with benefits type situation—in which the benefits included the opportunity to beat the living shit out of each other, and fucking each other just as violently too; to the point that it could sometimes be hard to distinguish the two acts.

The fact that their games gave Trophy the excuse he needed to let himself engage in something so intimate—even if they often went at it like wild animals—only made the entire thing all the more beneficial for the two of them.

There was just one problem with this arrangement.

Trophy was obsessive.

Knife knew this even before he and Trophy sat down and worked together to set up the rules for this arrangement of theirs. But he had his reasons to go through with it. Mainly, he was under the belief that it would have helped Trophy work off some of those strangely obsessive tendencies of his—the ones about beating Knife and proving his superiority. Burn off a little bit of that steam.

But now…Trophy was taking it a bit too far.

There was only one explanation that Knife could conjure up for Trophy’s recent behavior, and it was all pointing towards the fact that they slept together, in the literal sense.

He’s going to have to bring it up if he wants things to go back to normal.

Looking down and off to the side, distractedly muttering beneath his breath, Knife was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he completely missed all the signs of Trophy’s diminishing patience until it hits him—quite literally. Trophy closes the distance between them from his last shove and grabs Knife by the shoulder with one hand and slams his fist into Knife’s abdomen with the other.

With the breath knocked out of him, Knife stumbles back, his arms immediately winding around his stomach with a deep, grunting wheeze.

“Stop fucking thinking and start fighting me, jackass.” Trophy growls.

Glaring up at Trophy from where he had dropped to a pained slump, Knife meets Trophy’s challenging glare with a fiery vengeance.

Fine. Have it your way.

Knife lunges at him, immediately grabbing him by the handles and engaging in a brief, violent struggle as Trophy grabs him by the arms to dislodge his hold—digging his fingers in deep enough to draw pinpricks of blood—before Knife successfully gathers the momentum he needs to shove Trophy against the nearest wall.

He presses him against it using the hold he has on Trophy’s slim handles, amplifying the pressure by bringing his body against the front of Trophy’s own.

“I know what you’re doing now.” Knife hisses, his voice low as he leans in close to Trophy’s face.

“No you don’t.” Trophy immediately argues, his expression dark as he meets Knife’s glare with his own, his jaw clenched and teeth bared as he grabs and pushes against Knife’s shoulders—lacking the space to extend his arms fully and therefore incapable of successfully pushing Knife away.

“I’m not doing anything.” Trophy spits, forcefully pressing one hand against Knife’s face as he rakes his nails down Knife’s arm with the other—making the latter grimace.      

“You are and I’m getting sick of it.” Knife growls, pushing against the force Trophy uses against his blade, keeping their faces close enough that Knife’s breath ghosts against Trophy’s mouth as he speaks next.

“I’m not letting you skirt around the bush anymore, Trophy.” Knife declares, his voice so low that his words come out in a low, sharp exhale. “We’re gonna do this here and now.”

Trophy’s movements still, and he blinks.

“What?” He asks after a moment of stunned silence, and Knife notices with satisfaction the way color starts to slowly spread across Trophy’s face.

Gotcha.

“You heard me.” Knife answers, tightening his hold on the gold of Trophy’s handles. “We’re settling this now.”

Knife gives him the opportunity to respond, staring him down and keeping him held against the wall as the seconds tick by. But Trophy doesn’t answer; he just keeps his wide-eyed gaze on him as it flicks across Knife’s face, searching him for some kind of explanation.

Knife doesn’t offer it. He just grins, internally pronouncing this fight over and declaring himself the winner.

He releases Trophy with a shove, taking a step away from him and letting Trophy’s hands fall away from where they were grabbing at him.

Knife thumbs in the general direction of the hotel lobby couch behind him, never once taking his eyes off Trophy.

“Sit on the couch.” He commands. “I’ll be there in a second to join you.”

Again, Trophy blinks owlishly at him.

He looks like he has something to say, so Knife arches his eyebrow and waits for Trophy to speak.

When he does, there’s an uncharacteristic hesitance to his words.

“Are we really doing this in front of Pickle…?”

Almost immediately afterwards, Pickle’s voice chimes in from within the dining room, his face appearing as he steps through the entrance and joins the two in their conversation.

“Are we doing what in front of Pickle?” He asks, curiosity clear in both his words and his expression.

Knife answers Trophy with a shrug.

“Sure, if that’s what you want.” He dismisses, before taking Trophy by the shoulders and pushing him in the direction of the couch.

“No, that’s not what I—” Trophy tries, but Knife has already turned his attention to Pickle, releasing Trophy as he steps towards his friend.

“Sandwiches finished?” He asks.

“Yup.” Pickle confirms, tilting his head towards the dining room. “They’re sitting on the table and waiting to get eaten.”

“Nice.” Knife grins. “Wanna join us?”

“I’m not really sure what I’m joining exactly, but it sounded kinda intense. So, sure!” Pickle answers, an amused smile at his lips. “You guys are always interesting when you’re in the same room together.”

Knife laughs, walking into the dining room to fetch his food.

“Yeah, so I’ve heard.”

The two exit the dining room shortly after and enter the hotel lounge each carrying their plate of food. As they do, Knife takes quick notice of the way Trophy is seated on the couch, his head downcast.

Nearing the couch, Knife takes a moment to look Trophy over.

He seems… strangely anxious.

His arms are pressed against his abdomen, overlapped as he keeps a tight grasp on his forearms, bruised from the fight. Knife notes the way Trophy has his bottom lip between his teeth, gnawing at the skin as he restlessly bounces his leg.

Confused by the display, Knife lets out a small breath of laughter as he sets his food atop the coffee table, right in front of where he’ll be sitting on the couch.

“Dude, calm down. You’re acting like we’ve never done this before.”

Trophy eyes him nervously, keeping his shoulders tensely hunched and his head tucked down.

“What do you mean?” He asks, and Knife is shocked by the tension that he can sense in his voice.

“Um,” he starts, perplexed by Trophy’s nerves. “We always work our problems out with a game.”

There’s a long pause between them.

“…A game?” Trophy asks.

“Yeah…” Knife slowly answers, not understanding Trophy’s confusion. He glances towards Pickle, who simply watches the exchange from where he’s seated himself on the opposite end of the couch. “A game, dude. Like we always do.”

He gestures towards the game console and the mounted television it sits beneath.

“You down for it?” He asks, looking back at Trophy.

At first, Trophy looks…oddly vulnerable. Confused, his eyebrows furrowed as he looks between Knife and the game console with a slight frown.

Then, with a few blinks, it’s like clarity finds him and all his earlier aggression returns full force.

“Ugh.” He groans, leaning back in his seat and kicking his legs out so that he can rest his feet atop the coffee table. “Should’ve just said that from the start, dickhead.”

“Wh—” Knife starts, taken off guard by the sudden change. “What the hell did you think I meant when I said we were gonna settle this? This is how we always settle things!”

“Why’d you say it so fucking dramatically?!” Trophy snaps back, leaning against the arm rest of the couch and resting his chin atop his hand. “Made it sound like something serious was gonna happen.”

Knife sputters.

“What do you mean you thought something serious was gonna—?” He starts to ask, incredulous, but gets quickly interrupted.

“Can you shut the fuck up and get the stupid system set up already? God!” Trophy barks out, the expression he wears unkind and twisted with irritation.

“Fine! Sheesh!” Knife gives in with an exasperated exhale, bewildered as he turns towards the game system and approaches it, dropping to a kneel so that he can set it up. “Asshole.” He mutters.

From behind, Pickle speaks up around a mouthful of food.

“You guys have a really interesting dynamic.” He comments, his voice muffled.

“You have a really interesting face.” Trophy snidely replies, looking towards him. “Want me to give it the same treatment I gave Knife’s?”

“Trophy.” Knife warns, growling as he looks over his shoulder and towards Trophy.

The grumble Trophy mutters as he unwillingly submits to Knife’s unspoken warning and looks away from Pickle with his arms crossed over his chest—looking for all the world like a scolded child—is enough to get a laugh out of Pickle.

“I don’t know how you guys can go from beating each other bloody one second, to playing video games together the next.” He muses, taking another bite from his sandwich as he watches Trophy take the remote into his hands and set the television to the correct channel.

“If it was anyone else, I would’ve been concerned.” Pickle continues.

Rising from where he was crouched, Knife gives a stretch.

“It’s a skill at this point. Comes with all the experience.” He answers, before taking his seat on the couch, right in between Trophy and Pickle.

Knife and Trophy both grab their controllers, with Trophy immediately placing his fingers in the correct position on the controller while Knife simply sets his controller on his lap and grabs at his sandwich from atop the coffee table—taking a large bite of his food.

“Go aheah anf seh the gamfe upf.” Knife tells him, covering his mouth as he struggles to speak around his mouthful of food.

“Ugh. You’re disgusting.” Despite his complaint, Trophy still does as told; cycling through the listed options and setting the match up for him and Knife.

In the few minutes it takes for Trophy to set the match up, Pickle and Knife fall back into a conversation.

“Y’know, I was playing against Soap the other day.” Pickle casually mentions in between bites of his sandwich.

“Oh yeah?” Knife asks, already entertained. “And how’d that go?”

“She wiped the fucking floor with me man.” Pickle deadpans.

Knife breaks out into a laugh, slapping his knee.

“She didn’t!”

“She did!” Pickle insists, grinning sheepishly. “I don’t know how she got so good at the game, but she fucking kills at it!”

“You sure it’s not just the fact that you suck major ass at the game?” Knife mocks with another laugh, leaning against Pickle.

“Shut up man, I don’t suck major ass.”

“The game’s set up.” Trophy speaks flatly, already spamming his attacks on Knife’s unmoving character.

“You have like, hundreds of hours on this console! Soap barely has any!” Knife cackles, taking his controller in hand, but doing nothing to acknowledge the game any further just yet.

“I don’t know what that has to do with anything.” Pickle shrugs, pointedly turning away from Knife.

“Dude, you got your ass handed to you by a total newbie.” Knife grins, elbowing Pickle’s side. “I think that says more than enough.”

“Hey!” Pickle spins back to face him, pointing a finger in his face. “When did I ever say she’s a newbie? She might not have hundreds of hours on the game, but that doesn’t mean she has none!”

“The game’s set up.” Trophy repeats, irritation heavy in his words even as he clears the first few rounds and claims the first three points for himself.

Meaningless victories that don’t offer much in the way of satisfaction when his opponent isn’t even paying attention.

As if he hadn’t heard him, Knife continues his conversation.

“Yeah, all that means is that it only took her a few hours to reach your level of skill.” Knife snickers.

“Hey now, that’s not true.” Pickle starts, his expression pulling into a frown.

He then coughs his next words into his fist.

“It only took her a few hours to surpass my level of skill.”

Knife and Pickle both fall into a fit of laughter, leaning against each other as they succumb to their own jokes.

Unbeknownst to them, Trophy fumes from where he sits beside the duo.

He’s announced himself twice now.

The game was ready, he has five points over Knife now, and Knife hasn’t done much more than move his character to the side by a few inches. Once.

Trophy can feel the rising heat of his anger burning deep within his chest—the kind that only a blow to his ego can summon—and it has him curling his fingers tightly around the grips of his controller.

He could try and get Knife’s attention again.

Maybe snap him into focus, hit him hard enough to remind him of his priorities; and if they don’t align with Trophy’s, then maybe Trophy can get him to straighten his priorities by punching him in the arm twice as hard.

But after a few seconds of thought as he claims his next in-game victory, Trophy decides against it.

After all, Trophy isn’t just an impulsively angry person.

He’s also an opportunist.

So while hearing Knife and Pickle getting chummy with one another is enough to grate on Trophy’s nerves and get that same gross, ugly, unwarranted feeling he’s been struggling to chase away for the past several days coiling tightly in his chest, Trophy recognizes Knife’s annoying inattentiveness for what it really is.

An opportunity.

So he takes it.

They’re laughing, shoving each other, and while Knife does try to bring his focus back to the game at hand and does manage to claim the occasional victory against Trophy, his attention always seems to fall back to Pickle.

It’s like they just can’t keep their eyes off of each other.

Like nothing else matters when they’re in the same room together.

Trophy grits his teeth tightly, his heart pounding and his fingers trembling as he presses the buttons to his controller hard enough to make the plastic creak under the pressure.

“It’s like Knife doesn’t even care about playing the game when Pickle is around.” Trophy thinks to himself.

“It’s like Knife doesn’t even care about me—”

Anger colors his face as Trophy quickly stifles that line of thought. He looks at Knife from the corner of his eye, as if taking care to make sure Knife has yet to notice Trophy’s inadvertent reaction to his divided attention.

He’s always so weirdly paranoid whenever he has these kinds of thoughts around Knife.

Thankfully, Knife hasn’t noticed anything. He’s too busy talking to Pickle.

That in itself is enough to fan the flames of Trophy’s jealousy anger even further.

But it’s fine.

Trophy is 15 points ahead now.

It’s fine.

This is better than fine, in fact. He should be ecstatic to have this easy victory. To have this chance to finally claim his hard earned reward.

Without Knife paying attention, it takes him less than a minute to earn his 16^th point.

Trophy deserves this. He deserves to win these points. To finally reach that next tier in their game.

Not much of a “win” when you’re only getting these points because he’s too busy talking to Pickle now, is it?

Trophy’s jaw aches with how tightly he clenches his teeth, fighting against his own thoughts as he claims his next in-game victory

That doesn’t matter. Points are points, no matter how he obtains them.

And then what? Gonna turn them in for your little prize?

No shit. What else is he doing this for if not his reward?

“K.O!” Cries the little digitalized voice of the in-game announcer.

Another victory. Another point.

He’s 17 points ahead.

Knife still hasn’t noticed.

Right, and Knife’s going to give you that reward because he has to. Because the rules of the game tell him to.

That gives Trophy pause. His fingers momentarily freeze mid-button press.

No, he thinks to himself. Knife doesn’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to. They came up with the idea for this game together. They made the rules together.

Knife would do it because he wants to do it. Not because he has to. Otherwise he would have never went through the effort of setting the game up with Trophy.

Sure. But would he have done what you asked of him if not for the game and the points?

Next to him, Knife turns back to the television, his whole form shaking with laughter even as he makes the effort to focus on the game.

Finally, Trophy thinks to himself as Knife’s character springs into action, blocking Trophy’s hits.

Trophy drops back down to being 16 points ahead of Knife, and then 15 points. It goes against his goals, but somehow he can’t help but feel some semblance of relief with Knife’s attention returning to the game—and by extension, him.

Trophy drops down to 13 points, with a few wins and losses on his end, when Knife turns back to Pickle with a chuckle, a conversation ready at the tip of his tongue. And then they’re focused on each other again, and once more, Trophy is back to fighting Knife’s motionless character.  

Pickle has never once had to buy Knife’s attention with points. The voice in his head, ever so helpful, supplies.

Knife is more than happy to give it to him unconditionally.

God, could that voice just shut up? What the hell is wrong with it?

And by extension, what the hell is wrong with Trophy?

Why does his mind keep feeding him weird thoughts like these? Why does he so badly feel like he’s competing with Pickle for Knife’s attention? Why does he even want Knife’s attention in the first place?

Memories of Pickle’s unspoken confession from the locker rooms resound through Trophy’s mind, echoing off the walls of his brain just as they had off of the tiles of the showers.

A crush. That’s what Pickle had implied. He has a crush on Knife.

Big deal.

Except, for some reason, the sarcasm behind those words could never quite reach his brain or his heart. Because the more he would think about it, the more it felt like a big deal to him. A very big deal.

But why?

Trophy can’t help the frustrated huff that escapes him, even as he easily climbs his way back to the 17 points he was holding over Knife, now that his character has returned to inactivity.

The answer should be obvious.

It’s because they’d lose the game; the only reason they even fucked around with each other. In the literal and figurative sense.

But then again, Pickle seemed like a laid back kind of guy. If he and Knife became a thing, would he really keep Knife and Trophy from messing around?

He seemed like the kind of guy who would give Knife that sort of freedom if he wanted it.

A cuck, Trophy internally spits within his mind, but his heart isn’t in it.

The likelihood that Pickle would let them continue their game was very real. The thought should have comforted Trophy.

Instead, it just worsened his frustration.

Why didn’t that feel like enough to Trophy?

Why didn’t it make him feel any better?

Why did the thought of Knife and Pickle getting any closer than they already were feel so bad?

He’s 18 points ahead of Knife now. The highest he’s ever managed before.

Sweat starts to clam up his hands. His heart starts to pound. Excitement wars against the uncertainty of his emotions.

Trophy chances a glance towards Knife.

He finds him still deep in conversation with Pickle, the two of them smiling at each other in a way that makes Trophy’s chest burn with anger and envy.

His breaths coming a little shaky, from a conflicting mix of anger and anticipation alike, Trophy turns back towards the television.

He earns his 19^th point quickly.

He’s nearing the tipping point now. Just one more point.

This isn’t going to get you what you want.

This will fix everything.

This won’t change anything.

Just one more point. Then, Trophy can show Knife the time of his life. He can convince Knife to stick with him. He can prove his superiority to Knife. Show him his worth. Show him that they were always meant to be a duo.

The best and the second best.

Just like it was meant to be from the beginning.

This is hopeless. You won’t get anything done like this.

Pushing the thoughts out of his head, Trophy takes his bottom lip between his teeth and, with just a few careless, aimless attacks, he finally earns it.

His 20^th point.

Trophy swallows dryly, a disbelieving laugh escaping him.

“I did it.” He speaks, his voice quiet at first.

Then, letting his controller clatter atop the coffee table, he jumps to his feet and turns to face Knife, towering over him.

“I did it!” He announces, his grin sharp and manic as both Knife and Pickle turn to him in surprise—torn from their conversation. “Read it and fucking weep, loser. Twenty points!”

Trophy turns with a flourish, gesturing towards the television.

Sure enough, displayed at the top of the game’s HUD sits Trophy and Knife’s scores respectively.

And the difference between them is an astounding 20 points, with Trophy in the lead.

Trophy looks back towards Knife, his chest puffed proudly and a smug, mocking grin keeping the corners of his mouth sharp. Sure, he didn’t win fairly. But that didn’t matter to him.

He won. That’s what mattered. How he got there wasn’t important.

You see that, Pickle? Trophy thinks to himself, looking to Knife’s side and delighting in the way surprise highlighted Pickle’s expression, his gaze flicking back and forth between Knife, the screen, and Trophy himself. Looking as inquisitive as he did shocked.

I won. Trophy wants to say it out loud, he wants to lean in close to Pickle’s face and declare his victory, to speak each syllable with confidence and conceit until it drips from his voice like molasses.

Trophy turns his attention back to Knife.

He’s not sure what he was expecting to see; what kind of reaction he imagined from Knife when this day finally came.

But that expression he wore now, with his arms crossed over his chest and his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek—his eyelids heavy and an impassive, disapproving look of boredom shadowing his features wasn’t quite what Trophy was expecting.

It struck him sharply, making something weird curdle in his stomach and sting in chest. It was different from all the other times he felt bad as an indirect result of the interactions he had with Knife. It was different from how the torment his mind inflicted on him would make him feel.

Something about it hurt him, in the strangest way. Like it cut deeper than it should have.

The feeling amplified tenfold as Knife spoke next.

“That’s great, Trophy.” His words came in a slow, unimpressed drawl, his head tilting as he looked up at Trophy from where he remained seated. Leaning back in his spot on the couch, Knife raised an eyebrow.

“Now go ahead and roll the die so we can get this over with.”

Trophy’s heart stopped, and all prior pride that had consumed him was stripped away.

The die.

Fuck!

How could he have forgotten about the die?!

God, how could he make such an idiot of himself?

Trophy’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. His earlier anger returned, and with it—the embarrassment of having celebrated too early.

“Are you serious right now?” he asked tensely, the words coming through the clench of his teeth.

“I should be asking you that.” Knife replied easily. “Really now. Like this, Trophy? Of all ways?”

He huffed out a soft noise of judgement.

“I thought you liked earning these things. You know, proving yourself worthy and all?”

“Did you finally realize you’d never win that way?”

Shame burned hot from deep within Trophy. Shame, and something worse. Something sharp, that made something in his chest hurt worse than any of the scrapes and bruises that still pulsed across his body with his heartbeat. He shoved the shame and the hurt even deeper down from whence it came and let anger take its place.

“Don’t act like I had any other way of doing it. You’re the one who wouldn’t stop fucking talking to Pickle to even pay me a single fucking minute of attention this whole time!” He snaps, anger and embarrassment making his voice tremble.

“You asked me to play! To fix this mess! But you didn’t even do anything! You made me do it by myself! Alone!”

A moment of silence passes them both, in which they both took notice of the same thing—each with their own respective reactions.

Trophy let slip way too much emotion and way too much information in that shout. Made it sound like he cared too much.

Knife seemed somewhat surprised.

Trophy however just felt thoroughly ridiculed.

The flash of guilt that crossed Knife’s expression shortly after did make him feel somewhat better though, but not by much.

“Yeah, nice fucking move genius.” Trophy hissed. “Way to fix the issue you were so righteously beating me up over.”

Reaching upwards and fishing the small die that Knife had gifted him from within the cup of his head, Trophy crushed his fingers around it and drew it out.

He turned away from Knife and his audience of one and angrily spiked the small game piece against the coffee table, where it bounced off in a sharp arc and flew across the room.

“Tell me what I got when you come see me,” Trophy growled, not waiting to see where the small item landed before making his way towards the stairs. “Take it as a chance to put some kind of effort into this whole thing.”

Trophy’s steps came heavily as he stomped his way upstairs, leaving Pickle and Knife to stew in the silence left behind.

It’s not until they hear the slam of a door shutting close that either one of them finally speaks back up.

“Dude.” Pickle deadpans.

Knife answers him with a groan, bringing his hands to his head as he slumps in his seat.

“Did you just fuck something up?” Pickle asks with a frown. Then, after a brief pause “Did… I just fuck something up?”

“No, no,” Knife quickly replies, slowly pushing himself off of the couch and trudging towards where he last saw the die disappear to. “It was my fault. I fucked up.”

“He sounded pissed. Like, more than usual.” Pickle comments, watching as Knife searches for the game piece.

“I fucked up,” Knife repeats with a sigh. “He was right. I made a whole show out of resolving things with a game and then flat out ignored him. Didn’t pay attention to the game at all.”

Pickle watched Knife with a frown.

“Didn’t think he’d take a game so personally.” He murmured, as though he were ruminating on the observation itself. Then, he too heaved a sigh of his own. “Sorry for distracting you, man. If I know these games were so serious to the two of you, I would’ve focused a bit more on my sandwich instead.”

“It’s not your fault.” Knife reassures, rising from where he had dropped to his knees, the newly found die held carefully between his thumb and pointer finger.

He took note of the number before tucking the small piece away.

“Still,” Pickle combats uncertainly. “That game seemed to matter a lot to him.”

Then, after a brief pause, Pickle continued.

“Feels like that game is really, really important between you two. The game and your scores.”

Freezing from where he had been walking towards the couch, Knife let his mouth part wordlessly. Then, he gave an awkward one shouldered shrug.

“Yeah… you know how competitive Trophy can get.”

Pickle pursed his lips.

“That felt like more than just competitiveness, Knife.”

Knife rolled his wrist dismissively, feigning a laugh, then a scoff—the sound awkward and harried.

“Trophy’s dramatic, what else is new?”

He made a move to walk past the couch, side stepping Pickle.

“Anyways, I think I should probably go check on him. Make sure he’s fine—”

He’s stopped by a hand on his wrist, Pickle’s hold on him gentle but firm.

“Give him a moment to calm down first. A few minutes, at least.” Pickle suggests.

Then, with a slight squeeze to Knife’s wrist, he continues.

“In the meantime, I think there’s something we should talk about.”

------------

God, what a fucking embarrassment.

Did he really have to do all that?

Trophy groans from where he’s laying atop his bed, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow as he tilts his head up to the ceiling.

Why the hell did he have to be so dramatic?

In the moment, he had been acting on his emotions. He acted on his impulses, just as he always did. It felt right. But now that the intensity of his anger has begun to ebb away, only the shame and embarrassment remained.

“God damn it.” He cursed to himself.

There were so many ways he could have handled that, and he chose the worst of all the options.

A big ol’ breakdown, temper tantrum style.

In front of Pickle too. His supposed opponent.

Fantastic.

You had to say something. It’s good that you took initiative. You made your presence known.

“Yeah, but like that?” Trophy answered out loud, because screw it—he’s already made a fool of himself. Why stop now?

“What if he doesn’t even come over now?” He laments, bringing both hands over his eyes now. “That was such a fucking turn off, there’s no way he’s going to be in the mood to do anything.”

Knife’s not the kind of guy to leave things unfinished.

He’ll come over.

“Right,” Trophy mutters to himself. “Because he has to.”

He heaves a sigh.

“Because the rules of the game say he has to.”

The game doesn’t say anything about having to fix personal problems like these.

But you know he’s going to do that anyways.

Trophy hums.

“Because he’s losing his edge. Getting all soft and lame.”

No.

If he chooses to fix things between you two,

It’s because there’s something between you that he wants to save.

Something more than just the game.

A soft dusting of color warms Trophy’s face at the thought.

That wasn’t true, was it?

What was there for Knife to save, asides from the game itself? Surely, if Knife was looking to smooth things over with Trophy, it was so that the game could continue in peace.

Then again, tensions had been kinda high when they first started this whole game in the first place. They fucked their way through their rivalry, even when their anger with each other outweighed their lust.

Knife wouldn’t have to resolve any issues between them to continue the game. It wouldn’t have been any different from how it used to be in the beginning.

But if Knife did choose to talk things over with him… if he apologized to Trophy and admitted he was being a dickhead for ignoring him… then…

What would it mean?

What would he be trying to save with those words?

Keep taking initiative like that and you might just find out.

Trophy brought a hand down to his abdomen, where his stomach started to twist and churn with a slurry of strange emotions. They made him feel sick…yet also giddy at the same time?

“Ugh…” He groaned, his expression pinching. “I think I’m gonna puke.”

A knock sounded from his door.

All prior thoughts about his nausea flew out of his mind, replaced instead with sudden alertness as Trophy scrambled to shove himself off of his bed—his heart pounding in his chest.

He rushed to make himself look presentable, moving towards his dresser and leaning against it. He alternated between leaning back with both hands propping himself up, to crossing his arms over his chest and keeping one leg raised and bent at the knee against the dresser.

He had to adjust himself a few times before finally deciding on a lazy slouch, leaning against the dresser.

There. Cool and casual. Let Knife know he doesn’t care at all.

At least, he hoped that was the impression he gave.

Clearing his throat, Trophy spoke up.

“It’s unlocked.” He called, taking care to keep his voice deep and bored. “Just come in.”

Slowly, with a twist of the knob, the door creaked open.