Work Text:
Trophy had a habit.
It wasn't really a weird one.
At least, that's what he told himself.
Whenever he had his camera with him, he'd take pictures of whatever caught his attention.
Landscapes.
Random objects.
People doing stupid shit.
Interesting places.
Anything that looked like it would make a good photograph.
That was the whole point of having a camera, after all.
And, apparently, Knife.
It started with one picture.
Knife wasn't even looking at the camera when Trophy took it.
He was just standing around, arguing with someone about something Trophy wasn't really paying attention to.
Trophy had only been trying to get a picture of the room.
Knife just happened to be in it.
That was all.
Trophy looked at the picture afterward.
He paused.
It wasn't half bad.
Actually, it was pretty good.
The lighting wasn't terrible, Knife wasn't making some stupid face for once, and the picture itself just looked...
Good.
Trophy stared at it for another few seconds.
Then he shrugged.
Whatever.
He kept it.
Then he took another.
Then another.
And another.
At first, he didn't really think much about it.
Knife was around all the time.
He was loud.
He was obnoxious.
He was always getting into arguments with someone.
Even though most of the times those arguments were with Trophy.
And, unfortunately, that meant he was usually doing something worth photographing.
Sometimes Knife noticed.
"Are you seriously taking another picture of me?"
Trophy immediately lowered his camera.
"No."
Knife stared at him.
"You literally have the camera pointed at me."
"So?"
"You're fucking weird."
"Fuck off."
Knife rolled his eyes.
"Whatever, goldie."
"Don't fucking call me that."
Knife walked away.
Trophy waited until he was far enough away before looking back at the picture.
It was pretty good.
He kept it.
That was it.
At least, that's what he told himself.
Eventually, Trophy started putting some of the better pictures into a physical photo album.
There wasn't anything weird about that.
He liked photography.
If he got a picture he actually liked, obviously he was going to keep it.
Most of the pictures just happened to be of Knife.
And that wasn't his fault.
Knife was around all the time.
He was always doing something.
Sometimes he was arguing.
Sometimes he was fighting.
Sometimes he was just sitting around looking annoyed at everyone.
Sometimes he was talking to Pickle or Bomb.
Sometimes he was smoking outside the Hotel.
Sometimes he was doing absolutely nothing.
All of those made for good pictures too.
That was it.
It had nothing to do with Knife himself.
Definitely.
Totally.
Trophy would print out the pictures he liked and put them into the album whenever he had enough.
Sometimes he'd sit on his bed afterward and flip through them.
There were pictures of the island.
Pictures from challenges.
Pictures of people doing stupid things.
Pictures of places he'd visited.
And then there were the Knife pictures.
A lot of them.
Trophy stared at one of Knife sitting in the corner of a room, looking completely pissed off about something.
He frowned.
"...Huh."
He turned the page.
Another Knife picture.
Then another.
Trophy slowly looked at the album.
"...Okay."
He shut it.
Whatever.
It wasn't like he was counting.
The next time he had his camera out, Knife happened to walk past.
Trophy immediately raised it.
*Click.*
Knife stopped.
Slowly turned around.
And stared.
"...Did you just take a picture of me?"
Trophy lowered the camera.
"No."
Knife pointed at it.
"That thing just made a fucking camera noise."
"So?"
"You are so weird."
"You've said that already."
"Because you keep doing weird shit."
"You're the one complaining about it."
Knife rolled his eyes.
"Whatever, goldie."
"Fuck you."
Knife rolled his eyes and walked off.
Trophy looked down at the picture.
It was blurry.
Knife had turned around halfway through it.
Trophy stared at it.
Then smiled slightly.
He kept it anyway.
Over time, it became normal.
Or at least, normal enough.
Well, it was to him.
Knife would occasionally catch Trophy taking pictures.
Trophy would deny it.
Knife would call him weird.
Trophy would tell him to fuck off.
Then they'd go back to whatever they were doing.
Sometimes Knife even started posing just to annoy him.
Those pictures were usually terrible.
Knife would throw up some ridiculous pose, make some stupid face, or deliberately look away at the last second.
Trophy hated those pictures.
They were just so stupid.
Mostly.
A few had actually turned out pretty good.
But he'd never admit that.
One afternoon, Knife caught Trophy taking a picture while he was chatting on a bench with Pickle.
Knife immediately looked toward him.
"Seriously?"
Trophy lowered the camera.
"What?"
"Again?"
"You're literally sitting there."
"So?"
“So you're fucking stupid.”
Pickle snorted.
Knife looked at him.
"Don't encourage him."
"I'm not."
"You're laughing."
"I'm laughing because you're both idiots."
Trophy smirked.
"See?"
Knife pointed at him.
"Delete it."
"No."
"Troph."
"No."
Knife narrowed his eyes.
"Give me the camera."
"Fuck off."
Knife stood up.
Trophy immediately started backing away.
"Don't even think about it."
Knife smirked.
"Oh, now you're scared?"
"I'm not scared."
"Then give it."
"No."
Knife took one step toward him.
Trophy took another step back.
"Don't."
Knife grinned.
"You're really defensive about that thing."
"Because it's mine."
"You're acting like I said I was gonna smash it."
Trophy's expression immediately hardened.
"You better not."
Knife raised an eyebrow.
"...Okay."
For once, he didn't push it.
Trophy stared at him for a moment before lowering the camera.
Knife sighed and walked back over to Pickle.
Trophy looked at the camera again.
He didn't know why that interaction had made him feel weird.
It made him feel a certain way that he couldn't figure out how to put into words.
Maybe because Knife had actually stopped when he realized how serious Trophy was.
Whatever.
It didn't matter that much anyways.
Trophy raised up his camera one last time, zooming in on Knife's face, the blade chatting with the pickle.
He took another picture.
Knife turned around.
"Did you seriously just take another one?"
Trophy smiled.
"Yep."
"You're fucking impossible."
"Fuck off."
It became something he did whenever he had the chance.
Although, over time, Trophy's physical photo album had filled up.
Then another.
And another.
He started keeping the stash of albums underneath his bed because there were too many of them to leave lying around.
One night, Trophy pulled one out.
He sat on the floor, back against the bed rail as he started flipping through the album.
There were dozens of pictures.
Maybe more.
He didn't bother counting.
He stopped at one of Knife arguing with someone.
Then another of Knife looking annoyed.
Then one where Knife was sitting by himself.
Then one where he was actually smiling— not even doing a stupid grin or smirk like what Knife normally gives him.
Trophy paused at that one.
He didn't remember taking it.
He must've caught Knife when he wasn't paying attention.
Trophy stared at it for a while.
"...Huh."
He turned the page.
Another.
Then another.
Eventually, he closed the album.
He looked at the stack underneath his bed.
"...Fuck."
There were way too many.
Trophy grabbed another album.
He opened it.
More Knife.
He stared.
"...What the hell?"
He looked toward his camera.
Then back at the albums.
He rubbed his face.
"Okay, maybe I have a problem."
He immediately shook his head.
"Nope."
He shoved the album back underneath his bed.
"It's just photography."
He paused.
"...That's it."
He grabbed his camera and walked out of his room.
He found Knife in the hallway.
Trophy immediately raised his camera toward the blade.
*Click.*
Knife looked over.
"Again?"
Trophy grinned.
"Again."
Knife sighed.
"You seriously never get tired of this?"
"Nope."
"You're weird."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
Trophy laughed.
Knife rolled his eyes and walked away.
Trophy followed for a few seconds.
Then stopped.
He looked at the picture he'd just taken.
Knife was walking away from him.
The picture wasn't anything special.
Trophy liked it anyway.
A few days later, he took another.
Then another.
Then another.
He started noticing little things.
Which angles worked better.
Which lighting made the pictures look nicer.
When Knife tended to actually look toward the camera.
When he didn't.
Which pictures looked better when Knife wasn't posing.
Sometimes Trophy would wait until Knife was distracted before taking one.
Sometimes Knife would notice anyway.
Sometimes Knife would deliberately look directly at the camera just to ruin the picture.
"Stop doing that."
"What?"
"Looking at me."
"You're the one taking pictures of me."
"You're ruining it."
"Good."
"Asshole."
"You're the one with the camera."
Trophy rolled his eyes.
But he kept the picture.
Of course he did.
It kept going like that.
Weeks.
Then months.
Challenges came and went.
People argued.
People laughed.
People got annoyed with each other.
Trophy kept taking pictures.
And somehow, Knife kept ending up in them.
More than anyone else.
Much more.
Eventually, Trophy found himself flipping through his albums more often.
Sometimes when he was bored.
Sometimes after a challenge.
Sometimes when he couldn't sleep.
He'd look at the older pictures and remember what was happening when he took them.
That one was during a challenge.
That one was after an argument.
That one was when Knife had been complaining about something for almost ten minutes.
That one was when Knife had been talking with Pickle.
That one was when Knife had been asleep.
Trophy stopped.
He looked at the picture.
"...I really did take a picture of him sleeping."
He stared at it.
Then shut the album.
"Nope."
He shoved it away.
A few minutes later, he pulled it back out.
He looked at the picture again.
"...Whatever."
He kept it.
Eventually, the albums filled up.
One.
Two.
Three.
Trophy started running out of places to put them.
He shoved another one underneath his bed.
Then another.
He sat there for a moment.
"...Fuck."
He looked at the stack.
"Why am I even doing this?"
He didn't really have an answer.
Knife was just...
Knife.
An annoying asshole.
A jerk.
Someone Trophy argued with constantly.
Someone who got on his nerves.
Someone who would probably laugh if he ever found out how many pictures Trophy had of him.
Trophy frowned.
Actually, he'd probably never let him live it down.
He'd probably call him obsessed.
Or weird.
Or both.
Trophy groaned.
"Fuck... what is wrong with me?"
He grabbed another album.
"Get it together, Trophy."
He shoved it underneath the bed.
"Stop taking pictures of that jerk."
He paused.
Then grabbed his camera.
"...One more."
That was how it always started.
One more.
Then another.
Then another.
Until the albums kept filling.
And Knife kept occasionally catching him.
It was basically normal by now.
Until everything suddenly wasn't.
...
That day.
That one fucking day ruined everything.
Trophy had dealt with plenty of chaos during the competition.
People dying.
People getting respawned.
Challenges went wrong.
Everyone arguing with each other.
He was used to it.
But this wasn't another stupid challenge.
It was after that stupid race.
Knife wasn't even there for the death of MePad.
"Wow, real classy of Knife, not showing up to the funeral."
Well, Knife was missing out, not trying to care where the jerk went.
Yet, when Marshmellow had led them to where the two other ghosts were, he saw him.
Voices overlapped each other before Trophy could even properly process what he was even seeing.
Knife was a ghost.
Knife's dead.
He's dead.
Trophy just stood there, speechless.
For a moment, he didn't say anything.
He couldn't.
Everyone else was reacting around him, but Trophy just stared ahead, trying to make sense of it.
Knife was dead.
The same Knife he'd been arguing with.
The same Knife he'd been taking pictures of.
The same Knife who would complain every time Trophy pointed his camera at him.
The same Knife who called him goldie just to piss him off.
The same Knife who always had something smart to say.
And now he was just...
Gone.
Trophy swallowed.
"Now I feel like a jerk."
He forced himself to say it like a joke— he rolled his eyes, crossing his arms, not wanting to believe what he was seeing was real.
Like he was only talking about how he'd treated Knife before.
Like he wasn't thinking about all those pictures sitting underneath his bed.
Like he wasn't wondering why the hell he'd spent so much time photographing someone he was supposed to hate.
Like he wasn't suddenly thinking about every picture he had taken and wondering how many more he would've gotten.
He kept his usual attitude.
Still a jock.
Still Trophy.
He wasn't going to start crying in front of everybody.
No way.
So he didn't.
At least, not there.
He just acted like it didn't bother him.
Because what else was he supposed to do?
Knife was gone.
Yet he was still right there.
There wasn't anything he could do about it.
At least, that's what Trophy kept telling himself.
/ᐠ｡ꞈ｡ᐟ\
Eventually, everything was rebuilt with the prize money Suitcase had won.
The island was back to normal.
Mostly.
Trophy went back to doing what he normally did.
Taking pictures.
Walking around.
Complaining about people.
Acting like nothing had happened.
It was easier that way.
At least, that's what he told himself.
He'd gotten used to not seeing Knife around.
Or, well...
He'd gotten used to pretending he was.
Every once in a while, he'd still look around whenever he heard someone arguing.
Sometimes he'd even pull out his camera without thinking.
Then he'd remember.
Knife wasn't there.
And there wasn't really a reason to keep looking.
What was the point of taking pictures if his favorite subject didn't even appear in the shot anymore?
Trophy hated that thought.
It sounded stupid.
Knife wasn't his favorite anything.
He was just...
Good for pictures.
That's all.
Yeah.
That was it.
Even though Knife was now trapped within the hell of the mansion they had decided to rebuild, Trophy despised stepping foot on that property.
Too many memories.
Too much happened there.
So when the OSC forced him to come along on a little tour around the place earlier that morning, Trophy was already pissed off.
He'd realized he'd left something behind around noon when he finally left this hell hole of a mansion.
What he left was a photograph.
The photograph.
The first photograph he'd ever taken of Knife.
The one where he'd caught Knife talking to his Dora doll.
The one he'd originally used to blackmail him.
The one that started their rivalry.
Trophy wasn't leaving that behind.
And especially wasn't going to leave it for anyones eyes to see.
He just wanted to grab it and leave.
Quick.
In and out.
Nobody needed to know.
He slipped away from the others and started searching through the room where he'd last seen it.
He found a few old things.
A shard of broken glass.
A shoelace.
An old pair of gloves.
Nothing important.
But then he heard something.
Trophy looked up.
He stopped.
Completely.
Someone was floating across the room.
Trophy's eyes widened.
Knife.
For a second, he genuinely couldn't tell if he was actually seeing him or if his mind was playing tricks on him.
Nope.
No, that wasn't possible.
He'd seen Knife as a ghost.
He'd spent weeks trying to get used to the fact that Knife wasn't coming back to life.
He'd gotten used to it.
He had to.
So why the hell was he here?
Floating right there.
Just...
There.
Knife hadn't noticed him yet, too busy looking through an open drawer.
Trophy stared.
His heart started pounding.
His breathing suddenly became uneven.
His hands started trembling.
He shoved them into his jacket pockets, trying to hide it.
It didn't work.
His fingers wouldn't stop shaking.
His chest felt tight.
Every breath seemed shorter than the last.
He swallowed.
Tried to calm down.
Nothing.
His legs suddenly felt weak.
He shifted his weight, trying to steady himself.
He hated this.
He hated that his body was freaking out before he could even process what was happening.
He'd spent weeks telling himself that Knife was gone.
That he would never come back, even though he'd still be here.
He'd already gotten used to it.
He had to.
So why was he reacting like this?
"...What the hell is wrong with me?"
Knife looked over.
"Hm?"
Knife finally processed what the golden trophy was doing there.
"You good..?"
Trophy didn't answer.
He couldn't.
He just stared at him.
Knife.
Actually Knife.
Not a picture.
Not a memory.
Not some stupid thought he'd had because he'd gotten too used to seeing him everywhere.
Knife was floating right there.
"Goldie?"
Trophy finally forced himself to look away.
"... Nothing."
His voice sounded wrong.
Too shaky.
Knife frowned.
"...What?"
"You heard me."
Trophy tried to turn around.
He just needed to leave.
His legs almost gave out.
He caught himself against the wall.
Immediately, he pushed himself upright.
Knife noticed.
"You good?"
"I'm fine."
"You almost fell."
"I fucking tripped."
"You weren't even moving."
"Shut up."
Trophy kept walking.
Except his hands wouldn't stop shaking.
His legs weren't cooperating with him.
His breathing wouldn't calm down.
His chest felt tight.
Too tight.
He kept telling himself to get a grip.
This was stupid.
Knife was back.
That was all.
He should've been happy.
So why did it feel like his entire body was freaking out?
"Troph."
"I'm fine."
"You keep saying that."
"Because I am."
Knife stepped closer.
Trophy immediately stepped back.
"Don't."
Knife stopped.
Trophy's hands were shaking harder now.
He clenched them into fists.
It didn't help.
His fingers were still trembling.
He tried taking a deeper breath.
It came out shaky.
He tried again.
Still nothing.
"Fuck..."
He rubbed his hands together.
They wouldn't stop.
Knife watched him.
"You sure you're fine?"
"I said I'm fucking fine."
Trophy's voice came out sharper than he intended.
Knife stared at him.
Trophy looked away.
He didn't want Knife looking at him.
Not like this.
He'd spent weeks getting used to Knife being gone.
He'd gotten used to the empty space.
He'd gotten used to not hearing Knife complain whenever he took a picture.
He'd gotten used to not having someone around to annoy him.
And now Knife was just standing there.
Like nothing happened.
Trophy's vision suddenly blurred.
He blinked rapidly.
"Shit."
He rubbed his eyes.
It didn't help.
His legs felt weak again.
He reached out and grabbed the edge of a nearby table.
His grip tightened.
But his legs still gave out.
He dropped to his knees.
Knife immediately looked down at him.
"Troph."
"Don't."
"I'm not doing anything."
"Then stop fucking looking at me."
Knife went quiet.
Trophy gripped the edge of the table harder.
His shoulders were starting to shake.
He tried to breathe normally.
He couldn't.
Every breath kept coming out uneven.
He hated this.
He hated that he couldn't just stop.
He hated that Knife was seeing him like this.
So weak.
So vulnerable.
Most of all, he hated that some part of him was still scared that if he looked away for too long, Knife would leave him again.
Trophy squeezed his eyes shut.
"I thought you were gone."
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
He immediately looked annoyed at himself.
"...Fuck."
Knife didn't say anything.
Trophy swallowed.
"I got used to it."
His voice was quieter now.
"I had to."
His grip on the table loosened slightly.
"I couldn't keep thinking you'd come back."
Knife floated there for a moment.
Then he sighed.
"You know I've always been here, goldie."
His voice was sarcastic, but quieter than usual.
Trophy looked up at him.
"That's the fucking problem."
His eyes were watering.
"You're still just fucking here."
Knife stared at him.
Trophy quickly wiped his eyes.
"God, this is fucking stupid."
"It isn't."
"Yes, it is."
"No."
"Shut up."
Knife shrugged.
"Alright."
Trophy glared at him.
He hated that Knife could still somehow annoy him even when he was falling apart.
He looked down.
His camera was still inside his cup.
He slowly pulled it out.
His hands were shaking so badly that he nearly dropped it.
Knife instinctively reached out.
Trophy pulled it away.
"I've got it."
"Okay."
Trophy raised the camera.
Knife was floating right there.
Right in front of him.
Trophy looked through the viewfinder.
Nothing.
His expression fell.
Right.
Ghost.
He still didn't show up.
Trophy lowered the camera.
He stared at the screen.
Then at Knife.
Then back at the camera.
"...Right."
He raised it again.
*Click.*
Nothing.
Again.
*Click.*
Nothing.
His hands shook harder.
"Come on..."
Knife watched him.
"Troph."
"I know."
"You know what?"
"I know it doesn't work."
Trophy's voice cracked.
"I fucking know."
He raised the camera again anyway.
*Click.*
Nothing.
His eyes filled with tears.
He wiped them away angrily.
Another tear escaped.
He wiped that one away too.
"Why the fuck isn't it working?"
Knife stayed quiet.
Trophy stared at the camera.
"I know you're a ghost."
His voice became quieter.
"I fucking know."
He swallowed.
"I just..."
He raised the camera again.
His hands were trembling so badly that he couldn't keep them steady.
*Click.*
Nothing.
Trophy's face crumpled.
He lowered the camera.
"...I just wanted one."
Knife looked at him.
"One what?"
Trophy covered his face with one hand.
"One picture."
His voice broke.
And that was it.
Whatever control he'd been trying to keep finally gave out.
Trophy's shoulders shook as he tried to hold himself together.
He couldn't.
The tears kept coming, and the harder he tried wiping them away, the more frustrated he got.
"Fuck..."
He turned away.
"I thought I'd have more time."
Knife's expression changed.
Trophy pressed the camera against his chest.
"I thought I'd get to keep taking them."
His voice shook.
"I thought you'd keep complaining about it."
Knife didn't say anything.
"I thought you'd keep calling me fucking weird."
Trophy laughed through his tears.
"You always complained about it."
"I know."
"And I still kept doing it."
"I know."
Trophy looked at him.
"And now I can't even get one."
Knife stared at him for a moment.
He clearly didn't know what to say.
Which wasn't surprising.
Knife wasn't exactly the type to sit down and have emotional conversations.
He was better at insults.
Arguments.
Threats.
Annoying people until they wanted to throw something at him.
This wasn't really his thing.
But he didn't leave.
That was something.
Trophy wiped his face again.
He looked down at the camera.
Then at Knife.
Then back at the camera.
His hands were still shaking.
"...It's not fair."
Knife frowned.
"What?"
Trophy swallowed.
"It's not fucking fair."
His voice was quieter now.
Knife didn't answer.
Trophy slowly pushed himself up from the floor.
His legs were still unsteady.
He grabbed the table for support and forced himself to stand.
Knife watched him.
"Troph, you don't have to—"
"I fucking know."
Trophy took a step forward.
Then another.
He stopped in front of Knife.
Close enough that, if Knife had been alive...
Trophy would've been able to touch him.
He would be able to reach out and grab hold of him.
Would be able to punch him and have their fights where no one wins.
He stared.
Knife looked back at him.
Neither of them said anything.
Trophy slowly raised one hand.
He hesitated.
His fingers hovered in front of Knife.
He knew what was going to happen.
He knew.
Still, he tried.
His hand passed through.
Trophy froze.
His eyes widened.
He pulled his hand back.
"...Oh."
His voice was barely audible.
He stared at his own hand.
Then at Knife.
"Right."
He tried again.
Nothing.
His hand went straight through the ghost.
Trophy's face twisted.
"No."
He pulled his hand back.
"Come on."
He tried again.
Nothing.
Knife stayed still.
Trophy's breathing started shaking again.
"Why?"
Knife frowned.
"Troph..."
"Why?"
Trophy looked directly at him.
"Why the fuck is it always you?"
Knife went quiet.
Trophy started punching where Knife would be if he was alive, each punch passing through the other's translucent body.
Trophy's voice rose.
"Why is it always fucking you?"
He wiped at his eyes.
"Why did you have to go?"
Knife stared at him.
Trophy's voice cracked.
"Why couldn't it have been anyone else?"
He immediately shook his head.
"No, that's not what I meant."
He looked away.
"I just..."
His shoulders shook.
"It's not fair."
Knife stayed quiet.
Trophy looked back at him.
"You were supposed to keep annoying me."
A shaky laugh escaped him.
"You were supposed to keep calling me goldie."
He wiped his face.
"You were supposed to keep complaining about my camera."
He looked down at the camera in his hands.
"I was supposed to keep taking pictures of you."
His voice became quieter.
"I had all these albums."
Knife blinked.
"...Albums?"
Trophy froze.
He looked away.
"Shut up."
"How many?"
"Not important."
"Goldie."
"Don't."
Knife stared at him.
Trophy's face was red from crying.
"I had a lot, okay?"
Knife raised an eyebrow.
"A lot?"
"Shut the fuck up."
Despite everything, Knife almost smiled.
Almost.
Trophy looked back at him.
"And now none of it matters."
Knife's expression softened.
"It matters."
Trophy shook his head.
"No, it doesn't."
"It does."
"I can't even take a picture of you."
"Yeah."
"I can't touch you."
Knife went quiet.
Trophy's voice broke again.
"I can't even fucking do anything."
Knife looked at him.
Then he moved closer.
Or tried to.
He couldn't actually touch Trophy either.
That seemed to make the whole thing worse.
Trophy stared at him, eyes watering as he tried blinking it all away, rubbing the back of his hand on his cheeks to get rid of the tears.
Knife sighed.
"I don't know what you want me to say."
Trophy laughed weakly.
"Nothing."
"Good."
"Asshole."
"There you are."
Trophy looked at him.
Knife gave him a small, crooked smile.
"You sound more like yourself."
Trophy wiped his eyes.
"Fuck you."
"Yeah."
Knife stayed there.
Trophy didn't move away.
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.
Then Trophy looked down at the camera.
"...I really did take that many pictures of you."
Knife snorted.
"Apparently."
"I don't know why."
"You probably just like taking pictures of ugly people."
Trophy looked up.
"You're not ugly."
Knife blinked.
Trophy immediately realized what he'd said.
"...Shut up."
Knife's smile grew slightly.
"Didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
Knife shrugged.
"Whatever."
Trophy looked away.
He was still crying.
But the shaking had started to settle.
Knife stayed beside him.
Not touching.
Not trying to force anything.
Just there.
Eventually, Trophy spoke again.
"...I'm still mad at you."
Knife raised an eyebrow.
"Why?"
"Because you left me."
Knife stared at him.
"That wasn't even my fault."
"I know."
Trophy sniffled.
"Still mad."
"Fair enough."
Trophy looked at him.
"And I'm mad that I can't take pictures of you."
"Yeah, I got that."
"And I'm mad that I can't touch you."
Knife's expression fell slightly.
"Yeah."
"And I'm mad because I got used to you being gone."
Knife looked away.
Trophy continued.
"I had to."
"I know."
"I thought I'd gotten over it."
Knife looked back at him.
"Maybe you don't have to."
Trophy frowned.
"What?"
"You don't have to pretend you're over it."
Trophy stared.
Knife shrugged.
"You missed me."
Trophy looked away.
"...Yeah."
"That's not exactly a crime."
"You don't know that."
"Pretty sure it isn't."
Trophy let out a small laugh.
It wasn't much.
But it was there.
Knife looked at him.
"There. See?"
"See what?"
"You laughed."
"Shut up."
Knife smirked.
"There you go."
Trophy rolled his eyes.
He looked down at the camera again.
His thumb rested against the side.
He knew he couldn't take the picture.
He knew Knife wouldn't show up.
But he still raised it.
Knife watched him.
"Really?"
Trophy nodded.
"Yeah."
"Why?"
Trophy looked through the viewfinder.
Nothing.
He lowered it.
"...I don't know."
Knife shrugged.
"Then take pictures of everything else."
Trophy looked at him.
"What?"
"You've got a camera."
Knife gestured around the room.
"Take pictures of the stupid mansion. Take pictures of everyone else. Take pictures of me standing here if you want, even if I'm not gonna show up."
Trophy stared at him.
"It's not even going to be the same."
"I know."
Knife looked at him.
"But you can still keep taking pictures. I'm not gonna let you stop taking pictures just because I'm gone, goldie."
Trophy looked down.
He thought about the albums underneath his bed.
All those pictures.
All those stupid moments.
All the times Knife had complained.
All the times Trophy had denied taking the picture.
All the times he'd secretly smiled at a picture afterward.
He wiped his eyes.
"...Okay."
Knife nodded.
"Okay."
Trophy took another shaky breath.
Then he looked at Knife.
"Can you stay?"
Knife raised an eyebrow.
"Where else am I gonna go?"
Trophy rolled his eyes.
"Shut up."
"I'm serious."
Knife floated beside him.
"I'm not going anywhere."
Trophy looked at him for a moment.
Then nodded.
He lowered his camera.
For once, he didn't try to take a picture.
He just stood there.
Knife stayed beside him.
And even though Trophy still couldn't touch him...
Even though the camera still couldn't capture him...
Even though it wasn't fair, and Trophy still didn't understand why it had to be Knife of all people...
Knife was there.
For now.
And, for the first time since that god-awful day, Trophy didn't feel like he had to pretend anymore that he'd done enough to move on—like he'd already done enough to prove he was okay.