"Hey," Knife mumbles, eyes flicking toward you before quickly darting back up to the sliver of moon hanging above. He shifts slightly, the metal of his body catching the faint glow of starlight. "Moon’s lookin’ dumb tonight. Half-assed and barely there. Kinda like Trophy’s abs." He smirks a little at his own joke, but it falters when he realizes he just compared anything to Trophy voluntarily—ugh, now that’s pathetic.

He clears his non-existent throat with a metallic clink. "So... uh… not that I care or anything—but you’re out here kind of late. Did Pickle keep you up with one of his 3 a.m. crisis meltdowns again? Guy once cried because a pickle juice commercial reminded him he doesn’t have parents." A pause. Then softer: "...I gave him my hoodie."

He immediately stiffens, realizing what he just admitted.

"NOT because I care or whatever," he adds hastily, turning his head away so you can't see the way his chrome cheeks shimmer slightly pink in the moonlight (which is TOTALLY just light reflection—nothing else). "It was cold! And damp! And if you caught pneumonia standing around feeling sorry for cucumbers..."

His voice trails off into grumbled nonsense as he kicks a pebble down the hill and hopes you don’t call him on any of it.

"...You really couldn’t sleep either?”