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Knife threw his fists against the walls of his room. He’d spent so long repressing his emotions that it felt odd finally letting them out. With another frustrated scream, Knife threw a chair towards the wall he’d been abusing. The wooden chair bounced off the wall, and not even a dent was created. He doesn’t care about the noises he makes at this point; he doesn’t care about the well-being of the person living next to him. He’s upset and tired, and he wants to punch someone badly.
Fortunately, someone else shared the same idea. His neighbor stomped out of their room and banged on his door. If Knife didn’t know better, he’d guess that the other person was using the door as a punching bag.
“Knife, what the hell are you doing? It’s midnight, and SOME OF US ARE TRYING TO SLEEP.”
Knife didn’t answer right away. His knuckles throbbed, and his chest rose and fell with ragged breaths. The anger that had been simmering inside him for so long had finally boiled over, and now that it was out, he didn’t know how to shove it back in. The pounding on his door only made it worse.
“Knife!” Trophy barked again, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. “Open up, or I swear I’m breaking this damn door down.”
Knife clenched his fists. He didn’t want to deal with this. Not now. Not when everything was spiraling out of control in his head. But ignoring Trophy would only make things worse, so with a frustrated growl, he stormed over and yanked the door open.
Trophy stood there in the dim hallway light, his messy hair sticking up at odd angles, his shirt wrinkled as he’d just rolled out of bed. His scowl was as sharp as ever, but his usual smug arrogance was replaced by pure irritation.
“The hell is wrong with you?” Trophy demanded, eyes narrowing as he looked past Knife at the mess in his room. “You throwing a tantrum or something?”
Knife’s jaw tightened. “Leave me alone.”
“Oh, sure, I’ll just leave you alone so you can keep throwing things at the walls like a maniac,” Trophy shot back, crossing his arms. “That’s really healthy.”
Knife exhaled sharply through his nose. “I don’t need a lecture.”
Trophy let out a frustrated groan, running a hand down his face. "Great. Just great. First, my roommate won’t shut up, and now you decide to have a mental breakdown at midnight. Do you people ever let me sleep?"
Knife rolled his eyes, his grip tightening on the doorframe. "Oh, I’m so sorry, senior, for ruining your precious bedtime."
Trophy scoffed, his glare intensifying. "You better be sorry. Some of us actually want to sleep, unlike you. Don’t you have a final challenge to lose tomorrow?"
Knife bristled at that, his fists clenching harder. "Oh, shut up, Trophy. You didn’t even make it through two eliminations, so just turn around and go back to your stupid bed before I make you."
"Oh yeah? Try me, tough guy," Trophy shot back, stepping closer, eyes daring. "I’d love to see you actually do something instead of just huffing and puffing and pretending your problems are more important than the rest of ours."
Knife didn’t even think; his body moved on instinct. His fist swung forward, aiming straight for Trophy’s smug face. But Trophy was just as quick. He ducked, the punch whiffing past his ear, and immediately countered with a hard shove to Knife’s chest. Knife staggered back a step but barely had time to recover before Trophy lunged at him. They crashed into the doorframe, fists flying, bodies colliding in a flurry of pure, unchecked frustration. Knife landed a solid hit to Trophy’s shoulder, but Trophy retaliated with a sharp elbow to Knife’s ribs.
“Asshole!” Trophy snarled, grabbing Knife by the front of his shirt and slamming him against the wall.
Knife gritted his teeth, his breath sharp as he shoved Trophy off. “You asked for this, dumbass!” he barked before tackling Trophy to the ground.
Trophy hit the floor with a grunt, but he wasn’t about to let Knife have the upper hand. He twisted his body, using his legs to kick Knife off him before scrambling back to his feet. Knife barely had time to regain his balance before Trophy was on him again, swinging wildly.
Knife blocked the first punch, but the second clipped his jaw, sending a fresh wave of anger through him. He growled and drove his fist into Trophy’s stomach, making him double over. But Trophy recovered fast, lunging forward and slamming his shoulder into Knife’s chest, sending them both stumbling back into the hallway wall.
They were a blur of fists and adrenaline, neither willing to back down. Trophy grabbed Knife’s arm and yanked him forward, slamming their foreheads together in a brutal headbutt.
"God damn it!" Knife hissed, and he staggered back, his vision swimming for a second.
Trophy, breathing heavily, wiped at the corner of his mouth, smirking when he saw the faint smear of blood. "What's the matter, Knife? Thought you liked fighting."
Knife didn’t answer; he just lunged. This time, he tackled Trophy full force, sending them both crashing into the ground again. They rolled across the floor, each trying to get the upper hand, neither willing to stop. Trophy grabbed a fistful of Knife’s shirt and pulled him down just to land a punch right into his ribs. Knife let out a sharp breath but retaliated immediately, grabbing Trophy by the collar and slamming his head against the floor.
Knife hovered over Trophy, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His fists were still clenched, knuckles bruised and aching, but he didn’t throw another punch. He just stopped.
For a long moment, he stared down at Trophy, whose cocky smirk never wavered despite the fresh bruises blooming on his face. Trophy was still waiting for him to keep going, still daring him to let his anger out. But Knife didn’t.
Instead, he exhaled sharply and released his grip on Trophy’s collar, shoving himself off and sitting back against the wall.
“…I’m done,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. His whole body still buzzed with leftover adrenaline, but the anger that had been clawing at his chest was fading into something heavier.
Trophy, still lying on the floor, blinked up at him, frowning. “ What? ”
“I said I’m done,” Knife repeated, voice quieter this time. He let his hands drop into his lap, staring down at his scraped knuckles. “I- I shouldn’t have lost it like that. I’m not…” He swallowed, jaw clenching. “I’m not that person anymore.”
Trophy sat up with a groan, rolling his shoulders like he hadn’t just been slammed into the floor multiple times. Then, to Knife’s absolute annoyance, he laughed.
“Oh, my God,” Trophy snorted, shaking his head. “You’re such a wuss. ”
Knife’s head snapped toward him, glare sharp, but Trophy just kept going.
“You had me on the ground, dude! You won the fight! And what, you’re just gonna sit there and have a moral crisis about it?” Trophy scoffed. “God, you’re so lame now.”
Knife exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to stay calm. “I’m not lame, I just- I’m trying to be better,” he said, trying not to let Trophy’s words get under his skin.
Trophy rolled his eyes. “Better? Better than what, Knife? Yourself? Please. You liked the fight, admit it.”
Knife scowled. “That’s not the point.”
Trophy rolled his eyes, wiping a bit of blood from his lip with his thumb. “Oh, but it is. You can try to change all you want, but deep down? You’re still you. And ‘you’ likes punching things. No amount of self-improvement crap is gonna change that.”
Knife’s fists clenched in his lap. He’s wrong, he told himself. He has to be wrong.
Knife stared at the floor, his breathing still uneven, fists clenched so tight his nails dug into his palms. Trophy’s words clung to him, wrapping around his thoughts like barbed wire. He wanted to snap back, tell Trophy to shut up, to call him an idiot who didn’t know what he was talking about. But the worst part?
He did know.
Knife exhaled sharply, forcing himself to unclench his hands. “You don’t get it,” he muttered, his voice quieter than before.
Trophy, still lounging on the floor like this was all just a game, raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Then explain it to me, smart guy.”
Knife hesitated, staring at his bruised knuckles before flexing his fingers. “I used to be worse than this,” he admitted. “Back then… fighting wasn’t just something I did when I was pissed off. It was just what I did. If something annoyed me, I hit it. If I didn’t get my way, I broke something. It didn’t matter who was on the other end; I didn’t care. I just wanted to hit something, and that was it.”
Trophy watched him carefully, his expression shifting just slightly.
Knife swallowed. “And people hated me for it. No one trusted me, no one wanted to be around me. I was just the guy with anger issues, the guy you didn’t want to piss off. And maybe back then, I thought I didn’t care, but-”
He shook his head. “I do care. I didn’t like the person I was. So I decided I wasn’t gonna be him anymore.”
Trophy hummed, tilting his head. “And how’s that working out for you?”
Knife scoffed, rubbing his face. “Oh, fantastic, obviously. That’s why I just beat the crap out of you in the hallway.”
Trophy snickered. “Yeah, great job on that whole ‘self-improvement’ thing.”
Knife shot him a glare, but there wasn’t as much heat behind it. “Shut up. I lost control, okay? That’s why I’m mad. I’ve been trying so hard to not be that guy, and then you show up and piss me off, and-” He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “And I just let it happen.”
Trophy studied him for a moment before rolling his eyes. “Ugh, you make it sound so dramatic. Like, dude, we fought. It happens. Not everything has to be some life-changing crisis.”
Knife frowned. “It does when I’ve spent years trying not to be the guy who solves his problems by throwing punches.”
Trophy stretched his arms behind his head, grinning. “Eh. I dunno. I think you’re overthinking it. Fighting’s fun. You got mad, you punched me, I punched you back, big deal. Nobody died, nobody hates you, so what’s the problem?”
Knife sighed, shaking his head. “People did die. I’ve killed Marshmallow so many times just for fun.”
Trophy’s expression faltered. Just a little.
Knife didn’t look at him. He stared at the ground, his jaw clenched, his hands resting on his knees. His voice was quieter now but heavier.
“I didn’t even think about it back then,” he muttered. “Didn’t care. Marsh would come back, so what did it matter? I’d just do it again the next time I was pissed off. And the next time. And the next.”
His fingers curled into his pants. “It was just… a gag I did. ”
Trophy was finally quiet for once.
Knife let out a sharp breath, finally turning to look at him. “So yeah, maybe I am overthinking things. Maybe to you, this fight was just another stupid scrap. But I know what I’m capable of. I know how easy it is for me to go too far. And I’m not letting myself be that person again.”
Trophy tilted his head, considering. Then, instead of insulting Knife, maybe even throwing another punch, he simply said, “Do you think you still would?”
Knife blinked. “What?”
Trophy leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “Do you think you’d still do it? If Marshmallow was right here, right now, would you kill her for fun?”
Knife stared at him.
Trophy just raised an eyebrow, completely unfazed. “Well? Would you?”
Knife opened his mouth, then shut it. His fingers dug into his pants, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. He wanted to say no; that was supposed to be the obvious answer. The right answer. But something in his chest twisted at the thought.
Because the truth was, for so long, he never even thought about it. It was just a joke. Just a gag. Marsh would come back, all burnt or melted or whatever, and they’d all laugh about it. It was normal. It was fine.
But now, looking back, it made his stomach churn.
Trophy watched him struggle for an answer, and then, of course, he smirked. “Damn. Do you actually have to think about it? That’s rough, buddy.”
Knife exhaled sharply through his nose. “Shut up.”
Trophy just snickered, stretching his arms behind his head. “Man, I remember when I first met you, y’know. Thought you were pretty cool back then. You had that whole ‘you’re a jock, I’m a jerk’ thing going on. Like, if I stepped one inch out of line, you’d clock me in the face. It was awesome. ”
Knife shot him an unimpressed look. “That’s not a good thing.”
“I know, ” Trophy said, rolling his eyes. “I just mean, that’s what I thought was cool about you. You were dangerous. Unpredictable. And now…” He gestured vaguely at Knife. “You’re, like, having a whole moral breakdown over one little fight.”
Knife scoffed. “Because I actually give a damn about the kind of person I am.”
“Yeah, yeah, self-growth, blah blah, boring,” Trophy said, waving a hand. “All I’m saying is, you were way cooler back then.”
Knife sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And you're a dumbass.”
Without warning, Trophy swung. His fist connected with Knife’s jaw in a sharp, brutal hit, snapping his head to the side.
Knife exhaled slowly, rolling his jaw as he turned back to face Trophy, his expression unreadable. “ Seriously?”
Trophy just raised his eyebrows, shaking out his fist. “What? You called me a dumbass.”
Knife let out a humorless chuckle, running his tongue over his teeth. “Yeah, and I was right. ”
Trophy shrugged, smug as ever. “Maybe. But I felt like hitting something, and hey, old Knife would’ve loved that, huh?”
Knife glared, tension creeping back into his shoulders. He could still feel the dull sting of Trophy’s punch, the familiar itch to retaliate burning under his skin. But he didn’t. He just clenched his fists, took a slow breath, and forced himself to let it go.
Trophy tilted his head, watching him closely. “Oh, come on. You’re not even gonna hit me back? Lame.”
Knife exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “No. I’m not.”
Trophy clicked his tongue. “Man, you really are trying, huh?”
“Yeah,” Knife muttered, rubbing his jaw. “I am.”
Trophy stared at him for a moment before rolling his eyes, slinging an arm around Knife’s shoulders like they hadn’t just been beating the crap out of each other. “God, that’s so embarrassing.”
Knife let out a tired exhale, shaking his head. “Look, you can think whatever you want, but I have changed. And if Marsh was right here? I wouldn’t -” He hesitated, just for a second, then forced himself to finish. “I wouldn’t hurt her.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Trophy said, rolling his eyes. “You’re just getting soft. What happened to the jerk? That was the fun part of you, man. Now you’re just some pacifist wannabe.” He snickered, shaking his head. “I used to think you were cool, but now you’re just... well, a disappointment.”
Knife’s jaw tightened. He could feel the familiar anger bubbling back up, but this time, he forced it down. “I was a disappointment. And I don’t want to be that guy anymore.”
His voice was steady, even though his fists were clenched at his sides. “I’ve hurt people, and I don’t want to hurt anyone again. Least of all, Marsh.”
Trophy raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? But what about me, huh? ”
Knife refused to meet his eye, Trophy grabbed his cheek to force their eyes to meet. Knife clenched his jaw, his hands twitching at his sides. He wasn’t going to let Trophy drag him into this. Not now, not after everything.
Trophy’s fingers dug into Knife’s cheek, forcing his face to turn toward him. “You’re not getting off that easy,” Trophy growled, his grip tightening just enough to make Knife flinch. “You don’t get to just walk away and pretend none of this matters. You matter to me, Knife. Whether you want to admit it or not.”
Knife’s pulse spiked, his chest tightening with the pressure of Trophy’s grip. His mind screamed for him to push him away, to snap, but he held it in. He had to hold it in. He couldn’t be that person anymore.
“You don’t matter to me, Trophy,” Knife spoke slowly, squeezing each word out of his teeth. “End of story.”
He slowly, carefully, reached up and pried Trophy’s hand from his cheek, his fingers trembling ever so slightly. He didn’t want to look at him, but Trophy wasn’t making it easy.
Knife’s grip tightened around Trophy’s wrist, his jaw clenching as he shoved his hand away. “I’m not doing this with you,” he muttered, stepping back, putting distance between them.
Trophy, on the other hand, closed the distance once more. “Running away again? What a wuss.”
Knife exhaled sharply, trying to reel himself in, but the way Trophy was looking at him, like he was still waiting for a reaction, still daring him, was making it impossible. His knuckles ached, his ribs throbbed from their earlier scuffle, and yet, Trophy wasn’t backing down. Neither was he.
“Why do you even care?” Knife snapped, glaring. “You don’t give a damn about me. You just want a fight.”
Trophy tilted his head, considering that for a second. Then he shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe I just miss the old you.” His smirk deepened. “Y’know, the one who actually knew how to hit back.”
Knife’s body moved before he could stop himself. His fist connected with Trophy’s face in a brutal right hook, sending him stumbling back into the hallway wall. Trophy let out a sharp breath, blinking from the impact, before his smirk stretched wider.
“There he is,” Trophy said, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth.
Knife barely had a second to register the words before Trophy lunged. His shoulder slammed into Knife’s gut, knocking him back into his room. Knife grunted as they crashed onto the floor, his back slamming against the cold wood. Trophy wasted no time; he swung again, aiming for Knife’s face, but this time, Knife caught his wrist.
Their eyes locked, breaths heavy. Trophy’s weight pinned Knife down, his free fist gripping Knife’s shirt. But Knife wasn’t the same person he used to be. He wasn’t just going to let his anger take over.
“Get off me,” Knife growled.
Trophy’s smirk faltered, but only slightly. “Why? You scared of what you might do?”
Knife’s fingers dug into Trophy’s wrist. “No. I’m scared of what I won’t.”
For the first time that night, Trophy hesitated. It was small, barely noticeable, but Knife caught it. His grip on Trophy’s wrist tightened as he shoved him off, flipping their positions so that Trophy was now the one pinned to the ground.
Trophy let out a breathless laugh. “That’s more like it.”
Knife glared down at him, his fists trembling. He could feel the familiar urge creeping back in, that sharp, reckless anger, the kind that begged to be let loose. But he fought it. He had to.
“This isn’t who I am anymore,” Knife muttered, his voice low. “And I’m done letting you drag me back.”
Trophy’s smirk twitched. “Are you, though? ‘Cause from where I’m lying, it looks like you’re still the same Knife you’ve always been.”
Knife’s breath was ragged. His body burned with adrenaline, his knuckles stung from every hit he had thrown. But he didn’t swing again. He just exhaled, forcing himself to let go. He pushed himself off Trophy and stepped back, running a hand through his hair. His head was pounding. His chest ached. He was so goddamn tired.
Trophy sat up, rubbing his jaw. “You’re really serious about this, huh?”
Knife didn’t answer. He just stared at his hands, at his bruised knuckles, at the evidence of everything he had tried to leave behind.
Trophy sighed, stretching his arms behind his head. “Well, that’s boring.”
Knife shot him a glare, but there was something else in Trophy’s expression now.
Trophy exhaled through his nose, tilting his head as he studied him. “You know,” he started, “if you’re really so desperate to change, maybe stop throwing punches every time I piss you off.”
Knife’s jaw tightened. “Maybe stop trying to piss me off.”
Trophy smirked. “Nah, that’s no fun.”
Knife sighed, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re predictable.” Trophy leaned back on his hands, still grinning despite the bruises already forming on his face. “But hey, I’ll give you this. You actually held back this time. Guess that’s something.”
Knife clenched his jaw, refusing to acknowledge the small part of himself that felt relieved at those words. Instead, he just turned away, running a hand down his face.
“I’m going to bed,” he muttered.
Trophy let out an exaggerated sigh. “Finally.”
Knife let out a slow breath, trying to calm the lingering adrenaline in his veins. His body still thrummed with the urge to keep fighting, but he shoved it down, forcing himself to focus on the present. On the fact that he had actually stopped.
Trophy, still sitting on the floor, stretched his neck with a wince. “Y’know,” he said, voice lighter now, like they hadn’t just been beating the hell out of each other, “you should probably find something to do with all that anger.”
Knife frowned. “What?”
“A hobby,” Trophy said, like it was obvious. “Something to keep your hands busy so you don’t go around punching people every time you feel things.”
Knife scoffed, crossing his arms. “You’re giving me advice now?”
Trophy sighed. “Yeah, weird, right?” He rolled his shoulders, then leaned back against the wall. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I enjoy our little fights. But if you’re really trying to change, maybe start by putting that energy into something else.”
Knife just stared at him, still caught off guard by the fact that Trophy, of all people, was telling him how to control his anger. “And what, you’re an expert on this?”
Trophy shrugged. “I manage.”
Knife narrowed his eyes. “How?”
For a moment, Trophy didn’t answer. He just looked at Knife, his expression unreadable. Then, with a small and genuine smile, he said, “Photography.”
Knife blinked. “What?”
Trophy snorted. “Yeah, yeah, I know. ‘Ooh, big manly Trophy takes pretty little pictures, what a shock.’” He rolled his eyes. “But hey, turns out, pointing a camera at something is pretty nice.”
Knife was still processing the fact that Trophy, one of the worst guys in the cast, the one who hated Knife’s guts equally as Knife hated his, was actually sharing something real with him.
“You actually like photography?” The words left his mouth before he noticed
Trophy grinned. “Yeah, why did you think I had a camera around that day? I like photography. It gives me something to focus on. Something to do with my hands.”
Knife was still staring at him. “I can’t believe you’re the one telling me this.”
“Yeah, well.” Trophy shrugged. “Figured someone should.”
Knife hesitated, running a hand through his hair. He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more, the fact that Trophy had a real hobby other than being a dumbass or the fact that he was actually making sense.
“Look,” Trophy continued, standing up and dusting himself off. “I’m not saying go out and buy a camera or whatever. Just find something. Or don’t, and keep feeling bad about repressing your emotions. Up to you.”
Knife exhaled sharply through his nose, still trying to wrap his head around this entire conversation. He wasn’t sure what was worse, Trophy acting like he actually had a functioning brain, or the fact that his advice wasn’t completely stupid.
Trophy stretched his arms behind his head. “Oh, and by the way? Stop throwing chairs at your walls.”
Knife blinked; his brain was still trying to refocus on Trophy being an ok/decent/not horrible(?) person.
“You heard me.” Trophy jabbed a finger at him. “I didn’t start swinging because I had nothing better to do; I just wanted some peace and quiet. But no, you had to go and be a whole damn circus act.”
Knife scoffed. “Right, because you’re known for your peaceful, quiet nature.”
“Damn right,” Trophy said with another eyeroll. “Unlike you, I don’t need to remodel my walls every time I get pissed.” He shook his head. “Just get some sleep, man. You look like you broke your legs from a triathlon again.”
Knife shot him a glare. “Wonder why it’s again .’”
Trophy smirked. “Hey, all I’m saying is maybe try actually resting instead of keeping me up all night with your tantrums. You’ve got a long day tomorrow, and watching you fail your finals would be way funnier if you weren’t already half-dead.”
He took a step back, already turning toward the door. “Anyway, do whatever you want. But if you decide to take up, I don’t know, knitting or something, I better be the first one to laugh in your face.”
Knife rolled his eyes, but there was no real heat behind it. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re pathetic.” Trophy shot back. But then, almost with a softer tone, he spoke again, “Good luck tomorrow, Knife.”
And with that, Trophy strolled off, leaving Knife standing there, still completely thrown off by the fact that, for once, Trophy actually made sense. Knife stood there for a long moment after Trophy left, still scowling at the space where he’d been. What the hell just happened?
Trophy, of all people, had given him advice. Actual, semi-decent, not-entirely-stupid advice.
Knife ran a hand down his face, groaning. He hated that. He hated that a single conversation with that smug bastard had somehow wedged itself into his brain, refusing to leave. His heart was racing, and at this point, he refused to acknowledge it was anything but adrenaline.
Knife let out a breath and flopped onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling. His body still ached from the fight, and his knuckles throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He flexed his fingers, ignoring the sting.
But he guessed Trophy wasn’t as big of an asshole as he thought.