Chapter Text
-timeskip- (cont’d, again)
the laundry room was a cramped, humid corner of the hotel that smelled perpetually of artificial lavender and damp lint. usually, trophy avoided it like the plague—it was a chore for "common" contestants—but right now, the mechanical hum of the dryers offered a white noise that drowned out the frantic thumping in his chest.
he shoved the stained tablecloth into an empty machine with more force than necessary.
"you're doing it wrong," a voice crackled from behind the industrial-sized detergent jug.
trophy didn't even jump. he was becoming dangerously accustomed to the sudden changes in temperature. "i didn't ask for a critique from a dead guy who doesn't even wear pants."
knife materialized, sitting atop a washing machine on the other side of the room. the motion made his translucent form flicker, like a corrupted video file. "i’m just saying. you’re supposed to pre-treat the stain. or is your 'perfection' just for show?"
"shut up. why do you know that?" trophy snapped, slamming the washer door. he leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the dryer, his reflection staring back at him—messy hair, flushed cheeks, and eyes that looked far too tired. "just... shut up. you spend all night invading my head, calling me cute, pinning me to my bed, and now you want to give me laundry tips?"
knife jumped down, landing with a soft thud that sounded too solid for a ghost. He stepped into trophy’s space, the air turning crisp. "i'm bored, goldie. being dead is a lot of standing around. you’re the only thing in this hotel that actually reacts when I poke."
trophy turned around, his back pressed against the washing machine. "so that’s all i am? a toy to posses when you feel like having a snack?"
the smug grin on knife’s face faltered for a fraction of a second. he looked down at trophy’s hand, which was still white-knuckled against the rim of the machine. the "post-possession glow" trophy had mentioned earlier seemed to dim, turning into a softer, more rhythmic pulse of light.
"you know you’re not," knife said, his voice dropping that jagged, sarcastic edge. he reached out, his fingers hovering just an inch from trophy’s collar. "i heard the 'nothing else' in your head, remember? i felt how much you hate being alone in that room. it’s why you spend three hours in front of a fridge mirror. you’re looking for someone else to be there."
trophy’s breath hitched. "i was looking for grease in my hair."
"liar," knife whispered.
he didn't lunge this time. he moved slowly, giving trophy every second to push him away, to scream for OJ, to run. but trophy stayed rooted to the spot, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. when knife’s hand finally made contact with trophy’s cheek, it wasn't the violent chill from before. yet again, it was a lingering, numbing frost—almost like holding an ice pack to a burn.
trophy tilted his head into the touch, a small. "you're cold," he muttered, his eyes fluttering shut.
"and you're way too hot-headed," knife retorted, but there was no bite in it. he leaned in, his forehead resting against trophy’s.
"if you tell anyone about this-" trophy breathed, his eyes opening to find knife’s glowing gaze.
knife let out a soft, genuine laugh that vibrated through trophy’s jaw. "deal. but only if you admit that it wasn’t that bad."
"get out," trophy groaned, though he didn't pull away.
“make me."