Work Text:
Knife was sitting on the couch playing video games with Fan, of all objects, when his world upended. Knife knew it was coming. Fan’s fingers stilled on the controller he was holding. He tilted towards Knife in a slow drag. Fan opened his mouth, gulped, and then asked, “So, how are you?”
It wasn’t the first time Knife had been asked the question that night. It was just the first time he’d been asked about it alone, with no way to shrug it off in a sarcastic quip. Worse was that Knife knew Fan was the type to pry until he received an honest answer. Better to bite the bullet now and accept the consequences.
“I’ve seen better days,” Knife said after a moment, “but I’m also one challenge away from becoming a millionaire. Hard not to feel good about that.”
The artificial light of the television illuminated Fan’s face and he set the controller down on his lap. Knife fiddled with the buttons of his own.
“If there’s one thing I don’t miss about the show, it’s all the cameras,” said Fan. “I mean, you couldn’t do one thing without a cameraman breathing down your back!”
“Tell me about it. Trust me when I say staying here for the night is a much needed escape.”
“Not only did we go through all that trauma together, we also had an audience. Which, by the way, how is that going?”
Knife’s controller vibrated erratically in his hand and then stopped abruptly. He didn’t look at the screen, but he knew his character had died. “The trauma or the audience?”
Fan shrugged. “Neither. Both. Lightbulb said a certain Mexican dish from season one made a surprise appearance.”
Knife groaned. “It was like she forced us into a group therapy session. How does this make you feel and all that. She kept saying that we needed to stop playing the game because it was”—he put on a bad British accent—”detrimental to our well-being.”
“Is it?”
Knife glanced away. He stared at the television screen and saw his character dead and Fan’s character standing idle. Fan stopped playing before him, but Knife died first.
He knew he couldn't tell Fan no. It would be an insult to Baseball, who was suffering the lingering insecurity of failing as a leader, and Lightbulb, who had been fighting a fight she didn’t want to win. And Suitcase. If there was any contestant Knife would consider ending the game for, it was Suitcase.
Suitcase, who Knife had seen one too many times staring out longingly at the island’s lake to think she’d been unaffected. Suitcase, who hadn’t told a single lie on the podium. Knife remembered that included her confessing to her hallucinations. A snake of guilt coiled in his stomach.
“—Knife. Earth to Knife.”
Fan’s voice.
Knife blinked to his senses. Fan was boring holes through his face. “—Wha?”
“Sorry. Just making sure you’re still with me,” Fan said. “I would ask you again, but I think this answers my question.” He chuckled.
“Yeah,” Knife said, then realized he didn’t mean to confirm it. “Wait, no. Sure, we’ve all been affected by the show, but Suitcase and I are so close to the finish line. There’s no reason for us not to cross it now.”
“Suitcase,” Fan sighed. “I tried to talk to her when she first got here, but I could tell she was… on edge. I only officially left the show a couple episodes ago, but I feel like I’ve already missed so much.”
“You haven’t been watching?”
A snort. “Half of what actually happens doesn’t get put on air. Don’t you know how fast the ratings would tank? And nobody would want to audition for future seasons!”
“Huh.” Knife honestly didn’t consider it. “I guess you’re not wrong. Did Baseball not tell you how I got chosen to be in the finale in the first place?”
“He’s been behaving strangely, too—okay, wait, I’m just now connecting the dots.”
Knife rolled his thumb against the joystick of his controller. “Yup. Suitcase won immunity in the challenge. We thought MePhone was going to give me and Baseball one final challenge, but instead he made Suitcase choose between us. And she chose me.”
“Even though Baseball was part of her alliance.”
“I don’t claim to understand it. I’m just glad I made it to the final two.”
“Don’t you want to understand? I mean, I know I’d be curious. I didn’t think you and Suitcase were that close,” Fan said.
“Neither did I,” Knife said, but his heart disagreed. “I asked her about it afterwards. She said it was because I helped… give her strength.”
Fan nodded. “I get it. You remind me a bit of Test Tube and I, actually. If it weren’t for her, I don’t know where I’d be. She’s stronger than I’ll ever be.”
Knife’s eyebrows furrowed. He looked down at his controller and saw, in his mind’s eye, the image of Suitcase on her podium. The green light dinged. Then he saw an image of himself and the buzzer flashed red. He couldn’t even be honest when it counted.
“I don’t know,” Knife said. It counted now. “Suitcase is tough. She’s helped me as much as I’ve helped her. To… to answer your earlier question, there are some circumstances where I’d consider ending the game.”
Fan’s lips began to curl up in a knowing smile. “Like if it put Suitcase in danger, you mean.”
Knife shrugged.
“I didn’t realize you cared this much about her,” Fan said.
“Trust me. She doesn’t, either.”
“Really?” His brows raised. “You’re not going to tell her?”
Knife scowled. “I’m not the emotional type.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Fan said, elbowing him cheesily. “You’ve only got one episode left until it’s over. And being vulnerable might make you win the audience’s favor.”
“We don’t do viewer voting anymore, Fan.”
“I know that! But a bad boy confessing his long-held, passionate feelings for the show’s sweetheart? It’s perfect!”
“I don’t think that’s anywhere close to what our relationship is like,” Knife said exasperatedly.
“I guess you’d know better than I would. But just consider it,” said Fan. His eyes met Knife’s. “Just because you’re the finalists doesn’t mean you have to be enemies. She likes you, Knife—otherwise she would have picked Baseball.”
And Knife would have liked to be contrary, but Fan wasn’t wrong. For most of the competition Knife and Suitcase had been in each other’s orbit, always around each other but never together. Knife wanted to bridge that gap. He wanted it more desperately than he realized. With one challenge left, there was no telling where the two of them would go after the show was done, but he was almost certain it would involve parting ways. Knife dropped the controller on the couch without warning.
“Well, it’s late,” he said suddenly. “I need to get as much rest for the finale tomorrow as I can.”
“Sure, sure.” Fan shut off the TV. He was grinning like he had just figured out how to read Knife’s mind. “Good luck, Knife.”
Knife stood up stiffly and grumbled. “Gee, thanks.”
He headed for the elevator, refusing to look back and see whatever expression Fan had plastered on his face. The TV and gaming setup was on the first floor of the hotel, while his and Suitcase’s room for the night—which, how convenient—was on the sixth. Because you’re at the top of the game, OJ had said. Knife thought it was more that they had no spare rooms anywhere else.
Knife sighed and jammed his knuckle against the elevator button. Fan’s words bounced around in his head, slamming against the walls of his skull, and it gave him a headache. Fan was right; how many times had Knife thought, when he and Suitcase were talking, this might be the last time I get this? When they were discussing who they’d vote for, or chatting on the dock together, or snickering about a joke between them, it was an ever-pressing worry. He glanced over at the digital clock—OJ had insisted upon digital clocks during construction because nobody knew how to read analog time—and saw it was seven minutes until midnight. He had just over eight hours until he woke up and the months he had spent on the show came to a final close.
The elevator dinged open and Knife stepped into it, then turned and clicked the sixth button. It lit up red. The doors closed. Was this really how he wanted to end things?
When the elevator lurched upward, he thought about what he'd see when he entered their hotel room. It was late. There was a fine chance Suitcase would be there, probably asleep—but, if she was spending the night with one of her other friends, that was none of Knife’s business, even if it made him smooth a hand over his bicep nervously. A small part of him wanted not to have to worry about her tonight. A greater part of him wanted her to be right there, awake, standing on the other side of the door.
For having to climb six floors, the elevator was surprisingly fast. That was OJ’s design. He was an impatient man. Knife barely had time to consider the possibility of Suitcase’s presence before the doors slid open. He crossed over the deep gap in the floor and it felt like stepping through a portal.
Knife approached the door to their room. The doors didn’t lock with keycards, which was just as well because when Knife brought his hand up to the doorknob his fingers quivered against it. If Suitcase was in there, he didn’t trust himself not to damn the consequences and pull her into him.
He swung the door open slowly, peeked inside, and it was all dark. His shoulders relaxed. He entered the room, flipped on the light, and breathed a sigh of relief.
It was empty.
No thieves, no random contestants, and certainly no Suitcase. Both of the beds were still made. Knife rubbed a hand against his forehead and realized he gravely underestimated how relieved he would be.
That relief began to abate when he walked further in and noticed a small paper lying on the nightstand. It was folded smoothly, but not in perfect alignment. An unpracticed hand. Knife picked it up and knew who it was from immediately, though his heart didn’t want to admit it. Pulse thrumming, he opened it to see:
Meet me in
the flower field
at midnight
- Suitcase
Knife almost didn’t remember what flower field she was talking about. He had only ever visited it once, and not with her. His hands white-knuckled the paper. It crinkled maddeningly. He wondered what she could possibly have to say to him, but then remembered what Fan had said.
She likes you, Knife—otherwise she would have picked Baseball.
So maybe she wanted to talk to him about something. Reminisce on their time spent competing. A quick conversation before the finale devoured them. The loser would compete again. The winner wouldn’t.
If there even was another season after this, Knife thought. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and saw that he was crumpling the edges of the note. His palms opened and it fell back on the nightstand like a hot coal. Most things he couldn’t touch without hurting.
Being a sharp object would do that to you, but his touch hurt in more ways than physical, Knife thought. He winced. He backed up out of the room and left the note inside. Not much time had passed since he first entered the elevator, which meant he must have had at least a few more minutes before midnight struck—ample time to meet Suitcase.
Knife didn’t even ask himself if he wanted to. He walked down the hall like a man possessed. Or a man lovesick. That made him blush.
The flower field wasn’t terribly far from the main competition area. Knife was thankful for it, both because it meant he wasn’t too late and because he didn’t have long to dwell on his worries before he arrived.
He walked along the cobblestone, which had become rickety in the recent months from disuse. It clacked under his feet. He was thankful for that, too; he didn’t think he'd be able to call out Suitcase’s name without his voice cracking.
Even in the darkness of the night, Knife could make out the rectangular silhouette of Suitcase nestled in the flowers. He swallowed and crept forward.
When he stepped into the flowerbeds, the grass crunched under his feet, announcing his presence. Suitcase turned.
“Knife?” she asked.
Knife pushed apart two spindly flowers and finally saw her. She was looking at him, smiling.
“Hi,” Suitcase said.
Her voice was as mellifluous as always. The full moon cast its lovely white glow on her body, which her eyes caught, too. They glittered like stars.
Knife was so unprepared for the sight of her that he was struck speechless. Suitcase had to speak for the third time. “Knife?”
Her legs shuffled nervously and she was all shy and awkward and perfect despite being the one who invited him here. Knife blinked and broke her gaze quickly.
“Sorry,” he said. “Distracted.”
She chuckled. The melody shot straight through his brain and left a Suitcase-shaped hole. “Okay. I’m glad you came. I was worried you might not show up.”
“It’s nothing,” Knife said, trying hard to sound normal. “I mean, we’ve only got a night left. Might as well make it count.”
“Yeah. That’s—one of the reasons I called you out here.”
“Just one?”
To Knife’s surprise, she sat down in the grass and picked up a flower. Her foot brushed against its petals.
“Do you know what kind of flowers these are?” she asked.
Knife took it as permission to sit as well. Without breaking the stalk, he brought the stem of a neighboring flower down and traced its shape. “Nope. I don’t know anything about flowers to begin with.”
“That’s okay,” said Suitcase. “They’re a type of bellflower called balloon flowers. Ironically, I saw them for the first time when I was with Balloon.”
“You did?”
A nod. “During the baking challenge. Wow. Everything was so different then.”
Knife scoffed. “That’s for sure. No Cobs, no Taco, no alien spaceships.”
“Back then, I never considered actually winning. Well, I wanted it, I just didn’t want to be selfish.”
“And now you’re here,” he finished for her.
“Now I’m here. So are you.”
“So am I.” Knife brought the flower up to his face and inhaled deeply. It smelled waxy, and slightly vanillic. He liked it. “They smell good.”
“Right?” Suitcase sniffed her own. When she did, her eyes fluttered shut. “During the middle of the season, I came here a lot. It was a… nice escape from it all. Sometimes I’d even bring a watering pail just to give myself something to do.”
With Suitcase’s eyes closed, Knife had free will to stare at her as he liked. He felt like a patient who just woke up from surgery and thought the fluorescent lights above were angels. She certainly looked like one.
“It almost never rains here,” Knife remarked, “but the flowers are still blooming. And I can’t imagine you've had the time to come out and water them daily.”
“Well, balloon flowers don’t need much water,” Suitcase said. “Although, it might just be me, but a lot of things on this show don’t make sense.”
“Sure,” Knife said. “Like how you picked me over Baseball.”
It was one of those things Knife didn’t mean to say but did anyway. Her eyes opened but stared pointedly down at the flower she was holding.
Suitcase pulled one leg up to her chest. “It’s awkward enough with Baseball already. I don’t want it to be like that with us.”
Knife felt a knot tighten in his throat. “And it’s not. I just don’t understand.”
Suitcase sighed. “Didn’t I tell you? You… You were the first one that said anything to me about the way I was being treated by Nickel. I like Baseball. But if it weren’t for you, I don’t think I’d even be here.”
You remind me a bit of Test Tube and I, actually. If it weren’t for her, I don’t know where I’d be.
“Yeah. I could say the same for you.”
She looked up. “You could?”
Knife hummed and nodded. “I wasn’t exactly on good terms with everyone after season one, and the only contestant I knew from season two was Trophy. I was a jerk, but you were nice to me anyway. You called me your friend back then.”
“Oh.” Suitcase chuckled. “I called everyone on the Grand Slams my friend. But I did want to be yours.”
“Well, thanks,” Knife said. He hoped it came out earnest, because it was.
She motioned to the flower he was holding. “Did you know that bellflowers have a meaning?” she asks.
He cocked an eyebrow. “Do you really think I’ll say yes?”
“Okay, fair point.” Knife took another deep inhale of the bellflower’s scent. “It symbolizes gratitude.”
His breath stopped. Suitcase smiled, gentle and soft.
“That’s… how I feel about you,” she finished.
Knife’s body betrayed him and he could feel his cheeks flushing traitorously. He prayed it wasn’t visible in the moonlight. Her eyes crinkled at the corners, and he wished he could stab himself with his own blade. His heart beat harder.
Suddenly, he let go of his own flower. It bounced and swayed, back and forth, swinging in the faint wind. His hand reached out towards the one Suitcase was holding, a quiet request.
“Can I..,” Knife started, then cringed. He didn’t want to finish the question.
Suitcase seemed to understand that. Her flower was one she already plucked off its stem, and she extended it to him willingly. He slid it out of her grasp.
“What are you going to do with it?” she asked.
“You’ll see,” Knife said, sitting up on his knees. “Come here.”
She scooted closer, knees still pulled close to her chest. Knife tilted forward, hands moving jerkily towards her.
Without speaking, he leaned over Suitcase and brought the flower up to her handle. His fingers pressed the petals down gently, then wound the remaining stem around her handle. He curled it into itself so it didn’t come undone, securing the flower in place. When he was done, one of his hands fanned out against the top of her body, a teasing touch. Then he sat back.
“There,” said Knife. His voice croaked.
Suitcase, he noticed, had stayed unusually still for all of it. They were sitting close together. His knees were almost between hers. He looked down and saw that her eyes were big and wide in her head. Her mouth fell open just slightly in awe.
Knife averted his gaze bashfully. She was staring up at him like she could see right through him. He might as well have been transparent. His face flushed again and he knew it was obvious, but she looked so pretty wearing the flower. He couldn’t help it.
“Kn—Knife,” she said.
“Yeah?”
She was smirking. Her cheeks seemed hot, too.
“Do you want one, too?” she asked devilishly.
Knife snorted despite himself. “Where would I even put it?”
“Hmm. Good point.”
“You look better wearing it than I would, anyway.”
He didn’t mean to say that, either, but apparently Knife had said a lot of things by accident tonight.
Suitcase’s eyebrows raised. “Oh,” she said.
“Sorry.” The word felt foreign in his mouth. “Too forward.”
It wasn’t framed like a question, but Suitcase shook her head anyway. “No. It’s nice. I like it.”
“In twenty-four hours this will all be over,” Knife said, even if he didn’t want it to be true.
“It doesn’t have to be.”
Suitcase fell quiet after that. So she was also saying things on accident.
Knife nodded. “It doesn’t. If… that’s what you want.”
Hesitantly, his hand came to rest against Suitcase’s thigh. It barely touched her leg, but after a moment she stuck her knee out so it pressed closer. The petals of the flower on her handle were rocking with the wind. They held on tight.
“Did you know that balloon flowers have another meaning?” Suitcase asked suddenly.
“One that’s different from bellflowers?”
“Mm-hmm. I think you’ll like it.”
“Okay,” Knife said, “shoot.”
They locked eyes. In her gaze Knife could see everything—their past, their future, stretched out so far it all became a singular moment. That moment was now.
Finally, she said, “Eternal love.”
Knife’s hand tightened around her thigh. Blood thrummed in his head.
“What was the other reason?” he asked, voice wavering.
“What?”
“You said there was another reason you called me out here.”
“Knife,” Suitcase said, “you don’t need me to tell you.”
“No, but I want to hear it anyway.” It was greedy of him and he didn’t care.
A particularly large gust of wind blew across the two of them and the flowers all flapped wildly, including the one on Suitcase’s handle. Suitcase squinted, but her expression began to change; it turned hard, determined, and she shifted closer.
“It doesn’t need words,” she mumbled. Then, louder: “Okay. Promise me you won’t hate me for this?”
“Why would I h—” Knife started, but he couldn’t say another thing because Suitcase tipped forward and pressed her lips right against his.
Knife’s immediate reaction was to ragdoll—his mouth fell unmoving while Suitcase leaned into him, and he felt awkward and more than a little guilty because within seconds he realized Suitcase was kissing him and his hands came up to grab at her.
Then they were kissing for real. Even against the wind’s chill, her lips were warm and wet. If the kiss was hesitant at first, it was passionate now, and Knife wondered absently when and where Suitcase learned how to do this. He certainly wasn’t complaining. By now she was halfway in his lap and Knife’s fingers curled against her straps. He snapped them gently. She shivered.
The texture of Suitcase’s body wasn’t the softest thing Knife had felt—it was worn with age and experience, and his fingers faltered against a small tear in her fabric. Suitcase sucked in a breath through her mouth. Knife almost went to apologize, but pulled her in for another kiss instead. She grinned into it.
Eventually he had to come up for air, and he broke the kiss with a start. Suitcase’s eyes were wide and wet. Knife thought his must be, too. His fingers ventured over her like he was memorizing her shape.
The first word that came out of Suitcase’s mouth was, “Sorry.”
Knife immediately frowned. “Don’t see what you have to be sorry for.” His voice was hoarse.
“For… I should have warned you,” Suitcase said. “Pretty abrupt for your rival to kiss you the night before your final competition.”
Yeah, Knife thought, he should have done this sooner. So, so much sooner.
His fingers wound around her body to toy with the gap in her liner. Her leg twitched when he did, always sensitive. Knife only wanted more and more of it. Selfishly he thought he should have done this in the very first episode, given himself a whole season of Suitcase’s eyes and lips and laughter. Now he had less than a day.
He didn’t want to cut her mid-love crisis short, but the time they had left together was even shorter. He knew they could always keep in contact after the show, but with the way the season had panned out already—he wondered if they'd even survive.
He told her that in less words. “Suitcase,” Knife said, tone desperate. “You did it now. Twenty-four hours is better than zero. I want this. Do you?”
Suitcase thought for a moment. “You know, I normally think things over before I do them. Kissing you wasn’t one of those things.”
“That’s not a yes.”
She rolled her eyes and smiled. “Knife, that’s a yes.”
This time Knife was the one that kissed her, long and sweet. He wanted to melt into her body and live inside it forever. Stay cozy inside her chest. Suitcase’s lips moved against his, and it felt like being bathed in the radiant warmth of the sun.
When Knife’s hands went to clutch her body again, Suitcase unexpectedly pitched backwards and landed flat in the grass. She had to break for air, because she was laughing. So was he.
“I’m laying on a flower,” she said breathlessly.
He shrugged. “It’ll live.”
Knife hovered over Suitcase’s supine form and planted his arms on either side of her. He leaned down and their mouths met once more. Her legs wrapped around his hilt.
In this position, he could feel the petals of the flower Suitcase was wearing brushing the blade of his head. Level as he was, though, there was no way for him to cut it. He was harmless. Knife kissed Suitcase harder.
He didn’t know how long the two of them laid there for, but eventually Knife’s knees stung with soreness and Suitcase let her legs fall. They still didn’t part from one another.
“It’s late,” Suitcase said finally. “We have to win a million dollars tomorrow.”
“I don't care.” Knife kissed her again. “I've already won.”