Chapter Text
"You know, I'm more into girls,"
Jack had said it offhandedly to Trophy, after a couple rounds of beers and the atmosphere lively with celebration. Relocating from place to place had gotten everyone more stressed than need be- so on the rare occurrence when the competition was done for the day, and there was time to settle, Jack took it. After all, it granted him more time to mull over what the next round would be, and how to exploit it to gain more points to rejoin. Getting chummy with the rest of the contestants was all apart of the plan. It was just that perhaps he had gotten a bit too chummy, too loose-lipped, because there was no reason for him to explain his sexual orientation. At all.
Which is how he found himself next to Trophy, the two of them a couple yards away from the rest of the group; leaning against a tree. Logs cut up as impromptu chairs, a large campfire illuminating the night, Boaty parked just down the shore. Cicadas ringing, drinks clinking, it was atmospheric.
"Well," Jack continues, pausing to take another sip from his red solo cup, "Men are fine, too, I just tend to lean towards women more."
"Oh," Trophy almost gawks out. Jack watches as the award lifts a wrist to wipe away a drop of alcohol from the corner of his mouth.
Jack didn't think of himself as boisterously queer, if there was a need to get into stereotypes. He didn't mind the thought of dating a man at all, yet if he had to count, he had many, many more experiences with women over man.
And perhaps it was his usual snark paired with the alcohol, but with how Trophy's eyes seemed to be darting towards him sheepishly, before glancing back towards where everyone else hung out in the clearing... Jack couldn't help but tease.
"What? Got your hopes up?"
"Pshh," Trophy rolled his eyes, hiding his mouth with his own cup. But Jack could see how he stands straighter than before, his typical gold turning into a red sheen. He's blushing, it's obvious. Looking away, Trophy shoves his free hand to his side. "Me? Getting my hopes up? Yeah right, man. I'm not into guys."
"Oh, yeah? Your reaction tells me otherwise," Jack leaned towards the other man, one arm propping him up against the tree.
Trophy's head whips around to face him, eyes wide. The force of his movement jostles the alcohol in his cup, spills some over the rim. This time, he's actually gawking, like Jack had said something overly scandalous.
"Puh- my reaction? You're into- girls!" Trophy spits out, (Jack takes mental note of his hesitation at the last word) leans back a couple of inches when Jack takes another step into his space. He seems more flustered than downright disgusted, judging from how his eyes are locked onto Jack's. Jack can only smirk in response, he knows how to play his cards; from the moment he met Trophy, the award appeared to always want to prove something. To have the last word. "...I'm into girls! We're both into girls, so..."
"So..? Have something to say, Trophy?" His gaze sweeps from the top of Trophy's head all the way down to his base. The award is only a couple inches taller than him, surprising, with his personality. Jack's used to those being shorter than him, and he hasn't had any experience with those taller than him, but he wouldn't mind expanding his horizons. After all, Jack isn't picky, especially when alcohol was faintly buzzing in his veins.
Trophy's tongue darts out to wet his lips. He's staring intensely, stiff underneath Jack's stare, yet the spell finally breaks. He takes a step back, chugs the rest of his beer and crushes the cup in the middle. Like a perfect way to end a conversation, he drops the litter onto the ground and stomps off- shoulders racked up high near the bottom of his handles. Like a petulant child, not getting what they want. It's honestly hilarious, the stark difference of what Jack has heard about Trophy compared to the show before him. All bark and no bite.
...Although, he's not bad looking. Far from it. The light radiating from the nearby fire glints off of each ridge along Trophy's body, the surrounding darkness highlighting just how much care he takes into polishing and buffing his exterior. He's shiny, he's actual gold, not some toy. Jack can appreciate authenticity.
Jack can't appreciate inauthenticity, however, when it came to personality. Trophy's hiding something, that much is clear as day.
It just wasn't Jack's issue to deal with.
One thing Jack can appreciate about Trophy is his bluntness. Many people are afraid to speak their mind, are even more afraid to say the truth, so when he catches wind that Trophy said Fan "wouldn't have gotten hurt if he climbed faster," that made him let out a surprised laugh. He's sure that no one else besides Trophy would have verbally said that, and Jack wholeheartedly agrees with the statement.
One thing that had surprised Jack about Trophy, though, is that he's softer than he lets on. The haunted mansion was proof of that, with the entire fiasco with the blue slime guy and Mr. Pointy. Trophy had been utterly useless, rocking back and forth, scared out of his mind over a couple ghosts. For all his tough talk, you would think he would have been able to push his fear aside and play the game. Although, Jack should have known better- he was giving Trophy too much credit for being a tough guy as is, of course the award was going to wimp out here and there.
He could see through Trophy easily, could see through everyone else easily. He can only get through the competition if he studies the hand he's dealt with, and building off of whatever his opponent plays.
What intrigued him, though, was Trophy's hobbies.
Jack was a fan of people-watching. Observing how the other contestants work with one another, following along with how someone manages themself when they think they are alone. It provides insight on how their brain works, gives Jack a new perspective. Sure, it may seem stalker-ish, but how else was he able to gain an advantage if he misses every opportunity to monitor other contestants? It wasn't like Jack was blatantly disobeying rules by doing so.
Which is how Jack finds himself slipping from tree to tree, following after Trophy. The new scenery provides more places to explore, and more spots for everyone else to mingle around. Jack had trouble sleeping the other night, anticipation for the next round making him restless. The sun had hardly rose when he gave up attempting to rest, 6 AM when he walked out onto the ship's deck- where he saw Trophy stretching.
And look, maybe he was staring. But Trophy cuts a nice figure. The sun was hitting him in such a flattering way. And Jack doesn't tend to see pure gold out in the wild.
The award seemed to be up at least an hour beforehand, with the sweat dripping from his rim and a half empty smoothie beside him. Nobody else had seemed to be awake, and if they were, they hadn't shown face. So Jack opted for the next form of entertainment, watching Trophy go about his day. The stretching seemed to be the end to some exercising, because he was picking up something from the deck before walking down the plank.
And Jack watches.
Once he's closer, he sees that it's a camera Trophy has. Jack is vaguely aware of how he does photography, yet he had been under the impression that it was more-so jabs at Cammy. Seeing it in person was far different than snippets of comments.
The sun fully rises, the clouds parted, providing ample amounts of lighting. Trophy takes pictures of whatever critters lie in the grass, of bugs crawling along logs, of stray butterflies who are attracted by his dandelion hue- takes pictures of whatever catches his eye, seeming to not run out of film. Each snap ringing through the atmosphere as they reach deeper into the forest. If Jack had to guess, only an hour passed until Trophy decided to turn back. He watches.
It's only until Trophy is a couple feet away when something about him draws Jack's notice.
...Is he... Wearing eyeliner?
Subtle, small wings, scarcely there- in fact, no one else would have noticed it.
Jack has a keen eye, he prides himself on not being stupid. But Trophy, the jock, resilient in challenges, boasts about working out every day, wearing eyeliner? When he forbade participating in anything girly, or soft, (photography had been a stretch, in Jack's mind. Photography and jock doesn't exactly mix.) adorning eyeliner along both of his eyes, one singular wing on each end. Mascara, subtly thickening the appearance, accentuating what little lash there was.
...Feminine. Or, what is often thought to be traditionally feminine.
(Well, it did look nice on Trophy.)
Jack wasn't sure what to make of it. Any mental notes he took of Trophy will have to be looked over. Where would the award have even learned how to do his makeup?
None the wiser, Trophy moves along the forest, navigates and retraces his steps like it's familiar for him. Hops over stray logs or twigs like it's nothing. Jack was fit, sure, yet his bad leg hindered him ever so slightly.
Reaching the boat, Trophy doesn't look back. Isn't even aware Jack is following him, just goes back inside. Jack takes the time to make himself breakfast.
When Trophy comes back out hours later, Jack doesn't pretend he's not staring. The makeup is gone, not a trace left behind.
It was like it wasn't even there at all. Jack's resolve is strong enough to know that, no, his brain wasn't playing tricks on him.
Trophy had to be wearing makeup.
They're drunk again. Drunker than last time.
Trophy seems to be more open towards touch when he's drunk, Jack, too.
The award has a loopy smile on his face and the closest word Jack could think of upon seeing it is dork, because only dorks make that face. Jack can't help but snicker over it, pushing Trophy by the shoulder. The jock leans uncharacteristically forward, the alcohol making him linger and sway, before he returns the favour. Moments ago, the two had been laughing over some dumb joke, and now, it had devolved into picking fun at each other and laughing over nothing. They're further away from the campfire this time, highlighted by the loud buzzing and chirping of wildlife. Jack tries to not let himself get carried away, but with a small bet of how many drinks him and Trophy could slam back, he couldn't resist.
So here he was, legs tangled with Trophy's, sitting against an old tree. The moonlight shining down on them both, pressed shoulder to shoulder. Trophy had the confidence to grab a couple more beers before they moved further into the forest, and nobody seemed to bat an eye. Jack figured that perhaps Trophy wasn't as healthy as he claimed to be, despite fitness being the majority of what he talks about. The card isn't sure how Trophy is able to hide the alcohol weight, with how much he's able to tolerate.
"Do you..." Trophy starts off, a subtle slur of his words, head clinking against the tree as he leaned back. His leg was draped over Jack's knee, spread out similarly to the other man's. One hand resting lazily on his stomach while the other swirled the glass of beer like it was wine. He's quiet as he speaks, subdued by the alcohol and ashamed as a secret, "Do you wish... Other people could see you as somethin' else? Like you could just, change their opinions on you?"
"What do you mean?" Jack urges, tilting his body slightly to easier study Trophy.
Anything for good intel. He could always use this in the future, if he wasn't drunk enough to forget the next morning.
"Like, if we weren't just some... Some code MePhone spewed up. D'you think I could have been someone else? Changed into someone else?" Trophy finishes the leftover half of his beer, pops open another using the edge of his handle.
(His delicate handles, the ones he hates getting scuffs on. Always commenting on how easy it is to ruin them, how it takes ages to buff out any scratches or marks.)
"Everyone's got the ability to change," Jack supplies, leaning closer into Trophy's warmth. The forest becomes eerily cold at night, the alcohol wasn't doing quite enough to warm him up. "It's apart of life."
Many of his inhibitions seem to be letting themselves down the drunker he gets. Normally, he would hate to be in such close proximity to another person.
"Yeah, but," Trophy pauses to hiccup, it comes out wet. A frown stretches across his face as he washes it down with a gulp of alcohol. "But, I'm not... Like anyone else. I'm not like, soft. I can't be soft. I can't be... Normal. Not like anyone else."
The award pauses. His thumb runs along the label of his bottle, stops when he proceeds, "...I'm proud of Box, yaknow? She was able to change everyone's opinions on her, nobody thinks of her as... As a corpse, anymore. I was the only one able to recognize her as a corpse."
"Where are you getting with this?"
"I'm just saying that... She's changed. Well, changed from how everyone thought she was. But I'm stuck like this, forever."
Jack mulls over Trophy's thoughts as best as he could in his drunken state. Watches Trophy fiddle with his bottle, nervously sipping yet prattling on like he can't shut his mouth.
"You wanna be different?" The card finally asks.
"Yeah," Trophy breathes out like it's a confession.
Everyone wanted to be different, that was normal. Everyone wanted to only show the best version of themselves, it was only life. Who would want to rip themself apart, show each little piece of vulnerability they have, and display it like a prize? No one. That only brought humiliation and misery. Yet, Jack studies Trophy.
"Why not start now?"
For the first time tonight, Trophy looks up to Jack. He's slumped against the tree awkwardly, no doubt going to be stiff in the neck by morning, but his eyes look glossy. Watery. He meets Jack's gaze like a heavy weight is dragging him down, and he pauses- trepidation lingering.
"I-I have been," Trophy breaks the stare, takes a couple more gulps of beer before unsteadily setting the bottle down on the ground. Wrapping both arms around his middle, secure, safe. "Alone. I haven't told anyone. Lord, I don't even know why I'm telling- telling you, I shouldn't be. I'm too drunk right now to keep a lid on. Hah. I can't even do it in front of other people, I'm a goddamn wuss. It's all I'm ever gonna be."
Jack hums, drinks from his own beer before leaning awkwardly on his side to wrap an arm around Trophy.
"I may be too drunk right now, too," He says, awareness is fading from him. Trophy radiates a heat like no other, and Jack can't recall the last time he was able to hold someone. Trophy reaches to lay a hand over Jack's arm, cementing him into place- a silent plea to stay, because who knows when the last time someone touched Trophy was, either. "But you can change. Same as anyone else. What makes you so different, huh?"
"Because I'm," Trophy pauses, swallows against his dry mouth. Jack can audibly hear it. Can even feel Trophy's pulse underneath his arm.
It's fun, getting a reaction from others. Knowing what makes them tick. Jack can only cling onto whatever Trophy is about to say, because depending on how devastating it is, he could file it for later and use it to gain an advantage.
After all, it's all a game.
"You can tell me," Jack coaxes, watching as Trophy shuts his eyes tight. Apprehension. Anticipation, the same as tying string around a tooth before tugging. "You don't need to keep silent about it. I'm your friend, aren't I?"
Trophy lets out a shaky sigh. The hand over Jack's arm turns into a grip.
"Because I'm... I might be a girl. And a guy."
Jack blinks.
Trophy refuses to open his eyes, turns his head away like he wants to hide. His next words spill out of him, rushed, drunken lilt still present, "Like, at the- at the same time? I don't- I don't know, man, I just. I don't mind being... Being pretty, but at the same time, I still want to be a guy. It's just, I'm not like... Paintbrush, or Bot, or- or the other guys who are like that, none of them are- both. At the same time. I'm not even... I'm not like them, I'm still me. I just- I-I-"
Trophy chokes up.
Jack doesn't know what to say.
He's the last person anyone would come to, to, well, come out to. The card isn't equipped for the emotionality of it all. Hell, he knows as much as the next guy here about gender- he understands how it works, he gets it, but he hasn't lived through the identity conflict himself to draw from his own experiences.
The awards breathing picks up, and Jack pulls Trophy closer to him.
"Trophy- look, you're fine," Jack wants to ask if what he said days ago was triggering this, but that was for a different place and time. "I don't care what you are, you're still you."
Trophy forces himself out of Jack's grasp, knocks his bottle against the ground, pushes his hands against his face as he straightens his posture- then hunches. Hiding. He groans out, "But I don't want to be me! Why me! Why do I have to be like this? Why couldn't I have been- been anyone else? Everyone's going to, they're going to-"
"Going to what? Make fun of you? Mock you? Come on, Trophy, everyone here is accepting of that."
"But it's me, and if I'm like this, then what does it-" Trophy hiccups, sniffling, "What does it say about me, huh?"
"Look, how about you calm down? We can talk more tomorrow, or something, when you're less mopey about this." Jack sits up, tapping an unopened bottle against Trophy's arm. He snatches it, his face redder than before, a quiver in his bottom lip.
Hooks the edge of the cap against his handle, pops it off and lets it fly somewhere into the grass.
He chugs back the alcohol, doesn't stop for air, is left gasping afterwards.
Jack grimaces. What a sight. If Trophy came to drink himself into oblivion, then it wasn't Jack's responsibility to control him.
"I don' wanna talk 'bout this anymore," Trophy mumbles, hardly there, staring into the distance. "Don't tell an'one."
He turns, locking eyes with Jack. He looks... Conflicted. Lost? Empty. Jack isn't sure what to make out of his expression, but completely done is what comes to him.
"Please." Trophy says.
All Jack can do is wordlessly nod, brow furrowing. The award stands, stumbles and catches himself on the tree, before walking towards the direction of the boat. Feet unsteady, a hiccup turning into a gag- alcohol not agreeing with his stomach- hand trailing against tree after tree. Getting further away with each shaking step.
...So much for trying to find information to exploit. Jack wouldn't do that to Trophy.
It's two days later when Jack sees Trophy again.
Jack can hand it to him, when the award wants to hide from anyone, or everyone, he's able to make himself scarce. He's experienced it the first time they met, when he called Trophy a loser. Now, he knows it's a habit.
Trophy acts the same as he did previously, doesn't slip up, doesn't even seem to recall what he drunkenly confessed the other night. In fact, he boldly boasts about protein drinks, healthy foods, bulking up, creaming chums and nerds into paste- typical masculine things. It's such whiplash from the gentle makeup Jack saw him wear, from the vulnerability leaking through the award the other night. Jack doesn't know what to make of it.
But he's able to give Trophy a knowing look.
Trophy's gaze hardens whenever he meets Jack's.