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Assistant: Title: The Point System
        Author: justshapesandlemons justshapesandlemons 
        Chapter: 5/6 
        Summary: Knife and Trophy are a competitive duo. They each like to win, and they both like to overpower each other. This lead to the development of a point system.Every time they play against each other in a video game, they keep track of who wins and who loses; and by how many points.The difference in points then decides what the winner can make the loser do.They both decide to test their luck.
        Contents: Chapter 5
    

    

        
          
          
            Trophy and Pickle have a casual conversation in the communal showers. Nothing happens.
          
        

      
        
          my god this chapter is all over the place. sorry about that LOLalso sorry for the long wait in between updates, my life is a busy one but also i tend to work slowly so...yeah, just bear with me pleaseanyways... casually whistles as i boot the "pickle is only briefly mentioned" tag outas always, sorry for the mistakes you may see, and i hope you guys enjoy this chapter!(also if you were to ask me if this chapter has s@x in it, i wouldn't know how to answer LMFAO)
            
            (See the end of the chapter for  more notes.)
            
      
  

  
  
    
    Maybe Trophy was a little stupid to think that the best way for him to avoid the hyperactivity of his troubled mind would be to isolate himself completely, and to leave himself with nothing to do but think. Standing under the spray of the showerhead and leaving himself occupied only with the monotonous act of washing himself really didn't do him any favors in escaping the very same thoughts that drove him to the communal showers in the first place. He found himself glaring at the tiled floors of his shower stall more than once, lost in his thoughts as he fought against his internal voice and everything it stood for.By the time he finished washing himself up, he wasn't sure just how much time had passed since he began his shower. But at least Knife wasn't around to witness his internal struggle, or worsen it, and for that Trophy decided that his impulses were- once again- in the right.He towels himself off before fetching a smaller, softer hand towel from his locker and using it to rub a thin layer of polish across the expanse of his body. He looks himself over in the small mirror attached to the inside of his locker door and takes a moment to admire himself.A spark of pride shines within his chest as he’s greeted with his pristine, well-kept appearance. The light reflects off of his golden surface in a bright sheen, and he finds that he hardly has to lean in close to see the surrounding environment reflected on the surface of his polished body. He huffs a small chuckle at the thought that he may be able to cast a reflection as clear as a mirror could- if a bit warped with the contours of his figure.His pride quickly shifts into smug confidence as he compares his metal body to that of Knife’s blade and handle.He hardly doubts Knife takes as much care of his body as Trophy does his own. The guy’s handle is covered in tiny little divots, cuts that he’s no doubt obtained through numerous violent encounters. Trophy shakes his head with amusement, already imagining what Knife might look like in a few years’ time.Chipped. Scarred. Beaten. Rusty.While Trophy remains perfect and unmarred.He snickers to himself.Oh well, he’s sure someone would find some kind of rugged charm in Knife’s appearance, once he gets to that point.Then his thoughts wander, and he finds himself curious.What does Knife do to take care of himself? Does he even perform any kind of routine maintenance on his blade?Trophy’s seen what it takes to keep knives sharp.It’s not that he looked it up or intentionally sought the information out or anything. He’s watched a few cooking shows on television, and sometimes they show that kind of thing.He’s a late night T.V. watcher, sue him.But because of it, he knows what knife maintenance can look like.Maintaining a trophy’s sleek appearance is relatively easy work, but knives tend to be handled roughly, sharpened through a constant friction between their blade and a strange block of stone called a “sharpening stone.” When he had watched the demonstration on the screen of the hotel lobby’s television one late night, his mind had immediately wandered to Knife.The show host providing the demonstration at the time seemed as if he knew folks like Trophy might be watching the show, because he took care to address them during his demonstration.“And for those of you with knife pals, or buddies with their own blades, keep this in mind next time they tell you they’re off for a sharpen- and wish them luck! It ain’t easy getting manhandled against a rock and a hard place every time you wanna look nice!”The show’s audience had laughed, and that’s how Trophy realized that what the host said was meant to be funny. But at the time, it only got Trophy thinking.It has him thinking now, too.Does Knife…really have to get manhandled every time he goes in for maintenance?He can see a thoughtful expression take its place in his features through the reflection of his locker door mirror as he ponders the idea.He imagines what it must be like for Knife, to entrust his appearance in the hands of another, and to let them handle him the same way Trophy has seen those late night chefs handling their knives.Does he let someone press his blade into a sharpening stone? Do they hold him by the handle, moving his body back and forth against the coarse surface of the stone block?To account for his size, the stone would have to be large. About the same shape and size as a table. Probably the same height too, for convenience’s sake.For a normal sized object to manipulate his body that way, Knife would have to…bend himself over the surface of the sharpening stone.Trophy swallows.Or maybe he’d have to lay across it, and let the other person simply carry the weight of his lower body.He’d have to let someone hold him by the handle, and guide his body back and forth across the coarse, flat surface.A few times face down, and a few more on his back- to get the other side of his blade.At one point he’d be facing the person handling him. Maybe even holding onto them.Something ugly twists and writhes in Trophy’s stomach, curling tightly around his chest. It doesn’t feel great. Further beneath it though, he can feel a subtle heat beginning to simmer.Is it an intimate practice? Sharpening one’s blade? Maybe it’s the knife equivalent to getting a full body massage…the kind where you’re stripped down to a towel and get rubbed up in oil and you get touched all over and the person taking care of you gets to hear you make all sorts of interesting noises and…Trophy tightens his grip on the edge of his locker room door.Does Knife make any noises when he gets his blade sharpened?Does it hurt?Does it…feel good?Anger starts to pr@ck at Trophy’s heart, alongside something he knows he’s felt before, but refuses to acknowledge. None of it is very pleasant.The thought of someone getting to see Knife that way, getting to hear him make the same sounds Trophy draws out of him during their little “reward sessions” after each game played against each other- it infuriates him.They didn’t earn that right. They didn’t win the right to hear Knife, to see Knife, to touch Knife that way.Did they go through the effort of besting Knife in a competition of skill just for a chance to see him that way? Do they work tirelessly to practice and better themselves at something they were never really involved with before, all for a chance to finally obtain the impossible with Knife? To really prove their superiority over Knife, to show him that they are, without a doubt, better than him in every way? To prove that Knife belongs under them?No.Trophy’s the one who does that. He’s the one who works hard to prove himself worthy, he’s the one who earns the right to enjoy Knife that way.They don’t deserve to see Knife like that.They don’t deserve to have such a great reward so easily handed over.Why would Knife ever do something like that? With a stranger, no less?This train of thought, it’s quickly raising his temper. His jaw is clenched tightly, and his hands- both grabbing at his locker now- are tense and rigid.His breathing is starting to pick up.But he keeps thinking about it.He keeps thinking about Knife, letting himself get manhandled by a stranger. Bending himself over a sharpening stone table, letting a stranger grab him by the hips and rock him back and forth across the table. Maybe even letting them press their hand against the back of his head, so that they can really shove his face into the table (and sharpen his blade properly.)Whoever gets to handle Knife that way, there’s no way they don’t get affected by the sight, the sounds, and the feeling of Knife beneath them like that. If Trophy had the chance to rock Knife back and forth against a table like that, with the expectation that he keeps his hands on Knife’s hips, he knows d@mn well his body would be a huge, huge fan of that. There would be nothing he could do to keep his desires in check.So it’s with that logic and reasoning that Trophy convinces himself that there is, without a doubt, no chance that Knife doesn’t get his brains f@ck@d out every time he goes in for a sharpen.His anger starts to burn hotter, and he can feel a fire starting to rage in his chest.It’s raging a little lower in his body too.That mounting aggression, the irritation, the frustration, the jealousy, he projects it onto the imaginary person handling Knife in this fantasy.They’d probably f@ck him hard. Really make sure they get his body rocking across the table, get his blade grinding nice and hard against the rough surface of the smoothing stone. It’s what Knife would probably want anyways, whoring himself out like that to a stranger.Trophy inhales shakily.Smoothing stones… they usually require a significant amount of water to serve their function. This means that this whole scenario would take place in a tiled room, like a bathroom of sorts. A shower room. The kind of place where the tiled walls and floors would make Knife’s voice echo so perfectly and every little sound the two share; sighs and groans and moans and the wet, slippery slick and slide of the handler’s c@ck f@ck@ng in and out of Knife, it’d all reverberate within the confines of the wash room, loud and vulgar. Neither would be able to escape it.Knife would be forced to hear just how f@ck@ng whorish he sounds.Trophy’s breathing heavily now.When was the last time Knife had his blade sharpened? It certainly wasn’t any time recently. Trophy has seen it himself, he’s felt it for himself; the dullness of Knife’s blade that allowed him to trace the sharp edge without too much of a fear of accidentally cutting himself.He tries to estimate how long ago it might have been that Knife’s had his blade sharpened, how long ago it’s been since he’s offered himself up to the hands of a stranger- when he suddenly recalls a piece of information Knife shared with him just a few hours ago.When Knife had confessed to him that he wasn’t a stranger to getting f@ck@d.“Been a few years…” He had shakily sighed, answering Trophy’s question on when he had last allowed someone to enjoy the warmth of his insides.The wear on Knife’s blade…that has to be the work of a few years of negligence. A few years without proper maintenance.As if he’s collected enough irrefutable evidence, Trophy comes to two conclusions.Conclusion One: Knife has definitely been letting his handler f@ck him onto the sharpening stone.Conclusion Two: Knife is due to get his blade sharpened any day now.Trophy bites the inside of his cheek, hard.He can’t let Knife see someone else just to get his blade sharpened.It can’t be that hard. Trophy could do it for him. Knife doesn’t have to see a professional. All Trophy would need is a sharpening stone big enough to fit him- and he could easily get that from Mephone. Bully the guy into manifesting a sharpening stone table into existence and voila, Knife can go to Trophy anytime he needs to get his blade sharpened.Maybe feeling what it’s like when Trophy holds him that way, the tight squeeze of Trophy’s grasp on his hips as he effortlessly rocks Knife back and forth against the table- maybe that’ll help convince Knife to let Trophy handle him this way more often.Maybe when Trophy flips Knife over on his back and starts working the back of his blade against the sharpening stone, Knife will see just how f@ck@ng good Trophy looks from below, and how much it looks like they’re already f@ck@ng, and maybe Knife would spread his legs to fit Trophy in between, maybe even wrap his legs around Trophy’s waist and pull him in close. Watch him from below as Trophy dutifully rocks him back and forth against the table.Maybe he’d put his hands on Trophy’s arms and stop him mid-rock.And maybe he’d tell him, in that gruff, raspy voice of his-“You should try rocking me against the table a different way.”And, f@ck, maybe he’d go the extra mile and reach down and take Trophy’s c@ck into his hand. And he’d grin when he finds Trophy already hard and exposed, but he wouldn’t laugh, because Knife’s slit would be parted by the girth of his own c@ck too. He’d give Trophy’s c@ck a squeeze before taking initiative himself and guiding it inside of himself for Trophy. Show him that he really does want Trophy to f@ck him, that he wants Trophy to be the one he offers his body up to this way.Knife wouldn’t ever need anyone else. Not to get his blade sharpened, and not to get bent over a table. He’d have Trophy.He’d have Trophy for everything.There’s never going to be a reason for Knife to have to seek anything from a stranger when Trophy’s right there.Trophy can give him anything.Trophy can give him everything.A loud, heavy, metallic creaking rings sharply through the air, echoing off of the tiled walls and floors of the shower rooms.Trophy startles, bringing his hands up to his ears as he’s jolted out of his fantasies.His heart races from the shock, and then it starts to pound in his chest when he realizes what that sound was.The communal shower door.Someone’s coming in.Trophy’s eyes go wide, and he scrambles to shove everything into his locker, embarrassed to have allowed his mind to drift to such a place while he’s out in public. As he bends down to pick up the towel he dropped however, he catches a glimpse of his lower body and comes to a terrible, terrifying realization.He’s hard.He’s so despairingly hard.His c@ck is almost fully unsheathed, and his slit is already leaking onto his thighs.Mortified, Trophy hurries to wrap the towel around his hips to the best of his ability. But his hands are shaking too hard for him to tuck the towel in properly, and the grease from the polish he coated himself with is making it near impossible for the towel to stay in place.Worse yet is the way the towel doesn’t even do anything to hide the shape of his c@ck pressing against it, with it occasionally even peeking out from underneath the cloth barrier as it eagerly searches for a point of contact. Searching for stimulation that Trophy can’t, and will not give it.With the echo of footsteps announcing the intruder’s arrival, Trophy makes the split, last second decision to abandon the towel and instead rush for the showers. He turns every single one of them on, spinning the dial to the highest heat setting for each one. He does so with the desperate hope that enough steam will form to cloud his appearance and shield him from view.Shield his arousal from view.But the steam isn’t forming fast enough, and it’s not thick enough either.Trophy is so terribly, horribly f@<PRESIDIO_ANONYMIZED_EMAIL_ADDRESS> a last ditch effort, Trophy rushes into one of the shower “stalls”- d@mning the fact that none of the stalls have an actual barrier to separate them- and quickly stands under the spray of one of the showerheads.Breathing hard, and struggling to hear over the loud spray of water pattering against the surface of his metal body and pouring into his cup, Trophy strains to identify which direction the footsteps are coming from.He gets his answer as the intruder rounds the corner, entering the shower rooms from the left entrance.Trophy quickly turns his back to the other object, facing the right and desperately trying to make himself look preoccupied as he rubs the burning hot water into his arms.It was just a glimpse, and it lasted less than a second, but it was enough for Trophy to identify the newly arrived object.“Whoa, it’s like a sauna in here.”Pickle.Trophy bites the inside of his cheek hard as he listens to the opening and closing of a locker door a little ways behind him.“Hey Trophy…” Pickle sounds like he’s trying to casually greet the aforementioned object, but the confusion in his tone gives it an awkward lilt. “What’s with all the showers? Why are they all turned on?”His voice draws from a lot closer than Trophy would like it to be.“For the steam. I need it.” He answers, his voice tense and his words curt.At least it’s not an outright lie. God, it really isn’t a lie. Pickle doesn’t know just how much Trophy is depending on the steam to thicken and cloud right now.Trophy does his best to focus on which direction Pickle’s voice is coming from, so that he can keep the front of his body angled away from it as much as possible.He’s not sure if his d@ck has retracted any yet, but he doesn’t want to risk tilting his head down and possibly giving Pickle a reason to try and look too.“Uh…huh…” Pickle replies slowly, the confusion ebbing deeper into his voice. “Well… I need to take a shower, so…”“Awesome.” Trophy snaps, doing nothing to conceal the anxiety induced aggression in his tone. “So glad you told me, I really needed to know.”It’s barely audible over the loud pattering of water reverberating within his cup, but Trophy still catches the huff-almost-scoff that Pickle exhales.“I need you to turn one of those off man. I can’t reach in and do it myself when all the showers are scalding hot.”Trophy stiffens.He slowly looks over his shoulder, casting Pickle a scandalized glare.“You’re f@ck@ng joking.”Finding amusement in Trophy’s absurd expression, Pickle lets out a small chuckle.“I’m really not dude. I’m not made out of metal like you are; I’m organic. You might be able to handle those kinds of temperatures, but I can’t. I’ll end up scalded or worse.”D@mn it.Unsure of what to do, Trophy turns his head so that he’s back to facing straight ahead, with his body still completely angled away from Pickle. He mulls his options over, clenching and unclenching his fists as he struggles to think over the pounding of his heart and the anxiety eating its way through his stomach.Pickle’s shadow casts against the wall as he leans in slightly and peers at Trophy from the same side he’s trying to angle himself.“Dude?” Pickle asks, a slight hint of impatience in his voice. “You gonna turn one of these off for me or what?”Startled, and quickly turning away from Pickle in the opposite direction, Trophy stammers his response at a near shout.“A-Alright! Sheesh! If it’ll stop you from trying to f@ck@ng join me in the shower! Back off will you?!” He snaps, blindly waving a hand behind himself and shoving Pickle away.Trophy looks towards the showerhead closest to him.It’s really not ideal. But he can’t risk moving from his spot and letting Pickle see his current… predicament.So, reaching towards the shower dials closest to him, Trophy works quickly to turn them until the water shuts off. He’s even quicker to fully retreat back under the spray of his own showerhead, hoping Pickle isn’t still looking at him.“There, happy?” He bites.There’s a long pause before Pickle finally answers.“You’re…giving me the shower stall right next to yours?”An embarrassed flush starts to burn hot across Trophy’s face at the indirect confrontation.“Yeah, so?! We’re both guys, don’t be weird about it. Guys always have to shower next to other guys in the locker rooms.” He scoffs, huffing and puffing a lot more than he should. “What, you too scared to shower next to a guy? Grow up and man up, why don’t you!”Trophy can hear the amusement in Pickle’s voice as he speaks next.“Alright man. Whatever you say.”And then he’s finally stepping into the shower to Trophy’s left.Relieved to finally have a direction he can face without having to worry about Pickle moving around and seeing him, Trophy turns back towards the right and goes back to pretending to wash himself.He chances a glimpse down at himself, and finds that, to his relief, the steam has finally started to condense into a thick enough fog that makes it a little harder for others to see the…finer details of his features.It’s not the perfect cover, but it’s better than nothing.The shower next to him starts back up and at first Trophy doesn’t pay it any mind.But then he notices the fog concealing him starting to thin out a little.Alarmed, Trophy looks over his shoulder towards Pickle.“Are you taking a cold shower?” He asks incredulously.“Eyeeup.” Pickle exaggerates the sound, taking his wash cloth in hand and running it against his arms. “It’s what works best for objects like me.”But of course. D@mn it.“Right.” Trophy answers flatly. “Of course.”“Y’know,” Pickle starts. “I didn’t think you were the type for shower room talks, Trophy.”   He really isn’t.“But I guess that makes sense, what with you being a jock and all. Jocks always talk a lot in the shower rooms don’t they? Like in the movies and all?”“Right.” Trophy lies, his jaw clenched tight.Talking is the last thing he wants to do right now. It brings too much attention to him.“Well, I guess since you don’t mind talking in a place like this, can I go ahead and ask you something?”“Sure, whatever.” Trophy tilts his head to the side, pouring out a bit of the water that’s begun to accumulate within his cup.He’s still pouring it out when Pickle shoots his question.“You and Knife have been hanging out a lot lately, haven’t you?”Trophy’s blood runs cold.Normally, his initial reaction would be to turn around and confront Pickle and demand what he means by that. To vehemently deny all unspoken accusations and maybe even shove Pickle around for even implying anything by asking such a thing.But the circumstances at hand are a little different right now. For once, he has to be careful and actually think about what he does before he does it.Lest Pickle see what Trophy’s trying to hide.So, with a moment’s hesitation, Trophy gives a careful answer.“I really don’t know why that matters, but sure, if you wanna call it that. Knife and I have occasionally been in the same room as each other here and there.”Pickle laughs a little at that.“I mean, you guys have been playing video games together a lot lately. I think I’d call that hanging out.”Trophy gives a roll of his eyes and an irritated huff.“Alright great, you asked a question you already knew the answer too. Fantastic.”Pickle hums, the sound lighthearted and entertained.“I’m asking because I was curious about something.”And then, to Trophy’s quickly growing dread, Pickle actually hesitates.There are a million logical reasons that could explain Pickle’s hesitation, but every single reason that Trophy’s mind provides him with all points to Pickle somehow knowing more about his arrangement with Knife than he’s letting on, and the thought is enough to make Trophy’s nerves draw tense. Especially with the idea that Pickle might be preparing to ask him about it here and now.He’s just about to tell Pickle to spit it out already, uncomfortable with the way his anxiety and paranoia is amplifying with every second that passes behind Pickle’s silence, when the other suddenly speaks up.“Do you and Knife talk a lot?” He asks.Okay. That’s an innocent enough question. Trophy doesn’t like how Pickle keeps asking about the two of them, but it’s innocent enough.Trying to push aside his nerves, Trophy does a weird gesture with his head, something in between a shake and a nod, before answering.“Kiiind ooof?” He hesitantly draws out. “I mean. We talk more than we used to.”Pickle hums in understanding, and Trophy has to assume that he’s nodding too.“Well,” Pickle continues, and there’s a strange, sheepish quality to his voice. As if he’s nervous to broach the next topic, and that in turn starts playing at Trophy’s nerves too.God, don’t try to dig any deeper than you’re already doing, Trophy mentally begs.“Does Knife…” He trails off, and Trophy’s heart rate starts to pick up.“Y’know…” Pickle drags out, his voice falling a little quieter.
  Oh here it goes. F@ck. 
After a brief moment’s pause between the two of them, Trophy opens his mouth to answer Pickle, to tear into him for insinuating something like that.Or at least, what he thinks Pickle’s insinuating with those pauses and awkwardly evasive wording.But he’s only just taken in the breath he needs to lash out at Pickle when the other is suddenly interrupting him before he can even start, completing his question.“Does he ever talk about me?”
  …

  What? 
Shocked, and taken off guard, Trophy turns to look at him.“What?” He asks, his expression one of complete befuddlement and, to the faintest degree, alarm.“Ah, so now you look at me.” Pickle laughs, but it comes a little sheepishly, and it’s his turn to look off to the side and avoid Trophy’s gaze.“What do you mean by that?” Trophy presses, ignoring Pickle’s observation. “Why are you asking me something like that?”Pickle shrugs, idly running his wash cloth over the sides of his body.“Just curious is all.”“About whether or not Knife’s been talking about you?” Trophy accuses. “What, do you think he’s like…talking behind your back or something?”He’s a little hopeful asking that one.Pickle however diminishes that small shred of hope with a shake of his head.“Nah, I know Knife would never do that. He’s chill. We’re chill.”“I just wanted to know what he thinks of me.” He continues with yet another shrug, feigning an air of nonchalance to conceal the hint of bashfulness to his words.Trophy’s breath hitches, and a cold flash of panic strikes him to his very core, branching out and spreading across his body in a cold wave.He acts out before he can even begin to question the reason behind his panic.“Okay, well!” Trophy starts, a little louder than he means to. “If the two of you are so chill, then why don’t you ask him yourself if he’s been talking about you? I don’t know why you’re asking me!”This time, Pickle graces him with a strange look, his eyebrow quirked as he studies Trophy’s expression.“Well…you know how friendships can be.” He starts slowly, still looking at Trophy somewhat oddly. As if he’s searching for an answer.Or an explanation.Trophy clears his throat, looking off to the side and willing his heartrate to go down and for his nerves to settle.Calm down man, his mind tells him.
  Take it easy. 
“Friends don’t always tell each other every little thing. It’s usually other people that we share thoughts about our friends with.” Pickle explains, his voice level and casual.“Yeah, w-well.” Trophy stammers, struggling for an answer. “I don’t know. I don’t really pay attention to what Knife says, so.”Trophy works to distract himself from the uncomfortable lull in conversation following his incomplete non-answer by tilting his head to the side once more and letting the water pour out of his cup.Pickle watches him in silence, his lips pressed into a thin line.“Look, man,” Trophy starts, desperate to fill the uncomfortable silence. “He’s your friend. Not mine. If there’s anything he thinks about you that he’s not telling you, well, he’s not exactly gonna be rushing to tell me of all people.”This seems to take Pickle by surprise, if his raised eyebrows are anything to go by.“You guys aren’t friends?”The bark of laughter that echoes off the shower walls comes a little meaner than Trophy intended, and maybe a little hysteric, but he doesn’t let it bother him too much. Maybe.“Are you kidding me?! Dude, did you miss the memo? We’re rivals!” He laughs disbelievingly, crossing his arms over his chest and mockingly tilting his head to the side. “Everyone in the hotel knows that.”  Pickle gives a little laugh of his own, though his bewildered expression remains.“I don’t know if I’d say everyone, exactly. Yeah you guys fight a lot, but you’ve also been spending a lot of time around each other. A lot of us thought you two were starting to get close.”Close. Now there’s a deceptively small word that can carry a lot of weight and meaning behind it.Close can mean a lot of things. It doesn’t necessarily have to imply anything Trophy doesn’t want it to.But Trophy’s not so level headed, and all he can focus on is the fact that people are apparently talking about him and Knife, and that they think there’s something going on between them that could warrant others to describe what they have as “close.”And that goes against everything Trophy’s trying to paint himself as.The flames of his anger flicker to life in his chest.“We are not close.” He spits, his voice dropping low. “I don’t know what you think you’ve been hearing or seeing but get this through your head,”  Trophy draws in near, ignoring the icy cold chill of Pickle’s shower water as he steps into his stall. To his satisfaction, Pickle takes a step back, his eyes looking Trophy up and down before darting to look elsewhere, a slight strain of alarm in his expression.Trophy reaches out to grab Pickle by the arm, his grip punishingly tight and unforgiving as he keeps him from pulling further away.“I hate Knife’s guts.” He hisses, glaring hatefully into Pickle’s eyes. “Knife hates my guts. We want each other dead, and that’s that. That’s the way it is, and that’s how it’ll always stay.”“Everything we do, it’s to prove that we’re better than the other. We’re out here to overpower each other. Nothing more, nothing less. Got it?”Wide eyed, Pickle’s gaze once more flicks downwards before finally meeting Trophy’s burning glare with his own alarmed stare.“Okay man.” He finally answers, though his tone doesn’t quite match his expression. He sounds a lot more placating than he does frightened. “Sorry I asked.”Huffing, Trophy accepts the other’s submissive surrender with a hard shove to Pickle’s arm as he lets him go before returning to his own stall, where his water still runs burning hot.“Make sure you share that little piece of information with anyone else who’s been thinking the same way as you.” Trophy orders. “I don’t need any more idiots spreading rumors like those.”“I’ll be sure to tell them.” Pickle answers flatly.For a few minutes, there’s nothing to interrupt the echoing sound of the shower water hitting the tiled floors. They work in silence; Pickle using his washcloth to rub himself clean while Trophy simply stands underneath the spray of water, his frown etched deep and his eyebrows furrowed with displeasure as his thoughts return full force.It takes a while, but it’s Pickle who eventually breaks the silence.“I take it that’s why you guys have been playing video games and keeping track of your scores so aggressively lately?” He asks. “Trying to outplay each other? Use your scores as proof of your skill?”Relieved for the distraction, some of the tension eases from Trophy’s shoulders as he shoots Pickle a sharp, triumphant grin.“D@mn right,” he answers with a confident chuckle. “It’s a good test of skill, and it’s all worth it to see the look on Knife’s face when I absolutely cream his ass.”Pickle freezes where he’s running the washcloth over his abdomen, turning his wide eyed gaze towards Trophy.Trophy has enough self-awareness to recognize the mistake in his wording, and a hot flush of color starts to warm his face as he stammers to correct himself.“Y-You know, like.” He punches his fist into the palm of his hand. “Pound him? Into the ground?”Pickle’s eyes grow wider.“Violently!” Trophy desperately rushes to clarify, but even he grimaces with the realization that this does nothing to help the situation.“Ugh,” He groans, slapping his hand over his face so that he doesn’t have to look at the way Pickle is staring at him. “You know what I mean.” He can hear the strange noise Pickle makes next to him as he turns his back to Trophy, a weird, choking sound that cuts into his words as he speaks next.“Y-Yeah, no. I get you man.” He replies, his words strained and stifled.
  God d@mn it.
He should have stopped while he was ahead. Trophy chastises himself as his face burns hot with embarrassment.“Alright, I’m done here.” He irritably announces, reaching out to shut the water to his stall off. The dial squeaks with the turn of his wrist, and he leans over one last time to pour the water out of the inside of his cup. He can feel the weight of Pickle’s gaze as he exits the stall, but does nothing to acknowledge it as he starts towards the line of lockers.“Uh, Trophy.” Pickle begins, calling for the other’s attention. Once he has it, although Trophy shoots him a glare for the interruption (that does nothing to combat the hint of embarrassed coloring to his face), Pickle gestures to the other showers- all still running.“Mind turning those off before you go? I wouldn’t be able to without getting burned.”Exasperated, Trophy throws his arms up into the air.“God, do I have to do everything here?” He exclaims, equal parts aggravated and embarrassed as he’s kept from his retreat after making a fool of himself. “Fine, whatever!”He goes up to each running shower head, quickly turning each knob and shooting Pickle a glare as he passes him so that he can get the ones to the right of him.Finally, with the communal shower at a significantly lower volume with only one showerhead running, Trophy turns back to Pickle with a scowl at his lips.“There, happy? Need anything else, princess?”Always amused when it comes to Trophy’s antics, Pickle simply shakes his head with a grin.“Nah, I’m chill. Thanks, though.”“Great. Well, I’m leaving then.” Trophy huffs, going up to his locker to nab a towel. Unenthused by the idea of taking his time to redo his maintenance routine in front of Pickle, Trophy simply wipes at his face using his towel before slinging it around his neck and letting the ends drape over his shoulders. He slams his locker door shut with a loud clang and goes to turn on his heel.“Uh, hold on. Trophy?” Pickle speaks up from behind him.Groaning, Trophy turns back towards Pickle with a dramatic, exaggerated twist.“What did I just say?” He barks out.Ignoring Trophy’s outburst, Pickle shoots him a sympathetic grin.“You should probably uh. Wear that towel down a little lower.”He gestures vaguely towards his own hips, miming the act of tying a towel around it.At first, Trophy only looks at him oddly, a confused yet annoyed expression tugging at his features as he tries to make sense of Pickle’s suggestion.“What the hell are you-?”But then he remembers.Cold dread sinks from the top of his chest to the bottom of his guts, violently taking everything in its path down with it. His eyes widened, and with a frantic sweep, he yanks the towel away from his neck and fumbles to tie it around his waist.Looking down at himself as he does so, he sees it.It’s nowhere near as exposed as it was earlier, with only an inch or two still parting his slit in its retreat, but somehow that just manages to make the whole situation feel even worse.With his face burning hotter than even the scalding water of his shower, Trophy turns his desperate gaze to Pickle as he fumbles with the ends of his towel, struggling to tie them into place.Trying and failing to work an explanation out, Trophy can only wordlessly and helplessly gawk at Pickle, who has the consideration to look off to the side while Trophy scrambles to conceal himself.In the end, the best he can come up with is:“I-It’s… It doesn’t usually look like that.”With a slight upwards quirk to the corner of his lips, Pickle keeps his gaze casted to the side.“I believe you.”Maybe it’s just Trophy, but he can’t help but feel like Pickle doesn’t sound very convinced.Thoroughly humiliated, Trophy’s left with nothing more but to do what he does best.He takes the emotions he doesn’t know how to deal with and turns it into rage.“God d@mn it!” He shouts, turning to a random locker and slamming his fist into it. The metal door bends under the force of his punch, and a few random belongings from inside are sent flying out through the now exposed gaps between the locker door and its frame, but that does nothing to calm the anger and embarrassment that burns molten hot across the entire expanse of Trophy’s body.Pickle seems alarmed when Trophy turns back to him, but he does nothing in the face of Trophy’s approach as he stalks a few feet closer to Pickle, his finger pointing threateningly towards him.“Tell anyone about this and I swear to god, I’ll be telling every single last person about your little crush on Knife. I’ll make it all hell for you. Make you wish you crawled into a hole and died there sooner.” He spits, his voice low and full of a dark sincerity that tells Pickle he means every spoken and unspoken threat behind his words.Raising his hands in a submissive manner, Pickle only shoots Trophy a grin.“Hey, I won’t tell if you don’t.” He easily answers.Trophy’s teeth are still clenched tight, and he’s still posed angrily in front of Pickle, but he can’t help his initial internal reaction to Pickle’s casual response.What, aren’t you gonna deny it? He wants to ask him.
  Aren’t you gonna say that you don’t have a crush on Knife?
Watching Pickle for a few seconds and looking him over, waiting for him to continue but only getting silence in return, Trophy comes to the realization that, no. Pickle isn’t going to deny it.Seems like such a statement might just be a matter of fact now.All too suddenly, Trophy feels a flash of that same emotion from earlier, that weird ugly feeling that winds tightly around his chest and uncomfortably constricts and squirms around his organs. Only this time, the perceived threat that triggered the response isn’t quite so imaginary anymore.Instead, it’s standing right in front of him. This is too much.Bringing a hand to his forehead, Trophy squeezes at the space between his eyes.He has a million questions he could ask.But, deciding that the humiliation would be one of the easier emotions for him to deal with right now, out of the hundred others broiling within him, Trophy asks only one question out of the millions rushing through his mind.“How…how long did you know it was out?” He asks.D@mn it, if there’s nothing he can do to change the fact that Pickle saw his shlong, then he’d really prefer to know that Pickle at least saw it while it was at full length.Pickle hesitates, his mouth opening and closing as he struggles to answer.Then, finally, he just kind of laughs and sympathetically smiles down at Trophy.“I don’t think there’s any answer I could give that would make you feel any better right now, dude.”He’s right, but Trophy doesn’t like it.Groaning, Trophy decides that he’s had enough for today.“God damn it.” He utters, far more resigned this time. “Whatever. I’m going back to my suite.”Pickle nods, giving Trophy a quick two-fingered salute from where he remains in the shower.“Your secret’s safe with me, boss.”Keeping his fist raised towards Pickle as he finally walks towards the exit of the communal showers, all fingers but the middle one curled inwards, Trophy gives Pickle his own farewell.“Go f@ck yourself.”He doesn’t even have to look back to know that, as always, Pickle is just unbothered and most likely just grinning while he watches him leave.Trophy makes the trek back to his suite in silence, making sure to keep his hand on the tied portion of the towel around his waist.The humiliation behind everything that just happened is still there, but slowly overwhelming it is the oncoming sense of unease as he thinks back to the threat he made towards Pickle, and how he had reacted to it.Trophy only accused him of having a crush on Knife to mock him; to take his own mortification and force it onto Pickle instead. He didn’t realize Pickle would accept it so easily.The fact that Pickle was so easy going and accepting of the accusation that he has a crush on Knife makes Trophy feel oddly. It makes him feel as if Pickle took his threat and turned it around on him. It takes every weird, bad, unfamiliar feeling that he’s felt today and amplifies it tenfold.The insides of his chest feel like they’re being squeezed in a tight fist, kneaded and twisted by a cold, merciless hand.He knows what he’s feeling. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he knows what it is.It usually only ever occurred in sudden flashes that left as quickly as they came; instances in which he’d let his thoughts run haywire and doubt would settle deep in his guts before he eventually found a way to either comfort himself in his own, weird little way (something people liked to call repression), or he’d have a moment of clarity in which he realized he was being ridiculous and his perceived threats existed only in his mind.But this is the first time he’s ever felt directly challenged for the role he plays in Knife’s life. This is the first time he’s ever had the source of his worries come from somewhere outside of his mind.Trophy isn’t sure what to do.Is their game going to end?Is Knife going to start turning his attention towards Pickle?Maybe he shouldn’t have been so hasty to deny his connection with Knife. Sure they’re not friends, but…But.But what? That voice in his mind, the same one that always pushes him into addressing things he’s just not ready to face yet, urges him to continue. To finish that thought.Trophy isn’t sure he’d know how to finish it if he tried.The panic is starting to set in, and his heart rate is already picking up.But, as he enters the hotel lobby and makes his way towards the stairs that will take him up to his suite, he starts to come to a realization. A small mercy.Pickle could hardly broach the subject with Trophy. The guy was all awkward pauses and hesitance, and he asked for Trophy to keep the whole thing a secret. He’s probably not going to be pursuing Knife anytime too soon.And Knife? Well, he’s been pretty occupied having fun with Trophy.If Trophy plays his cards right, he won’t have to worry about a thing.He makes his way upstairs and follows the hallway to his suite.Besides,And this is the part that’s really saving him from the onslaught of another unexplainable breakdown,Which one of them currently has Knife sleeping in their bed?Definitely not Pickle, that’s for sure.Trophy unlocks the door to his suite and steps inside with a sigh, undoing the towel from his waist and letting it drop to the floor as he closes the door behind himself and flicks the light switch on.And only then does he see his bed.It’s empty.Trophy wordlessly stares at the empty space of his bed, feeling the pounding of his heart beating against his chest harder and harder with each passing second, his senses heightened as every single emotion that he tried so hard to leave behind in this bedroom returns to him all at once.Despite himself, despite the fear and anxiety and uncertainty and inferiority clawing their way into his chest, Trophy tries to self soothe with a few words of comfort.Maybe Knife is just in the bathroom?Moving slowly, as if something else was controlling his body while he watched from the outside, Trophy made his way to his bathroom door.He carefully rapped his knuckles against it, leaning in close.“Knife?” He calls, his voice quieter than usual.Nothing.He pushes the door open and peers inside.Again. Nothing.Trophy closes the bathroom door.He makes his way across his bedroom and goes back to the light switch, flicking it back off.There are a million thoughts running through his head, and a million more emotions squeezing and tugging and tormenting his heart and stomach and everything in between.But he stays silent. He forces himself to remain impassive.He gets into bed and draws the blankets back over himself as he lies on his back.Everything’s fine.It’s not like they usually spent time together after their games anyways. He should have known Knife would leave.After all, Trophy did leave him to wake up alone.They were already pushing it by sleeping together- in the literal sense. That’s just not the kind of thing they do. So he shouldn’t be surprised.Knife is probably off doing who knows what now. With who knows who.Trophy, in turn, had the same opportunity to do whatever he wanted to too, now that he was alone.It’s nothing out of the ordinary. This is how things always go.He closes his eyes against the onslaught of thoughts, worries, fears, and despairs that his mind tries to feed him. It all jumbles together into a loud cacophony of noise; all of it fearful.It’s going to be fine.
  You need to get your act together soon. Pickle’s braver than you are. He’s going to beat you to it if you don’t start pulling yourself together.
Beat him to what? He’s not aiming for anything. He’s fine. Everything’s fine. Everything is perfect.He has everything he needs.Trophy rolls onto his side, staring into the darkness as he looks at the empty space Knife took up not too long ago.There’s nothing for the light from the hotel hallway to reflect off of now.But that’s fine. Who needs light getting reflected into their eyes anyways? Talk about an eyesore.
  Those two are friends. Good friends. Pickle’s chances are better than yours. 
Who cares. Who cares? Trophy really doesn’t. He reaches out and lays his arm across his mattress, thinking back to when he did the same just a few hours ago, while Knife was asleep.It feels different without Knife’s side underneath his arm.Trophy shifts closer to that empty space. He tells himself that he’s doing it for the elbow room, so he’s not crowded against the wall that his bed sits against. When he takes the same pillow that Knife rested against and hugs it close to his chest, he tells himself that it’s because this pillow is nicer, and that the cool surface of it is refreshing against his body.
  This game isn’t going to last forever. You know that right?
Trophy buries his face into the pillow.
  It’s going to end someday. How it ends depends on you.
He catches a hint of Knife’s scent and closes his eyes, pressing his face deeper into the pillow.
  You’re not going to have this again if you don’t make up your mind about what you want.

  You said it yourself. The two of you are rivals.

  Pickle is Knife’s close friend. Maybe even best friend.

  You’re already a lot farther behind than Pickle is.
Trophy’s grip on the pillow tightens.
  You’re running out of time.
His breath hitches.The tightness in his throat makes it hard for him to breathe right.Still, he keeps his face buried against the pillow, engulfing himself in Knife’s scent.
  Enjoy it. It might be the only smart thing you’ve ever done.

  Because who knows if he’ll ever come back to your room? By tomorrow, it might already be too late.
A choked sound escapes Trophy.He muffles it against the pillow, digging his fingers in tightly as he tries to keep more from escaping him.But it’s a losing battle, and that internal voice finally falls quiet as Trophy gives in.Out of all the humiliating instances in which he’s made a fool out of himself today, he’s thankful that no is around to witness this one.It’s a small mercy.Whatever’s looking out for him, if anything even cares to keep him in their thoughts, he hopes it has more to spare in the coming days.Because he’s really going to need it.
  Have mercy on this stupid, stupid boy.

  
  

    
      
        
        
          50000000 likes and trophy gets ice cream1 like and i keep making him uncomfortable with his own feelings(sorry for all the emotions i promise s@x will happen again soon)'
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