Chapter Text
the hallways of hotel oj were never truly silent, but at 2:00 in the morning, the usual chaotic energy of the contestants settled into a heavy, dark quiet. trophy stood alone in the communal kitchen adjacent to the lobby on the first floor. the harsh fluorescent lights reflecting off his polished-looking skin as he scoured a smudge off his dumb shiny (actually greasy, as knife said) hair. he didn't notice the sudden drop in temperature or the way the stovetop light on the stove flickered and died. it was only when a jagged, translucent blur drifted through the pantry door that trophy froze, his reflection in the stainless steel fridge suddenly overlaid by the smug, flickering image of knife. it was like a blur, mixed with a silhouette. like when you stare at the heat waves above a fire for too long, but with a grey tint and a face if you pay attention. before trophy could even bark out a quick insult or a swear , the ghost lunged forward, and the sensation of icy static surged through trophy’s frame, silencing his quiet yells as his own limbs began to move with a heavy, jagged rhythm that wasn't his own.
“KNIFE. WHAT THE F-“ trophy whisper-yelled before he felt his voice scratch away and soon become stolen by knife along with his body. trophy had learned he lost full control once he essentially fit into his skin.
knife giggled at his stupid reaction, the sound vibrating oddly in trophy’s own throat, a hollow, echoing noise that felt like a cough right before you get a throat ache. knife stretched, or rather, he forced trophy’s rigid, athletic frame to slouch until his spine popped.
"relax, goldilocks" knife said through trophy’s mouth, his thoughts echoing like a second track of audio in trophy’s mind. "you’ve been staring at your own face for three hours. in a fridge. i’m doing the world a favor by taking the wheel."
knife, in trophy’s body, took a step forward, well— almost. his ankle slid out from under him as he crashed to the ground.
“SORRY” knife whispered into the dark silence of the room
“why did i say sorry?” knife thought, without realizing one crucial detail. him possessing trophy not only meant that he would take over trophy’s thoughts, feelings, and movements, but also that the downside was that trophy could also hear knife thinking as well. they WERE sharing a body after all, even against trophy’s will.
he stood up, whispering a “well i haven’t exactly had legs in… a while”
finally managing a few steps, he sat down on the couch, taking a fist full of pretzels from the table, not caring how long they had been sitting there, and shoved it in his— well trophy’s face.
“damn i forgot how good food is. i’ve only eaten air and the smell of other people’s expired takeout for the past few weeks” knife said, lifting his legs to rest on the coffee table.
“hey trophy. i know you can hear me right now,” knife mumbled out loud to himself through chews.
he could. he wished he couldn’t, but he could.
his body and consciousness felt like it was slipping away even farther into his mind.
“stop…. eating that” trophy’s thought hissed, barely able to
"make me.” knife retorted aloud, his voice— well, trophy's voice—sounding thick with half-chewed food. he leaned back further, the cheap, ugly leather of the couch squeaking under his stolen weight.
“actually don’t. i don’t care. i don’t care if you gain weight or whatever you’re scared about."
“hah! when i get out of here you’re gonna be fucking boiling! you’re gonna be so mad at me.”
“it’s cute when you’re mad” knife’s though slipped into their shared consciousness without him realizing
“let’s see if test tube left any of her stupid hair clips that she uses when she’s
"don’t you dare—" knife quiet voice said from the back of his mind
suddenly, the static surged back through him and he felt a force jerk out of his back.
trophy collapsed against the wall, gasping for air that finally felt like his own. knife drifted a few feet away, his smug expression returning as he regained his translucent form.
trophy wiped his mouth aggressively, his hands trembling.
"G-GET OUT. IM TELLING OJ. AND FAN. A-AND EVERYONE. YOU’RE A FREAK! I CAN HEAR WHAT YOU’RE THINKING!" trophy, now dealing with having to hold up his own weight, yelled.
knife didn't look scared, but after trophy finished his sentence, his eyes widened for a moment and he seemed to bite the inside of his lip. other than that, he just floated there, crossing his transparent arms over his chest, his eyes narrowing as he watched trophy immediately reach up to fix his hair.
"you know," knife said, his voice now thin and distant, "it kind of pisses me off when you admire yourself like that. fixing your hair and everything."
trophy paused, his fingers still grasping his hair. "excuse me?"
"You think you’re hot stuff and shit, but..." knife started
"but what?" trophy snapped, putting his hand on his hip.
"you’re not," knife giggled to himself. "see, this is why you’re single! like paper said that time. that was funny."
before trophy could throw a punch—which would have just gone through the air anyway—knife vanished through the ceiling, leaving nothing behind but the faint, lingering, salty taste of cheap pretzels.
trophy was pissed. like REALLY pissed. stomping his feet loudly as he walked down the hall to his room.
he slammed his bedroom door shut and locked it—as if a lock could stop someone who literally just drifted through a ceiling.
"disgusting. absolute weirdo," trophy hissed, throwing himself onto his bed. he aggressively rubbed his arms, still feeling that lingering chill that he hated. he could still taste those stale pretzels. it was disgusting. it felt invasive. it WAS invasive.
he stared up at the ceiling, still in his day clothes. he tried to close his eyes and just sleep, but knife’s voice kept looping in his head. “It’s cute when you’re mad.”
trophy’s face heated up. "he didn't mean it. he was just..." he muttered to the empty room. he closed his eyes tight, trying to force sleep to come, but his mind was a mess of gold and grey. he kept seeing that jagged, blurred silhouette behind his eyelids.
“i-i’m not just a pretty face” trophy whispered into his pillow, his voice cracking with a mix of pity for himself and something else he didn't want to name.
the room felt still. to still. and cold. but cold with a presence.
the temperature didn't just drop—it plummeted. the air grew heavy, smelling faintly of dirt or dust—or whatever. trophy froze, his eyes snapping open. he didn't see anything, but he felt that familiar, prickly sensation at the base of his neck.
"i know you're there," trophy snapped, sitting up abruptly. the shadows in the corner of the room seemed to flicker, thickening into a shape that shouldn't have been there.
knife materialized slowly, sitting cross-legged on the corner of trophy's bed, looking bored but entirely too focused on trophy.
“what. what… do… did you mean by that?” trophy demanded, pointing a trembling finger at the ghost. "the ‘cute' thing. and the... the other thing you thought when you were inside my head."
knife leaned back and let out a dry, echoing chuckle.
"you heard me, didn't you?" knife’s voice was a low hum that made trophy’s stomach feel weird.
"the connection works both ways, goldie. if I was thinking it, it’s because i meant it. i’m sure you know that by now. you spend all day looking in the mirror because you’re terrified that if you stop, people will realize there’s nothing else there."
“nothing there but your preeeeetttyyy face.”
“but while i was stuck i did your stupid fucking brain i could hear the ‘nothing else’. and this isn’t the first time i’ve heard first-hand exactly what you’re thinking.”
trophy gripped his bedsheets until his knuckles turned white. "get. out."
"make. me.” knife said, echoing his own words. this time, watching to see if trophy would break first.
“what… do you want?” trophy said, watching knife closely
knife let out a sharp, staticky cackle, retreating just an inch as trophy’s teeth snapped shut on empty air. he didn’t stay back for long, though. he drifted forward, his translucent form floating with a sharp glow.
"relax, goldie" knife , his voice echoing like it was far away, a pleasing image for trophy. "you're the one snapping at people. i’m just.. putting it out there,"
trophy wiped his face with the back of his hand, looking like he wanted to scrub his very soul clean. "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD GET OUT OF MY ROOM!!"
trophy made an effort to shove his elbow into knife to move him away
"are you... are you wagging?" trophy shrieked, spinning around just as he reached the edge of his bed. "YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME.”
knife didn't answer with words. instead, he lunged forward.
since he had spent the last hour hitched to trophy’s nervous system via possession and all the times he had startled trophy by materializing out of nothing, he had learned a bit about weight. he didn't pass through trophy this time. he pressed into him, the sheer cold of his spectral form forcing trophy backward until the back of his knees hit his neatly folded bedspread.
trophy tumbled back, but knife was over him in an instant, hovering just inches away. he braced his translucent hands on either side of yrophy’s shoulders, effectively pinning him against the blank pillows.
"you're real obsessed with labels, trophy," knife whispered, his grin widening until it looked a little too wide for a human face. that ghostly tail was going a mile a minute now, blurred into a hazy white fan of motion. "dog, ghost, perfectionist... how about 'stuck'? ‘pinned down’ maybe? we could try that one,"
"get off." trophy hissed, though his voice lacked its usual bite. he was too busy staring at the tail. "you’re literally vibrating with excitement. this is humiliating for both of us."
"i think it’s hilarious," knife countered, leaning in closer until the tip of his nose—suddenly as human as his—brushed against trophy’s. “and honestly? after being stuck inside that head of yours, i think i like it better out here. i get a much better view of you losing your mind."
knife placed his hand on trophy’s cheek and propped his jaw open with his thumb.
“fuck’ you mean i’m a dog? who’s the dog now—”
trophy, in a blur of him attempting to bite knife’s finger, “STOP—ST-STOP DOING THAT! WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN??”
knife tumbled back with a laugh. “HA! YOU SHOULD SEE YOUR FACE!! ITS SO RED. MY GOD.” he cackled as trophy blinked and fought the urge to lick his lips.
trophy scrambled to sit up, his face burning with a heat that felt entirely too real compared to the freezing draft Knife left in his wake. he adjusted his collar with trembling fingers, trying to reclaim some shred of his dignity.
"You are a menace," Trophy spat, though the insult felt thin. "A glitchy, translucent, overactive nuisance."
lnife didn't move away. he hovered just at the edge of the bed, his form flickering like a dying fluorescent light. the frantic wagging of his tail slowed into a rhythmic, hypnotic sweep. his laughter died down into a low, hummed vibration that seemed to resonate right in the center of trophy’s chest.
"you keep talking, goldie," knife murmured, his ego practically radiating off him in waves of cold static. "but you’re still sitting there. you haven't run for the door. you haven't even thrown a pillow at me."
"i’m waiting for you to leave so i can bleach the air!"
"liars go to hell~" knife teased, drifting back into trophy’s personal space. "oh wait, i’m already dead! guess that doesn't apply to me."
he leaned down again, but this time the cocky grin was gone, replaced by a sharp, focused intensity. knife reached out, his hand solidifying just enough to feel like an ordinary hand against trophy’s jaw. he didn't prop it open this time; he just tilted trophy’s head up, forcing the perfectionist to look him right in his glowing, mischievous eyes.
"admit it,"
knife whispered. "everything in this room is exactly where you want it. including me."
trophy opened his mouth to deliver a rebuttal, but the words died in his throat. the ghost was being too quiet. too still.
"i. hate. you," trophy breathed, his gaze dropping to knife’s smirk.
"i know," knife rasped.
in one swift movement, knife closed the distance.
it was a total sensory disaster. the feeling of biting into an icicle combined with the sharp sting of a static shock. like rain. if the rain was secretly deeply in love with you. trophy gasped against the sudden, jarring cold, his hands instinctively flying up to grab at knife’s spectral hoodie to pull him closer—or push him away, he wasn't sure which.
and when knife finally broke the contact, he pulled back just far enough to see trophy’s dazed, wide-eyed expression. knife’s tail gave one singular, violent wag.
"so," knife said, his voice crackling with a triumphant smugness. "on a scale of one to ten—"
“kILL YOURSELF!!!”
“you have GOT to be joking.”
trophy stared at him for a long beat, his lips tingling from the cold. he slowly reached up, smoothed his hair back into place, and narrowed his eyes.
"NEVER.” trophy started, forcing a serious tone, trying and failing to stop his voice from cracking.
“DO THAT. AGAIN.”
“all i heard was do that again”
“SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
the silence in trophy’s room was thick, broken only by the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the spectral tail hitting the mattress. trophy sat on the edge of his bed, his skin still prickling with the leftover static from the kitchen encounter. he felt raw, like a nerve ending had been left exposed to the open air. knife wasn't leaving. he was sprawled out across the foot of the bed, his translucent limbs tangling with the expensive, high-thread-count duvet Trophy usually obsessed over keeping wrinkle-free. "you look like you're about to explode," knife remarked, his voice a low, distorted hum. "it's a look. not a good one, but a look." "you invaded my body," trophy hissed, turning to glare at him. "you ate stale pretzels with my mouth. and now. you’re sitting on my bed. LIKE YOU PAY RENT?" knife rolled onto his side, his glowing eyes tracking the way Trophy’s hands were shaking. "i told you, goldie. it's crowded in this hotel. everyone’s got an opinion, everyone’s got a gimmick. inside your head? it’s just you. you and that massive, fragile ego. it was actually kind of quiet." "it was private," trophy corrected sharply, crossing his arms. "something you clearly don't understand." knife floated upward, drifting until he was eye-level with trophy. the air in the room didn't just get cold; it felt thin, like the atmosphere was being sucked out. "private? trophy, you spend every waking second making sure people see exactly what you want them to see. the hair, the attitude, the 'tough guy' act. you’re the most public person here." he leaned in closer, his blurred face mere inches from trophy’s. "but I saw the stuff you don't show. the way you’re actually terrified that if you aren't the best-looking or the strongest, you’re just... nothing." trophy’s breath caught. he wanted to swing, to yell, to push the ghost through the wall. but the weight of the truth felt like a physical hand pressing down on his chest. "get. out." trophy whispered, his voice cracking. "not yet," knife said. he didn't move away. instead, he reached out—his hand flickering between a grey blur and something that looked almost solid. he let his fingers brush against trophy’s gold-plated shoulder. the contact sent a jolt of ice straight to trophy’s heart. "you heard what I thought," knife murmured, his expression shifting from smug to something uncomfortably intense. "about you being 'cute' when you're mad. you think i was just messing with you?" trophy’s face burned. "i think you're a freak who’s been dead too long and forgotten how to talk to people." "maybe," knife conceded with a sharp, staticky chuckle. "or maybe being dead means i don't have to lie anymore. i don't have to pretend I don't find your little tantrums entertaining. or that i don't like the way you look when you're actually forced to drop the act." knife’s tail gave a sudden, sharp wag, hitting the bedframe with a metallic clang that shouldn't have been possible for a ghost. He looked down at it, then back at trophy, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. "see? even the 'dog' parts of me can't help it," knife teased. trophy stared at him, caught between the urge to run and the strange, magnetic pull of the cold. the room felt smaller, the shadows in the corners stretching toward them. he realized then that the lock on the door didn't matter—the real intrusion wasn't knife being in the room. it was that knife was already under his skin, and trophy wasn't entirely sure he wanted the chill to leave.
-the next day-
trophy’s frankly traumatized conscious came back as he emerged from his room.
he dragged himself down to the lobby, his usually pristine hair slightly askew, his eyes had faint dark circles that he couldn’t hide no matter how much caffeine he ingested.
he was slumped over a mug of lukewarm coffee when a shadow fell over the table.
“trophy.”
“mm” trophy grunted, leaning his head on his hand.
“who... were you talking to?”
trophy stiffened, his grip tightening on the ceramic mug. he looked up to see oj standing there, arms crossed, looking at him with that exhausted expression that he put on to make himself feel important.
“wh-?”
“in the kitchen last night,” oj pressed, his voice firm. “i could hear you through the walls.. arguing. with the air— with… yourself. for twenty minutes.”
“i.. wasn’t talking to anyone,” trophy snapped, his voice cracking slightly.
“yes you were? you were yelling... at someone,” oj said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “and then you did this weird slouching thing and started eating floor-pretzels. trophy, i need to know if you’re ok. are you having a breakd—“
“….it’s nothing. i was... drunk. talking to myself,” trophy mumbled , his face heating up as he remembered the "cute when you're mad" comment.
“one; yelling at yourself that you’re freak and that you can hear what you’re thinking? and two; we don’t have alcohol.. i don’t think..” oj tilted his head, unimpressed.
“because that’s what i heard through the walls. it didn't sound like you were talking to yourself, trophy.”
trophy felt a drop of cold sweat slide down his neck, and he squinted to see the figure behind oj.
knife was back, and he was clearly enjoying the show.
“i-i.. FUCK.. i..” trophy mumbled half in response to oj and half to knife
“you know what.. enjoy your monologue or whatever you’re doing. just…. stay in your room” oj said, leaving to check on whatever he was “busy” with.
“and trophy,”
“i’m not stupid. i can hear sounds.” oj said
right after he left knife swiftly turned the corner and leaned on the wall
"you’re a terrible liar. but… hey, at least he didn't hear the part where I called you cute. that would've really ruined your 'tough guy' reputation, wouldn't it?"
“that was in your thoughts.. remember?”
“oh you’re smart too.. guess i forgot that”
a long silence stretched between them, interrupted by knife’s awkward laugh.
at least he didn’t mention the screaming. “knife. go away.” trophy whispered to the blurry air in front of him "you’re still thinking about it," knife’s voice drifted through trophy’s ear and out of the other, though his body was nowhere to be seen. It was just a disembodied hum, an invisible residue left over from their "shared" experience. “NO??" trophy hissed, aggressively scratching a stain on the tablecloth. "i’m thinking about how bad i wish i could eat a bagel right now." "..liars go to hell, goldie. we covered this." with a flicker of static knife landed soundlessly on the edge of the counter. he wasn't translucent anymore; he was materialistic— almost human. it scared trophy a bit, knowing that he was talking to someone who could fight back or… "you’re glowing," trophy noted, his eyes narrowing. "it’s tacky. you look like a neon sign." "we’ll call it ‘post possession glow’," knife countered, leaning back into nothing. "being inside you…r head was like a battery recharge. well, except for the parts where you keep a mental checklist of every person who hasn't complimented your hair today. that part was draining." “i know what you’re ... you sound like an idiot,” trophy’s hand slipped, the mug clattering onto the table and about a tablespoon of coffee spilling onto the tablecloth. he scrambled to fold the cloth over itself and make sure the dark wooden tables didn’t stain. "why are you still here?" trophy asked, his voice dropping an octave. "shouldn’t you be anywhere but here? making someone else’s life a living fucking hell?” knife hopped off the counter, drifting closer until he was hovering just over trophy’s lap. “maybe i like the view." trophy felt his pulse jump—a traitorous, frantic rhythm against his ribs. he hated how easily knife could read him now. there was no "poker face" when your opponent has literally shared your nervous system. "you’re a freak," trophy whispered, his fist clenching around the stained tablecloth, but he didn't pull away when knife leaned in. trophy’s breath hitched. he wanted to bark out a denial, to throw a punch, to call him a freak AGAIN. but his fingers were already twitching, reaching out to catch the hem of knife’s transparent hoodie. he caught the fabric—it felt like holding a handful of cold, dead smoke—and pulled. “woooahh there—“ knife chuckled as he stared down at trophy’s pathetic expression trophy’s face was red and his arm was still clutching knife’s collar. “you’re really desperate now aren’t you?” knife sneered knife remained in his stationary stance, staring down at trophy until his hand went loose and dropped to his side. “that’s funny but.. not right now” “what the fuck do you mean not right now? what are we gonna do? switch archetypes? god i hope not” trophy said, purposefully avoiding eye contact trophy breaks the awkward silence, “you’re obviously into me” the room started spinning for knife and his face buckled with an unreadable expression. “does this have to be so complicated?” knife hissed “YOU JUST INTERRUPTED ME. TRYING TO—“ trophy’s died down into a whisper as he began to bunch up the tablecloth he stood up and turned around, passing through the hallway in the direction of the laundry room, holding the rolled tablecloth, feeling knife’s trace behind him.
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."
the heavy hum of a nearby dryer shaking on its last legs was the only sound separating them from the rest of the hotel. knife’s hand was still resting against trophy’s cheek, the faint, staticky cold sending a weirdly pleasant shiver down the athlete's spine, when the heavy metal door of the laundry room suddenly creaked open.
SQUEEEEEEAK.
both of them froze.
standing in the doorway, clutching an overflowing file folder like a lifeline, was cabby.
she didn’t say a word. in fact, she looked like she physically couldn’t say a word. her eyes were impossibly wide, staring at them over the top of her left hand, which was clamped firmly over her mouth. her other hand, still holding the folder, was trembling slightly, sending a few stray papers drifting down to the linoleum floor.
she stared at trophy—whose face was currently a vibrant, terrifying shade of cherry red—and then at knife, whose hand was very clearly grasping trophy's jaw. her gaze darted between them, the internal file cabinet in her mind obviously going into overdrive, trying to categorize the scene she was witnessing.
the silence stretched for three agonizing seconds. the dryer gave a loud, metallic THUNK.
trophy violently pushed knife away, his elbow accidentally hitting the "start" button on an empty washing machine, which immediately began to chug and groan into life. "IT’S NOT WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE!" trophy yelled, his voice cracking so badly it sounded like a broken squeak toy. he frantically began smoothing down his hair. “was that sound your voice or the washing machine?” knife whispered in slight fear. "he was... he was trying to choke me! yeah! hhost aggression! total violence!"
knife stammered, frantically wiping his hands on his hoodie as his ghost tail started thumping against a detergent box in sheer panic. "uh, yeah, totally. just standard, spooky spirit s-shit. you should probably run, cabby."
cabby slowly lowered her hand, her mouth still open in a small, stunned 'O'. she blinked once, twice, looking incredibly confused. "choking...?" she whispered, her voice uncharacteristically small. she looked at knife’s hand, then at trophy’s neck, which was definitely not showing signs of physical distress.
"yes, choking!" trophy snapped, his chest heaving as he tried to regain his composure, despite his face radiating heat. "i am a victim! now go away before you get... ghostly.. germs!.."
cabby slowly raised her folder, clutching it to her chest again. she looked at knife, then back at trophy, the confusion fading into pure, concentrated shock.
"wait," she said, her voice finally finding its usual pitch, though it sounded strained. "you aren't...?" she waved a hand vaguely between them, then dropped it. "you aren't trying to sabotage each other?"
"uh. that is exactly what we’re doing," knife tried, crossed his translucent arms and attempting a smirk that failed miserably. "we are sabotaging each other with... awkwardness.”
"no, that’s not..." cabby started, taking a slow step backward. her eyes were wider than ever now, the file folders starting to slip. "oh my goodness."
"oh my goodness what?!" trophy demanded, stepping forward and trying to look intimidating.
cabby stared at them, her expression a mix of utter disbelief and processing new data. "you guys are... gay? for each other?"
the silence that followed was so thick you could have sliced it with... well, knife.
trophy’s face actually lightened from cherry red to a pale white. "WE ARE NOT!!" he shrieked, his voice going completely into high-pitched territory.
"i mean, i don't see that on any of your profile sheets!" cabby argued, her surprise turning into a frantic desire to organize this new information. she started rifling through the papers she wasn't currently holding. “let me.. check.” she mumbled, scanning a page from the back of the folder.
she stopped, looking up at them as a horrifying realization crossed her face. "you two are the only people you don't completely hate! how did i miss this!?” she trailed off, staring at them as her internal system continued to reboot.
"fascinating!" cabby suddenly declared. “i’ll update this right now! i was on the way anyway, really it’s fine!”
"DONT" trophy and knife shouted, but cabby was already backpedaling out the door, scattering papers like a disorganized dust cloud.