Chapter Text
He was struggling, to say the least. Crashing on an old friend’s couch, barely keeping a job up, and even struggling mentally.
‘How did I let myself get this low?’ Trophy thought. 'Ugh, this is humiliating.’
He flopped down on the couch, grunting into the pillow before dislodging his head from the soft comfort. He rolled over onto his back to look up at the ceiling as he went deep in thought.
‘Urgh, what am I going to do? It’s like.. Four or five in the morning?..’
He scratched his head for a pondering moment before sighing and standing up, running a hand across his face like it took up all his energy. He reached under the couch and shuffled his hand around, reaching for a huge binder and yanked it out of the sea of trash and dust shoved under there. He wiped his hand on the couch, rubbing off all the dust unsuccessfully.
He dusted it off and sat back on the couch, taking a swig out of his flask and opening up the binder. The binder was full of pictures, the front labeled “PORTFOLIO” in Sharpie. He flipped through the pages, looking at all his pictures.
He had a wide range of photos, from simple flowers to people.
When he flipped to that page, he froze. The page was old, hidden at the back of his portfolio, and it was full of pictures of Knife.
‘Why do I still have this? I hate that bastard!’
He thought about the photos for a pondering moment, rolling the corner of the page between his fingers and grumbling.
He remembered taking these pictures but didn't exactly remember why. Or why he kept them.
He recalled the moments with Knife for a moment. Thinking about the time before the drama– their games and inside jokes, sleepovers. Trophy missed that.
They were all fraying at the edges, yellowed with age. I wonder how he’s doing now. Trophy caught himself thinking, mentally scolding himself afterwards.
He shoved the portfolio back under the couch and flopped back down and shoved his head into his pillow with a grumble. The sun was starting to peer through the window’s curtains, casting a gentle glow upon the empty and lifeless living room.
He sneered out of the cushion and crawled his way off the couch, huffing as he got dressed and ready for his day. He put on his uniform, took care of his hygiene, and started driving to his workplace, a cafe in a sketchy part of town.
He parked his car lazily in front of the cafe and swung the door open as he walked inside, preparing the cafe for opening alone.
He scrubbed dishes, wiped windows, and mopped floors before finally approaching the “Sorry, we’re closed!/Come in, We’re Open!” sign to flip it to the open side. He walked over to the front counter and turned on the pastry heating lamps, drawing his attention to the back door opening. “Hey Trophy! Thanks for getting everything ready; we’ll get on the pastries now.” Suitcase chimed joyfully, starting to get to work.
Ugh, why does she have to be so obnoxious? He grumbled to himself and turned on the register, now just waiting for a customer.
Just as Trophy felt that he was going to fall asleep, someone walked in and Trophy froze.
It was Knife.
Knife, with his clean-cut silver hair, his metal facial piercings, and his rough exterior.
Trophy noted the oil on his hands and his many scars now littering his body.
Before he knew it, Knife was right up to the counter, clearing his throat. “May I get… a caramel macchiato with a lemon cake?” He hummed politely, pointing at the fresh lemon cakes. Box had baked. Trophy darted to sit up and nodded. “Yeah—that'll be… $8.89, cash or card?” He gulped as Knife pulled out his card and swiped it. Trophy handed him his receipt, bagged the lemon cake, and started making his drink. As he did, he snuck a conversation with Suitcase.
“Is that really Knife? From high school?" He whispered while waiting for the coffee to warm up. “Oh, yeah, he lives around here.
He works at the auto parts store down the street.” She chimed and continued mixing cookie dough.
He went back to his coffee-making, chiming the bell once he finished Knife’s order.
“Hey, your order’s ready.” Knife perked up from his seat and walked over to the counter, reaching out to grab his treats.
Two of his coworkers, Box and Suitcase, walked in and waved at him.
He met Trophy’s eyes for a moment just… Staring at him.
Trophy looked the same as he did in high school. Not untouched, but tired.
He ripped his eyes off the pretty boy in front of him and snapped himself out of his thoughts.
“Thank you kindly.” He replied, walking outside with his pastry and drink.
Trophy combed his fingers through his hair, groaning. “UUUGGHH! Suit! How much longer do we have??” He huffed with a pout after being ignored. “I’ll be outside.” Trophy swung the back door open and stepped out into the brisk air. It was springtime, so there was a sweet, cool breeze that made you shiver in the shadows but bask in the sunlight. He took note of this as he slowly brought a cigarette to his lips and lit it, watching the smoke rise from the tip.
He inhaled the intoxicating tobacco, puffing the smoke from his lungs like a steaming kettle. He leaned against the wall next to the door and shut his eyes, trying to take a breather.
Knife and Trophy didn’t exactly have the best history. Not one bit.
Back in high school, he and Knife were somewhat buddies till they both gained a crush on the same lady (who Trophy wouldn’t like to say).
Of course, Knife ended up dating her for a bit, and that's what started their rivalry.
Trophy inhaled another breath of smoke and blew it out, grunting in anger as he recalled the moments. He stared at the cigarette, at the burning, fiery edge, before throwing it on the ground and snuffing it out with his foot.
He charged back inside and went back to the register, letting Box deal with her last customer before he took over.
He dealt with all kinds of customers: kind, boring, and even a "Karen," which he had plenty of fun bothering. After he finished with the Karen, he heard Suitcase call out to him. “Boss wants you.”
Their boss was a sweet middle-aged woman named Cabby.
She had brown curly hair and usually wore light blue colors, loving jeans way too much. She sat in a wheelchair, which was always decorated in some way.
Her office certainly didn't reflect this, though. It was a small, simple room, with hardly anything besides a desk, a computer, and some shelves.
It had an almost cold feel from it, and it wasn’t because of the AC cranked up all the way.
She was sitting right in the middle of the room, arms crossed as she looked at her screen. “Do you know why you’re here, Trophy?”
His eyes darted back and forth, and he shook his head. What was he supposed to say? After a few moments, he spoke up with a guess.
"...Was it because of the lady who just came in?” He gulps and Cabby sighs.
“No. I—yes. You’re.. fired for treatment towards customers. We can't have you scaring them off, and you’ve already been warned before.”