Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was Christmas Day, not that it meant much to Trophy. The holiday had never held any kind of sparkle for him. Maybe it was because he’d never had anyone to spend it with, or anyone who cared enough to give him a gift. Either way, it was just another useless date on the calendar. A holiday for people desperate for an excuse to pretend they were happy.

The Mansion, of course, was plastered wall-to-wall with Christmas decorations, garlands, tinsel, blinking lights, and those disgustingly cheerful inflatable Santas. Trophy hated every inch of it. It made him feel sick. All that fake joy, that shallow celebration.

Apparently, the OSC had set up some kind of “mini Christmas party” outside the mansion. There’d be food stalls, music, gift exchanges, the whole cheesy package. Everyone would be there, all smiles and fake laughter. Trophy thought about skipping it entirely, but if he didn’t show up, someone would inevitably call him a grinch or whatever. And besides… maybe there’d be drinks. That’d make it tolerable.

So, with a heavy sigh and the enthusiasm of someone walking to their own execution, Trophy headed out.

The courtyard had been transformed into something out of a cheap holiday movie. Little tents lined the area, each glowing under strings of fairy lights. There were tables of snacks, drinks, trinkets, and homemade crafts, a whole “Christmas market” vibe. It was all way too wholesome for his taste.

Some of the objects who hadn’t been competing this season had started side hobbies… painting, crafting, selling little ornaments and keychains. “How lame,” Trophy muttered to himself. “Why make useless junk when you could be competing?”

He wandered through the rows, avoiding eye contact with anyone who looked like they might want to talk. Everywhere he looked, there were people hugging, laughing, handing each other presents. The whole scene felt like one big glittery stomach ache.

Then he passed a stall run by Balloon. Of course. The guy was selling little keychains with tiny snippets of his poetry on them, because of course he was.

“Seriously lame,” Trophy grumbled under his breath, just loud enough for Balloon to hear.

“Wow,” Balloon shot back, his smile dropping. “Merry Christmas to you too, You’re a real joy to be around.”

Trophy rolled his eyes. “Whatever.” He kept walking, hands shoved deep in his pockets of the jacket he was wearing, already bored out of his mind.

If he couldn’t buy anything interesting, maybe he could at least find the drinks. He scanned the area until he spotted the OSC booth, OJ standing front and center like he owned the place (because of course he thought he did). Trophy could already feel his patience thinning.

“Hey,” he said sharply, approaching the booth. “Where’s the alcohol?”

OJ blinked, caught off guard. “Uh, didn’t you get the memo? We’re not serving alcohol this year. We didn’t want anyone getting hurt or… well, you know, causing a scene.”

Trophy stared at him in disbelief. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“Nope,” OJ replied, his tone overly polite, which only made it worse.

Trophy’s jaw clenched, fury flashing across his face. “So this is your idea of a party? No booze, just crafts and cocoa? Fantastic.”

Behind OJ, Suitcase peeked around Knife, who was chatting with her, clearly having overheard. She looked concerned. Knife, on the other hand, was trying very hard not to laugh.

Trophy could hear it, that faint snicker from Knife. That smug, low laugh that immediately crawled under his skin. He clenched his jaw, trying not to whirl around and deck him right there. This wasn’t funny. This was pathetic. What kind of “party” bans alcohol?

“This is ridiculous,” Trophy snapped, glaring at OJ. “You can’t just baby everyone because we can’t get recovered anymore. What’s a little alcohol gonna do, huh? It’s not that big of a deal.”

OJ’s expression hardened. His voice came out bitter and sharp. “It’s what the council decided. We all took a vote. Maybe if you showed the common courtesy to actually attend meetings, you’d have a say.”

Trophy’s eye twitched. He could feel his patience evaporating. OJ was lucky there were witnesses.

Behind him, Knife’s snickering got louder, barely contained. Suitcase took an instinctive step back, already anticipating what was about to happen.

“Asshole, it’s not funny,” Trophy barked, shoving Knife lightly in the shoulder.

Knife spun around, still grinning. “It’s a little funny.”

That smug little smirk almost earned him a black eye.

But then Knife’s expression shifted, a quick glance over at Suitcase, who was now chatting with Fan about something that looked official, probably competition talk. Knife’s grin turned conspiratorial. OJ was busy flirting with Paper, and Cabby was wandering around the stalls, clipboard in hand. The OSC was thoroughly distracted. Perfect.

“Hey, come here a sec,” Knife muttered under his breath, jerking his head toward a quieter corner behind one of the food tents.

Trophy hesitated, suspicion flickering in his eyes. “What? You gonna tell me a joke next?”

Knife rolled his eyes. “Just come on, drama queen.”

They stepped away from the crowd, behind the back of a tent draped in fairy lights. Knife glanced around, then smirked and reached into his jacket pocket, that nice black leather one that Trophy had noticed earlier but refused to comment on.

“Look.”

He pulled out a small silver flask, the light catching on the metal.

Trophy blinked, then let out a short, surprised laugh. “You sneaky little prick.”

Knife smirked wider. “C’mon, you really think I’d let ‘em throw a dry Christmas party? Just brought enough to take the edge off. Can’t exactly enjoy the festivities sober, can we?”

Trophy chuckled, shaking his head. “Finally, some sense around here. I was starting to think everyone lost their edge.”

Knife unscrewed the cap, taking a swig before handing it over. Trophy accepted, taking a sip, the burn in his throat was bliss.

“Tell me about it,” Trophy muttered between drinks. “Did you see Balloon’s stall? Selling keychains with poems on them? Who even wants that?”

Knife snorted. “Right? Like, ‘here, have a poem to make your day worse.’”

Trophy snickered, lowering the flask. “Please. And Salt’s stall? What was she even selling? Seashells? The irony’s killing me.”

Knife laughed harder, “I swear, these people need real hobbies.”

“Guess that’s why we’re the fun ones,” Trophy said with a smirk, handing the flask back. “So that’s what the jacket was for… thought you were just trying out some new fashion thing. Can’t say it doesn’t look good on you though.”

Knife grinned, clearly amused. “Thanks, Jock.”

Trophy grinned right back. “Anytime, Jerk. Or should I say retired Jerk?”

“Hey,” Knife laughed, mock-offended, “I’m still a jerk at heart!”

That made Trophy bark out a laugh, a real one this time. It felt strange but… nice. The tension in his shoulders started to melt away. Maybe the night wasn’t a total loss after all.

The two of them leaned against the side of the tent, passing the flask back and forth, trading snide remarks about the stalls and the other contestants. The fairy lights above them flickered faintly in the cold, and for the first time that evening, Trophy didn’t completely hate the holiday atmosphere.

Trophy was actually, shockingly enjoying himself. Knife was the only one here who didn’t seem afraid to live a little, who still had that edge that everyone else had traded in for Christmas cheer. While everyone else was chatting about crafts and gift exchanges, the two of them were tucked away behind the stalls, gossiping, laughing, and sipping from the flask like troublemakers at a school dance.

About half an hour passed. The flask was empty now, the burn of the alcohol still warm in Trophy’s chest. Whatever it was, it was strong. They’d run out of people to mock, their conversation having drifted into that blurry, comfortable haze that came with being just a little too tipsy.

Trophy tilted his head back against the side of the tent and let out a small sigh. “Thanks,” he muttered. “This made the night… easier.”

He didn’t say thanks often, in fact, he could probably count on one hand the amount of times he had.

Knife gave him a lazy grin. “Eh, don’t mention it. I only came to this thing ‘cause, y’know, reputation or whatever. Kinda gotta keep showing up for stuff, even if I’m not with the OSC. Plus,” he gave a half-hearted shrug, “Suitcase begged me to come.”

“Yeah, Suitcase…” Trophy scoffed, swirling the now-empty flask absentmindedly. “Must be real annoying dating her, huh? Always worrying about people, always crying about something… how do you even put up with it?”

Knife blinked, then let out a sharp laugh. “Dating?” he repeated. “Trophy, I’m not dating Suitcase.”

Trophy froze, caught off guard. “What? You’re not?”

Knife shook his head, grinning. “Nope. Never have been. She’s sweet, don’t get me wrong, but nah. She’s kinda… well, head over heels for Baseball, actually.”

Trophy blinked again, processing that. “Oh… huh. Really?”

“Yeah,” Knife continued, still grinning, amused by Trophy’s confusion. “She’s always talking about him. It’s cute, honestly. They’ve been spending more time together lately too. Since, y’know, Balloon and Nickel basically turned into one person.” He chuckled. “Whenever I’m busy and Suitcase can’t hang with me, she and Baseball go off to do their own thing. Works out for everyone.”

Trophy raised a brow, his tone softening. “And you’re… not jealous?”

Knife laughed thickly, the sound a little deeper now, that kind of laugh that meant he knew something you didn’t. He leaned in just slightly, the air shifting. “Trophy,” he said, his voice low.

He reached out, brushing his fingers deliberately against Trophy’s hand as he took the empty flask back. His touch lingered for a second longer than necessary, slow, intentional… before slipping the flask back into his jacket pocket.

“I’m gay.”

The words hit Trophy like a quiet spark. For a second, neither of them said anything. The tension in the air wasn’t awkward, it was… something else. Warm. Electric, even.

Trophy blinked, processing it. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but it wasn’t that. He’d known Knife a long time, but in that moment, he felt like he was seeing him in a new light. The way the fairy lights shimmered against the leather of his jacket, the way his smirk had softened just a little, confident but easy.

“Oh,” Trophy said finally, voice lower than before. “That… actually makes a lot of sense.”

Knife chuckled quietly. “Yeah, I figured it might.” He leaned back, eyes half-lidded, still watching Trophy’s reaction with quiet amusement.

Trophy huffed out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess I feel kinda stupid now. Just… assumed you and Suitcase had a thing.”

“Eh, everyone does,” Knife said with a shrug. “Doesn’t bother me. People see what they wanna see.” He looked at him again, a subtle glint in his eye. “You see what you wanna see, Trophy?”

Trophy paused, heart giving a tiny, unexpected jump. The alcohol made it harder to tell whether Knife was teasing or flirting, maybe a little of both. Either way, he couldn’t look away.

“Aye, what do you say we get outta here?” Knife stretched his arms over his head, the faintest smirk on his face. “I’ve got more alcohol in my room anyway.”

Trophy glanced up at him, not needing to be told twice. “Uh—yeah, obviously. Let’s go.”

The two slipped away from the party, unnoticed by most, except Suitcase.

From across the courtyard, still stuck in a conversation with Fan (who, as usual, didn’t know when to stop talking), Suitcase caught sight of them walking back toward the mansion together. A knowing smile spread across her face. She’d suspected for a while that Knife had a soft spot for Trophy, not that he’d ever admit it outright, and seeing them leave together? Well, she had a feeling how the rest of that night might go.

Inside, the mansion was quiet. The noise and sparkle of the party faded behind them.

Knife’s room wasn’t far, spacious, neatly kept, but still had that “Knife” edge to it: clean, dark-toned, with little details that said he cared more about aesthetic than he let on. He went straight to his bedside drawer and pulled out a half-full bottle of whiskey, the amber liquid glinting in the low light.

“Nice,” Trophy muttered, looking around. It felt good to be away from the obnoxious chatter, the flashing lights, the fake smiles. The calm, the dimness, this felt way more like him.

Knife sat down on the edge of his bed, motioning for Trophy to join him. “C’mon, sit. Might as well keep the mood going.”

Trophy hesitated for a second but eventually joined him, sinking down beside him. Knife unscrewed the cap and took a swig before passing the bottle over.

“Surprised you didn’t overreact,” Knife said, watching him with an amused smirk.

“Huh?” Trophy asked, pulling the bottle from his lips. “Over what?”

“Me being gay,” Knife said casually.

Trophy blinked, then laughed. “That? Dude, please. Why would I care?”

Knife raised a brow. “I don’t know, man. You’re all about that whole ‘masculine’ thing, thought you were gonna crack some joke or say something like, ‘huh, didn’t see that coming.’ You’re not exactly like… Balloon, or Paper, or any of those guys. You’re, uh, more—”

“Cooler?” Trophy finished for him, smirking.

Knife chuckled. ”Rough around the edges.”

Trophy took another drink, shaking his head. “Jeez, Knife. Just because I care about looking good and hit the gym doesn’t mean I’m some macho jerk.”

“Oh yeah?” Knife teased, leaning back a little. “You won’t even tell people you like photography because it’s ‘too girly.’ Not to mention those herbal teas you drink every night.”

Trophy froze mid-sip. “…How did you—”

Knife smiled. “I pay attention. Plus, after you made fun of me back in Season 2 for liking that doll, I kinda… started looking for dirt on you too.” He shrugged lightly. “But, I don’t know. Never felt right using it. Actually thought it was… kinda nice. That you had stuff that made you happy. The way you get all focused on your camera, or how you talk about that stupid chamomile tea like it’s sacred or something.” He paused, glancing aside. “It’s… nice.”

Trophy swallowed, caught off guard. His face grew warm before he could stop it. “Jeez, Knife… don’t gay up the place,” he muttered, crossing his arms as he handed back the bottle.

Knife laughed softly, shaking his head. “There it is.” He took another swig. “But hey, seriously. Thanks for being chill about it.”

Trophy shrugged, trying to seem casual even though his heart was doing weird little flips. “It’s fine. Acting girly and being gay are two totally different things anyway. Like, take Balloon… total softie. But you? You’re actually… cool, y’know? One of the only cool guys I know.”

Knife raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Oh? Careful, Troph. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were coming onto me.”

“What! Dude!” Trophy’s voice cracked in embarrassment, nearly spilling what was left of the whiskey.

Knife broke into laughter. “I’m kidding, Trophy. Relax.” He nudged his shoulder and passed the bottle back. “But hey, for what it’s worth, it’s not girly to like what you like. Makes you you. I think it’s kinda cool.”

Trophy turned the bottle in his hands, staring at the reflection in the glass, trying to fight the grin tugging at his mouth. 

“Hey,” Knife said suddenly, sitting upright. “That actually reminds me, I got you something.”

Trophy blinked, caught off guard. “Huh? Me?”

Knife stood, brushing off his jacket, and crouched down beside the bed. Trophy watched, confused, as Knife reached underneath and pulled out a box, a medium-sized one, neatly wrapped in dark green paper with a silver ribbon tied around it.

Knife sat back down beside him, holding it out. “Go on. Open it.”

Trophy raised a brow. “What’s this?” he muttered, already pulling the ribbon loose. He lifted the lid, and froze.

Inside, arranged neatly in rows, was a whole collection of herbal teas. Every kind imaginable: chamomile, peppermint, jasmine, ginger, lavender… even a few rare blends he hadn’t been able to find in weeks.

For a long moment, Trophy just stared.

Knife was smiling a little sheepishly. “It’s nothing huge. I just, uh… heard you yelling in the kitchen last week about someone drinking all your tea, and when I was out Christmas shopping, I saw this set. Thought of you.” He shrugged casually, though there was warmth behind the gesture. “I was just gonna drop it by your door, like, anonymously or whatever… but figured, since we’re already here…”

He trailed off with a small grin.

Trophy’s expression was unreadable for a moment, eyes wide, lips parted slightly. He ran a hand over the tops of the boxes like he wasn’t sure they were real.

He couldn’t believe it.

No one had ever gotten him a Christmas gift before. Not once. And this—this wasn’t some meaningless trinket or joke gift. It was thoughtful. Personal. Something he actually cared about. And it came from Knife, of all people.

“I…” Trophy started, voice soft, unsteady. “I don’t even know what to say.”

Knife chuckled lightly. “You could start with ‘thanks.’”

Trophy laughed weakly, still staring down at the teas. “Yeah, I guess… thanks.” His chest felt tight in a way he didn’t expect, not bad tight, just… full. Overwhelmed.

He hesitated, then closed the lid gently and set the box aside, fingers lingering on the edge of it. “I didn’t… get you anything,” he admitted quietly, a hint of embarrassment in his tone. “Didn’t know you were gonna, uh… yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking away. His heart was racing so fast it made his breath catch.

Knife smiled softly, leaning forward just a bit. “It’s fine, Troph. Didn’t get it for payback. Just figured… everyone deserves at least one good Christmas gift, y’know?”

Trophy blinked a few times, trying to will away the warmth in his cheeks. “You’re such a sap sometimes, you know that?”

“Only on holidays,” Knife teased, his grin widening.

Trophy exhaled shakily, still looking anywhere but at him. But despite his best efforts to play it cool, he couldn’t hide the way his lips twitched into a small, genuine smile.

“Yeah, so… glad you like it,” Knife said with an easy smile, watching Trophy’s reaction closely. There was something endearing about seeing him that happy over something so simple, a box of teas. “Tell you what,” he added playfully, nudging him with an elbow, “you can pay me back by making me one. Fair trade, right?”

Trophy laughed nervously, still a little flushed. “Yeah, sure, I can do that.” His voice came out softer than he expected, and he immediately looked away. Why was he nervous all of a sudden? His palms felt warm, his pulse quick.

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to play it off. “Still… I kinda feel like an ass. I didn’t get you anything. Spent the whole day complaining, didn’t even cross my mind that… that anyone would think of me, I guess.” He chuckled awkwardly. “Didn’t think I’d end up here, drinking with you of all people.”

Knife tilted his head, his grin easy, patient.

“Well, uh— hey,” Trophy went on quickly, feeling the need to balance the scales somehow, “what if I buy you dinner sometime? Whenever I’m not competing or whatever. My treat.”

Knife raised an eyebrow, smirk growing slow and sly. “Dinner, huh? Like a date?” he asked casually, no hesitation in his voice.

Trophy instantly coughed, nearly choking on air. His face went red in an instant. “Jeez— not even gonna ask if I’m gay, just gonna go for it, huh?” he stammered, laughing anxiously.

Knife leaned back, one arm resting lazily along the back of the bed. “Hey, gotta shoot my shot,” he said with a shrug, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Besides…” He leaned in just enough that his voice dropped teasingly low. “Kinda obvious, don’t you think?”

Trophy froze, trying to glare but failing miserably as his cheeks burned hotter. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Knife chuckled under his breath. “Oh, I dunno. Maybe the fact that you’ve got zero interest in girls, but you love going to the gym and talking about all the buff guys there…” He grinned wickedly. “Yeah, real subtle.”

Trophy groaned and hid his face in his hand. “Shut up…” he muttered, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him with a small, embarrassed smile.

Knife laughed softly, clearly enjoying himself. “Hey, I’m just saying, if you’re gonna keep making eyes at every guy who can bench press you, at least own it.”

“God, you’re unbearable,” Trophy said, rolling his eyes. He gave Knife a playful shove, but it lacked any real force.

Knife just leaned back again, smug and satisfied. “And yet,” he said with a little tilt of his head, “you’re still sitting next to me.”

Trophy opened his mouth to retort, but stopped himself, his voice caught somewhere in his throat. He looked at Knife for a beat too long, and suddenly the air between them felt heavier, quieter, warm from the laughter that had started to fade.

“…Yeah,” Trophy murmured, the word barely leaving his lips.

Knife was already looking up at him, really looking and suddenly the teasing atmosphere dissolved into something quieter… something real. They shifted slightly, turning toward one another on the bed until their knees brushed. The noise of the party outside felt miles away now.

Trophy’s heart hammered beneath his chest. Knife’s gaze flicked down to his mouth for a split second, quick, but noticeable enough that Trophy’s breath hitched. They were trapped in the same realization at the exact same time:

Oh. This is happening.

This has been happening for a long time.

Trophy knew it in every jealous glance he’d thrown Suitcase’s way, every time he caught himself watching Knife laugh too hard at someone else’s joke, every excuse he found to stay just a little longer when Knife was around.

And Knife… Knife had clearly known. The confidence in his smirk wasn’t baseless, he’d felt that pull too, maybe from the start.

Knife shifted closer, legs brushing Trophy’s. His hands came up slowly, resting on Trophy’s thighs with a steady, grounding warmth. The touch made Trophy inhale sharply, muscles going rigid with anticipation. Knife’s eyelids lowered, his usual sharp expression softening, and then…

He closed the distance.

The kiss wasn’t hesitant. It was relieved. Like pushing through a door both of them had been leaning against for ages.

Trophy reacted instantly, grabbing onto Knife’s arm and yanking him closer with a desperate sort of urgency that surprised even himself. Their metal heads bumped with a clumsy clink and they both laughed into the kiss for half a breath before sinking back into it, slower this time.

Their lips moved together in deliberate, careful presses, like they were savouring the fact that they finally got to do this. Trophy’s free hand came up to the side of Knife’s face, thumb brushing the curve of his cheek as he pulled him deeper into the moment, wanting more, wanting him.

It wasn’t rushed.

It wasn’t confused.

It felt like inevitability.

Knife’s fingers dug slightly into Trophy’s thighs as he leaned in, their foreheads gently resting together between breaths. The warmth in Trophy’s chest spread like fire, and for once in his life, he didn’t feel the need to hide it.

They had wanted this, clearly, stupidly, obviously for far too long.

The kiss didn’t last much longer before Knife slowly pulled back, his breath coming out in soft, uneven huffs. His half-lidded eyes lingered on Trophy’s face, flirtatious, warm, maybe even a little shy beneath that usual confidence. Then, with a small laugh, he leaned away.

“Yeah, so… I kinda promised I’d stay at the party,” Knife said, “Commitments and all that. You can head back with me if you want, or, y’know, hang out here, make yourself some tea or something.” He gave a crooked little smile as he shifted off the bed.

Trophy blinked, still trying to come down from what just happened. “Uh… yeah, sure. I’ll stay here.” His voice came out softer than he intended, almost dazed. He looked up at Knife, eyes bright. “We gonna hang out later?”

Knife grinned, already halfway to the door. “Of course. Once I’m done dealing with that whole mess out there. Feel free to relax, you look like you could use it.”

“Cool,” Trophy said, trying to sound casual, but the grin tugging at his mouth gave him away.

Knife huffed out a small laugh, then turned back toward him at the doorway. “Hey.” he said quietly, stepping forward again. Before Trophy could react, Knife cupped his face in one hand and leaned in for one more quick, deliberate kiss. It was softer this time, almost teasing. When he pulled away, Trophy just sat there, completely stunned.

“Alright. Bye now,” Knife said, flashing a smirk as he slipped out the door.

“Yeah… see ya,” Trophy murmured, still watching the spot where he’d stood. His face felt hot, his heart pounding. Then, slowly, a small, giddy smile spread across his face.

Best. Christmas. Ever.