Trophy had a massive ego.

He was the kind of person to flex an arm and gloat in front of others, claiming himself to be so superior. He would never perform any physical feats before other people, such as the causal push-up or sit-up, fearful of shattering this facade. The act was one that brought him bliss, able to hide safely and securely within it. He could pretend to be someone he wasn't, and he didn't care if anyone believed it. He believed it. That was all that mattered. That he loved himself. He loved the reflection he saw in the mirror.

Sometimes, he believed it a little too well.

His tiny brain would believe his own lies. He thought this to be fact, that he really was a cut above the rest. He could handle anything thrown at him. The small world he lived in was an echo-chamber of silly objects running about and doing their shenanigans. He routinely rolled his eyes and scoffed at this behavior, again, believing himself above it. He hated puns, and obsessive neat freaks, raging gamers and obnoxious hotel managers. He had to maintain his image of course, and would participate in none of it.

In that moment, he would've done anything for even a spec of lighthearted banter. A sliver of light in his life.

Trophy believed it a little too well. That he was much stronger than he actually was. This realization hit him for the first time in his life. It was sobering, yet also disheartening. He laughed at the irony of the situation.

Of course, being 'better than everyone else' meant physical and emotional contact was out of the question. He couldn't recall if he'd ever shared a hug with someone, been told 'good morning' or 'goodnight.' He shook his head, cursing his faulty memory. There was someone. It was the last person he ever wanted to think about again.

He almost cringed at the very idea of holding hands with someone. No of course not, much less holding hands with a guy. It was a tug. Tugging someone- no, something by the wrist. Not holding hands. It was like a job.

Trophy wanted to believe that too, it was just an object. He pretended he was a lumberjack, hauling a load of freshly cut lumber to his cozy cottage. Yes, his home, which he'd built with his own two, very strong hands. Hands that could easily drag this too.

He let out a gasp as he saw a light turn on in a nearby window. He couldn't see well in the dark, but guessed it was somewhere near the third or fourth floor of the hotel. He stood still, like a deer in headlights. He stayed in this position until the light shut off a mere moment later. He went back to hauling his lumber. He had a comfortable house to get back to. And a dog too, probably a husky or something that fit the vibe of a cottage in the woods. No, huskies are loud dogs, something like a Saint Bernard would better suit him. Dogs are nice company. Dogs are soft and huggable, sweet and capable of reciprocating love. Not in a corny way. It's just a dog, not a person.

He cursed a bit under his breath, having nicked his foot on a rock. He looked down, but shuttered as he almost looked at it again.

Dogs are much nicer things to think about. He was eager to see his Saint Bernard already, he'd call it upon entering: "Here boy!" And watch it scurry towards him, tail wagging. He'd sit in front of his door and let it slobber his face, but only a bit, that's still gross. Gross, gross like snot and spit and-

And he'd take off his heavy work boots, of course leaving the lumber outside. You don't bring lumber inside, not where anyone can see it. Not where the dog can see it. That's messed up.

He would sear a steak for himself and the dog, cutting just enough for them both. He wasn't married yet, but of course anybody would be lucky to have him. The simple life was fine for now, after all that's such a massive commitment, and even then the thought of costs of a wedding or even children was a headache. This animal was enough to think about, his singular priority. It was good to have something to look forward to everyday. A payoff made any hard labor worth it.

It's cold, nearing winter. Trophy concluded it would be best to open up the fireplace again to warm up the house. He'd sit near it, and so would the dog. He smiled at the thought of such a simple joy.

But to start a fire you need lumber. He didn't want to think about the lumber. It belongs outside, to be forgotten and never dwelled on again. It was just a stupid mistake. It's just a stupid pile of wood. It never did him any good.

But someone might wonder about it.

"Is this your lumber, man? Why's it out here in the cold?" Someone would eventually ask.

"Anyone seen the lumber around?"

"I kinda miss the lumber..."

He didn't have an excuse. Why would he? They hated each other, nobody would suspect he'd even talked to the lumber before. They had no reason to think anything.

And he hoped the dog wouldn't ask about it. What would it know? It's just a stupid animal. It just had to shut up and eat, and try not to sneeze it's disgusting, abhorrent snot in his direction. Was it so hard to cover its mouth and just sit and leave him be? He didn't ask for a dog. He didn't ask for such unfortunate living arrangements.

He winced again, feeling his foot scratch against another rock.

You never think some things are so heavy.

No, you never really consider things until you're in such a specific situation. You never want to wonder how many hours you have until the sun comes up, or why your stomach gets tight and discombobulated when you're anxious, or how heavy it is to drag someone across the woods.

He nearly looked at it again.

It was way colder outside than he'd remembered it being just an hour ago. His legs shook from the chill in the air. It was definitely not because he felt any fear.

He was better than that.

Trophy hated parties.

He didn't want to attend this silly event. He had no horse in this race, much less any enthusiasm for the event. He simply stood awkwardly off to the side, holding a soda can. He attempted to convince himself that he didn't look like the typical loner at a party, instead that cool guy that doesn't interact with anyone at the party, but looks awesome nonetheless. He made a mental note to invest in some sunglasses.

That train of thought was interrupted by the sight of someone.

He got a funny idea, just something else to boost his fragile ego for a while. He closed his eyes, pretending to take a long sip of his drink while the other one drew near. They crossed their arms at Trophy, looking less than amused to be in his presence.

"Puh. How the mighty have fallen."

He scoffed.

Knife raised an eyebrow at him.

"Did you actually just say... Puh?"

He asked, a hint of second-hand embarrassment on his face.

Trophy suddenly became acutely aware of how anxious he was to talk to him. He faltered for a moment, looking off to the side.

"I did."

He muttered.

Knife waited for him to continue. When he didn't, he tilted his head slightly to the side.

"Care to elaborate?"

He asked. Trophy took another long sip of his drink.

"Suuuure, just couldn't help but notice how soft you've gone."

"Soft?"

He repeated.

"You've lost your edge! I bet you'll even let the suitcase win..."

Trophy said with a shrug.

"I haven't lost anything."

He stated quickly.

"Yeah? I think we both know the-"

Trophy's words died on his lips as the other one shook his head slowly.

"I don't know what I expected really, I guess..."

He shrugged.

"I dunno why I'd think anything would be different. Just curious."

He smiled. Trophy shuddered in disgust.

"Don't look at me like that."

He sneered.

Trophy crushed the can of soda in his hands, tossing it to the ground. A certain hotel manager saw this action, and pointed to the discarded object.

"Pick that up!"

He said indignantly.

Trophy gritted his teeth at him, then looked back at Knife. He too gestured to the can. Trophy kicked it, and stormed out the door.

He looked up, seeing the sun already setting. He hated the winter for many reasons, but the shorter days were just another thing to hate about it. He hated everything apparently. Hated parties, and other people, and their confusing words that made his head spin.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder, making him spin around and instinctively shove them away. Knife slammed against the outside of the hotel, reeling in pain. He recovered quickly, looking up at him.

"Is that how you say 'hello?'"

"Buzz off."

"No, no I'm not done talking."

He dusted himself off, approaching once more. Every step he took closer, Trophy took two backwards.

"What do you want with me, man? I really don't care what you have to say."

"You sure had a lot to say to me in there. It's just us here, so by all means, keep talking."

Knife put his hands on his hips, as if mimicking the jock's attitude and demeanor.

"Tsk. What do you wanna hear? How much I hate your guts?

Trophy replied.

Knife chuckled.

"Puh. You'd know what I mean. I hoped you'd gotten 'softer' too."

Trophy's face went red in anger, crossing his arms to try and keep his cool. Knife, calm as ever, kept talking.

"Come on. It's been forever. I'm not saying 'I forgive you' but I wanna know why you're still holding a grudge. You're the one that embarrassed me, after all."

"And you deserved it."

"Really?"

"YEAH, really. Did you expect me to just- come up to you and say sorry? I'm not! I'm here to bring you back down to Earth, maybe even snap you out of whatever- THIS is!"

"I thought you just told me to buzz off? So do you want me gone or do you wanna talk?"

"Whatever the hell you want, I don't care. Just pick one."

Trophy finalized, turning to face away from him, arms crossed and chest puffed out, looking cocky as ever.

"...Right."

Knife trailed off a bit, pausing to pick his next words carefully.

"Well, maybe I'm not the guy you remember."

Was what he settled with.

"And again, I just thought maybe you changed too. I thought that we weren't the same idiots we were a couple years ago."

"I'm not an idiot, but you're brain dead if you think I need 'changing.'"

He grinned.

Knife's subtle smile was gone now, and his patience vanished in an instant.

"Y'know I wonder what's gonna happen after all this is over."

"I don't care."

"I think you do."

Knife took the chance to inch a bit closer while the other had his back turned.

"Have you got any friends, Trophy?"

He asked bluntly.

This made him falter, arms dropping to his sides. Not wanting to let it linger, he shouted back at the jerk.

"What did you just say?!"

"It's not a hard question. Got any friends?"

"YES."

"Name three."

He refused to turn around, but he was rearing up to prepare to deliver a punch if Knife crossed a line. He was already treading into dangerous waters, so he anticipated it would be soon nonetheless.

"...Name one."

Knife reiterated.

"I don't have to tell you a damn thing."

"So you don't have an answer?"

"LEAVE ME ALONE."

Trophy's voice cracked at that last statement, and that was all Knife needed to know. The jock winced, and smacked a hand over his own face in shame. It made a loud, empty sound. It hurt. Just like he hoped it would. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Y'know I used to not have an answer either."

"Get your hands off me."

"I'm trying to put this stupid thing between us to rest. Not that you really deserve that, but I wanna believe you're not the worst."

Trophy balled up his hands into fists, bringing them up closer to his own face. His teeth were clenched so tight, he thought they might break.

"We both have the same temper, don't get me wrong man. You're literally shaking. Take a breath."

"Don't tell me what to do."

"Are you crying?"

Trophy inhaled sharply.

"NO."

"Maybe if you wanna drop whatever this is, we could talk normally. I wouldn't mind talking to you if you weren't so-

Without hesitation, he turned on his heels, throwing a fist forwards attempting to hit him. Knife moved his head out of the way at the last minute. Trophy's hand was nicked by the edge of the blade, and he shouted out in pain. Knife took a few seconds to shake off the surprise, but when he did, he put his hands up in defeat.

"Forget it. I can't help ya. Not that I was trying to, but I'm not interested anymore."

"I don't want your HELP."

Trophy snapped, grabbing at his sliced hand.

Knife looked down in pity and disappointment. He was just getting a really good look at their height difference. Was Trophy always so short? Or was it a shy reflection of a child, acting out for attention? He half expected him to sniffle, put his arms up and beg for forgiveness. Not that he wanted that. He never wanted this stupid, childish rivalry to go on for as long as it did. He was already being so generous as to diminish how that event had affected him, and even tried opening up to this idiot. But he was stagnant, unchanging, as if he had been created for the sole purpose of being this sad stereotype.

"Get away FROM ME."

"Stay still. You need a bandage or something. After that I'll gladly get lost."

He watched him turn away.

But he didn't want him to leave.

He didn't know why. Trophy thought he was above that too. But he didn't want to be left alone. He didn't want to go back to that party. Back into that hotel. Not in this state. Not a loser.

He crouched down slightly, rearing up for an attack. Trophy went running forwards, landing a kick on Knife's back. He winced and was propelled slightly forwards, looking back slightly in shock. But he wouldn't waste the opportunity this time. He put up his unharmed fist, but Knife grabbed it before it could connect to his face. They had a brief scuffle there, behind the hotel, everyone else none the wiser. This was their own little private party.

A pity party.

Knife assumed this would make him happy. That Trophy thought this would fulfill him, bring some sort of purpose to his meaningless, recurring life. Knife knew better. Trophy could beat him as much as he wanted, not that Knife would allow it, but even if it did happen, it would not fulfill him. He'd learned that himself a long time ago. He wanted the other to understand.

He easily overpowered him, the award trying his best to stick his legs firmly to the ground. He was still shoved backwards, tumbling over a flower pot and thus breaking it in the process. Knife chuckled as the yellow carnations sat in their new pot, Trophy's empty head, having conveniently fallen in there when he fell. He was unaware of this, too blinded by rage to process anything else.

"Hey."

Knife said, watching the other one stand again.

He just kept running back again, and again, and again. Trying to strike over and over and being shoved back every time. Every time he was thrown around, the pit in his stomach grew. He felt smaller, and smaller, and feared there would be nothing left to stand back up. That he would just cease to be.

He was better than that.

To his infinite surprise, he finally landed a hit on the jerk. Right in his stupid, obnoxious, self-righteous face. It was bliss.

I'm winning!

He thought jovially as Knife skittered backwards, hands over his face. Trophy was smiling from ear to ear. The playing field was finally even. They were the same. Someone just like him. He crouched slightly down again, arms up, waiting defensively for him to recover and strike again.

Things always go differently from how you imagine them.

Instead, Trophy watched as Knife tripped, still trying to recover from the punch. He fell hard, right on his back. But not before the back of his head connected with the grill out back, clipping him just as he descended.

He was unnaturally still for a moment.

Trophy chuckled, stepping closer to him. Hands on his hips, he sneered down at Knife.

"Well. Well. WELL. How the mighty ha-"

He started, before he saw a tiny twitch coming from the other object.

It was a subtle, yet unnatural movement. For some reason, that little gesture made Trophy go dead quiet, taking a few steps back from him.

Knife twitched again, eyes wide and blank. He shook, producing more spastic movements. Then he was still again.

He was still for a little bit too long.

"Hey."

Trophy said, though it was so quiet, it was inaudible even to him.

He tapped his foot impatiently, still a tad unsure if this was an act. In his mind, it made sense for Knife to fake an injury to make him drop his guard, then finish the fight.

But that was a nasty fall. Trophy could still hear the ringing in his 'ears' when the back of his head hit the grill, and then the floor all at once. It had just happened, but it already felt like an hour had passed since. He waited a bit longer, staring at the man on the ground. 

Kinda weird how you can go that long without blinking.

Maybe he was just blinking at the same time as him.

He took a step forward.

"Get up."

He said, hoping for a response. Again, in a voice far too quiet for even him to hear.

He finally caved, losing the staring contest to the man on the ground, still unmoving. Trophy crouched down beside him, though a part of him still expected Knife to sit up and finish the fight right there. But the fight had ended already, he just didn't know it. But he knew it when he looked closer into those wide, blank eyes. He knew it was over when he leaned down, trying to feel for a breath or a pulse. He should've known it was over when Knife's head hit the floor, or was it when he landed that punch? A smaller part of him almost congratulated him, so strong that he could take a life with his bare hands.

And then it really hit him.

He was gone.

It's not my fault.

It was a long way from the hotel to the forest. The slow walk between the hotel and the obscurity of the woods felt like walking through no-man's land, that at any moment, it would all be over for him too.

He didn't register the stinging of stepping over sticks and rocks, the bugs and insects that scurried about the forest floor. He had to get himself out of this situation.

For the first time in his entire life, he was thinking about the future. He was thinking about tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after. What life would be like if he was looked down upon as some sort of murderer. That was such a heavy word. Self defense is what he told himself. Yes, it was self defense. That's what happens when you try to protect yourself from someone trying to hurt you. He was the bigger person. The one that put an end to a years long tormenting campaign against him. But of course, he didn't want to be pitied either. Not as some sort of victim that just barely escaped the clutches of death.

He was better than that.

Trophy decided to stop pretending he was in some kind of fake scenario, there was no cabin in the woods. No Saint Bernard. It was not a pile of lumber. He was trying to dispose of the remains of his vicious attacker.

He took a deep breath, letting go of what he held, listening to it fall softly onto the ground. He was turned away from it, but he knew he'd have to look again this time. There was no getting around it.

A part of him wanted to stop what he was about to do, to just drag him back and admit what happened. After all, people who fight back in self-defense don't have anything to hide. How would he look now if he dragged that grimy, mossy and grass-covered thing back now, head lowered in shame?

An even smaller part of him tried to convince him that that would be the end of it. Dispose of the problem, and it would never come back. But he would be back eventually. And he'd probably kill him too.

But that was a worry for another time. No force on Earth could have stopped Trophy from following through with it.

He shifted one foot back slightly, and ever so slowly turned his head around. He could see it in his peripheral vision, but still avoided focusing on it. Like when you're reading a book and don't want to read ahead on the next paragraph, you can look over slightly at any moment and spoil yourself, or you can have the restraint to stay where you are. Trophy did not know restraint.

When his eyes moved downwards to finally look, he locked eyes with it. A staring contest with a corpse.

Trophy produced a sound that was somewhat of a mix between a whimper and a sniffle, and he leaned against a nearby tree for support. He was a coward. He was covering up his own stupid mistake, one that sooner or later would get found out, and he'd be looked down upon for it. He never realized how much he cared for such a thing. Trophy nearly fell faint right then and there just thinking about it, the looks of disgust and anger his peers would give him. Nobody gave a damn about him, and he thought he felt the same. He wanted to believe it. He didn't ever want to kill somebody, regardless of recovery. Oh recovery, when it would be swift he'd get his comeuppance. How fast does that even happen? Does MePhone get notified the very second someone dies? Does it take a while? Even so, he would notice that one of his finalists was missing very quickly. He was so screwed, so terribly doomed, he started laughing again. He messed everything up so horribly, he was cursing himself for it. He wanted to disappear, to just lay down and die, anything to stop feeling this impending doom, a suffocating dread that was actively, slowly killing him on the spot. He wanted Knife to spring up now, say he was fine and it would all be over, everything would just be fine if he hadn't made such a stupid mistake.

You are less than worthless. You stupid, stupid, stupid...

He put his hands over his eyes, squeezing them into his face and producing a low, guttural scream. He turned to the tree he was leaning on, and promptly smacked his face into it a few times. He wasn't sure why he did this, but he knew he felt better after pulling away. Losing a fight to a tree, but not Knife. That too made him laugh.

Snapping out of his angry breakdown, he stormed back into no-man's land, going to get the second component of his plan. He was done feeling sorry for himself. He would not feel any guilt. He was always in the right. He just had to be.

Trophy came back shortly, holding something else tightly in both hands. He stood over the mess he'd created, the mess he was going to clean up. And nobody was ever gonna know. Not anyone in the hotel, not MePhone, what happened that night was between him and a body. A body he was staring right in its eyes, unafraid and determined. His eyes twitched as he stuck the shovel into the ground, and began digging.

P jhu'a zll h aopun.