Chapter Text
Pickle didn’t sleep.
Not properly, anyway. He laid on his bed with his hoodie half over his face, barely moving, brain fogged over with a mix of static and low-level panic. The image of Yin-Yang in the doorway looped over and over like a bad VHS tape. He couldn’t tell if he was angry or humiliated or just tired.
Mostly tired.
When morning hit, he didn’t even try to pretend he was okay. He got dressed slowly, brushing his hair with his fingers and grabbing the first clean shirt he could find. He heard Soap’s voice outside the dorm once. Maybe coming to check on him, but he stayed frozen, dead silent, like she’d leave if she thought he was asleep.
She did.
He bolted the second she was gone.
And… oh. Oh. The hallway felt off.
Students were grouped up. Whispering. Looking. Not the “oh hey new kid” look, but the “you were on the news last night” look. Someone smirked as he passed. A couple of girls giggled way too loudly behind him. Another guy leaned over to his friend and muttered something with Pickle and Knife in the same sentence, and Pickle didn’t even have the guts to turn around.
He made it to the cafeteria without breathing properly.
Where the hell was Soap. Where the hell was Knife. Where the hell was Mic. WHY WAS HE ALONE.
And then—lifesaver.
Bomb.
Half-asleep, eating cereal dry with a plastic fork for some reason.
Pickle walked fast. Slid into the seat like he was being chased. “Yo.”
Bomb looked up, blinked, and nearly choked on a mouthful of cornflakes. “P-Pickle?!”
“Dude. What the hell is going on? Why is everyone looking at me like I pissed in their backpacks?”
Bomb blinked again. “Y-you haven’t heard?”
Pickle groaned. “Is this about the Yin-Yang thing? I already feel awful.”
Bomb shook his head. “N-no, it’s—d-dude.”
“Dude what?”
Bomb looked down into his cereal. Then back up. “P-people think you a-and Knife… y’know…”
Pickle’s face blanked. “No. I don’t know.”
“Like. D-did the thing.”
Pickle paused.
Paused.
Then loudly whispered: “WHAT.”
Bomb’s voice got quieter. “Y-yeah. E-everyone’s saying you b-broke dorm rules.”
“We hugged,” Pickle hissed. “We HUGGED. AND BARELY. It was in. Emotional support. Depression unlock. Not SEX.”
“I—I think someone s-saw you two. Then y-you ran out lookin’ all upset…”
“BECAUSE YIN-YANG WAS SCREAMING.”
Bomb shrugged helplessly. “Th-they think he walked in on y-you.”
“Oh my god.”
“Also th-they think K-Knife… uh…” He made a vague stabbing motion.
“…Took advantage of me?!”
Bomb winced. “Y-you’re soft, dude. They’re acting like y-you’re a victim.”
Pickle’s jaw dropped. “What. What. I flirted with him! I—I was the instigator!”
Bomb side-eyed him. “Y-you wanna repeat that louder?”
Pickle smacked his head on the table. “I hate this school.”
Bomb patted his shoulder. “S-still glad you’re here though.”
Somewhere else, later that day.
Mic leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Knife sat in the lounge like a sullen cat, back curled into the chair.
“Yin-Yang’s got a black eye,” Mic said flatly.
Knife said nothing.
“You’re on academic probation. You wanna explain what happened?”
He exhaled through his nose. “He wouldn’t shut up.”
“About what.”
Knife looked away.
Mic stepped forward. “He was yelling in the courtyard, Knife. Saying he caught you in bed with Pickle. And you beat him up. You know how that looks, right?”
“I didn’t touch Pickle like that,” Knife muttered.
“But you touched Yin-Yang.”
Knife’s jaw clenched. “I told him to drop it. He didn’t.”
Mic stared at him, sharp. “You’re not some anime anti-hero. You don’t get to go beating people up over gossip.”
Knife shifted. Didn’t meet her eyes. “He made Pickle look… like a joke.”
Mic’s expression softened. “…Does that matter to you?”
“…It’s not your business.”
“It kinda is when the whole school thinks you seduced a trauma-ridden twink in a twin bed.”
Knife looked like he was gonna combust.
Mic didn’t let up. “He’s probably spiraling right now. You’re not gonna check on him?”
Knife stayed silent.
Mic let the silence stretch. “Fine. But if you don’t show up, and someone else comforts him, don’t act surprised.”
Knife didn’t flinch. But his hands gripped the chair tighter.
Somewhere down the hall, another door slammed.
Pickle wandered.
Cafeteria was too loud. Dorm was off-limits. Soap was probably waiting to ambush him with concern and clean towels. So he just… walked. Hands in his pockets, hood half up, aimless.
Every time he passed a group, the whispering started again.
He felt like a weird little cryptid. Like they all thought he got raw-dogged by the creature that lives in the vents.
He stared at the floor. Counted tiles. Tried not to think.
“…He totally seduced him.”
Pickle froze.
Voices around the corner.
He peeked just a little.
Baseball. And… Nickel. Sitting outside a building, eating vending machine snacks and talking low. Not low enough.
Nickel shook his head. “I swear, I never thought Knife had game. He’s literally allergic to socializing. But damn.”
Baseball snorted. “Maybe Pickle made the first move.”
Nickel snickered. “Bet he wishes he didn’t.”
Pickle stepped around the corner, deadpan. “Y’all know I can hear you, right.”
They both jumped.
“DUDE—” Baseball wheezed. “You move like a ghost.”
Nickel rolled his eyes. “If you’re gonna eavesdrop, at least own up to it.”
Pickle tilted his head. “If I didn’t hear you, were you gonna start ranking how hot Knife is or what?”
Baseball laughed. Nickel went red. “Shut up.”
Pickle raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so you do think he’s hot.”
“NO—” Nickel threw a crumpled chip bag at him.
Pickle smirked, then sighed, hands back in his pockets. “For the record? I flirt with everyone. That doesn’t mean I like him.”
Baseball blinked. “Do you now?”
“I mean, do you see how many people I’ve called ‘baby’ this week? It’s a bit.”
Nickel scoffed. “Doesn’t mean it’s not annoying.”
Pickle turned to him slowly. Squinted. Stepped in juuust close enough to make it weird.
“…You got really nice eyes, by the way.”
Nickel froze. “Wh—”
“Like sharp. Pretty. All snappy. I’d write bad poetry about them.”
Nickel looked like his soul had left his body. “…Get away from me.”
Baseball howled.
Pickle shrugged innocently. “See? Bit.”
Nickel’s ears were still pink as he grabbed his soda and stormed off, muttering curses under his breath.
Baseball grinned at Pickle, raising his arm for a fist-bump. “Damn, okay. You’re cool.”
Pickle gave it back with a half-smile, already walking off again. “Wish the rest of the school thought so.”
Baseball didn’t say anything. Just nodded, letting him go.
Pickle wandered again.
Less ghostly this time, more grumpy. More “I will absolutely bite the next person who breathes wrong.”
The lounge was quiet. Empty except for a buzzing vending machine and a cracked TV playing some late rerun of a cooking show.
He flopped onto the couch like he’d been shot. Stared at the ceiling.
He hadn’t eaten all day. His mouth tasted like regret and gossip. Every word from Baseball and Nickel still echoed in his head, looping with the whispers from earlier.
Did you hear?
He looked so shaken up—
Poor Pickle. That guy totally took advantage—
He shut his eyes. Thought about how stupid it was. How normal the night had been. They literally just talked. He even cried. Like a loser. Knife had just sat there and let it happen, all quiet and still. And then hugged him.
Was that what set everything off?
He rubbed his eyes with the sleeves of his hoodie. “I’m so sick of this school.”
He heard footsteps right next to him.
He groaned. “If this is about the rumors again, I swear to God—”
“Relax.”
Soap.
She walked up with a plastic bag, pulled something warm out, and tossed it gently onto his lap.
A sandwich.
Pickle blinked. “…You angel.”
Soap didn’t sit right away. She went to the vending machine, kicked it once like she knew its secrets, and grabbed herself a bottle of iced tea. Only then did she sit next to him with a sigh.
“Figured you’d be here.”
Pickle opened the sandwich like it was holy. “You’re the only sane one left.”
“Debatable.”
He took a bite. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. The second the bread hit his tongue, he slumped into the cushions.
“Thanks,” he mumbled. “This is… actually saving my life.”
Soap was quiet for a second. “You looked like you were about to pass out in the hallway earlier. Thought I should step in before you started eating wall paint or something.”
He laughed through his nose.
Then, quieter, “They think we… me and Knife, we like. Did stuff.”
Soap didn’t say anything.
“I don’t think I even see him like that.” He paused. “It was just… I was freaking out. And I told him everything. Like, everything. My whole tragic anime protagonist monologue, and I didn’t even get to hear his.”
Soap opened her drink.
“I dunno,” Pickle said, voice tightening. “It was kinda the first time I didn’t feel annoying. And now people are acting like I got- like I got used or something.”
Soap raised a brow. “Do you think you were used?”
“No! God, no. I was just- scared. And he listened. That’s literally all that happened.”
“Then say that.”
Pickle looked at her.
“People are gonna say crap either way. Might as well tell the truth and let ‘em choke on it.”
He looked down. “…But what if people don’t believe me?”
“Then they weren’t worth impressing to begin with.”
He smiled.
Soap leaned her head back. “Honestly? I don’t think they care because it’s you. You’re nice. People don’t expect drama from you. You walk into the lounge crying and they think you must’ve been broken to get that way.”
Pickle didn’t answer.
She sipped her tea. “But you’re not. You’re just tired. And people need to stop projecting.”
He sat still for a moment.
Then said, quietly, “I just wanted to know what his story was.”
Soap looked over.
“That’s what’s bothering me the most. I had this whole emotional breakdown. I dumped all my trauma on him. And then poof, he’s gone, everyone thinks he’s Satan, and I never got to ask anything.”
Soap looked at him for a beat longer.
Then gently tapped her bottle against his sandwich. “Eat up, monologue boy. You’ll get your chance.”
Pickle sniffed a laugh, wiping his cheek with his sleeve. “I hate when you’re right.”
“You love it.”
“Maybe.”
“You angel,” he said again, with full sincerity.
She smirked. “Damn right.”