Archive of Our Own

Trophy knew, deep down, exactly what he was doing. It was no coincidence that he kept showing up at the gym at the same time as Knife. He couldn't help himself. A few days ago, he'd overheard Pickle mentioning that he and Knife had been going to the gym several times a week. The information had immediately caught Trophy's attention. He hadn't realized Knife worked out that often. At the time, he'd convinced himself that being curious wasn't strange. He just wanted to see for himself.

That was all. At least, that's what he'd told himself. It wasn't supposed to become a habit. Trophy worked out too, after all. Usually, he preferred exercising alone rather than in a public gym. He never liked feeling watched and found it easier to focus by himself. There was nothing wrong with that. Yet somehow, that preference had suddenly changed.

Dressed in a white tank top, red athletic shorts, and white sneakers, Trophy stepped into the gym with a black duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Inside were the usual essentials: a towel and a water bottle.

The moment he entered, his eyes found Knife. Knife stood across the room, focused on a set of weights. Dark hair hung messily across his forehead, damp with sweat from his workout. His black tank top clung to his frame, and his movements were steady and confident as he lifted.

Trophy froze for a moment. Why was he staring? The longer he looked, the warmer his face felt. It wasn't jealousy, Trophy was athletic too. That wasn't it at all. There was just something about Knife that held his attention. A knot formed in his stomach as he continued watching. Part of him knew he should stop, but he couldn't seem to pull his gaze away.

Thankfully, Knife hadn't noticed him yet.

Trophy quickly dropped his bag beside a treadmill and took several deep breaths, running a hand through his blond hair. Get it together.

He stepped onto the treadmill and started with a brisk walk before gradually increasing the speed to a jog. Across the gym, Knife continued his workout. Trophy's eyes kept drifting back. Every time he looked over, he found himself studying the way Knife moved, completely focused on what he was doing. It was frustrating how easily he became distracted.

His heartbeat picked up. Well, that was probably because he was running. Probably.

Still, he couldn't stop wondering about Knife. Every glance seemed to spark another thought, another question, another reason to look over again. Trophy shook his head and tried to focus on the treadmill. Unfortunately, his mind had already wandered somewhere else entirely.

Trophy found his thoughts drifting further than he wanted them to. He couldn't help wondering what Knife looked like beneath the tank top. Every time Knife lifted a weight, the muscles in his arms and shoulders flexed beneath the fabric, making it difficult for Trophy to focus on anything else. Sweat glistened on his skin from the workout, and Trophy felt his face growing warmer by the second.

What was wrong with him? Why was he thinking about this so much? His eyes wandered over Knife before he quickly looked away, only to find himself glancing back again moments later. It felt ridiculous how fascinated he had become. Knife was attractive, there was no denying that, but Trophy couldn't understand why he seemed completely unable to stop thinking about him. His eyes trailed down without permission, over his thigh and carve muscles, It wasn't fair how good he looked. Every angle seemed sculpted by some cruel artist who knew exactly how to make a heart race.

He imagined it all… pressing close enough to feel the warmth radiating off Knife's bare skin… inhaling that faint musky scent mixed with sweat after training… burying his face into that strong neck and breathing deep while his hands explored every defined ridge of muscle along Knife's arms back and chest. The thought made him dizzy.

Trophy’s mind spiraled, his vision whited out for a heartbeat as the fantasy took full control. Suddenly, Knife was right there. Sweat glistened on his bare chest, droplets trailing down toned abs and shoulders. He loomed over Trophy with terrifying intensity, cornering him against the wall. A powerful arm slammed across Trophy’s chest, pinning him hard into the surface. No escape. The weight of it crushed slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to dominate. Knife's face burned close, thick brows furrowed in anger; lips curled just slightly, a cruel smirk.

"You're nothing," Knife growled. The insults stung, but worse? They thrilled Trophy. He wasn't supposed to feel this way. It was wrong, obsessive… twisted even but god… he loved being manhandled by him. His heart pounded violently as he stared up into those furious eyes, the heat between them unbearable. And then came the kiss: no softness here; their mouths collided aggressively, a clash of teeth and rage-fueled passion as if they were fighting through fury instead of affection. Trophy wanted every second, Knife gripping his hips possessively while kissing him senseless... claiming dominance... making sure there wasn't an inch where Trophy didn’t know who owned that moment.

…

THUD.

Trophy's foot caught the edge of the treadmill. One second he was running, the next he was flying backwards. He hit the floor hard, his head clipping the side of the machine before everything went black for a split second.

"Ugh..." A groan escaped him as he rubbed the back of his head. His vision swam, dizziness making the room tilt slightly. He blinked several times, trying to focus. A shadow loomed over him.

Trophy looked up. Knife was standing there, one hand extended toward him.

"You good, dude?"

His voice was casual. Completely casual. As if he wasn't the entire reason this had happened. Trophy's eyes widened. Knife was right there. Not across the gym. Not someone he could sneak glances at from a distance. Right. There. Heat immediately rushed to Trophy's face.

You absolute idiot. He had fallen off a treadmill. In front of Knife. Because he'd been distracted by Knife. If there was a worse way to embarrass himself, Trophy couldn't think of one.

"I'm fine," he growled.

Knife snorted. "Uh-huh. That's usually what people say right after eating the floor."

Trophy shot him a glare. "I didn't eat the floor."

"You kinda did."

"I did not." 

Knife pointed at him. "You literally did."

Trophy hated that he had a point. With a dramatic roll of his eyes, he grabbed Knife's hand. The second their hands met, Trophy regretted it. Knife's grip was firm, effortlessly pulling him to his feet. His heart immediately decided to make the situation worse. Once upright, Trophy quickly let go and dusted himself off as if nothing had happened. Unfortunately, Knife was still looking at him.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Knife asked, a hint of genuine concern breaking through his usual casual tone. His gaze lingered on Trophy for a moment longer this time, scanning him properly. “I mean… that was a pretty bad fall. You might’ve hit your head, could be a concussion or something.”

Trophy straightened up quickly. “Do I look injured?” He tilted his chin up defensively, trying to ignore the faint ringing in his ears.

Knife studied him for a second longer than necessary. “Well… you look embarrassed.”

Trophy nearly choked on air. His hands twitched at his sides. “I am not embarrassed.”

Knife raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Your face is red.”

Trophy immediately pointed at the air conditioning vent above them like it was evidence in court.
“It’s hot in here.”

Knife didn’t even look up. “We have air conditioning.”

Trophy hesitated for half a beat. “…It’s working poorly.”

Knife just stared at him. Trophy stared back just as intensely, refusing to break eye contact. The silence stretched awkwardly between them, heavy and unrelenting, until Knife finally let out a small shrug.

“Whatever you say.” He crossed his arms, shifting his weight slightly. “I didn’t know you went to the gym.”

Trophy scoffed and rolled his shoulders back like he was resetting himself. “Clearly I do.”

Knife blinked once. “I mean this gym.” He gestured loosely around them.

Trophy paused for a fraction of a second, just long enough to be noticeable, then recovered almost instantly. “Yeah. Well. I usually work out somewhere else.”

Knife hummed, clearly not convinced. “Uh… huh.”

Trophy’s eye twitched. “I just thought I’d give this place a try,” he added quickly, voice sharper than intended. He shot Knife a frustrated glare as if daring him to question it further.

Knife didn’t back down. “Coincidentally on the exact day I’m here?”

That landed a little too accurately. Trophy froze. Knife smirked slightly, like he’d caught him slipping, just for a second. Trophy’s stomach dropped. For a brief moment, he genuinely thought Knife had figured everything out. Then Knife just shrugged again, the smirk fading.

“Guess I never noticed you before.”

Trophy exhaled slowly through his nose, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. “Yeah, well, maybe you’re not very observant.”

Knife tilted his head. “Maybe.” a moment, then: “Or maybe you don’t come here often.”

“Maybe that too.” Silence settled again, less tense this time but still awkward in a way neither of them addressed. Knife finally broke it by pointing lazily toward the treadmill behind Trophy.

“So are you getting back on that thing?”

Trophy turned his head to look at it. The treadmill was still running at a slow idle speed, belt moving like nothing had just gone wrong on it. It felt, annoyingly, like it was watching him. Judging him.

“No.”

Knife laughed, short and genuine, the sound bouncing lightly through the gym space. “Fair enough,” he said. “Maybe give it a few minutes before attempting a rematch.”

Trophy’s jaw tightened. “I wasn’t losing.”

Knife gave him a look. “You got launched.”

“It was a tactical retreat.”

That made Knife actually laugh properly this time, shoulders lifting slightly. “Sure it was.”

He turned away, heading back toward the weights area. Then, just before fully leaving, he glanced back over his shoulder. “Try not to fall again, alright?”

Trophy immediately crossed his arms, recovering his pride on instinct.

“Mind your own business.”

Knife waved a hand without looking back.

“Yeah, yeah.” And just like that, he returned to his weights.

Trophy stood there for a moment longer, still flushed, still annoyed, still painfully aware of the fact that Knife had seen all of that. He muttered under his breath, mostly to himself as he moved toward the treadmills again. “Stupid gym…”

Trophy tried desperately to calm himself down. That had been a lot. How could he let himself get carried away like that? How could he be such an idiot, sitting there obsessing over Knife and staring at him like some lovestruck fool? His stomach twisted.

Across the gym, Knife had already returned to the weights, earbuds back in as if nothing had happened. Trophy glanced over for a moment before immediately looking away. He was angry. This was all Knife's fault. Well, it wasn't. Deep down, Trophy knew that. Nobody had forced him to daydream himself off a treadmill. Nobody had made him stare. Nobody had made him obsess.

Still, blaming Knife felt easier than blaming himself. God, he wanted to crawl into a hole and stay there forever. He had fallen off a treadmill, for crying out loud. The more he thought about it, the worse it felt. His entire body was tense with frustration. He wanted to hit something, punch a wall, do anything to get rid of the embarrassment burning through him.

Why was he like this? Why did he find Knife attractive? Why was he sitting around fantasizing about him like the protagonist of some cheesy romance novel? It felt ridiculous. Gross, even.

And yet… His eyes drifted back toward Knife again. Ugh. He felt pathetic.

Eventually, Trophy slumped onto a nearby bench, rubbing the back of his head. The impact from the fall was starting to catch up with him now. It throbbed dully beneath his fingers. He should probably leave.

Then again, after what had just happened, he wasn't sure he could ever show his face here again.

At least not today. As much as he wanted to stay, as much as part of him still wanted to sneak another look at Knife, there was no chance he was putting himself through that again.

He'd barely been there twenty minutes. With a defeated sigh, Trophy stood, gathered his belongings, and headed for the exit.

Across the room, Knife noticed. He watched Trophy leave, frowning slightly. Honestly, he hoped the guy was alright. That fall had looked pretty rough, and from the way Trophy had been rubbing his head, he probably had one hell of a headache coming. Knife returned to his workout, but the thought lingered. It was strange. Trophy had never come to the gym before. Then suddenly Knife starts going regularly, and now Trophy shows up too?

For a few weeks, Knife had been coming with Pickle, but Pickle had already quit. Maybe, if Trophy came back, he could ask him to be a gym bros or something. Assuming Trophy ever returned after that disaster.

Knife would have been mortified. Honestly, he felt a little bad for him. What really puzzled him, though, was how it had happened. People didn't just fall off treadmills. Especially not someone who clearly knew their way around gym equipment. From the way Trophy talked, he seemed experienced enough. So what had distracted him so badly that he completely lost focus?

…

The next week rolled around, and Knife was back at the gym as usual. Still no Pickle. He dumped his bag into a locker, stretched his shoulders, and got straight to work. Today he had claimed one of the bench press stations. Lying back against the padded bench, he gripped the bar tightly and pushed it upward with a strained exhale. 100 kilograms.

It wasn't his maximum, but it was enough to make his muscles burn. He lowered the bar to his chest before driving it upward again, breathing heavily with each repetition. Sweat glistened across his arms and forehead as he pushed himself harder, determined to squeeze out a few more reps before failure.

Completely focused on the workout, Knife didn't notice someone entering the gym.

Trophy. Against all odds, he had actually come back. The moment he stepped inside, his eyes immediately caught sight of Knife in the corner of the room. His stomach tightened. Nope. Absolutely not. His gaze flickered toward the treadmills and immediately away again. There was no way he was repeating last week's disaster. Instead, he headed toward the free weights, the same area Knife had been using before.

No moving belts. No opportunities to embarrass himself. Just lifting. Trophy grabbed a pair of heavy dumbbells and settled onto a bench. He focused on his form, counting each repetition and forcing his attention to remain exactly where it belonged.

One lift. Two. Three.

For once, everything went smoothly. Fifteen whole minutes passed. His muscles burned pleasantly from the effort. Sweat dampened his shirt, and his breathing had grown heavier from the workout.

Most importantly, he hadn't looked at Knife. Well... not much. Trophy was beginning to think he'd finally gotten himself under control. Then his attention shifted. And the second it did, he knew he was in trouble. Shit.

Knife’s strength wasn’t just impressive, it was overwhelming. Trophy couldn’t stop picturing it: being under him, completely trapped beneath the solid weight of those powerful muscles. The image flooded his mind, being pinned to a bed, unable to move as Knife loomed over him like a fortress made of pure masculine power. His body pressed down on Trophy with effortless control.

In this fantasy, Knife allowed something rare: permission for soft touches. Trophy could slide his hands across the ridges and valleys of Knife's back, the thick cords of muscle there tense from training, and along his arms where veins faintly pulsed under tanned skin.

But then it escalated fast.

Naked now in the vision, they were both bare, and sweat-slicked bodies glistened in some imagined dim light. Heat radiated between them as they grind together slowly or fiercely (hard to tell in this fantasy), their chests sticky with perspiration pressing flush against each other's hearts hammering wildly. A low moan rumbled from Knife right into Trophy’s ear, rough and real and that sound alone sent fire straight through every nerve… ffffuccck…

"Hey." Knife's voice cut straight through Trophy's thoughts.

Trophy nearly jumped. He snapped back to reality and immediately realized he'd been standing there with a dumbbell in each hand, doing absolutely nothing. His face flushed pink. His heart was racing again.

Knife was standing right in front of him, sweaty from his workout, muscles still tense from lifting, looking down at Trophy from his slightly taller height. Trophy stared for half a second too long before forcing himself to look up at his face. Pull yourself together.

"I, uh... hey." Good. Casual. Normal.

Knife smirked. "You were kinda just standing there. Did you get brain damage or something?" he joked. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead as he laughed.

"So you came back, huh? You're showing up every week at the same time as me now? That's cool." His tone was casual, but there was a hint of curiosity behind it.

"Yeah, well..." Trophy crossed his arms.

Don't look down. Don't look down. Look at his eyes.

"Yeah, so Pickle isn't coming anymore," Knife continued. "He was supposed to be my gym bro, but apparently it got too hard for him."

He shrugged. "Honestly, it's annoying."

"Oh, yeah. For sure." Trophy nodded.

Focus. Maintain eye contact. Act normal.

Knife stretched one of his arms over his shoulder, rolling the tension from his muscles.

Trophy's eyes immediately wandered. Nope. He looked away so quickly his neck almost hurt.

Knife didn't seem to notice. "So..." Knife rubbed the back of his neck. "I was wondering if you wanted to be my gym bro."

Trophy blinked. "What?"

"Well, you're already here on the same days I am. We both know what we're doing. Figured it'd be nice to have someone to train with again." He shrugged. "No pressure or anything. It's totally cool if you'd rather do your own thing."

Trophy's brain completely stopped working. "YEA—" His voice cracked. Horribly. He cleared his throat so fast it almost hurt. "Yeah," he repeated, much quieter. "Totally, dude. Absolutely. I can do that."

The words left his mouth before he'd even thought them through. Immediately, regret hit him. Great. Fantastic. Now he actually had to spend more time around Knife. As if the past week hadn't already been bad enough. He'd spent days trying and failing to get the guy out of his head. And now they were going to be working out together regularly. This could only end terribly.

"Great!" Knife grinned. The smile was bright, easy, and completely effortless.

Trophy hated how much that smile affected him.

"We can start today, then." Knife gestured toward the weights. "You doing dumbbells? I'll join you."

He grabbed a nearby pair. "We can chat, listen to music, whatever. Just makes the workout less boring." Knife smiled again.

Trophy immediately looked away. “Yeah okay, whatever…”

Knife continued lifting, knocking out another set before setting the dumbbells down beside his bench. "Nobody ever comes here," he said casually. "At least not on a Tuesday afternoon. I think most of the guys go out for drinks or something." He shrugged. "I've been invited a couple times, but that's gym day."

Trophy nearly dropped his weight. Drinks? People were getting invited for drinks? How had he never heard about this?

"Uh, yeah," Trophy replied quickly. "Sounds kinda lame anyway. Alcohol isn't exactly great for your body. No point ruining all your hard work." His words came out a little too fast.

Meanwhile, his eyes kept drifting back toward Knife despite his best efforts. Knife was looking out the window as he talked, thankfully oblivious.

"I can't really picture half the guys here anyway," Knife continued. "Most of them don't exactly scream gym enthusiasts."

Trophy swallowed. "Uh-huh." Very insightful contribution. His attention wasn't on the conversation anymore. It was on Knife. The fitted tank top, the athletic shorts, the effortless confidence he carried himself with, Trophy found himself staring again before he could stop himself. This was becoming a serious problem.

Knife noticed the lack of responses and finally glanced over. Trophy immediately snapped his head away. The movement was so sudden it was almost suspicious. Knife raised an eyebrow. That was weird. Still, he didn't comment on it. Instead, he finished his set and stood up.

"These kinda suck," he said, gesturing toward the dumbbells. "Good warm-up, but I'm already bored."

He rolled his shoulders. "We should do something else."

Before Trophy could respond, Knife pointed toward a nearby cable row machine.

The station had two seats facing the same direction, close enough that they could easily talk between sets. "Let's do rows. We can alternate between sets and keep each other moving."

"Sure," Trophy replied. Immediately. Way too quickly.

Knife grinned. The two of them moved over to the machine. Unfortunately for Trophy, the setup put them practically side-by-side. While one person pulled the cable, the other sat only a few feet away waiting for their turn. Which meant Trophy now had nowhere to hide. No convenient reason to stare when Knife wasn't looking. Just the two of them, trading sets, talking between reps.

"What do you usually row?" he asked.

Trophy blinked. His brain had stopped functioning the moment Knife leaned forward. "Huh?"

Knife laughed. "The weight, genius."

"Oh." Right. Gym. Weights. Not staring.

"Usually around seventy kilos."

"Not bad." Knife gave an approving nod before sitting down.

"Let's see it, then." Trophy sat down first, thankful to have something else to focus on. He grabbed the handle, planted his feet, and pulled. One rep. Two. Three. Okay. This was manageable. He could do this.

He focused on the motion, the tension in his back and shoulders, the burn building through the muscles. Anything except Knife. Then he finished his set and stood.

Knife immediately took his place. Trophy regretted standing there almost instantly. The machine forced him close enough to watch. Knife grabbed the handle and leaned forward. Then pulled. The cable snapped taut. The weight stack rose smoothly. His back flexed beneath the tank top. Trophy looked away. Immediately.

He grabbed his water bottle and took a drink despite not being thirsty. This was torture.

Meanwhile, Knife seemed completely oblivious. He finished his set and stood, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist.

"Damn, that's actually heavier than I expected."

Trophy nodded.

"Yeah."

"Yeah?" Knife laughed. "That's all you've got?"

"Oh, uh..."

Trophy scrambled for something intelligent to say.

"Good form." The second the words left his mouth, he wanted to launch himself through the nearest wall.

Knife blinked. Then laughed. "Thanks?"

Trophy buried his face behind his water bottle. This was awful. He missed when he could watch Knife from a distance. Back then, it had been easy. Safe. Now they were working out side by side, talking between sets, and Knife's attention kept drifting back to him. It was nerve-racking. Trophy didn't want attention. He wanted to blend into the background and focus on his workout.

Well... mostly focus on his workout. The thought made him cringe. The more he reflected on it, the more embarrassed he felt. He was acting strange, and he knew it. Every time he caught himself staring, a fresh wave of guilt washed over him.

"Let's do pull-ups." Knife's voice abruptly cut through his spiraling thoughts.

"Oh. Uh, sure."

The two of them headed over to the pull-up bars. They were mounted fairly high, forcing most people to either jump or use a small step stool to reach them. Knife had no trouble at all. He simply hopped upward, grabbed the bar, and started his set with smooth, effortless motions.

Trophy stopped beside the neighbouring bar. It was... considerably higher than he'd remembered.

Knife dropped back to the floor after finishing a few reps. "Oh, hey, don't bother grabbing a stool," he said casually. "I'll help you up."

Trophy's eyes widened.

"W-wait, no, that's—" Knife was suddenly behind Trophy, close, so close. Without effort, his large hands gripped Trophy’s hips firmly and lifted him clean off the ground like he weighed nothing. The sudden contact sent a jolt through Trophy’s entire body. His breath caught sharply in his chest as instinctively, he grabbed the pull-up bar above for balance, knuckles whitening around it.

His heart hammered wildly inside his ribcage, thud-thud-thud, as Knife pressed flush against him from behind. The heat of their sweaty bodies merged together; sweat glistening on both their skins mixed faintly in the air between them: musky male scent with iron traces from training. Every ridge of Knife's back muscles molded perfectly into Trophy's trembling frame, the power radiating off him almost dizzying and holy hell… this wasn’t supposed to feel this good..

It wasn't. This kind of obsession? Twisted? Maybe. But then... just like that... Knife let go. He casually swung back onto the pull-up bar above them, as if lifting someone had been no different than blinking and started doing reps again like nothing happened at all.

Trophy stared ahead for a moment. Then he quickly started his pull-ups.

One. Two. Three. Focus. Just focus.

On the exercise. On counting reps. On literally anything except replaying the last thirty seconds in his head. Easier said than done.  Trophy was honestly embarrassed with himself. How was he letting this get to him so badly? Why was he allowing it to take up so much space in his head? This was Knife. Just Knife. And yet, no matter how hard he tried to push it away, he couldn't stop replaying that brief moment from earlier. His mind kept circling back to it, stubbornly refusing to let it go.

He tightened his grip on the pull-up bar.  Unfortunately, the second he glanced to the side, any chance of that disappeared. Knife was still doing pull-ups beside him, moving with effortless control. Each repetition looked easy, smooth, practiced. His shoulders and arms tensed with the motion before relaxing again as he lowered himself. Trophy found himself staring. Again. His stomach sank. He tore his eyes away, but the damage was already done. His imagination was beginning to wander.

One pull-up. Then another. His pace slowed. His thoughts drifted further. He wasn't even paying attention to the exercise anymore. His body continued moving on autopilot while his mind wandered somewhere it absolutely shouldn't.

Suddenly, Knife was right in front of Trophy, pressing him down with his weight. His knees came up sharply, firm against the sensitive area between Trophy’s thighs and he held that pressure there like a threat. Knife looked down at him with smoldering eyes, dark, dangerous… Without warning. or maybe after one breathless second of eye contact, Knife ducked his head and bit into the side of Trophy's neck. A sharp whine escaped Trophy as pain mixed with pleasure; he arched back instinctively while grinding helplessly against those unyielding knees still pinning him so cruelly tight.

"You’re such a mess," Knife growled low in his ear, "Look at you squirming... can't even handle this much." His voice dripped mockery, the kind meant to break someone but instead? It sent shivers through every nerve ending.

"Trophy, dude, you good?" Knife's voice cut through his thoughts. Trophy blinked.

At some point, he'd stopped pulling himself up entirely. His grip loosened, and he dropped back to the floor, landing on his feet with a soft thud. "Oh. Uh.. I'm just distracted today." That was technically true. He just wasn't about to explain what was distracting him.

Knife dropped down from the bar as well, concern flickering across his face.

"Oh yeah? Everything alright?"

"Yeah. Just tired, I guess." Trophy looked away. "Maybe we should call it for today?"

Knife studied him for a moment before shrugging. "Sure, man. Maybe you just need some rest."

The two of them headed back toward the benches. Knife grabbed his towel and started wiping the sweat from his face and shoulders while Trophy aggressively drank from his water bottle, focusing entirely on that instead of looking anywhere in Knife's direction.

Every time he looked at him lately, his brain seemed to stop working. It was ridiculous. Across from him, Knife was beginning to notice a pattern. Trophy would be fine for a while. Then he'd glance over at Knife. Then he'd get distracted. Then he'd completely lose focus on whatever he was doing. The more Knife thought about it, the harder it became to ignore. Could he be the distraction?

The possibility hadn't really crossed his mind before. But now? Well… The signs were certainly there. Knife wasn't entirely sure what to make of it. Part of him thought he might be imagining things. Another part felt oddly flattered by the idea.

Still, he wasn't about to confront Trophy over a hunch. If he was wrong, things would get awkward fast. And if he was right? Trophy would probably deny it anyway. No, if Knife wanted answers, he'd need proof.  A way to test his theory without making things weird. His thoughts drifted for a moment before he shook them away. That could wait until next week.

For now, Trophy looked like he genuinely needed a break.

"Cya next Tuesday." Knife gave him a friendly pat on the back.

The reaction was immediate. Trophy stiffened so fast it was almost impressive.

Knife removed his hand and hid a small smile. Interesting.

"Yeah. See you." Trophy practically fled. In his rush to leave, he didn't even realize he'd left his water bottle behind. The gym doors swung shut behind him. Outside, Trophy rubbed both hands over his face. He felt ridiculous. Embarrassed. Everything about today had been a disaster. All he wanted now was a hot shower and a chance to clear his head.

By the time he got to his room, he headed straight for the bathroom. A few moments later, steam began filling the room as hot water poured from the showerhead. Trophy stepped beneath it with a long sigh. The heat immediately eased some of the tension sitting in his shoulders. He closed his eyes, letting the water run through his hair as he pushed it back from his face.

The sweat and exhaustion from the workout slowly washed away. For the first time all day, things felt quiet. Just the steady sound of water and a few precious minutes to himself. Although god forbid he gets a break, right?

Trophy starts imagining Knife in the shower with him, steam rising around them. The water ran hot, sluicing down their bare skin as Knife stood tall and imposing. Naked. Breathing heavy. Knife braced one hand above Trophy’s head against the tiled wall of the shower, the other slowly sliding down then suddenly gripping a fistful of his wet hair. With zero warning, he yanked Trophy’s head back sharply, a sting flashing through his scalp and then crashed their mouths together without mercy. The kiss was all heat and hunger, lips smashing like collisions; teeth clashing before tongues surged forward to claim dominance. No tenderness here, just raw passion fueled by power imbalance. 

Trophy’s hands roamed freely now, exploring every hard inch of Knife’s body. His palms slid over the solid planes of his chest, tracing each defined muscle with reverent pressure, fingers kneading into the dense warmth. He broke the kiss abruptly, lips wet and swollen and began pressing messy, open-mouthed kisses down Knife's torso,  across his collarbones… lower to his pecs… then over ripples of abs slick with shower water.

The desire was overwhelming, he wanted to kiss everywhere, worship him completely. Without thinking (or maybe thinking too much), Trophy sank slowly onto his knees on the shower floor. Knife reacted instantly; one large hand tangled in Trophy's damp hair and gently but firmly guided him forward...

A sudden jolt snapped Trophy back to reality. The steam hanging in the shower seemed to clear from his vision all at once. His heart was hammering against his ribs. Too fast. He braced a hand against the tiled wall, trying to steady himself as his breathing grew uneven. A wave of dizziness washed over him, leaving him feeling nauseous and disoriented. What was happening to him? The thoughts wouldn't stop.

If anything, they seemed to be getting worse. Every week, every workout, every glance in Knife's direction seemed to make them stronger. What had started as a harmless crush had spiraled into something that felt impossible to control. His imagination ran wild whenever Knife was around, and lately those thoughts had become so vivid that they were beginning to feel almost real.

It scared him. Not because of Knife. Because of himself. Knife had no idea any of this was happening. No idea how often Trophy thought about him. No idea how distracted he became whenever they were together. And the more Trophy dwelled on it, the worse he felt. His stomach twisted. Maybe he shouldn't go to the gym anymore. Maybe becoming Knife's gym partner had been a mistake. Maybe putting distance between them was the only way to get his head straight again. The thoughts chased each other endlessly, one after another, until his head began to ache.

Trophy squeezed his eyes shut. He was exhausted. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. After a long moment, he reached over and turned off the water. The steady sound of the shower faded into silence. Slowly, he stepped out, grabbed a towel, and dried himself off. A few minutes later he was dressed again, though the knot in his chest hadn't loosened at all.

His body felt clean. His mind, unfortunately, was another story.

…

The next week arrived far too quickly. Trophy had spent most of the day debating whether he should even show up. Maybe he could text Knife and say he was sick. Maybe he could claim something came up. Maybe he could just... not go. The problem was that none of those excuses would work forever.

Besides, Pickle had already bailed on Knife. Trophy had agreed to be his gym partner, and despite everything going on in his head, he felt obligated to stick to that. Backing out now felt wrong.

And if he was being completely honest with himself, his pride wouldn't allow it. Let Knife think he had given up? Not a chance. So, against his better judgment, Trophy found himself pushing through the gym doors right on schedule. Immediately, he spotted Knife.

He was over by the cable crossover machine, already halfway through a workout. A white tank top clung to him from sweat, and he looked like he'd been there for a while. His headphones hung loosely around his neck as he finished a set and wiped his forehead with a towel.

The moment he noticed Trophy, his face lit up. "There he is!" Knife waved him over.

For some reason, that simple reaction made Trophy's chest tighten.

"Hey, man. Thought you weren't gonna show up for a second." He laughed. The joke was casual, but there was a hint of genuine relief underneath it. Apparently, he'd actually been waiting.

"Ptch. Of course I'd show up." Trophy walked over, trying to sound confident.

His eyes immediately betrayed him. They darted downward before he could stop them. Seriously? He forced himself to look back up. Look at his face. Just look at his face. Unfortunately, that wasn't much safer. The dark stubble along Knife's jaw. The eyebrow piercing. The confident curve of his smile. The way his eyes crinkled slightly when he laughed. At some point, Trophy had crossed a line he hadn't even noticed. This wasn't just some passing attraction anymore. He genuinely found Knife attractive. All of him. Which was precisely the problem. Because the more he liked him, the harder it became to act normal around him.

"Tough day?" Knife asked.

"Huh?"

"You've got that look again."

"What look?"

"The one where you seem like you're thinking about fifty different things at once."

Trophy's stomach dropped. "Just tired."

"Mhm." Knife didn't sound convinced. Over the past few weeks, he'd started noticing things. The staring. The way Trophy seemed perfectly fine until Knife got close. The way he'd tense up at the smallest bit of contact. At first, Knife had assumed it was a coincidence. Now? Not so much. In fact, he'd spent the last week thinking about it. And today he'd come prepared. If Trophy was getting distracted because of him, then it should be pretty obvious once they spent enough time together.

Knife grabbed his water bottle and casually stepped closer. Not enough to be suspicious. Just enough. Trophy immediately straightened. Knife almost smiled. 

"Alright," Knife said, slinging his towel over one shoulder. "Let's get started. I've already warmed up, so we're jumping straight into the fun stuff today."

Trophy had a feeling he and Knife had very different definitions of fun. And judging by the look in Knife's eyes, this gym session was going to be far more challenging than the last one.

"I was thinking we head over to the yoga mats and do sit-ups," Knife said. "You hold my feet down, and I'll see if I can hit twenty." He flashed a confident grin.

Trophy nearly choked on absolutely nothing. Of all the exercises Knife could have picked, it had to be one where they'd be sitting practically face-to-face. Fantastic.

"Cool. Sure. Let's do that." His response came out far more strained than he intended.

The two of them made their way over to the mats. Knife dropped down first, bending his knees and getting into position. Trophy sat across from him and braced his hands against Knife's shoes to keep him steady.

"Ready?" Knife asked.

"Yep."

Knife started his first set. One. Two. Three.

Trophy immediately regretted agreeing to this. Not because the exercise was difficult. Because he had absolutely nowhere else to look. Every time Knife sat up, Trophy found himself watching without meaning to. Then he'd realize he was staring and quickly look away, only for his eyes to drift back a few seconds later.

It was a losing battle. Meanwhile, Knife seemed perfectly comfortable.

"Seven..." He paused briefly. "Eight..." Then he glanced up. Their eyes met. Trophy immediately looked away. Knife hid a smile.

"You're counting, right?" Knife asked.

"What?" Trophy spoke, distracted. 

"My reps."

"Oh. Right. Uh..." Trophy realized he had completely lost track. Knife laughed.

"You weren't counting."

"I was!"

"You definitely weren't."

Trophy groaned. Knife sat back down on the mat, shaking his head. "Terrible gym bro."

"You're impossible to work with, so."

"And yet you keep showing up." Knife grinned.

Trophy hated how much that grin affected him. Knife finished his set and flopped back onto the mat dramatically.

"Twenty."

"Finally." Trophy grumbled… it was getting way too much for him to handle at that point.

"Oh, come on. I wasn't that slow."

Trophy rolled his eyes.

Knife sat up and bumped his shoulder lightly against Trophy's as he stood. The contact lasted less than a second. Trophy immediately stiffened. Knife noticed. Again. At this point, the pattern was becoming impossible to ignore.

"Your turn," Knife said.

"My turn?"

"Yep."

Trophy stared at him. Knife folded his arms.

"You don't get to sit there judging my form without doing a set yourself."

"I wasn't judging your form."

"Sure."

"I wasn't."

Knife pointed at the mat."Sit."

Trophy let out an annoyed sigh and lowered himself onto the mat. Something about the way Knife demanded him to sit, made his face flushed and body tense.

Knife immediately moved into position to hold his feet down. Far too enthusiastically. Trophy narrowed his eyes.

"You seem way too excited about this."

Knife shrugged. "What can I say? I'm a supportive gym bro."

The smirk on his face suggested otherwise. 

Trophy focused on his sit-ups, eyes tightly shut, avoiding Knife’s presence like it burned. One… two… three… He pushed through each rep with quiet determination, muscles tightening with every crunch.

By the eighth one, he was sweating slightly, not from exertion alone but from nerves. The air felt charged. Then, without warning, Knife grabbed both of Trophy’s arms and forced them apart mid-movement. His grip was iron-strong and unyielding. 

"Wh-what are you?" Trophy stammered, heart leaping into his throat as he stared up wide-eyed at Knife looming over him.

A second later, thud—Knife shoved down hard on Trophy’s knees before straddling him right there on the floor. One knee pinned each side of Trophy’s hips. He sat directly atop him, a full bodyweight trap and instantly trapped both wrists above Trophy's head in one large hand. The reality hit like a truck: this wasn't a fantasy anymore. This was happening for real.

"W-What the hell are you doing?!" Trophy blurted out, his voice cracking slightly as panic surged through him.

His heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might burst from his chest. Knife didn't back away. Instead, he narrowed his eyes, clearly unconvinced by the bewildered act Trophy was trying to put on.

"Cut the crap." His tone wasn't angry, just firm. "We both know whatever you're about to say isn't the truth."

Trophy's stomach dropped.

"You've been staring at me for weeks." The words hit harder than Trophy expected. "Every workout. Every conversation. Every time I look over, you're either looking at me or immediately pretending you weren't." Knife's gaze remained fixed on him. "So what's the deal?"

Trophy opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His mind was racing too fast.

Knife let out a short breath through his nose. "Seriously, man." A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You're making me curious." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Is there a reason you keep watching me?" The question hung in the air between them.

The words died before they could even form, choking in Trophy’s throat. Knife above him, pinning him to the floor with his weight and strength… It was too much. Overwhelming. Every nerve felt exposed. The warmth of Knife’s body, the pressure on his wrists, that stupidly attractive face hovering somewhere nearby, Trophy couldn’t handle any of it. Knife didn’t need to interrogate or yell or demand answers, just existing, just sitting there looking like a goddamn statue carved from confidence and muscle? That alone was enough to unravel Trophy completely.

He got flustered easily around Knife anyway, but now? Now he was trapped under him physically AND emotionally and it showed. Sickeningly aware of how obvious he must be, Trophy turned his head sharply away, refusing to meet those sharp eyes that always seemed to see right through every pathetic little lie he told himself about not liking this guy.

Knife saw it, clear as day. The way Trophy couldn’t look at him, the flushed face, the trembling lips… yeah. No denying it now. Knife laughed. A sharp, mocking chuckle that dripped with amusement and maybe a little cruelty.

"Are you hard right now?" he sneered down at Trophy. grinning like this was the funniest thing in the world. The humiliation burned, but worse? That stupid laugh made something hot twist low in Trophy’s stomach. He hated how much he liked this attention, even if it was mean-spirited and condescending.

Trophy thrashed slightly,  trying to escape but every shift just pressed Knife harder against him: solid chest on his smaller frame… those strong thighs caging his hips… A tiny noise almost escaped before he bit his lip to stop himself. Knife noticed. Of course he did.

Instead of letting go or getting off, Knife adjusted deliberately above him, keeping both wrists pinned firmly into the yoga mat beneath them.

Then came another statement not even a question:

"You've been staring 'cause you find me hot."

“Fine, yes! Whatever! Is that what you want to hear?” Trophy blurted, flustered beyond belief. “I've been staring at you, but can you blame me? I mean—”

Knife didn't let him finish. Before Trophy could get another word out, Knife closed the distance between them and pressed his lips firmly against his. The suddenness of it stole every thought from Trophy's head. For a moment, he couldn't even process what was happening. Was this real?

His heart hammered wildly in his chest as Knife kissed him, leaving him frozen in shock. Trophy's legs felt unsteady beneath him, trembling slightly as he struggled to keep up with the reality of the situation. Knife's grip gradually softened. The sharp confidence he'd shown moments ago melted away as he leaned into the kiss. One of his hands slid free and moved up into Trophy's hair, gently running through it.

That small gesture finally snapped Trophy out of his daze. Slowly, cautiously, he lifted a hand and rested it against Knife's back. His fingers traced along the firm muscles beneath his shirt, almost as if he needed the physical contact to convince himself this wasn't some elaborate dream.

It was actually happening. Knife was kissing him.

Knife broke the kiss, both of them breathing heavily now, lips swollen and glistening. For a second, they just stayed close… noses almost touching. Then Knife shifted, Trophy was lifted effortlessly into his lap as he sat back on the floor. No more pinned-down struggle, this was different now: intentional closeness.

One strong arm curled around Trophy’s waist while the other cradled his head, and then their mouths crashed together again, this time with feverish hunger. Their kiss turned messy fast: teeth clashing playfully before softening into deeper slides of lips; quiet smacking sounds filling the air between panting breaths. A thrill shot through Trophy when his hand slipped under Knife’s shirt, finally getting to touch. The reality hit like lightning. Warm skin stretched over hard muscle beneath. And damn… it felt even better than in any fantasy. Was this really happening? It had to be real, the heat of Knife's body against him, those arms holding tight... nothing that vivid could be imagined.

Their sweaty bodies pressed flush together, chest to chest, the heat between them electric. Trophy was painfully hard against Knife’s thigh, and though he tried not to focus on it… there was no hiding it. Knife pulled back again, just enough and exhaled a hot breath directly into Trophy’s parted lips before speaking.

"Idiot," Knife said sharply, voice low but biting. "Should've just told me you wanted this."

A pang of shame hit Trophy instantly he hadn't said anything. He'd stared from afar like some creepy admirer instead of being honest. The scolding should’ve embarrassed him more... but weirdly? It sent a jolt through his body. His stomach flipped. Being spoken down to with that rough tone? It shouldn’t turn him on, but fuck if it didn’t make his pulse spike even harder.

“Let's head to the showers,” Knife said, finally pulling away and getting to his feet. He ran a hand through his damp hair, wiping away the sweat that had built up during their time in the gym.

He glanced around the open space and shook his head.Without another word, Knife reached for Trophy's hand and gave it a gentle tug, leading him out of the gym and toward the shower area.

The second they stepped into the shower room, Knife wasted no time, pinning Trophy hard against the tiled wall with a rough shove. Their lips crashed together again, sweaty bodies slamming back into each other like magnets. Mid-kiss, without breaking contact for more than a breath, Knife yanked his shirt off and tossed it aside. The moment he did, Trophy froze… then pulled away completely.

His eyes widened as they drank in Knife’s bare torso: every sculpted ridge of his chest and abs glistening slightly from earlier sweat despite the cool air. For once, Trophy wasn’t thinking about kissing or touching anything else; he just wanted to look. And stare he did, heart pounding so violently it hurt. 

Awe mixed with pure luck flooded him: this perfect guy was actually letting him see this... touch this… So slowly and reverently Trophy reached out. His hands slid across warm skin… tracing muscles like sacred art. Then? He leaned forward and started pressing soft kisses all over Knife’s chest.

Knife watched Trophy’s adorably awed expression, the way his eyes shone, the soft kisses he planted like prayers and something in Knife’s chest tightened. He found it stupidly endearing. How smitten Trophy was over him. Pathetic? Yeah… but cute as hell.

With one quick motion, Knife fisted a hand in Trophy’s hair, gently but firmly and yanked his head back, forcing him to tilt up and meet his eyes.

"All this?" Knife said lowly, nodding down at himself with a smirk. "This is what made you lose your damn mind for weeks? You’re such a loser."

The insult dripped with teasing cruelty, not meant to hurt… just to fluster further.

Then, without warning, he lifted his knee and shoved it right between Trophy’s thighs where the pressure was already unbearable. Trophy gasped a high-pitched whine escaping him as the fabric of his tiny sporty shorts did nothing at all against that deliberate pressure.

Trophy’s face burned with defiance and maybe a little desperation. He glared up at Knife, still breathing hard, then snapped:

"Shut up… you know you're hot."

Instead of arguing back or teasing more, Knife just smirked. And for once? He didn’t mock him. He let it slide. Because the way Trophy clung to his hips, fingers digging in possessively and grinding against his knee? It was too damn cute to ruin with sarcasm.

Knife stayed still but supportive as Trophy pressed into him again, burying his face into that sweaty chest and inhaling deeply like he’d been starved for this scent all week.

A soft tremor ran through Trophy. So Knife did something gentle, one large hand lifted slowly… then began stroking through Trophy’s hair in slow pets, a quiet affection beneath the tension.

Trophy's lips moved hungrily, kissing, then biting lightly along Knife’s chest and up to his collarbone. The grinding against Knife’s knee grew faster, more frantic, a quiet rhythm building between them. Little whimpers slipped out of Trophy every few seconds, soft, breathy noises he couldn’t control.

Knife wasn't just letting it happen… he was actively helping. His knee lifted slightly with each thrust Trophy made into it, a subtle but deliberate motion that matched the pace. A silent go on, a participation in the heat.

It hit him then, the full weight of what this meant. Trophy had been obsessing over him for weeks. Watching. Fantasizing. This small guy had spent days losing sleep because of how badly he wanted him. And now here they were… and Knife felt something swell inside, not pity or guilt but power.

A warm kind of pride. He liked knowing someone could unravel like this... just from being near him.

The grinding became almost erratic, desperate little rolls of Trophy’s hips against Knife’s knee, his breathing ragged and uneven. Then… A loud groan tore from Trophy suddenly.  At the same moment, he bit down hard on Knife's collarbone, not painful, but intense a reflexive clench as everything peaked at once. Knife felt it instantly, a sudden warmth seeping through the thin fabric of Trophy’s shorts where they pressed together. His smirk returned. He lowered his knee slowly… watching with quiet amusement as Trophy literally just came. Trembling like a leaf in the wind, the guy was shaking pathetically now, and then? He just… collapsed forward into Knife’s chest without warning. Knife caught him easily; one arm wrapping around his shoulders to steady him while he listened to those shaky breaths panting against his skin.

The realization hit Knife like a punchline to the funniest joke ever: he hadn’t even tried. He barely touched Trophy, yet it was enough to make Trophy completely lose it. Just existing near him, sweaty, shirtless, hot—was all it took for this guy to short-circuit and reach his peak. It was absurdly amusing.

Trophy’s breaths were still coming in quick little puffs against Knife's chest, warm and shaky and the trembles hadn't stopped yet. He looked utterly wrecked… but also weirdly content?

"Tell nobody about this."

Knife snorted softly. "Of course not," he said easily, voice calm but laced with quiet amusement underneath.

Knife gently peeled Trophy away from his chest, holding him at arm's length for a second. The guy looked wrecked, exhausted, flustered, still slightly shaky like he’d just run a marathon.

With that signature smirk playing on his lips, smooth and teasing Knife leaned in slightly and said 

"See you next week right~?"

The way he purred those words made Trophy’s stomach flip. It wasn’t just an invitation to another workout session… no. There was something else underneath that tone, promising more.

A “workout” of a very different kind. Trophy swallowed hard, face heating up instantly as the implication sunk in.

He tilted his head with playful arrogance: "We can do a more… intense mode next time." A slow pause. "Gotta let you think about me all week before I give you everything~."* A low purr laced every word, the kind designed to make someone weak at the knees.

Trophy grumbled again, a half-hearted protest but deep down? He was already looking forward to next week. The anticipation, the teasing… letting his mind spiral with thoughts of Knife for days on end? Yeah, he loved that kind of torture.

The deal was made, intense mode later. For now, this session is over.

"Go shower and get changed," Knife said casually, already turning toward the door. He wasn’t sticking around. Before leaving completely though, he walked back over to Trophy, fast, and cupped his face in one hand.  Then kissed him. Harder this time than before. A slow-burning kiss where their tongues met immediately; warm and deep… lingering like a promise.

Just as abruptly as it started… Knife pulled away with a soft pop, smirked at Trophy’s dazed expression (already missing him), and simply said:

"Bye cutie." Then walked out without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.

Trophy remained in the bathroom long after Knife had left, staring blankly at the floor as everything that had just happened replayed in his mind. It still felt unreal. Every second of it had actually happened. He dragged his hands down his face and rubbed at his tired eyes, letting out a shaky breath. His heart still hadn't settled. The memory of it all sent a rush of excitement through him, making it impossible not to smile. Next week's gym session suddenly felt impossibly far away.

Leaning back against the wall, Trophy closed his eyes and replayed every moment again and again, examining every word, every glance, every little detail. It was ridiculous how much space Knife occupied in his thoughts. He already missed him, despite only being apart for a few minutes.

It was probably pathetic. Then again, maybe pathetic was exactly Knife's type.

Meanwhile, Knife had already grabbed his gym bag and headed home. The lingering rush of adrenaline followed him the entire way, leaving a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. That had been incredible. He still wasn't entirely sure what had possessed him to act on impulse like that, or why Trophy of all people had managed to get under his skin, but he couldn't bring himself to regret any of it. Running a hand through his sweat-damp hair, Knife let out a quiet laugh to himself.

He was already looking forward to next week. Looking forward to seeing Trophy again. Looking forward to spending more time with him. The thought lingered in his mind as he walked, and he had a feeling it would continue lingering for the rest of the week.