Work Text:
(¬‿¬)
Trophy had been in his room for almost an hour.
Which, honestly, wasn't that unusual. He spent plenty of time in his room when he didn't feel like dealing with everyone at Hotel OJ. Sometimes he wanted to be left alone. Sometimes he wanted attention but refused to admit it. And sometimes he just wanted to sit around and do absolutely nothing without anybody bothering him.
Today was supposed to be one of those days.
Unfortunately, his brain had other fucking plans.
He sat near the edge of his bed, staring at the red bow tied around his right handle.
He'd tied it himself that morning.
It wasn't anything new. He'd had it for a while, actually, and he'd always liked how it looked. It was a nice shade of red, and it went well with his usual colors. He'd never really thought much about it beyond that.
Until somebody else decided to open their goddamn mouth.
"Didn't know you were the type to wear bows. Kinda girly, don't you think?"
Trophy's expression soured.
"Oh, shut the fuck up."
He was alone in his room.
He knew that.
He was telling the memory to shut the fuck up.
Which was honestly pathetic, and he was getting increasingly irritated with himself over it.
It was a stupid comment. A stupid, unnecessary comment from somebody who clearly had nothing better to do than concern themselves with what other people wore.
Trophy should've insulted them. He should've said something about their face, their personality, their intelligence–whatever came to mind first. He was good at that. He could've made them regret speaking to him in the first place.
Instead, he'd laughed it off.
"Yeah? Well, at least I have fucking style."
That was what he'd said.
It wasn't even a bad comeback.
But it didn't feel like enough.
He didn’t feel like he'd done enough.
And now he couldn't stop thinking about it.
He looked at the bow again.
"...It's just a fucking bow."
He'd said that about five times already.
It didn't help.
The problem wasn't that he thought bows were inherently feminine. He didn't. He liked the bow.
He liked having it there.
But the comment had gotten under his surface in a way he didn't know how to explain.
Because what if that was what people saw when they looked at him?
What if they looked at the bow and decided they knew something about him? What if they took one little detail and used it to decide how to treat him, how to talk to him, what they thought he was supposed to be?
Trophy hated that thought.
He hated it so much that he wanted to rip the bow off his handle just to make the thoughts stop.
His attention returned to it.
He reached toward the knot.
Then stopped.
His expression tightened.
"No... fuck."
He groaned, dragging his hands down his face.
What the hell was wrong with him?
It was a bow.
A piece of ribbon.
He'd worn it before, and nothing had happened. He'd liked it before, and nothing had happened. It hadn't changed how he saw himself. It hadn't made him feel any less like himself.
So why was he suddenly acting like it had?
He wasn't taking it off.
He liked it.
He shouldn't have to take it off because somebody else had decided it meant something about him.
So why was he still thinking about it?
Trophy leaned back against the wall and stared at the ceiling.
"Geez, I'm so fucking pathetic."
He regretted saying it almost immediately.
He wasn't pathetic.
He was Trophy.
He is Trophy.
He was confident, competitive, and very obviously the greatest object to ever exist in Hotel OJ.
He could handle one stupid comment.
He could.
He just had to stop thinking about it.
A knock sounded at his door.
"Trophy?"
Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding him.
Knife.
Of course it was Knife.
He'd rather deal with a hundred more comments about his bow than have to deal with Knife right now.
But right now, he’d rather answer the other from the comfort of his bed.
So instead, he raised his voice while staying on his bed.
"What do you want?"
"Wow. Good afternoon to you too, jackass."
"What the fuck do you want?"
"Have you seen Pickle? He said something about needing to talk to me, and now he's gone."
"How the hell should I know?"
"Because you spend an unreasonable amount of time watching what everyone else is doing?"
Trophy turned toward the door.
"Get the fuck out."
There was a pause.
"...I haven't even come in yet."
"THEN YOU'RE ALREADY HALFWAY THERE! KEEP FUCKING GOING!"
Knife snorted from the other side.
"You're in a wonderful mood."
"And you're ruining it!"
"Didn't realize I had that much power over you."
"Oh, go shove a knife up your ass."
"You offering to help, princess?"
"I'M OFFERING TO KICK YOUR ASS IF YOU DON'T SHUT THE FUCK UP!"
Knife laughed.
Trophy wanted to punch something.
Normally, he'd have a comeback ready. Something sharp enough to make Knife shut up for at least five seconds.
But he couldn't focus.
The stupid comment kept replaying in his head, and every time Knife spoke, Trophy found himself getting more irritated. Not because Knife was doing anything particularly unusual, but because he couldn't stand being bothered right now.
"Knife, I'm fucking serious. Go away."
The hallway fell quiet.
Trophy waited.
A few seconds later, he heard Knife's footsteps moving away.
Finally,
He turned back toward his bed.
Then the footsteps stopped.
"...You know," Knife called from farther down the hallway, "if you're pissed about something, you could just fucking say that instead of trying to bite my head off."
Trophy's expression went flat.
"IF YOU DON'T LEAVE, I'M GOING TO THROW SOMETHING AT YOUR STUPID FUCKING FACE!"
"There he is."
"KNIFE!"
A laugh echoed down the hallway before the footsteps finally continued.
Trophy stared at the door.
"I fucking hate him."
He genuinely hated him.
He was going to enjoy the day Knife finally got launched into the sun.
Preferably with a particularly large amount of force.
Except the moment the hallway went quiet again, Trophy's attention drifted back to the bow.
And the awful feeling came right back with it.
"Oh, for fuck's sake."
He didn't want to think about it anymore.
He didn't want to care.
He didn't want to feel like one stupid remark could make him question something he already knew about himself.
Trophy picked up his phone and tried to distract himself.
It worked for approximately three minutes.
Then he caught a glimpse of the bow again.
He locked his phone.
"...Fuck this."
He wasn't sure who he was swearing at anymore.
Probably himself.
Which was even more fucking annoying.
╚(•⌂•)╝
Knife had successfully located Pickle.
He'd also successfully annoyed Pickle within the first thirty seconds of their conversation, which was apparently a personal record even for him.
After that, he'd spent some time hanging around the common area, listening to Bomb talk about something he wasn't particularly interested in and occasionally throwing in a comment just to see how long it took for everyone to get annoyed with him.
Everything was normal.
Mostly.
Except he kept thinking about Trophy.
Which was irritating as hell.
Trophy was always in a bad mood about something. Usually it was because someone had insulted him, challenged him, or dared to exist in a way he found inconvenient.
Knife wasn't exactly concerned every time Trophy started yelling.
If he were, he'd never have time to do anything else.
But that earlier interaction had been weird.
Trophy had sounded genuinely upset.
Not his usual angry, obnoxious, I'm-going-to-make-everyone-else-miserable-because-I'm-miserable kind of upset.┗|｀O′|┛
Something else.
Knife couldn't quite put his finger on it.
He'd almost gone back to ask, but then he'd remembered that Trophy had threatened to throw something at him.
And, frankly, he wasn't particularly interested in getting hit with a lamp.
Still, he glanced toward the hallway.
"...What are you looking at?" Pickle asked.
"Nothing."
"You're looking at the hallway."
"Congratulations. Your eyes fucking work."
Pickle stared at him.
"Is this about Trophy?"
Knife's expression immediately soured.
"What? No."
"You looked at the hallway, then looked at the hallway again, then sighed like somebody personally pissed in your cereal."
"I sigh all the time."
"Yeah. Usually when you're about to do something annoying."
"Maybe I'm about to do something annoying right now."
"You've been doing that for the last ten minutes."
Knife stood up.
"Great. Then you won't miss me."
"Where are you going?"
"To mind my own business."
Pickle gave him a look.
"That is literally the opposite of what you do."
"Fuck off."
He left before Pickle could say anything else.
He wasn't going back because he was worried.
That would be stupid.
He was going back because Trophy had been acting weird, and Knife wanted to figure out why.
There was a difference.
A very important difference.
He didn't care whether Trophy was upset. He just wanted to know what was going on.
And if Trophy told him to get lost again, Knife would leave.
Simple.
Easy.
Completely reasonable.
He was definitely not going to stand outside the guy's door and overthink whether he should knock.
Except when Knife returned to Trophy's door, he stood there for several seconds without doing anything.
"...Fuck's sake."
He knocked twice.
Nothing.
"Trophy?"
Silence.
Knife tilted his head.
"Hey. I'm not here to annoy you."
A pause.
"...That's a fucking first," Trophy called from inside.
Knife almost smiled.
"Yeah, well, don't get used to it."
He waited.
The door didn't open.
"Can I come in?"
"No."
Knife sighed.
"Okay."
He turned to leave.
"...Wait."
Knife stopped.
There it was.
He looked back at the door.
"What?"
Trophy didn't answer immediately.
Knife could practically hear him trying to decide whether he'd made a terrible mistake.
Then, very quietly, he said, "...You can come in. Just don't be annoying."
Knife considered that.
"I can't promise that shit."
"KNIFE!"
"Fine, fine! Jesus Christ."
He opened the door and stepped inside.
Trophy was sitting on his bed, looking distinctly unhappy. His phone was lying beside him, the screen dark. A pillow was on the floor near the door.
The red bow was still tied around his right handle.
Knife glanced at it.
Then at Trophy.
Then back at the bow.
Trophy noticed immediately.
"Don't."
Knife blinked.
"Don't what?"
"Whatever the fuck you're about to say."
"I haven't said anything."
"You're looking at it."
"Am I not allowed to look at things now?"
"Not that thing!"
Knife looked at the bow again.
"Oh."
Trophy's expression became defensive.
Knife had seen that expression plenty of times before. Trophy wore it whenever he thought somebody was about to make fun of him, whenever he was trying to pretend something hadn't bothered him, whenever he was about to turn a perfectly ordinary conversation into a fight because he didn't want to admit he was embarrassed.
But this time, he didn't seem ready to argue.
He seemed worried.
And that was enough to make Knife reconsider his next comment.
"...Did somebody say something about it?"
Trophy's gaze snapped toward him.
Knife didn't need an answer.
"Oh," he repeated, quieter this time.
"Don't fucking say it like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you know something!"
"I don't know anything!"
"EXACTLY! SO STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!"
Knife fell silent.
Trophy looked away, his expression twisting with frustration.
For a moment, Knife thought he was going to be told to leave again.
Instead, Trophy muttered, "...Somebody said it looked girly."
Knife stared at him.
Then he glanced at the bow.
"...That's it?"
Trophy immediately turned toward him.
"THAT'S IT?"
"No, I mean–"
"Forget it! Just fucking forget it!"
"Trophy, hold on–"
"Why the hell did I even tell you?!"
"Because you wanted to!"
"NO, I FUCKING DIDN'T!"
"THEN WHY DID YOU–"
"BECAUSE I DON'T FUCKING KNOW!"
The sudden silence afterward felt almost deafening.
Trophy went still.
Knife did, too.
Neither of them seemed entirely sure what to do with the fact that Trophy had just shouted that at him.
Trophy looked away first, burying his face into his pillow.
"...I don't know," he repeated, quieter, a bit muffled.
Knife's expression shifted.
He finally understood that this wasn't really about whether the bow looked girly.
It was about why the comment had hurt so much.
And Trophy clearly wasn't ready to explain that.
Knife settled onto the floor, leaving some space between them.
For once, he didn't make another joke.
"...Okay."
Trophy lifted his head from the pillow, eyeing Knife suspiciously.
"Okay?"
"Yeah."
“That’s it?”
"I said I think it looks fine. Didn't say that was gonna magically fix whatever's going on in your head."
Trophy stared at him.
"...You could've said that less like an asshole."
"And miss a perfectly good opportunity? Fuck no."
“Then fuck you.”
"What the hell do you want me to do, give a speech?"
"You're usually pretty fucking good at talking when nobody wants you to!"
"Wow. And here I was trying to be nice."
"Like hell, you're doing a shit job!"
"Good to know."
A tiny bit of the tension eased from the room.
Not much.
But enough that Trophy stopped looking like he was preparing to throw something at Knife.
Knife leaned back against the side of the bed.
"...For what it's worth, I don't think there's anything wrong with the bow."
Trophy's expression tightened again.
"You don't have to say that."
"I'm not saying it because I have to."
"...You don't even like me."
Knife blinked.
That was probably the most irritating part.
Trophy had somehow managed to take a conversation about a bow and turn it into a question about whether Knife liked him.
And the worst part was that Knife didn't have a particularly good answer.
They weren't friends.
They argued constantly. They insulted each other on a regular basis. Trophy had once threatened to throw Knife out of a window, and Knife was still considering whether he should help him find one.
But that didn't mean Knife wanted him sitting alone in his room feeling miserable.
"...I don't have to like you to tell you the truth, idiot."
Trophy stared at him.
Knife looked away.
"And I think the bow looks fine."
A pause.
"...Really?"
Knife glanced back at him.
"Yeah. Really."
Trophy looked down at the bow.
His expression was still troubled, but the sharpest edge of his frustration had dulled.
"...Somebody said it makes me look like a girl."
Knife frowned.
"Okay?"
Trophy's gaze snapped up.
"KNIFE!"
"WHAT?! I'M TRYING TO FUCKING UNDERSTAND!"
"YOU'RE NOT UNDERSTANDING SHIT!"
"THEN EXPLAIN IT TO ME!"
"I CAN'T!"
The words came out louder than Trophy intended.
He went quiet afterward, staring at the floor.
Knife didn't interrupt.
Trophy's voice, when he finally spoke again, was much smaller.
"...I just don't want people looking at me like that."
Knife's expression softened slightly.
"Like what?"
Trophy hesitated.
"...Like I'm something I'm not."
There it was.
Knife didn't pretend he knew exactly what Trophy meant. He didn't suddenly start offering advice about something Trophy hadn't explained.
He just nodded slowly.
"...Oh."
Trophy looked away.
"And now I keep thinking about it, and it's fucking stupid, because I know who I am, but I can't stop thinking about what they said, and I hate that I care so much."
Knife remained quiet.
Trophy let out an irritated sound.
"You're supposed to say something."
"Didn't realize I was being graded."
"Knife."
"Sorry."
Another pause.
Then Knife asked, carefully, "...Do you want to tell me what you mean?"
Trophy's expression became uncertain.
For once, he didn't immediately snap back.
He looked at the bow.
Then at Knife.
Then back at the bow.
"...I don't know how."
Knife nodded.
"Then you don't have to explain it all right now."
Trophy stared at him.
"...You're being fucking weird."
"Yeah, well. Don't tell anyone. I've got a reputation."
That earned the tiniest, most reluctant huff from Trophy.
Knife pretended not to notice.
And, for the first time that afternoon, Trophy didn't tell him to leave.
Trophy stared at the bow again.
He wished he hadn't.
Because the moment he did, that stupid comment came crawling back into his head, and suddenly he was thinking about it all over again.
*Girly.*
He hated that word.
He hated how easily somebody had said it, how casually they'd looked at something he liked and decided it meant something about him. He hated how they'd probably forgotten the entire conversation by now, while he was still sitting here, hours later, thinking about it like some fucking idiot.
His expression twisted.
"...Fuck."
Knife glanced at him.
"What now?"
"Nothing."
"That didn't sound like nothing."
"Congratulations. You can recognize words."
"Wow. And here I thought you were gonna be nice to me for at least five minutes."
"Get out."
"Nope. You invited me in."
"I can revoke that invitation, asshole."
"Yeah, yeah."
Knife leaned his head back against the bed, looking up at the ceiling. He didn't say anything else, which was honestly weird enough that Trophy glanced at him suspiciously.
Then he looked back at the bow.
His hand twitched toward it.
He stopped himself.
Started again.
Stopped.
"Oh, for FUCK'S SAKE!"
Knife jolted slightly.
"JESUS—! What the hell was that for?!"
"NOTHING!"
"Then stop screaming at the fucking air!"
Trophy grabbed his pillow and shoved it over his face.
He wanted to rip the bow off.
He wanted to leave it exactly where it was.
He wanted to stop thinking about it, stop remembering that person's stupid fucking voice, stop feeling like everybody in the entire hotel was suddenly going to look at him differently.
And he hated that he couldn't make himself do any of those things.
His grip tightened around the pillow.
"...I fucking hate this."
Knife's expression shifted.
He sat up a little.
"Hate what?"
"THIS!"
Trophy threw the pillow aside, gesturing vaguely at himself, the bow, and the entire room as if that explained absolutely everything.
Knife looked around.
"...Your interior decorating?"
Trophy stared at him.
"Are you fucking serious?"
"Little bit."
"You're the most insufferable piece of shit I've ever met."
"Aw. You say the sweetest things."
"KNIFE!"
"Okay, okay!"
Knife raised his hands in surrender, but his expression grew more serious when he noticed Trophy's hands shaking with frustration.
Not dramatically. Not enough that somebody else might've noticed.
But Knife noticed.
And, for once, he didn't make a joke about it.
"...Hey."
Trophy looked away.
"What?"
"Do you want me to leave?"
The question caught Trophy off guard.
He'd spent the last hour yelling at Knife to get out. He'd told him to shut up, threatened to throw things at him, and insulted him approximately seventeen times since he'd opened the door.
He should've said yes.
It would've been easier.
Instead, he stared down at the blanket.
"...No."
Knife blinked.
"What?"
"Don't make me fucking repeat myself."
"Oh, sorry. Didn't realize I was supposed to treasure the moment."
"Knife."
"Right. Shutting up."
He paused.
"...Mostly."
Trophy let out a frustrated sigh, but he didn't tell him to leave again.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Knife stayed on the floor, and Trophy sat on the bed, picking at a loose thread in the blanket. The silence wasn't exactly comfortable, but it was better than having to explain every single thought that kept crashing into his head.
Eventually, Trophy spoke.
"...I know it's stupid."
Knife glanced at him.
"What is?"
"That I'm still thinking about it." Trophy gestured vaguely toward the bow. "It's been fucking hours, and I still can't get that stupid comment out of my head."
"Yeah, well. Brains are annoying like that."
Trophy shot him a look.
"Wow. Thanks for the fucking insight, genius."
"Anytime."
Trophy looked back down at the ribbon, picking at the edge of the blanket.
"I liked it before," he muttered. "I still like it. So why the fuck does one asshole's opinion suddenly matter so much?"
Knife opened his mouth, probably to make another stupid comment.
Then he seemed to reconsider.
"...Because it got to you."
Trophy's fingers stilled.
"Well, no shit."
"I'm just saying. You can know something about yourself and still get hurt when someone makes you feel like they don't see it."
Trophy went quiet.
He hated how much sense that made.
"...I don't know what to do about it," he admitted.
The words came out so quietly that he almost hoped Knife hadn't heard them.
Unfortunately, Knife had excellent hearing when it was inconvenient.
Knife's sarcastic expression faded.
He shifted where he sat, glancing at the space beside Trophy on the bed.
"...Can I sit up there?"
Trophy looked at him suspiciously.
"Why?"
"Because the floor's uncomfortable, dumbass."
"Then sit somewhere else."
"Jesus Christ. You really know how to make a guy feel welcome."
Knife started to push himself up.
Then he stopped.
"...Seriously, though. Can I?"
Trophy stared at him for a moment.
Then he scooted over a few inches.
"Fine. But don't touch my shit."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
Knife climbed onto the bed and sat beside him, leaving a little space between them.
For several seconds, he simply sat there.
Then he glanced at Trophy.
"...Do you want a hug or something?"
Trophy's entire expression changed.
"A WHAT?"
"A hug."
"I KNOW WHAT A FUCKING HUG IS!"
"Then why'd you ask?"
"I DIDN'T ASK!"
"Okay, well, you're yelling at me again, so I'm gonna take that as a no."
Knife started to move away.
"...Wait."
He stopped.
Trophy stared determinedly at the opposite wall.
"...I didn't say no."
Knife slowly turned his head toward him.
A grin began creeping across his face.
"Oh, this is fucking priceless–"
"FINISH THAT SENTENCE AND I'LL END YOU."
"Right. Sorry. Very serious moment."
Knife pressed his lips together, visibly fighting a laugh.
Trophy looked like he was contemplating several different ways to murder him.
Then, quietly, he muttered, "...Just don't make it weird."
Knife's grin softened.
"Wouldn't know how."
"You're making it weird RIGHT NOW!"
"Fine! Come here, you dramatic little shit."
He opened one arm awkwardly, looking so thoroughly uncomfortable with the entire situation that Trophy almost changed his mind.
Almost.
Trophy hesitated before leaning sideways against him.
It was stiff at first. Awkward. Trophy's shoulders remained tense, and he kept his arms tucked close to himself as if he expected Knife to make fun of him at any second.
Knife didn't.
He simply shifted enough to make room, letting Trophy settle against his side.
After a moment, Knife rested his arm around Trophy's shoulders.
"There," he muttered. "Happy?"
"No."
"Wonderful."
"...Shut up."
"Gladly."
Knife went quiet.
Trophy remained stiff for another minute before gradually relaxing against him. His head dipped until it rested against Knife's shoulder.
He hated how much better it felt.
He hated that Knife, of all people, was the one making him feel better.
And he especially hated that he didn't want him to stop.
"...Don't tell anybody about this," Trophy mumbled.
Knife scoffed.
"Please. If anyone asks, I'm holding you hostage."
"Good."
"Demanding ransom and everything."
"Knife."
"What? I'm thinking big. You'd be worth at least three dollars."
Trophy elbowed him.
"FUCK YOU."
"There's my guy."
The words slipped out casually.
Knife didn't seem to notice he'd said them.
Trophy did.
He didn't respond, but something in his chest loosened just a little.
Knife glanced down at the bow again.
This time, he didn't try to hide it.
"...You know you don't have to take it off, right?"
Trophy's expression tightened.
"I know."
"Do you?"
Trophy lifted his head.
"Yes, I fucking know!"
"Okay, okay. Just checking."
He paused.
"...I'm not saying you have to keep wearing it, either. If you wanna take it off because you don't like it anymore, that's your business. But if you still like it, then keep the damn thing."
Trophy looked down at his right handle.
Knife continued, his voice quieter.
"That asshole doesn't get to decide what it means to you."
Trophy swallowed.
"...What if everybody thinks the same thing?"
"Then everybody can be wrong together. Sounds like a fucking miserable party, but whatever."
A tiny, unwilling laugh escaped Trophy.
Knife smirked.
"See? I'm hilarious."
"You're a fucking idiot."
"An hilarious idiot."
"That's not how grammar works, dumbass."
"Didn't ask."
Trophy shook his head, but the tension in his face had eased.
He looked at the bow again.
It was still there.
The same red ribbon he'd tied around his handle that morning. The same little thing he'd liked before somebody had decided to make it a problem.
The comment hadn't disappeared. He could still hear it if he thought about it hard enough.
And, annoyingly, he probably would think about it again later.
But right now, he didn't feel quite so trapped inside his own head.
Knife nudged him lightly with his shoulder.
"...You still with me?"
Trophy gave him a look.
"Unfortunately."
"Good. Starting to think you died and left me with your corpse."
"Keep talking and I'll make it happen."
"See, that's the spirit."
Trophy rolled his eyes.
Then, after another moment of hesitation, he leaned against Knife again.
This time, he did it without being asked.
Knife noticed.
Of course he fucking noticed.
But, miraculously, he kept his mouth shut.
For almost thirty seconds.
"...You comfortable there, princess?"
Trophy immediately shoved his face into Knife's shoulder.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP."
Knife laughed, the sound rumbling softly beneath Trophy's cheek.
"All right, all right!"
He tightened his arm around Trophy's shoulders just a little.
Trophy didn't complain.
Instead, he reached up and fiddled with the end of his red bow, smoothing the ribbon between his fingers.
Knife watched him for a moment.
"...Still like it?"
Trophy went quiet.
Then he nodded.
"...Yeah."
"Then that's what matters."
Trophy swallowed, his eyes stinging a little.
He hated that, too.
He wasn't about to start crying over a fucking bow. Absolutely not. He had standards.
But he pressed his face a little more firmly against Knife's shoulder anyway.
"...Thanks."
Knife froze.
Trophy froze, too, apparently realizing what he'd just said.
"Don't make a big deal out of it," Trophy warned immediately.
Knife slowly turned his head toward him.
"...Did you just thank me?"
"NO."
"I definitely heard a thank-you."
"YOU HEARD FUCKING NOTHING."
"Wow. And here I thought we were making progress."
"I'm going to bite you."
"Promises, promises."
Trophy pinched his arm.
Knife yelped.
"OW! WHAT THE FUCK?!"
"THAT'S WHAT YOU GET!"
"YOU LITTLE–"
He stopped himself.
Trophy looked up, already preparing to fight him.
Instead, Knife sighed dramatically and pulled him back against his side.
"Whatever. You're lucky I'm such a generous guy."
"You're literally the worst person I've ever met."
"And yet, here you are."
Trophy opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Then muttered, "...Yeah. Here I am."
Knife didn't tease him about that.
He just stayed.
The afternoon light slowly shifted across Trophy's bedroom floor. His phone remained forgotten beside the pillow, and the rest of Hotel OJ carried on outside the door, blissfully unaware that the two people most likely to start an argument over absolutely nothing were currently sitting together in near silence.
Trophy still didn't know how to stop caring about what that person had said.
He didn't suddenly feel completely fine about the bow, either.
But the ribbon was still tied around his handle.
And Knife's arm was still around his shoulders.
For now, that was enough.
"...Knife?"
"Hm?"
"...If you tell Pickle about this, I'll kill you."
Knife snorted.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
Trophy lifted his head suspiciously.
"You're lying."
"Probably."
"KNIFE!"
"WHAT?! YOU ASKED!"
Trophy shoved him.
Knife laughed.
And when Trophy settled against him again a few seconds later, Knife didn't say a damn thing.
He simply let him stay.
（o´・ェ・｀o）