Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Okay, the knocking at his door is starting to piss him off.

It’s nearly midnight on a weekday. Who the fuck is going around and banging on peoples doors so persistently?? The average person would be asleep by now, so who’s going to answer the damn door when you start knocking?

Not Feinberg, that’s for sure.

He’s already tried ignoring them and waiting for them to go away. Why do you think he still hasn’t untucked himself from his bed yet? The blankets are comfy, his phone is charged enough that he could lay comfortably on his other side, and he’s on a good Balatro run. Why should he ruin his peace now?

Though, whoever this is seems to be just as stubborn as he is, because it’s been nearly ten minutes now and he’s starting to wonder how their knuckles aren’t hurting enough for them to give up and stop. With an extremely heavy sigh, he turns off his phone and tugs the blanket off of himself, shivering slightly from the cold air that envelops his arms, rising goosebumps on his skin as he slides into the pink fluffy cat slippers that keep his feet from touching the freezing ground. They had been a gift from Reignex, and as stupid as they look, they actually do well with keeping him warm during the night when he has to go to the bathroom.

Begrudgingly, he drags himself out of his bedroom and into the living room, going to unlock his door and yanking it open.

“Hey, you’re kinda pissing me off with all this knocking so I’m gonna need–” He speaks before he actually sees who’s knocking, cutting himself off when he realizes who exactly is standing there, shivering in the low temperatures of the night. “Oh. It’s you.” He hates how his tone changes– how it softens and loses all its anger and annoyance when he spots the golden feathers and the royal purple. He hates that this happens because it shouldn’t happen. His voice shouldn’t ever go soft and gentle and caring like this, especially when he’s talking to a fucking hero out of anyone.

“Hi,” Couriway lifts the hand that wasn’t clutching his abdomen and waves a few fingers at him as a greeting. “I, uh, I didn’t know where else to go.” He coughs awkwardly, shifting his weight from foot to foot to stay moving in the cold temperatures, regulating his body heat somewhat. Feinberg blinks at him, his hand still on his door and debating if he should fully slam it shut on the man's face.

Standing on his porch is god damn Couriway, one of the more well known heroes of the city– known by everyone, remembered by the world, loved by the people for his charm and looks. A figure of everything good in the world– wings a blessing from Helios himself, never harmed, believed to be invincible.

He was the “sun” the world orbited around, you could say– especially with the wings and the way he shone in the sunlight, always drenching himself in the rays of light and absorbing them to become a blinding star himself– a reason for the dark visor of Feinberg’s helmet.

Feinberg respects him– he’s a good hero. He knows what he’s doing– knows what is necessary and what isn’t. Their relationship has become a blurred line at this point– something about revealing your super secret identity to the man that’s supposedly your archenemy as a manner of flirting while you two were bickering during a fight– it was mostly just something he did on impulse, but the reaction he got in return was well worth it in his honest opinion.

Here that same exact man stands– a hand on his abdomen and slightly hunched over, wings practically dragging on the ground behind him, feathers askew and hair a complete mess. Pain is etched into his expression– he can see how much he’s trying to keep his pale face fixed into a straight expression and struggling to do so, but it’s reasonable that it’s a difficult task when you’re literally bleeding out, so Feinberg can’t really judge.

“...You didn’t know where else to go.”  He repeats slowly, making sure he heard that entire sentence correctly. He's aware of the disbelief in his tone, and he does nothing to disguise it at all. Confusion shifts his annoyed expression into something else– a straight face with maybe just the slightest bit of concern. Probably not obvious, but his eyebrow twitches as if it was about to furrow which would've turned his expression into one of full concern, something he doesn’t need Couriway to see or realize about him.

He thinks this hero actually knows too much about him already. 

"I already said that–" Couriway snaps, already agitated, and it makes Feinberg chuckle a bit– only a tiny little bit. A tiny huff of air that could barely be counted as a laugh.

"You're fucking stupid, y'know that?" He retorts with a smug grin on his face, head cocked to the side, eyes lifted in a manner that shows off his amusement at the situation. 

The hero scoffs in his face. "I'm at your doorstep! Obviously I know this is stupid–"

"Out of all people you– what about your other hero friends??" He shoots back, earning a weak glare in return.

"I'm not about to go bother them and show up bloody at nearly midnight!"

"Oh, but you can bother me ," he snarks, finally pushing the door fully open to lean against the doorframe, crossing his arms.

"I don't see why I can't. You bother me all the time." Couriway points out, and he’s actually never rolled his eyes harder. Now he remembers why he hates this guy so much.

"... Fucking asshole .." He scoffs under his breath, giving the man standing outside another once-over before stepping to the side and beckoning for him to come in, turning his back and walking further in, waiting expectantly when he doesn’t hear footsteps. “Are you coming or not?” Feinberg calls, and his voice seems to snap him out of whatever trance Couriway had been put in the moment he turned away and started walking into his home.

“Are those fluffy pink cat slippers??”

“No.”

✧

In retrospect, he really shouldn’t be inviting a hero into his home when he’s the exact villain this guy has been going after for years, but he’s not an asshole who’s gonna let a guy bleed out on his doorstep, so what other choice does he have? He walks with his back turned, offering out a single hand of temporary trust like an olive branch– a peace treaty for now. In the morning, everything will be normal again and hopefully, he will never see this guy step foot into his house ever again.

Couriway trudges after him, stumbling out of his shoes and sliding along in his socks, and Feinberg ignores the way he looks around, examining and taking everything in like it would be the last time he’d ever be here (it will be if he has any say in it).

He lets him into his bedroom, waving him inside and walking in and closing the door behind him. The hero goes to sit down, but he stops the avian, grabbing his arm tightly.

“I’m not letting you sit on my bed with your dirty ass clothes.” He explains when the hero looks at his hold and raises an eyebrow at him. “ Oh, yeah? With what clothes do you want me to change into?” Couriway seems to ask him silently, and he rolls his eyes again (he’s going to fuck them up even more at this rate), letting go of the hero go with a scowl. He digs through his closet, throwing a pair of pj pants and a random t-shirt he laid his hands on at the other man. He’s aware that his own clothes will most definitely be oversized on the avian. Their height difference was laughable, so it was no wonder Couriway was always flying whenever they faced-off.  

Couriway gives him a glance before turning his back to pull his clothes off. His hero outfit wasn’t too intricate, a lot less on the fabrics to make sure that he wasn’t weighed down by anything whenever he needed to take off and get away from a threat. There’s two small gaps on his back where his wings pop-out from, and while the man struggles with his outfit, Feinberg reaches over and grabs his shirt again, looking through his drawers for scissors and cutting through the fabric (he never liked this shirt anyway), throwing the scissors back onto the nightstand before focusing and letting lightning jump from his fingertips, letting them create an arch between the very tip of his finger to the loose threads of the soft fabric, melting them down and giving it a more complete look.

He jolts when he looks up, the golden-brown eyes piercing his soul causing him to flinch aggressively, sighing heavily as he throws the shirt to the side and reaches under his bed for his first-aid kit hidden away for emergencies. He’s aware of how odd it is to have someone like Couriway sitting in his bed like this, shirtless and watching him like a hawk as he gets everything ready. He climbs onto the bed in front of the man, crossing his legs and looking at him expectantly.

“Sit up straight?” Feinberg requests, and Couriway changes his posture, wincing softly when it disturbs his wound. It’s a nasty gash, blood smeared against the skin around it– a red tint covering the scars being shown to him, an act of vulnerability. Feinberg isn’t sure if he’s doing this just because it practically forces him to do so for his injury to be treated or if he’s actually extending his own olive branch in reply to his own that he had offered earlier while they were walking.

Burn scars from past fights run up along his body– it’s more so of a splash rather than a pattern of flames crawling up flesh and scorching it along the way. He wonders when the other man might’ve acquired those scars with how severe they were, curious about his past. He practically pushes away every single one of his blankets to make sure they don’t get stained before beginning the ever so tedious task of cleaning the blood from the area to wrap it up in sterile bandages.

He’s trying his damn hardest to be gentle, alright? He’s not used to needing to be careful about anything at all, so this is all a tiny bit new to him. His existence is the polar opposite of carefulness and everything gentle– it’s obvious he’s not meant to care for anything or even anyone for the matter from the fact that everything he touches is destroyed eventually. He is dangerous– unpredictable. Volatile and explosive. The thunder that sparks from his fingers is meant to hurt and harm and always to do more damage than anything else– there’s nothing good in him to save him at all. He’s always done more harm than good, regardless of what he did, so Feinberg doesn’t care anymore.

Feinberg can’t care anymore.

Couriway sits unusually still under his hovering hands, eyes tracking each single one of his movements, barely flinching every time he runs the damp rag over the edges of his wound, clearing away the dried blood. His eyes flicker up to glance at the hero occasionally, a silent check in when he makes eye contact with the golden brown irises before he returns to the task at hand, always making sure that the towel was between his touch and the scarred skin of the man. 

He lets the very tip of his nail graze against the sensitive flesh, ignoring the way the avian shivers from his touch. He chooses to ignore the staring he can feel and see from the corner of his eye. He wants to–

There's an unlabeled feeling weighing heavy in his chest. It's wrapped itself tightly around his heart and has been slowly squeezing down around out, making it ache more and more as time passes. Occasionally a pang of pain jolts through him that he should usually ignore just as easily as anything else– fucked nerves and all– but it's a sharp enough pain that it nearly makes him flinch sometimes. There’s no explanation on why he's feeling like this, but it's the least of his concerns at the moment. Though– no, maybe it does concern him a slight bit with how often he feels it, but he's convinced himself that it'll fade with time, so he does his best to ignore it (but he's slowly coming to the realization that ignoring something as severe as this would quite literally be impossible).

He hates the fact that it flares up each and every time he glances at the golden avian. He doesn’t understand why it happens. He knows that it'll eventually become a big enough problem that it'll interfere with everything in his life, but he doesn’t know how to get rid of it at all and it's frustratingly annoying in every way possible.

This gentleness is terrifying. Never once has he ever been this careful with anything in his life; yet here he is, twisting a thread through the hole at the end of the needle with all his focus on his hands to stop them from trembling as the thin line slips through to the other side, letting him pull it through. Eyes burn into him– watching him as he ties the string to the needle, putting it to the side and going to disinfect the wound.

“Brace yourself.” Even with his warning, Couriway flinches when he swipes over the wound, legs tensing and hissing softly. “I told you,” he mumbles, hearing the man above him scoff quietly at the words, sighing through clenched teeth when Feinberg passes over the wound again, bringing a pink tint to the white cloth. With most of the mess finally cleared away, he’s able to see the damage done to the hero.

“What the fuck happened to you..?” He whispers, barely able to stop his fingers from running over the raw edges of the injury, pulling his hands back at the last moment before he actually touches. “God, I don’t even know who you could’ve fought to end up like this. Hold still before I hurt you even more, dumb fuck..” He’s more so talking to himself than anything, but he feels a wing smack him because of his words, jostling the arm about to pierce Couriway’s skin. He blinks before he sends an incredulous look at the man who’s already looking away from him, examining the rest of his room rather than paying attention to Feinberg.

Rolling his eyes, he starts the slow process of stitching the open wound closed, pouring all his focus into it, glasses slipping down his nose with his posture– bent over to get the correct angle, legs still crossed on the bed. One of his hands hover over Couriway’s side– not touching, but just staying there, and he doesn’t even think about using it to push his glasses back up his face, entirely focused on closing up the gash. His eyes widen a fraction when shaky fingers suddenly appear to push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, his repetitive motions coming to an abrupt stop from the barest brush of skin against skin– fingers brushing against the bit of skin between his eyebrows that had been furrowed not even a minute ago, the wrinkles in his expression disappearing from the gentle touch.

His eyes flicker up, but Couriway isn’t looking in his direction at all, so he returns his focus to the task at hand, ignoring the way his heartbeat had ever so slightly sped up from the touch. The spot where the fingers had grazed has a leftover warmth lingering there, and he isn’t sure how to feel about it.

The wound closes up eventually, his back and forth coming to a full stop as he goes to tie the stitch and cut off the excess thread. His gaze trails over the bruises on the man’s ribs, tracing the blotches with his eyes. If Couriway had a broken bone or something then Feinberg could quite literally do nothing about it with what he had on hand. He could probably do something about those bruises though.

“Stay.” The hero looks at him with a raised eyebrow at his words, leaning back on his hands and showing off– Feinberg snaps his eyes away from the man and immediately slides out of his bedroom, clutching his face and ignoring the warmth he feels as he goes to retrieve an ice pack from his fridge.

Shit, maybe he’s the one who needs it at this rate.

He presses the ice pack to his hot cheeks as he walks back, taking it off his face when he opens the door and walks back in, only the slightest bit surprised to see that Couriway was still sitting there, eyes lingering on the stuff on his shelves before his head snapped over to Feinberg as he came back.

“Hold this against your bruises while I wrap up this wound.” He mumbles, crawling back on the bed and settling behind the man after handing over the ice pack, getting a soft hum in reply. His legs press against Couriway’s back, wings tucked in close to the hero’s body– it’s out of the way at least, but he has to get the bandages underneath them so he could properly get the bandages on.

It’s impossible not to touch Couriway while doing this, so he throws all his previous caution out the window and lets his fingers occasionally graze the scarred flesh as he passes the bandage from hand to hand in the front, his chest pressed against the avian’s (very defined) back between his wings, only nudging them slightly to get the appendages to raise out of the way so he didn’t catch any feathers under the wrapping.

He does his best to ignore it, but there’s no way of denying the amount of unspoken tension lingering in the air between them while he’s doing this. He’s indulging himself a bit too much maybe– his fingers linger and he’s practically hunched over enough to rest his chin on the man’s shoulder– too close, far, far too close. The hero could probably feel each one of his exhales against his skin– shaky little exhales that he can’t hide. His eyes flicker from the back of Couriway’s head and back to his exposed shoulder– light gold flecks scattered all over his skin, probably invisible unless viewed closed up.

Temptation is… to say that it’s unfamiliar to him would be an understatement in a way. He’s not familiar with it, but he’s never actually felt it this strongly to really care about it. Sure, he’s felt temptation to do things before, but with Couriway? The temptation to fully indulge himself and– and–

No. Maybe not. But still maybe– no. Ignoring it would be the best thing to do but yet he still–

Feathers brush against his forearm, and his eyes flicker up from where they were trailing down the divots of the avian’s back, fingers hovering– wanting , but also holding himself back from actually touching.

“What’re you doing?” Couriway’s voice is practically a whisper– he hasn’t said anything until now, and his voice barely breaks the veil of silence that had covered them. Feinberg looks up past the avian turning his head slightly to attempt to look behind him, letting himself lean forward and press a hand against the avian’s lower back, palm pressed against the muscles he feels tense under his touch before relaxing. His chest is fully pressed against the hero’s back and his lips a single hair away from actually touching the pale skin right in front of him.

He wonders if Couriway can feel the way his heart thunders in his chest with how closely they were pressed together.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” he murmurs in reply, letting his other hand rest over the bandaged wound on the avian’s side, fingers spread protectively– he’s indulging himself. Maybe it’s too much but–

He lets his lips press against the flushed shoulder in front of him, eyes falling closed with a trembling exhale. He feels and hears the sharp inhale that comes from Couriway– the hitch in his breathing and the jolt from the feeling of his lips against the soft and warm skin. It had been just the barest brush– it possibly didn’t even happen at all, but he knows all too well what he did.

Feinberg pulls away, letting his hands drag over the exposed body– over the bandages and lightly graze the feathers practically surrounding him. Scooting backwards and detaching himself entirely from the hero, he throws the discarded t-shirt over and slides back on his slippers, putting away all of the first-aid supplies and starting to prepare to leave his room. Yeah, his phone is still charged enough for it to not be a concern– he has a blanket out there, doesn’t he? Reign stays over enough for that to be a permanent thing, and he hasn’t bothered to get rid of it from how useful it was during cold nights he wanted to stay up watching stuff or playing things.

"Where are you going?" He swears softly under his breath, startling from the words so suddenly spoken into the silence. Couriway looks at him expectantly when he turns around, and every single one of his thoughts come to a screeching halt when his eyes land on the avian sitting on his blankets. The smaller wings on the side of his head frame his face perfectly– his wings on his back are spread slightly behind him– hanging limply in the blankets and they only draw his attention for a second before his eyes dart around the hero’s body, blinking slowly at the sight of how oversized the shirt was on the man.

Oh god. He’s so fucking dead.

There’s– he needs to breathe before he passes out or something– the shirt collar is wide enough to fall below one of his shoulders, showing the pale expanse of skin off. Maybe if it wasn’t pulled so much on one side, it might’ve been able to fall past both his shoulders too, only staying on because of the wings on his back. His eyes land on the slow bob of the avian’s neck as he swallows, lingering on the collarbones for a few seconds before tearing his eyes away. Part of the shirt is pulled up from Couriway leaning back, hiking it up and showing off a bit of skin underneath before the bandages started covering his body. It’s also not just the shirt that was oversized, no, the pants too–

His hand comes up to grab the doorframe to steady himself, nails digging into the white paint as he stares and stands there, suddenly feeling very light-headed, feeling like all the oxygen had been stolen from his lungs at the sight of the hero. He’s never been more glad for the fact that wood couldn’t conduct electricity until now. The pants are sweats, so the man should be able to tighten the drawstring to make sure it didn’t slide past his hips, but apparently Couriway isn’t the type to tie the small bow securely enough because the tie at the front is already falling apart and the pants are slowly sliding down his hips, the seam of his boxers peeking over and he really needs to stop looking–

"...to my couch?" Feinberg finally answers, his voice cracking embarrassingly high as he pulls his eyes away from the body of the avian in front of him, finally looking at Couriway’s face rather than his body. Maybe it’s from the soft pink lights in his room (it’s most definitely the lights) but the hero has a slight flush on his face, and he smiles at the voice crack, clearly amused.

"But this is your bed, is it not?" Couriway tilts his head to the side, and the atmosphere has changed in more ways than one. Everything around them is a blur– the only thing Feinberg’s eyes focus on is the avian on his bed in his clothes. Time freezes at this moment. The air between them crackles with electricity– tension hanging heavy in the air, and he ignores the dark lines crawling in the white paint from where he had been holding onto the doorframe to keep himself standing on his suddenly very weak legs, flexing out his fingers and forcing his eyes away from the utterly ethereal hero looking at him.

"And?" His voice is strained, fighting to actually leave him as the avian hums at his words, saying nothing else before silence falls over them again. Couriway bites his lip in thought (oh, fuck –) and his eyes flicker down to glance at the soft lips before he can stop himself. He really needs to leave before all of his self-control melts away under the golden brown eyes continuously tracking his movements. Tearing his eyes away, he steps backwards and he’s about to–

"Wait– stay?" That freezes him in his tracks. Halfway out his bedroom door and the two words– two words so softly asked that it makes him choke on his air and pause, nearly convincing him to turn around. He's stronger than this. He's stronger and he won't–

"Please?"

Oh god .

He swallows nervously, throat dry as his eyes dart everywhere in the hallway, every single part of his screaming at him to turn around and return to the hero on his bed. He feels hot all over, fingers trembling and legs weak underneath him. He’s sure he’s probably a flushed mess– it’s most definitely obvious. He isn’t sure if he could’ve prevented any of this from happening even if he tried.

“I’m– I’ll, uh– I’ll be right back–” He sputters out, his voice cracking as he stumbles over his words. He doesn’t glance back to check for Couriway’s reaction before he scrambles away with a beet red face, slamming his bathroom door shut and sliding down to the floor against it, his head shoved into his hands as he groans, hating how clearly he can feel the warmth emanating off his skin.

He’s so screwed it’s not even funny anymore.

Feinberg pulls himself up with the help of the counter, and he spends a good minute or two staring at himself in the mirror, hating the rosy hue coating his cheeks and the way that the blue of his eyes were barely visible with how dilated his pupils were. There’s not a single god damn coherent thought in his head and he feels like he’s going crazy . He’s never struggled this much with holding himself back– he’s never been affected this badly by anyone ever in his life, and he doesn’t know why god damn Couriway is so different. This avian is doing things to him that he’s never experienced before, and it feels like it’s going to kill him.

Sliding off his glasses, he turns the facet on and splashes his face with cold water until the dark red flush disappears and his eyes go back to being somewhat normal, the electric blue in them becoming visible again now that they weren’t being swallowed up by his pitch black pupils. Embers of heat still linger in his stomach, and his heartbeat is still abnormal in his chest as he stares at his disheveled reflection, willing himself to calm down so that he could be at least a bit more presentable after all of his staring for when he returns.

He shoves his face back into his wet hands after sliding back down to the ground against the door again, closing his eyes and focusing on fighting off every single thought still lingering in his brain about Couriway– which seems to be nearly impossible with the fact that new thoughts of the man keep popping into his head, each one becoming far worse than the last and –

Fuck. This guy was going to ruin him without even knowing what he was doing to him at all.

His fingers twitch, tiny sparks of electricity flickering into existence before fading. He runs his hands through his hair, tugging gently to distract himself from everything as he groans softly, letting his eyes pop back open because dear god closing them was such a bad idea with the state of his thoughts at the moment.

The sight of Couriway in his clothes is ingrained all too clearly in his mind. The image of the avian wearing clothes that clearly didn’t fit him yet being entirely content with it and quite literally offering himself up to Feinberg makes his mind spin, literal spirals in his eyes as he digs his nails into his flushed face to ground himself with a soft whine.

No man should ever be able to look so pretty– god, it should be illegal! He doesn’t understand it. He’s never felt like this from anything in his life ever, and now suddenly this hero decides to change that? Fucking hell he’s screwed. Terrible idea, but he lets his eyes fall shut again, pressing the palm of his hands against his eyes, attempting to clear the swarm of thoughts in his head–

“You’re the last person I’d ever expect to be shy in a setting like this– or is it just because it’s me you’re doing this with?” He hums softly in reply to the words wrapping themselves around his head– the tone of voice just as intoxicating as the sight before him.

The pink lighting of his room makes everything more dream-like, a soft color that encapsulates the man practically sitting in his lap. Enchanting eyes look him over again, the brown nearly invisible in the low lighting as he’s taken apart by the avian hovering over him, a hand holding himself up as he leans closer, a soft smile curling his mouth up as he gently runs his other hand up Feinberg’s side, sweeping his thumb over an old scar before bringing it up further and holding his shoulder, the skin contact leaving a warm lingering feeling from where it just had been.

Couriway leans in close, practically laying on top of him– he swears softly as his hips jump from the movement– their stomachs touching. There’s little to no space left between their bodies with how they were situated, and he’s so sure the avian above him can feel every hitch of his breath and the rapid pace of his heart from how closely they were pressed together. Every exhale from the other man ghosts over his lips, and he can only helplessly stare, dazed and unable to do much but never tear his gaze away from the hero above him, his hand holding on tighter on Couriway’s side when their mouths finally meet, eyes falling closed as the avian swallows the helpless little noise that escapes him from the kiss.

More– he needs– it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need to say anything or do much, because the kiss gets deepened and he’s pushed down further onto his bed, eyes scrunched as he whimpers, feeling the gentle hands come up and cradle his face, tilting him further into the embrace. He feels like he’s floating– a moan bubbles from his core as Couriway shifts above him, his face burning up as he feels the avian smile against his mouth at the muffled noise.

The atmosphere of the room is hot and heavy, making it difficult to breathe when they do part for air. Couriway looks at him with lidded eyes, and he swallows heavily, tongue flicking out to lick his lips as the avian scoots backwards on his body, settling on his legs and trailing his touch down his front, pushing up his shirt and letting his fingers brush against his trembling stomach. The touch trails down until it meets the waistband of his pants, sliding under the grey fabric and slipping under the elastic of his boxers and snapping it against his skin before pulling back out, letting his touch linger on the heated skin of Feinberg's body, resting against his pelvic bone.

Warm brown eyes glance up at him in a silent question, and he nods in reply, watching as–

His eyes fly open immediately, eyes wide and chest rising and falling with heavy pants, his body feeling like it was on fire .

God fucking dammit–

Yeah– yeah, okay– he needs to do something about these fucking thoughts before he explodes from everything.

A freezing cold shower it is.

✧

“Oh my god– what the fuck – you went to shower??? At this time in the night? Are you crazy?? ” He jumps at the sudden voice when he pushes his bedroom door open, forgetting about the fact that he was in fact not alone in his own apartment. Putting a hand over his racing heart from the scare, he grips the towel around his waist tighter, scowling at the avian tangled in his blankets, neglecting to reply as he goes to grab clothes to change into, keeping his eyes away from the man in his bed.

“Not my fault someone decided to randomly show up and ruin my plans for the night..” He mumbles under his breath while he leaves his room again to change into new clothes. He sighs heavily while he sits in the bathroom clutching his head, ignoring the pink dusting his cheeks at his very recent moment of weakness, eyes flickering to the shower and then away again, refusing to let those thoughts invade his brain again.  

Alright, Feinberg. Let's get it together now.

Returning to his bedroom, he slides off his slippers and gets in bed, already displeased by the fact that there was practically no room for the both of them inside his bed under the same blanket. He sits against his wall, taking off his glasses and pulling up Balatro on his phone to continue the current game he had been playing before Couriway had knocked on his door and changed the course of his entire night.

“What’re you doing?” He nearly punches the man next to him when he suddenly speaks up, clutching his heart again as he glares at the hero peeking at his phone who simply looks at him innocently, chin resting on his arms. This guy really needs to stop startling him before he gets shocked or something worse happens.

“Continuing my Balatro run you so rudely interrupted while waiting for my hair to dry.” Feinberg grumbles, glancing down at the other before refocusing on his phone screen, fighting to ignore the thoughts trying to reappear at the sliver of skin he sees from the corner of his eye. He squints at his screen. “I think you’re giving me bad luck, this run sucks .”

Couriway scoffs and rolls his eyes, turning on his back and crossing his arms. “Maybe you’re just bad at the game,”

“This game is entirely RNG! How can I be bad??”

“Just get luckier!”

“Oh, I’ll fucking show you–” Carelessly tossing his phone to the side, he starts tussling with the avian, earning a squawk of surprise when he pounces on Couriway, a flurry of feathers exploding everywhere when the hero’s wings flare out as he tries to push Feinberg off of him. He keeps himself restrained– he keeps the electricity in him low as they tumble around on his bed, throwing feathers everywhere and knocking things off his nightstand– ignoring it in favor of messing around with the avian.

They’re both breathless by the end of it– and he’ll deny it with his whole being, but he’s always been one to play dirty during fights, yet this time around, he keeps himself from going anywhere near the fresh wound, cautious about the fact that the stitches could very easily tear from any too rough movements. He ends up on top of the avian, pinning down his arms by the wrist as both of them attempt to catch their breath. It takes them both a few long moments to register the position that they were in– eyes suddenly wide from their close proximity– each of their exhales mingling from how close their faces were.

Couriway swallows, staring up at him owlishly with a flush coating his cheeks, and his eyes are immediately drawn to the bob of his throat and the pale flesh there– unmarked and– no, not again god dammit– not so soon again–

He pulls his hands away from Couriway so fast it seems like the golden avian had burnt him– stumbling to get off the man and lay down in bed with his back turned towards the other, intensely staring at the wall and trying to ward off every single thought related to the hero that pops into his head. Sleeping in the same room as this guy is possibly one of the worst ideas he’s had in a long while.

Silence envelops them like a blanket, and surprisingly, it doesn’t feel as suffocating as he expected it to feel, but there’s still that bit of tension lingering from everything that had already happened. He can’t find his phone anywhere from when he tossed it, and he can only sigh at his own stupidity (not like it mattered anyway, that Balatro run wasn’t going to go far at all).

The sound of shuffling and a barely audible hiss catches his attention, nearly making him turn around to see why Couriway had made that noise, stopping at the last second. “...You’re okay, right?” He asks hesitantly, curling his fingers into his pillowcase, fighting the urge to face the other man.

“Hm? Oh, yeah. I'm fine.” His words seem to be brushed off by the other, and maybe he did too good of a job concealing his concern because– okay, he can’t believe he’s admitting this but he at least sorta cares for this guy– obviously he would care for a guy he took care of with his very own two hands! He doesn’t normally care at all ever for anyone. Even the people he could call friends (albeit very loosely) very rarely came to him for anything if they were ever hurt, so he didn’t need to care for them.

Caring for something is foreign enough to him that he rarely ever thinks about it. It’s never been his thing– he does the opposite of caring for something because he’s aware of what happens when he does care for something. In the end, he will always destroy it. It’s always his fault when he loses someone he cares for, so he’d rather it never happen again even if it means he’s a dick to everyone in the world.

“You sure? It's not every day you turn up bloody and bruised on my doorstep out of… well, anyone– or anywhere, really.”

“You don't usually ask this many questions.” Couriway remarks, and he rolls his eyes at the words, huffing under his breath in reply. Maybe he had a point, but he’s not exactly going to acknowledge that fact. Also, this guy might be crazy, because he’s never had enough one-on-one conversations with this guy to ever ask any questions, so of course he doesn’t usually wonder about things like this!

“I have the right,” he points out, finally deciding to turn over to face the avian. “You're the one who decided to come here for my help.”

“And I already regret it.” The man beside him in the bed mumbles with a pout as crosses his arms over his chest, staring at the ceiling above them as they talk. 

Feinberg snorts, disbelieving at the words. “Really?”

“Yes. You're shit at this stuff.”

“I don't get hurt often, alright?? It’s not my fault you don't have any armor to protect yourself!”

“I don't need heavy armor weighing me down!” He gets a finger jabbed in his direction, and he swats it away, sticking his tongue out at the other who– childishly– sticks his out in return. 

“Excuses, excuses!” He scoffs. “You just want to get hurt so you can mooch off of my medical supplies without repercussions.”

“Oh– oh, yeah – because I clearly need your supplies out of everything.” Couriway glares at him from the corner of his eyes and Feinberg only rolls his own in response, retorting with weak “Oh, shut up–” instead of continuing their useless back and forth. At some point long ago, the avian had abandoned his glasses at some point he never noticed, and now that he’s noticed he really can’t stop staring.

What can he say? The guy’s a good view.

His fingers tap against the bottom of the pillow he’s laying on, and sooner or later, the avian beside him notices his prolonged staring, leaning his head over slightly to make eye contact– soft brown meeting electric blue in the darkness of his room, illuminated by nothing more but the gentle glow of the pink lights in the crevices of the ceiling of his room framing Couriway’s face.

There's nothing to be said about the eye contact happening between them right now. They don't say anything, only staring at each other in the pink hue coating their faces. He blinks, and Couriway continues staring, tracing every feature of his face over and soaking it all in.

Maybe he's staring because he's never actually had the time to fully process the sight of Feinberg without his helmet– especially this close too.

He's never let anyone this close to him.

“... Maybe I just wanted to see you .” The sentence is barely audible, and maybe if it weren’t for the fact that he’s actively staring at the man, he wouldn’t have seen his mouth moving as he whispered, and he blinks at the mumbled words. He’s been only listening to the hero’s breathing, tracking every inhale and exhale, so he doesn’t catch the words fully, so maybe he had heard that entire sequence of words wrong. 

“What was that?” He pushes for an answer– he’s trying to pull those words from the avian again because did he really hear that correctly? Couriway stares at him, eyes flitting around but never leaving his face– scanning his expression for something. Feinberg isn’t even sure what could possibly be showing on his face for it to be so intensely examined like this.

Eventually, Couriway looks away, finally breaking their eye contact. “It was nothing.” He sighs, turning over and away from Feinberg, and something in him twists painfully from the action. His hand underneath him twitches, fingers crawling against the sheets to reach out until he stops himself, the tip of his claws brushing against an askew feather before he pulls back.

There’s a reasonable amount of space found between them, and he should be fine with it or want even more space between them, but he continues staring at the back of the avian’s head, a hand placed on the spot between them and reaching out slightly, never actually touching the man, but wanting at the same time, even if he isn’t willing to admit it.

Then again, what does he really have to lose?

"Thank you, by the way."

The words don’t register until a few seconds later, a stupid sounding "..huh?" leaving him before he realizes what Couriway had murmured into the air.

"Like– thank you. Really. I– uh, I didn't think you'd actually help me." He frowns. Did the hero really think this little of him?

He sits up slightly, peering over the wings blocking the man from his view. "...Did you come to me first?"

Couriway coughs, still turned away from him. "Maybe."

"I'm not cruel. Of course I'd help."

"I thought you'd just shut the door on me."

"I might be a dick, but I'm not that much of a dick." Feinberg drawls, jabbing a finger into the feathers, getting hit in the face by them and getting an incredulous expression thrown at him when he huffs a bit of air against the golden appendages.

The man rolls his eyes, swatting at his hovering hand. "Still, thank you." The sentence is spoken so softly that it makes his eyes widen, so much sincerity dripping off each word that he nearly doesn’t believe it.

"Go the fuck to sleep, Couriway." He snaps instead of giving a proper reply. What surprises him is that there’s no hostility actually found in his voice– only a strange type of fondness so extreme that it scares him a bit. His heart skips a beat when he hears soft giggling at his words.

“Good night, Feinberg.” The avian offers him a gentle grin, eyes pressed closed and the wings on each side of his face spreading wide before folding closed again, turning away from him.

His fingers twitch against the sheets, biting his tongue gently as he stares at the figure of the hero laying beside him, every part of him screaming and urging him to inch closer until each and every single part of their body was touching. Couriway appearing at his doorstep at this time in the night has changed him in many ways with the short time they’ve spent here together, and he doesn’t know how he should feel about it.

Every part of him is drawn towards the other man– a gravitational pull that he simply cannot resist forever. It tugs and pulls at every atom that makes him– it’s dragging him in and with how far he’s in, he’s pretty sure he has no chance of making it out of this alive.

“Oh, Couriway, do you know what you’ve done to me? ”

He’s slightly afraid of reaching out– something about flying too close to the sun and being punished for it– Icarus’s fall from the skies due to pure cockiness, some sort of foolishness and defiance against what his father had told him.

Had he seen something that was so irresistible that he couldn’t help going for it even when his father had warned him? Was the pull of temptation simply too much for him to resist? He fears that if he reaches out– if he gets too close to the man– then he’ll simply burn up into nothing but ashes. He’s afraid of the warm feeling blossoming in his chest– afraid of it consuming his whole body and turning him into someone he won’t recognize in the mirror after everything that happened after today.

But then again, wouldn’t that be a good thing?

Dammit, he’s never thought this hard about an action as small as this before.

Fuck it, he doesn’t have anything to lose at all (maybe some reputation, but okay– no one needs to know what happened tonight), so why not?

After another few seconds of thinking it over, he throws everything out the window and pulls himself slightly closer, feeling the way the avian stiffened up when he felt the bed slightly move as Feinberg scoots over enough that the wings pressed tightly to his back were pressed against his chest. His hand hovers under the blankets before settling on Couriway’s side, cautious before he starts snaking his arm around, listening to the barest change in the hero’s breathing as he lets his hand rest there, doing nothing more but just touching and holding just that barest bit. 

He wants– fuck, he wants so much more than his heart and mind can handle. He wants to feel the warmth of the man’s flesh beneath his fingertips– feel the rise and fall of each inhale and exhale. Would it be too much? Is this already too much? He doesn’t know. He wants to know. He’s afraid of this unfamiliar territory that he’s starting to tread into without any prior experience in it.

Carefully, he pulls his hand back, instead going to slide it under the oversized shirt and over the new bandages, keeping his touch light and painfully gentle, slight tremors passing through him as Couriway lays unresponsive to his movement. He stops over where the freshly stitched up wound was located, spreading his fingers out and placing his palm over it, controlling the amount of pressure he was putting on the area– keeping himself from hurting the man. He nudges his other arm underneath the avian, sliding it under and wrapping it around, pushing it under and letting it rest over his chest, feeling the gentle beat of Couriway’s heart thump against his touch.

He’s seen the other injuries the hero has sustained, and he was never actually around for the burn scars slathered on his skin, but he’s been around fighting this guy long enough to know that Couriway is not the type of man to come crawling to someone for help in the middle of the night if he could help it. He doesn’t know what or who could’ve caused this injury, but something in him wants it to never happen again.

It’s unusual for him to be thinking this way. He shouldn’t be thinking about how to prevent this hero from ever getting hurt again– it’s a new thing to him. He should be using this moment to figure out Couriway’s weaknesses and how to exploit them, but that single thought makes his eyes narrow and something uncomfortable grows in his chest, making it slightly difficult to breathe as he lays there. He pulls Couriway just that slightest bit closer, their legs touching under the blanket, ankles brushing and resting his forehead against the top of the avian’s spine.

“Good night, Couriway.” He finally whispers in reply, and for the sake of both of them, he ignores the feeling of the hero’s heart speeding up under his fingertips from his words and the soft hitch in his breathing.

He isn’t sure if he wants the morning to come or not at this point.

Regardless, at the end of the day, this never happened.

(He ignores the ache of pain that squeezes his heart at the thought.)

Chapter Text

He doesn't expect to wake up with strong, warm arms surrounding him, and nor does he expect for their legs to be intertwined so tightly together under the blanket. It’s strange to have another person holding him from behind, especially when he’s wounded like this. Normally, he would never have his back turned to anyone at all, especially when he’s in such a vulnerable state.

But it’s Feinberg, so what does he have to worry about?

Well– if Fulham was here, he’d probably tell Couriway that he actually has a lot to worry about and drag him right out of this bed by the ear without listening to any explanation he has to offer, but the thing is Fulham isn’t here, so in Couriway’s honest opinion, he has nothing to worry about at all.

Right now it’s just him and Feinberg in bed together, limbs tangled and pressed impossibly close. He feels every inhale and exhale from the man behind him, and with the most amount of care in the world, he turns to face the man instead of having his back turned to him, wincing at the ache from his abdomen, screwing his eyes shut and letting the waves of pain wash through him before attempting to move again. He’s trying to make sure that he doesn’t disturb Feinberg from his sleeping, but that doesn’t seem to be that much of an issue because his expression doesn’t shift at all, still peacefully out like a light as the hero in his arms stares at him.

It’s strange to be able to see Feinberg’s face. He’s usually never able to see the man’s face as he talks with him, every facial feature obscured by a pink and cyan helmet over his head, the visor never open for Couriway to steal a glance from. The very few times he’s ever seen Feinberg’s face usually only were from the dark visor being shattered during a fight. Only then during those moments would he be able to steal a glimpse of a single electrifyingly cyan eye staring at him with nothing but anger before the villain disappeared from the scene of the fight, retreating to keep his identity hidden from the eyes of the world.

Feinberg keeps his civilian life and villain life extremely separated, because not once has Couriway seen anything incriminating in his living area the entire time he’s been here. He doesn’t seem too concerned about the hero wandering around too, especially from the few times he’s left Couriway alone in his own room to go do something else before returning and not even sparing him a single glance, nethertheless an accusatory one. The attire Feinberg wears when he’s out fighting and causing chaos is bulky and vibrant, and Couriway knows that if it was in this area, he would’ve seen it long ago, but it’s actually nowhere to be found in the mess of t-shirts and random assorted pajama pants filling this guys closet to the brim.

For now, Feinberg is simply just Feinberg to Couriway. Not some threatening thunder warlord ready to strike him out of the sky any chance that he gets, not a villain, and not someone that he should kill. From what he’s gathered, the villain is just an average guy when he isn’t destroying the city, using his annoyingly critical brain on simple games that he seems to know everything about rather than anything else. He’s inspected what he could before it would be suspicious, and this guy literally just seems to be the normal guy who (from what very little Couriway has gathered) does nothing but play games all day.

He’s a big fucking nerd, but it’s kinda… cute?

Well, he won’t think too hard about those feelings that are lingering at the back of his head, simply waiting to make themselves really known when he has the time to think about something like that, but he really doesn’t want to acknowledge them, so he fills his brain with countless other thoughts and questions.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts when the man holding him shifts in his sleep when Couriway tries an attempt to get up, arms around him squeezing and pulling him closer, a quiet and pleased sigh leaving Feinberg at their somehow closer proximity, his head tucking itself down and snuggling up against the hero.

When he glances at Feinberg’s face, he sees a small pleased smile on his face, and the realization that strikes him makes him blink a few times just to process the information.

Feinberg– the fucking villain– likes cuddling .

Couriway lays there, being held by Feinberg of all people and staring up at the pink tinted ceiling and thinking. He isn’t sure what to do with this info. He’s here to find out this guy's biggest secrets and weaknesses, but the only thing he’s found out about Feinberg is that he likes cuddling, physical contact, playing games, and cares very little about the consequences of his actions. He blinks once before turning his head to actually face the man.

He looks peaceful, for once in his life. Feinberg’s expression is relaxed and gentle, a heavy contrast to his constantly focused look that had his eyebrows sharply furrowed and his eyes critical, always thinking about something, never letting his mind rest. Faintly at the back of his head, Couriway wonders if Feinberg has dreams; and if so, what does he dream about?

His hair looks soft to the touch, gentle caramel colored curls somehow still sitting neatly rather than being a mess of hair that Couriway seemed to always end up with in the mornings. His hair looks like the most perfect thing to run your fingers through, and Couriway can imagine himself doing just that terrifyingly vividly in his head. As much as he wants to deny it all, Feinberg is a terribly handsome man. His eyelashes are light, but they fit him perfectly– it makes him look delicate, almost, and Couriway would believe that if he already didn’t know what the man beside him was capable of. The shape of his face is nice too, easy on the eyes and looking so soft to the touch, an urge he’s currently finding hard to resist– fingers twitching with the want to reach out and brush against the man’s peacefully asleep face, wondering if Feinberg would lean into his touch or not. He lets himself reach up and poke the man’s cheek, a childish and playful action that makes Feinberg’s expression scrunch up before he snuggles back against Couriway’s side, his furrowed brow melting away as he rests next to the hero.

It’s strange seeing someone when they’re most vulnerable. He isn’t sure if he’ll ever be able to see Feinberg like this again in his life. He doesn’t know why he’s even been allowed to see the villain like this in the first place. Did Feinberg not see him as a threat due to his injuries? That wouldn’t make sense because Feinberg is a man smart enough to know that regardless if a hero was injured or not, you should never let your guard down around them anyway– especially if it was the hero you fought on a nearly day to day basis and always wanted dead.

So then why ?

He doesn’t understand Feinberg.

But realistically, he has no reason to understand Feinberg in any way possible. He shouldn’t have that small bit of want to know the villain beyond the mask he wears for everyone. He shouldn’t ever want to have a connection with the man on a deeper level because that makes no sense for him to ever want in any scenario ever.

The only thing he should want about this man is to want him dead. That’s all he should ever want with his feelings towards Feinberg.

So why does he want more anyways?

Maybe he's starting to lose understanding of himself now.

He stares at Feinberg’s peacefully sleeping face, watching the rise and fall of his chest and the miniscule twitches in his expression from what were probably his dreams, Couriway can’t be sure. Maybe it was from the lightning coursing through his body that he stored away from thunderstorms, keeping him constantly active even in his sleep. Is Feinberg a light sleeper or heavy sleeper? He has so many questions that if he doesn’t get them answered today, he’ll probably never be able to ever get them answered again.

There’s just the smallest bit of a beard growing in, the stubble nearly invisible due to his light complexion and the light color of his hair overall. The pink lightning fits Feinberg well, highlighting every small feature and giving him an oddly ethereal look. Couriway feels like this is an invasion of privacy, seeing Feinberg sleeping in his room without a care in the world that he could possibly be killed by the hero that’s wanted him dead for so long now.

Does he trust Couriway to not kill him? He never struck Feinberg to be of the foolish type, but maybe he’s just been overestimating the man this entire time. If he’s a villain and he’s trusting a hero, then he doesn’t even know if he could ever call the man smart ever again. He should do what’s right and kill the villain like this while he’s sleeping peacefully, not a single wrinkle of frustration found on his face as he snores so softly and eventually presses himself closer to the avian unconsciously, tugging him closer and tucking his head into Couriway’s neck. 

Rather than planning to kill Feinberg, Couriway finds himself thinking “He’s pretty ,” instead of “ I should find a way to kill him now ,” and it… surprisingly doesn’t shock him. He’s allowed to acknowledge a guy's beauty and not immediately think of ways to murder the man while he’s peacefully asleep and he especially can’t do something as rude as that when this guy had patched him up with honestly the most care he’s ever seen come from the villain. He decides to fully turn his body to face Feinberg, allowing himself to be pulled closer than ever before, scooting down a bit on the bed so that they were face to face.

His lips look surprisingly soft.

No, looks isn’t the right word.

He knows that they’re soft. He felt it when the man had been wrapping him up in bandages and leaned forward suddenly, pressing his body against his back and leaning down far enough that his lips brushed against Couriway’s skin. He had felt the way the villain’s breathing had trembled– felt every whisper of a word brush against his shoulder no matter how quietly Feinberg tried to say it and keep it from reaching the hero’s ears.

Yes, maybe he did try to strain his ears to make out the words that Feinberg had been muttering under his breath when he had reached over and pulled the hero close to him in the middle of the night, but realistically who wouldn’t be that slightest bit curious to hear what was being said to them while they were supposed to be asleep?

He doesn’t know what time it is.

He doesn’t seem to mind, though. The world keeps spinning, and Feinberg breathes another breath, and Couriway lays there in the villain’s embrace, somewhere that he never, ever should be.

Feinberg is a being of chaos. Born during a thunderstorm and struck by lightning early on his life, it’s a mixture of unfortunate events that might’ve possibly turned him into villainy, and Couriway finds some strange part of him wondering that would’ve happened if this catastrophe of events never happened, and wondering distantly in the back of his head if maybe– if their circumstances weren’t like this– they could’ve maybe at least been friends of some kind. There’s been a constant unbreakable pattern in Feinberg’s life, and it’s the fact that everything he touches with the intent to care and love for he will eventually destroy himself at some point in the future.

Couriway is a firm believer that killers cannot be redeemed– there’s nothing good left in them to rescue and forge into a new better person that could do more than just harm their surroundings over and over again and eventually begin harming themselves when there’s nothing left for them to destroy themselves. Feinberg is a murder– he knows what he has done and Couriway has never found any bit of guilt in him for what he’s done– and he hates Feinberg for it.

There’s never been an instance where Feinberg has cared for more than himself in any situation.

He finds himself frowning at that thought.

“No, that’s a lie now because he cared for me. He cared for me .” His thoughts unhelpfully decide to provide him with this realization that Feinberg does hold some care for people other than himself in his mind, but it’s the emphasis that it seems to only be Couriway that has broken past his defenses and let himself be held by the man and had his wounds slowly stitched up and wrapped up in bandages, nothing but care found in those moments they shared is what really gets him. Hell, even the clothes he’s wearing on his back right now are from the man! Sure, Couriway could take it as Feinberg doing this so that the hero would be indebted to him (he really hopes that this isn’t the case), but he could be hopeful with the fact that Feinberg simply did this out of the care from his rotten heart.

Maybe he wants to change.

Maybe he’s seen the wrong that he’s done.

He won’t be forgiven easily, but he can for sure work towards being forgiven during the time he serves in jail, because Couriway knows that Feinberg will never escape his inevitable jail sentence he will be put into if he gets caught or picks to become a better person.

Couriway is weirdly hopeful.

He’s breached Feinberg’s world of peace and now has seen the way he acts when he isn’t out in the city under his layers of armor, and it’s so different, but yet it’s still the same villain that’s tried to kill Couriway so many times he can’t even keep track anymore. The Feinberg he sees out there is explosive and dangerous, lightning coursing through every vessel in his body as he fights and kills, never backing down from the challenge because he’s cocky and his confidence is something to never go against, because he will do anything to win; even if it means playing dirty, because moral codes don’t matter to a villain like him.

This Feinberg?

This Feinberg cares. He’s human like every other average person. He likes complex games and the color pink and cuddling. There’s no explosions and screams of terror that follow his every step. His lightning is controlled here– small little bolts that flicker from his fingertips but never grow larger, simply just a tingly feeling whenever his touch meets skin. He’s generous and there’s something so… distinctly nice about him even if he tries not to show it.

He reaches down and brushes his fingers over the bandages wrapped around him, remembering the feeling of Feinberg’s own fingers resting there during the night, never threatening to dig into the wound or rip the bandages off or do anything bad, just simply resting over the area in a way that could be seen as protective.

He doesn’t know what’s so different about him for Feinberg to act like this towards him.

Maybe it’s the seed of longing that had been planted in his chest some time long ago that’s making him think like this, finally blooming after being forgotten about, suddenly being provided the care and nourishment that it had been seeking out for what felt like eternity by now.

Tentatively– as if this one thing determined the fate of the world– he leans up, exhaling shakily from the small sparks of pain and studying Feinberg’s sleeping expression, something that he knows will never leave his mind in the coming days in the future when he encounters the cyan and pink helmet that would obstruct this view of this gentle face. The difference between the way Feinberg acts and his actual appearance makes Couriway’s mind frazzled, because part of him doesn’t believe a man with a face as gentle as this is capable of killing people, but the other part of him knows better. He wants to memorize every little detail because he knows that the chance that he would ever see something like this again would be nearly impossible, so he’s taking as much in as he can while he still has the ability to do so.

As much as he does enjoy admiring Feinberg’s peacefully asleep expression, he wants to see more . Maybe he’s greedy, but no one person is ever able to resist the relentless tug of temptation forever. Couriway is familiar with it, the constant tugging on his heart and even his entire existence– a constant reminder of what he cannot ever have– something that he knows will always be out of reach no matter what.

He wants to memorize the way that Feinberg laughs– the seconds between inhales and if he would giggle or chuckle and the way he would shake and the way his expression would scrunch up and smile and the way it sounds– he wants to know it more than anything else– he wants and wants and yearns for something that he knows he can’t have but he’ll yearn regardless because he can’t do anything else. He wants to know more about Feinberg. More about the man behind the obnoxiously colored helmet (those terrible colors are actually starting to grow on him, but he’d rather have his feathers plucked out than ever admit that to anyone) and not the persona he plays when he knows that people have their eyes on him.

He wants to know this fragile, vulnerable side of Feinberg that he sees while the villain is sleeping, because he knows that it’s a side that no one has ever gotten close enough to see ever because Feinberg has defense measures to make sure that no one gets close enough to see. He knows that Feinberg is afraid of someone getting close enough to pull back all of the layers and see what laid underneath, so that’s why he keeps his distance from so many people, refusing to let them or himself get any closer to give himself a weakness that he doesn’t need.

Couriway sighs.

The ache is ignorable, but it’s still constant enough for him to know that one day, it’ll become an issue that he’ll need to face in the future and do something about it. He leans closer– leans close enough for their breaths to intermingle, feeling every little soft exhale that comes from Feinberg as his chest rises and falls. With more caution than he’s ever given anything in his life, he presses his mouth against the soft lips, feeling Feinberg’s exhale against them and the bit of stubble scratching his chin– resting there for a few seconds before he pulls away, the feeling lingering and holding his breath in anticipation, preparing himself to get a punch straight to the face.

Feinberg doesn’t startle nor show any signs of waking up. He doesn’t react to it at all, no small shift in breathing or anything– not a single sign that Feinberg was aware of what had just happened.

He lets go of the breath that he was holding in, shoulders slumping in… relief? (can he call it relief even if he feels the painful pang of disappointment?) before he subtly scoots himself closer to the villain, tucking his arms between both of them– resting the back of his hand over the center of Feinberg’s ribs, feeling the thud of his heart thundering in his chest.

If he can’t have anything else, he’ll just settle for this small thing. Just to be able to feel the way Feinberg’s heart beats and each of his inhales and exhales is something to not be taken for granted, because there’s no normal circumstance where he’d ever let someone put a hand this close to him, nevertheless directly against his chest. 

Couriway doesn’t know what he’s done to ever be allowed this close, but he’s not objecting against it.

He freezes when he feels movement, hearing soft mumbles and grumbles as Feinberg opens his eyes by the slightest sliver, eyelashes still touching as he looks around before looking at Couriway, holding his breath as Feinberg stares sleepily at him, seemingly processing everything. He also expects to be shoved off the bed, but the villain blinks at him twice before pulling him closer like he was a stuffed animal, resting his face in the avian’s hair before he untenses with a quiet sigh.

“Go back to sleep, Couriway,” Feinberg slurs drowsily, and he feels his face grow a bit warm at the deep and raspy voice practically speaking into his ear, a shaky exhale leaving him.

“Okay,” he replies anyway even though Feinberg shows no sign of being awake anymore, only being disturbed from his slumber by Couriway’s slight movements just to immediately fall back asleep.

Without much other choice, he lets his eyes fall closed again, curling up and pressing his forehead against the villain’s collarbones, exhaling slowly and inhaling, the smell of cheap floral scented shampoo and hints of burntness, allowing himself to find comfort in it rather than forcing himself away.

For some odd reason, he feels safe here.

✧

When he wakes up again, there’s the unshakable feeling in him that he’s overslept practically all of his alarms that he would usually have set, so now he feels like he needs to get up instead of just laying in bed and sleeping more. He’s not surprised to see that Feinberg is still sleeping away without any issues, arms still holding Couriway tight to him and their legs still extremely tangled together in a way that he didn’t even know was possible.

As much as he would love to indulge in himself further, he really needs to get up and leave some time soon even if he desperately doesn’t want to leave this version of Feinberg that he’s been allowed to see so easily like this. He allows himself a few more minutes to stare at the villain before he starts carefully peeling Feinberg’s arms from around him, untangling their legs and sitting up, spotting the way the sleeping man’s expression shifts into a small frown, fingers curling into the sheets where Couriway had previously been laying and making a small upset huff noise when he feels nothing but the sheets.

…Feinberg is clingy when he’s sleepy.

That’s another thing he’s discovered in not even the twenty four hours he’s stayed here, and it’s something that feels so personal to know. He shouldn’t know these small things about the villain, yet he does and he doesn’t know how to feel about it. 

Maybe he can stay for the slightest bit longer… he has to preen his wings anyway! Might as well do it now when he has the time. It's part of his morning routine, no reason to break it just because he isn't at home. His feathers are reasonably messy after bed, but also especially due to the fact that he hadn’t really bothered to take care of them after the fight he had, so they’ve just been a barely ignorable itch at the back of his head until now.

Feinberg shifts around as he preens his feathers, huffing softly in his sleep and a frown now permanently etched on his face and Couriway doesn’t know exactly why the sleeping man has suddenly become so disturbed in his slumber. Nothing had changed but the fact that Couriway isn’t cuddling him anymore, and surely that can’t be the reason he’s suddenly so upset in his sleep. He stares for a bit, waiting until Feinberg turns back over to where he was sitting before reaching out and sliding his fingers between the villain’s, pressing their palms together.

He watches with fascination as the tense expression on the man’s face melts away, a small happy sigh leaving him as he settles back down, seemingly soothed by Couriway connecting their hands and stroking his thumb over the warm flesh, the frown being replaced with a content smile.  

Couriway stares with no words, silenced by what he was witnessing. He isn’t even sure if Feinberg is aware of how he is when he’s asleep, and he’s stuck here staring and trying to convince himself that Feinberg would know and is allowing the hero to see this side of him, some small hopeful part of him making him think that Feinberg is trusting him with witnessing this part of him that possibly no one else in the universe has ever experienced before even if he knows better. He’s trying to convince himself that this isn’t just some unconscious behavior and something that Feinberg knows about himself because Feinberg is a smart man and he would never, under any normal circumstance let anyone this close, nevertheless it be god damn Couriway of all people.

Even if he wants to spend every second of his time in Feinberg’s bed, he really does need to get up and go so he has to practically force himself out of the warm bed, wings fluffing up and curling around himself when a shiver passes through him. He really misses the warmth of the bed and by proxy, he misses the warmth provided by Feinberg holding him. He’s forced to disconnect their hands, his heart aching when Feinberg’s expression shifts back into an upset one, hand patting around the bed for something before it eventually falls still again, fingers curling into the sheets as he frowns deeply.

God, he can’t even begin to describe how badly he doesn’t want to leave, but he has to no matter what, because regardless, he’s treading in deep enemy territory no matter what his heart makes his brain want to believe.

There’s his own yellow-golden feathers scattered on the bed from now and the night, and the painful part is that they look like they belong there with Feinberg. It looks normal for there to be his feathers surrounding Feinberg, marking his presence and showing that he’s been here with the man and in bed with him. He’s already made enough impulsive decisions here, but he also wants to just…

He ends up in the bed again, but this time he’s carefully slipping his own feathers into the light curls, the golden blending in with the dirty blonde. He’s especially careful to not wake the man up, holding his breath and letting his hands hover when he thinks the man is about to wake before resuming the tedious process. He hates how they look like they belong there, tangled in the soft curls. He hates how he looks and feels like he belongs here, because he shouldn’t– this is a place he should’ve never stepped foot into. He should’ve never ever been given the chance to see Feinberg’s bedroom of all things, but now he’s seen the villain at his most vulnerable and how he acts in the walls of safety that surrounds him, and now he doesn’t know what to do anymore.

He can’t view the Feinberg that he fights with everyday and this Feinberg as different people, because he knows all too well who’s behind the helmet now and he can’t think about harming the man at all. He can’t want him dead now because killing that Feinberg also means that this Feinberg who likes cuddling and can’t seem to sleep well without another person would die too, and it just doesn’t seem fair at all. It just can’t be the same man here that’s out there always killing and causing mass destruction. 

He won’t believe it.

Couriway needs to get up and leave– get out and stay out and never come back.

But wouldn’t it just be rude to leave without saying goodbye first? He’s the one that owes Feinberg something. Maybe he could just make breakfast for him and then leave– he’d be repaying his debt there, right? Feinberg hadn’t explicitly said that he was indebted to the villain, but Couriway firmly believes that there’s a catch to how nice the man was being– he’s allowed to be cautious and worry about what might happen to him!

With a frustrated sigh, he goes to grab his phone from his mess of ripped and bloody clothes that had been tossed into the corner, paying little mind to his battery while he grimaces at the wall of texts from Fulham.

Might as well rip the bandage off now rather than later when Fulham actually sees him in person.

You are currently privately messaging: “Fulham”

Couriway: I’m alive, btw

Fulham: oh my god

Fulham: where the hell have you been

Fulham: give me a good explanation on why you just dropped off the face of earth for so long

Fulham: ITS 3 PM COURIWAY

Fulham: YOU ALWAYS WAKE UP BEFORE 10 AM

Couriway: Well

Couriway: i might’ve gotten stabbed

Fulham: what is wrong with you.

Fulham: please tell me you went to the hospital or something

Fulham: WHERE ARE YOU

*Couriway sent one attachment*

–[A photo of Couriway standing at the foot of a bed, yellow feathers scattered on the blankets with another person seen under the blankets and still asleep.]

Fulham: this just gives me more questions

Fulham: why are you in another mans bedroom

Fulham: why did you go to another mans house instead of going home and healing yourself

Fuham: couriway don’t you dare leave me on read

Fulham: COURIWAY

That’s enough of Fulham, actually.

When he finally parts from the pink hued room, he takes the fluffy pink cat slippers with him too– and no one can blame him because the floor gets cold and he doesn’t have any socks on and he’s not about to rummage through Feinberg’s closet for socks to steal too– he’s already wearing the man’s clothes for god's sake!

His trip to the bathroom is uneventful, and he spends more time staring at himself in the mirror as the sound of the toilet flushing fills the room, taking in his rough appearance. Feinberg’s clothes are really oversized on him. The collar is wide enough to slide down his shoulder, and both of his shoulders could probably fit through the top if he stretched it like that, but he doesn’t want to ruin the durability of the fabric. It’s a basic t-shirt, and much like everything else, he looks like he belongs in it– belongs in Feinberg’s clothes. There’s holes in the back where his wings are free to hang from, and something in his stomach flutters at the realization that Feinberg had willingly cut up one of his own shirts just to make it more comfortable for Couriway to wear.

Staring at himself silently, he brings his hands up, grabbing the collar and bunching it up in his fists before bringing it up to his face, inhaling deeply against the fabric with his eyes pressed tightly closed.

He feels like he’s laying right next to the man again because it smells just like Feinberg– it smells of cheap flowers and the metallic static smell before you get shocked from the friction of fabric against fabric– and it makes him feel safe because of it and it’s something that he feels without being able to control it, and the fact that he also knows what Feinberg smells like too fucks him up a bit, because that too is also something he should’ve never known about the man. He shouldn’t know about these small silly useless things that would be learned from actually getting to know each other through slow bonding and growing trust from a blooming friendship or relationship, but none of that has actually happened between them, because the only thing that has really happened between them are blind leaps of faith at each other, hoping that the other would catch them only to end up falling.

Couriway is falling. He’s falling because he leapt blindly at Feinberg in hopes of being able to trust the villain, and maybe now his trust is misplaced, because he doesn’t know what to expect, so he’s falling with no ground in sight.

The apartment is sparsely decorated, something he noticed when he had first walked in. There’s no photos found anywhere, and the only really lived part of the entire place seems to be just the bedroom and bathroom, because when he glances at the stoves of the kitchen they seem weirdly clean. Maybe Feinberg is good at cleaning or even just moved into this area recently– he’s a villain, he probably stays on the move a lot.

“ For someone who is supposed to be staying on the move, he seems to have had spent a lot of time decorating his room with LED lights, ” Couriway smiles to himself at the thought, clearly amused at the mental image of Feinberg spending his time changing the color of his lights to the perfect pink color that it was now. While he was thinking intently about Feinberg standing on his tippy toes to reach the ceiling of his room, he gets greeted with the sight of an admittedly, very depressingly empty fridge.

It shocks him for a moment before he has the right mind to open up the freezer, sighing when he spots the frozen food shoved in there.

He really doesn’t know what he expected.

He spots like, one single cereal box sitting beside other snacks on the counter nearby, and he’s starting to realize something that activates the urge in him to take care of Feinberg.

This guy doesn’t eat breakfast.

Okay– wait, no– maybe he’s just jumping to conclusions! Maybe he’s just dropped by at a bad time and Feinberg just hasn’t had the time to go out for groceries lately, so that’s the reason why his fridge is so empty!

Surely, right?

Maybe he could ask the man what he eats for breakfast– just to get a general gist of what he should make, not that he wants to nor needs to know more simple small facts about the man. 

He carefully makes his way back to the man's bedroom, reaching for his sleeping figure and gently shaking him awake, getting a disgruntled noise in reply and a hand waving him off, Feinberg turning over on his back and covering his eyes with an arm, groaning tiredly. Couriway waits until Feinberg properly looks at him, staring at the man when he stares up at the avian, blinking slowly in what was presumably confusion.

“What do you eat for breakfast?” He asks right before Feinberg opens his mouth to sleepily grumble “What do you want?”

Terribly, Feinberg only stares at him in response to his question. The silence stretches out long enough that Couriway feels like he asked something wrong, glancing around nervously before looking back at the man who still hasn’t stopped staring at him with the same confused squinted expression.

“I don’t eat breakfast.” Feinberg finally replies after a few more seconds of staring, turning back over and pulling his blanket back up to his neck, making Couriway squawk as the bed bounces him because of his exaggerated movement to just turn away from the hero.

“Hey–! Wait, what do you mean you don’t eat breakfast?? Do you just skip it every morning???” Sue him for starting to fuss over the villain, but it’s reasonable when you find out that a guy this big constantly skips breakfast everyday. It’s also kinda unfair– a guy with worse eating habits is somehow taller than you, how is that allowed??

“What? Am I not supposed to skip it? I’ll just make up for it later in the day, what’s the point of fussing about it?” Couriway can hear the way Feinberg rolls his eyes as he speaks, and he doesn’t know if he should be concerned or angry with the fact that this guy just brushes off not eating breakfast as casually like this.

“Did you ever pay attention to school??”

“I’m a villain, Couriway. What do you think?” Feinberg deadpans, and now it’s Couriway’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Your statistics degree says otherwise,” He shoots back, pointing at the framed diploma on the wall and grinning to himself when Feinberg sits up to look in the direction he was pointing, groaning and covering his head with a pillow after throwing a different one at the pinned up paper on the wall, knocking it down. “Also, can you explain why your fridge is so empty?”

“Why are you so…” Feinberg sighs, hand blindly patting around for his phone before swiping a few times, lifting the pillow off his face just to squint at his screen before it tosses it towards the avian, eyes narrowed when Couriway barely misses catching it. “If you’re this worried about the state of my refrigerator, you might as well go shopping for me as well.” He yawns, turning back over on his side and letting his back face the hero, something that makes Couriway’s stomach churn, unable to put a finger on the feeling. “Just order something and it’ll show up,” Feinberg waves him off, and Couriway watches as he curls up on himself, getting cozy again. “Just don’t bother me any more, it’s too early to get up and do anything.”

And with that, Feinberg goes back to sleep as Couriway sits on the edge of his bed, unlocked phone in hand and staring at the back of the villain, confused beyond belief.

That’s it?

He got access to the man's phone that easily?

Feinberg is a smart man. He’s extremely smart, which is why Couriway doesn’t understand the reason he’s acting so normal about having a hero that’s always wanted him dead in the same room as him– not even in the same room, they’ve shared a bed at this point, and he doesn’t know why or even how any of these things have taken place without them beating the shit out of each other like they usually would.

Couriway really doesn’t understand Feinberg.

He doesn’t know why he wants to understand Feinberg, because he really should have no reason to do so, but yet the desire is still there, sitting in his heart and patiently waiting for the right time and place to reach further and learn more than he’s currently allowed to know.

That one moment of weakness he had has now started to really fuck him over, because all his thoughts have been consumed by this man just laying there as if he wasn’t just cuddling with his sworn enemy not even an hour ago. The fact that he’s willingly turned his back to Couriway says so many words without even uttering a single thing at all, and with the unlocked phone in hand, it makes him start to question a lot of things.

So many questions beginning with why circle his head, but he knows that he shouldn’t take this for granted and get as much info as he can, because when Feinberg wakes up again, Couriway fears that it will not be the same man that had very generously and carelessly given the hero his phone.

He gets up slowly, careful to not disturb the stitches under the bandages that Feinberg had very painstakingly wrapped around him before returning to the kitchen, unsure where to even begin with looking through the man’s phone.

Should he even look through his phone? This feels really wrong to do. There’s some odd form of trust between them at the moment, especially with the small exchanges between them from now and the hours in the night before. From Couriway allowing Feinberg to patch up his wound when the villain could’ve very easily left him out to bleed there to Feinberg allowing Couriway to walk around his apartment alone and even turn his back to the hero– sleeping with the hero, allowing himself to be in the most vulnerable state with Couriway, an act of trust that Couriway isn’t sure that he deserves just yet.

If he does go and look through the man’s phone, then that would be shattering any semblance of trust between them, and he’d go right back to zero or even negative in trying to have something with Feinberg.

But with these thoughts, a more reasonable part of him reminds him that he shouldn’t even trust the villain, and he himself shouldn’t let the villain trust him, because after this– after today and today only, what would happen the next time they saw each other face to face? He doesn’t know Feinberg as well as he’d want to, but he knows himself and he knows that he will hesitate next time he sees the brightly colored helmet, but he doesn’t know Feinberg. What if that hesitation is the thing that hurts him most? What if that’s the thing that determines if he lives or dies?

Shit, he’s putting way too much thought into this.

It wouldn’t hurt to just look at his photos and maybe a few texts… sue him for being curious!

He hadn’t seen what Feinberg’s lockscreen was, but his home screen displayed the image of him and people he probably saw close enough to be called his friends, and all Couriway can really pay attention to his Feinberg himself in the front of the photo, smiling gently but so sincerely that it makes Couriway want to see that expression himself– wants to be the receiver of such a nice expression. How many people have seen this sight ever? The sight of Feinberg smiling seems so rare; maybe he could count on a single hand how many people possibly have actually known Feinberg well enough for him to actually trust them and smile and laugh around them.

His jaw clenches at the thought, his chest suddenly infested with the rotten feeling of envy and jealousy wrapping its thorns around his heart, squeezing and puncturing him, making him frown.

Why couldn’t he be one of those people?

Why did they have to be on opposite sides?

Would it be so much to want to want to befriend the man after everything?

It takes him a few more seconds before he realizes how tightly he’s gripping the poor man’s phone, uncurling his fingers from around it and staring down at the photo staring back at him.

He opens up the photos app.

Immediately, he notices the obscene amount of cat photos that make up this guy's camera roll. Occasionally, there’s some other image in there, but all the felines overpower it, countless types having photos of them from every angle possible. There’s a few images where it looks like Feinberg has just been surrounded by a swarm of cats, and Couriway can’t help but smile and huff in amusement at the sight that appears in his head of the big bad super villain getting swarmed by such cute creatures, standing at the dead center and unable to do anything about it.

Photos of Feinberg himself are rare and sparse in comparison to everything else, and the few photos he does find he wants to ingrain into his mind forever, eyes taking in every detail that the camera had captured.

This too, is a whole different side to Feinberg he’s never seen in his life before. He doesn’t know how he feels about breaching this wall of privacy so easily. He’s seeing parts of the villain’s life that he should never see, and it makes his heart heavy in his chest knowing that this would really be the only way he’d ever be able to see Feinberg like this, because in no world would the villain ever trust him enough to let his guard down fully around the hero and be himself to the purest and Couriway won’t lie when he says that fact makes him a bit sad to think about.

He can’t afford to linger on those thoughts and feelings, so he swipes out of the photos app and turns off Feinberg’s phone, putting it face down on the counter and going to make himself a bowl of cereal to eat in silence as he waits for the man to get up, deciding to hop onto the counter too, swinging his legs happily as he eats.

It doesn’t take long for Feinberg to wake up, surprisingly. He hears a yawn and soft footsteps, looking up when they suddenly stop, finding himself staring at Feinberg who stands in the hallway leading to his bedroom, staring with owlishly wide eyes at Couriway in his kitchen, freezing mid-stretch. Couriway waves, just to be polite, and Feinberg only continues to stare before taking a few steps backwards before… presumably fleeing?

He shrugs and continues eating the cereal, humming softly to himself. Feinberg reappears faster than he had expected, a slight flush decorating his face as he goes to grab something from the fridge, cracking open a soda can before standing next to Couriway, leaning against the counter.

“I see that you’ve gone through my stuff instead of doing what I told you to do,” He gestures at the bowl in Couriway’s hands with the drink in his hand, and the avian shrugs reaching over to grab Feinberg’s phone and throwing it at him, watching the man catch it and put it back face down on the counter, not even bothering to check if the hero had gone through it or not.

Seriously, what game was this guy trying to play?

“I didn’t feel like eating out even if it’s basically past lunch time by now,” Couriway replies, stretching with a groan. Feinberg chuffs softly with amusement, and even though he most likely did go to the bathroom and see himself in the mirror, his golden feathers are still very carefully tangled in the curls, none of them displaced at all. It makes his heart flutter, a small dopey smile growing on his face because of the sight. Either Feinberg hadn’t noticed or he did and he decided willingly to keep them in his hair, Couriway won’t ever know in his life.

(He secretly hopes it’s the second reason.)

He finishes his bowl of cereal, sitting there and kicking his legs while Feinberg hums a soft tune under his breath and drinks his soda. Couriway decides to do the man a favor and wash the bowl too, humming along with the villain.

It feels weirdly domestic. He doesn’t know how to feel about that realization, on whether it be a good one to have or not, he can’t say, because his brain is a fucked up thing– not even just his brain. Both his heart and mind have changed in the bit of time he’s spent in this apartment, and he fears that it might be a permanent change that he knows will affect how he handles things with Feinberg in the future.

He’s spent too much time here– he’s basically overstayed his welcome by this point.

He wants to stay, though. Would it really be too much to stay for a bit longer? Maybe for just another day to see what Feinberg did all day? Would he even be allowed to stay?

“I think I’ve overstayed my welcome,” He blurts out while he’s drying his hands, hearing the soft clink of the soda can being put down on the counter as he goes to put the towel back at its place. There’s a few seconds of silence before the other man speaks up.

“Well,” Feinberg coughs, “nothing is stopping you from leaving.”

That’s his chance. Feinberg is giving him a way out and he for sure won’t be ignoring it, so he nods curtly, making the awkward walk to the villain’s front door.

“Wait,” Feinberg calls, and it makes Couriway pause mid-step, turning to face the man.

What did he want? Did he just remember about the fact that the hero was indebted to the villain for not leaving him to bleed out on his doorstep? Is he about to make sure that Couriway doesn’t leave this apartment alive because of everything he’s learned about Feinberg? Did he want Couriway to–

“Uhm, let me get you some socks for your shoes before you go at least,” 

Ah.

“Yea, uh– sure, I’ll wait.”

He isn’t sure why he’s flooded with disappointment from that– he shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t be looking for ways to stay here longer, because he’s just constantly endangering himself if he does. He needs to go. He needs to leave and never go back– never look back and be reminded of what he’s discovered about Feinberg.

Even if Feinberg likes physical touch and stupid mobile games and cats and the color pink and doesn’t eat breakfast every morning, it’s still the same villain that has wreaked havoc upon the city for so many years.

Couriway needs to remember this– remember the fact that even after everything, this guy has killed people and will do it again without remorse.

He doesn’t know why he doesn’t like the thought, though. It makes him nauseous thinking about harming Feinberg.

The man returns, handing over socks for the avian to take. He reaches out to grab them, their fingers brushing for just a moment but a tingly feeling is left behind because of the bit of physical contact, and Couriway tries his best to ignore it and the way that Feinberg watches him.

He gets his shoes on and the door is unlocked for him. Just a single turn of the door knob then he can be free and never look back and think about this place again. He can forget any of this ever happened. He can forget seeing this side of Feinberg and the way he is when he’s asleep and the small moments of life he’s seen of the man in his photos, because he doesn’t need to know nor remember these small useless things about the villain.

Feinberg stands in the doorway when he steps out, and he really should keep going and not look back at all, but he turns fully to face the man.

He has no control over himself– over his thoughts and actions and wants because the utter need to just do this one thing is killing him, and he knows that it’ll haunt him forever if he doesn’t do it now.

His hand grabs the front of Feinberg’s t-shirt and he rises on his tippy-toes, pressing their lips together for a split second, eyes pressed closed before he’s backing away, cheeks flushed while Feinberg stares at him, blinking as his face also turns a similar shade of pink.

His lips are soft.

“This never happened.” Feinberg eventually says, and Couriway can’t help but nod in reply, because yeah, this never was supposed to happen.

Yet it did.

And now they’ll ignore that it ever did happen.

They’ll ignore the night they spent together in the same bed, pressed close with their limbs intertwined.

They’ll ignore the fact that they know what each other smells like, and the fact that it’ll haunt them forever now.

They’ll ignore it all.

Because it never happened.

Feinberg shuts the door, and Couriway goes home.

Chapter Text

He hates going to work.

He hates waking up early. Blinking awake from his blaring alarm and groaning while patting around to turn the damn thing off, sinking into his comfy ass mattress that somehow feels so much nicer in the mornings and closing his eyes for a few seconds, mentally preparing himself for the day.

Just to fall asleep again.

He can’t be faulted for falling asleep again– it’s cold, and his bed was really comfy, and he was just supposed to rest his eyes for a few more seconds so that they didn’t hurt as much. And maybe he was up a bit later than he should’ve been, but you can’t blame him for having trouble sleeping. Do you know how hard it is to get any sleep at all when your body is always thrumming with electricity? He’s always restless when he goes to bed late into the night, and he eventually falls asleep with enough twisting and turning but his sleep hasn’t been very fulfilling since… a specific someone had stayed over.

He doesn’t know why he had felt so empty after the avian had left– watching him walk out the door and look back– watching him turn back and–

No, that never happened. He should stop thinking about it.

Couriway hadn’t even been in his apartment for a full twenty-four hours, but yet his presence had left such an impact on Feinberg’s lonely life that now things feel wrong without the avian around even though the majority of the time he had spent with the hero was just sleeping in the same bed. Going to bed that night felt weird without another body beside him, but he doesn’t understand why it would even feel weird because it had just been one night– one night together and the hero flipped his entire life upside down without even being aware of doing such a thing.

The hero had left part of himself behind in Feinberg’s apartment– the feathers of his wings still lay scattered in the sheets and blankets of his bed, and the feathers that had been woven into his hair he had removed and returned to his bed when he had to shower. More often than not when he was struggling to sleep, he found himself twirling the golden feather between his pointer and thumb, observing the delicate thing. He’s starting to treasure them simply because he doesn’t have many left– his anger is explosive and his frustration only burns at the fuse faster, every bad encounter with the hero makes him rethink everything and his lightning that comes off of him uncontrollably would burn the nearby golden feathers, and he should burn them all, he really should.

But he can’t. Doing something like that feels so wrong. He doesn’t like the thought of not waking up to see yellow feathers strewn about in his bed, but that’s not something that he should be uneased by at all. He should’ve gotten rid of the fallen feathers ages ago– he should’ve gotten rid of them immediately after Couriway had left, but he hadn’t, because he’s fucking stupid and let his feelings get out of control again.

He got lost in his head again.

Now he’s late.

He hates his job.

He forces himself to sit up, rubbing his eyes and stretching, hearing the ways his bones crack with a wince. He runs a hand through his hair, scratching his head, yawning. Hm, maybe he should get a haircut soon. No, doesn’t matter. No one ever sees his hair outside of his job anyway, and he doesn’t know the people that see him at his job– he’s not a notable worker to the customers there, so no one important has really ever seen his hair so it’s not something he should bother with at all.

Though, a little worm in his brain makes him think about Couriway– the only man that’s seen his hair outside of his few friends– and he shakes those thoughts away as he decides to freshen up and wear something more suitable for work. Plucking a stray feather off his clothes, he decides to put it in his hair like Couriway had done when he was last over, giving him the comfort of something as he deals with his customer service job.

Oh, what? Did you really think villainy was his main job? Do you know how badly that pays??

He needs something to keep his bank account from going into the negatives, and as much as he hates this job, it’s the first one he got and he frankly doesn’t want to put effort into getting another one and think about what might happen on the time where he doesn’t have a job. He arrives late, clocking in and ignoring the way his coworker who took part of his shift rolls their eyes at him. He takes over the counter from there, busying himself with organizing things on the shelves behind him in his own way that he will have to revert back to normal by the end of his shift. It’s the only way he’s found how to keep his brain stimulated without his phone, forcing him to remember complex ways that he’s organizing the cigarettes and candy and all sorts while trying to remember the full correct order of how they are originally. He’s constantly interrupted by customers coming up to check out or ask him about the location or something, forcing his attention away to try to remember the layout of the store and give them good enough directions that they know where to go before going back to his task to pass the time.

While he’s trying to figure out how to order the different types of cigarettes this time around, someone knocks on the counter for his attention. When he turns around, he has to shout at himself mentally to not absolutely scorch the box of nicotine in his hands when he makes eye contact with someone that should never see him like this at all.

“Feinberg?” The oh, so familiar hero blurts his name out, and he feels pinned to the spot by the warm brown eyes behind large round glasses, the man’s voice wrapping around him so nicely that it makes him want to melt into the comfy embrace of the sound of his words– he’s missed the way that the hero said his voice– more accurately, he’s missed Couriway’s voice, and he hates that fact.

He panics. “Uhm, I– uh– that’s not my name.” He stumbles over his words, and his sentence startles the avian, watching the way confusion is obvious on Couriway’s face as he tries to process exactly what the worker says to him. Brown eyes flicker down to his chest before looking back up again, eyebrow raised as he speaks.

“...Unless I can't read, isn't that what the name tag on your apron says?” 

..Fuck.

Does he keep denying or accept the fact that he’s been caught?

“Well, there could always be more than one Feinberg around these parts,” he shrugs, “maybe you’ve mistaken me for another person.” He says while turning around and going back to sorting the cigarettes and candy, hearing Couriway huff behind him.

“No, I think this is the Feinberg that I slept with a few weeks ago,” Feinberg blinks at the sentence of words, turning slowly to stare at Couriway, seeing the stupid smug grin on his face because he knows exactly what he had just implied for people who were listening in and he’s lying because they didn’t sleep together in the way that those words were an euphemism for.  “After all, you still have my feather in your hair.”

He’s starting to remember exactly why he hates Couriway, again. He scowls, reaching up and grabbing the tiny feather, burning it between his fingers just to prove a point.

“Dickhead.” Couriway spits, and Feinberg rolls his eyes.

“Are you just going to spend all your time here at the counter or are you actually gonna go fucking buy something?”

Chapter Text

He feels his eye twitch, a strained smile plastered on his face from the villain’s words.

This fucking piece of shit.

“Well, I was going to look around for a snack, but I saw you so I just decided to come say hi to someone I haven’t seen in a hot minute, but instead of actually getting a greeting back, I was greeted with hostility, so I don’t know if I wanna buy from here anymore! Really, the customer service here is terrible, I’m starting to realize.” He picks to start talking when another employee walks from the back into the front, and he finds plenty of satisfaction in the scathing look that gets sent in Feinberg’s direction, seeing the way the villain’s anger flares up before he takes a moment to control himself, glaring at Couriway as he takes deep breaths. For a few seconds, he swears that he had felt static electricity condense in the air around him before it very quickly faded.

“Please, feel free to browse the shelves for something you’d like and come back here so that I could serve you.” He enjoys the way Feinberg grits his teeth and has to force the words out, and he only smiles mockingly and nods before turning away to take his time hovering at the shelves, intending to take as much time as he could observing the villain at his job. Someone else steps into the place and asks for something from Feinberg that– okay, wow that’s a stupid question. He really wouldn’t blame the man if he decided to kill that guy– hey, he’d turn a blind eye actually!

The longer he observes the man, the more he wonders why exactly Feinberg took a job like this when his temper obviously is far too short to have a role in society dealing with customer service. Couriway is more surprised that he hasn’t heard of a murder or assault case from here yet when it’s Feinberg of all people working behind that counter.

He wonders if the lack of energy Feinberg has every day from not eating breakfast is any factor in this. Maybe if he had a full stomach every morning before work would make his fuse longer and burn less slowly with every person he deals with in his day to day life. He could be nice and ask the villain about his day– maybe even catch-up a little while they could since neither of them were really playing their main roles in society at the moment. But if he were nice to Feinberg, it would mean that he’s being nice to a murderer– a cold blooded killer– and that’s exactly against everything that he stands for.

“He let you sleep in his bed and held you for a night after wrapping you up with his own medical supplies though, isn’t it just right to treat him with kindness? After everything he’s done? You know all too well that this Feinberg is different from the man in neon pink and cyan armor.” He burns holes into the bag of chips he had picked off the shelves with his eyes as his stupid inner voice decides to remind him of that one night all those weeks ago– a night that both of them silently agreed to never bring up again and forget about completely.

But how could Couriway forget that night? That night where his entire world had been turned upside down due to spending time around Feinberg and not the cyborg that chose to terrorize the city with thunder and lightning. He had spent time with the villain while he wasn’t a villain and he can’t seem to bring himself to forget about the gentle touches that had been burned into him now from when Feinberg had been stitching up his wound and wrapping him up in bandages, later into the night holding the avian and quite literally cuddling with the hero that was a threat to his life. The clothes that Feinberg had given to him still now sit in his bedroom, and he still doesn't know what to do with them. The rational part of his brain tells him to return it to the villain, but the secret and far more selfish side of his mind tells him to keep the articles of clothing, pointing out the fact that Feinberg had willingly ruined the shirt for himself to give it to Couriway and let him be more comfortable in it.

He doesn’t understand the villain, and there should never be a moment in time where he wishes that he did, but he’s weak to temptation like any normal man would be, and it’s been a dreadful realization that Feinberg was the object of his temptations and no matter what, the villain would be so far out of reach that Couriway shouldn’t even entertain the thought of growing closer to Feinberg at all.

But what had that night been if not simple intimacy and growing closer? There hadn’t been much said during the night, but every little action said thousands, and there had been so many actions that he’s lost count even with how many times he replays that night in his head during the night when he can’t sleep, the clothes of his sworn enemy enveloping his body as he stares at his ceiling, some part of him aching for the feeling of another person in bed with him and the soft pink lightning of silly cosmetic fairy lights that seemed like far too much effort to put up decorating the ceiling of his room. He aches for another person’s voice and the feeling of them holding him– he aches for soft and slow mornings together before one of them has to go– he aches for the shared intimacy of just laying in bed together, simply just existing with each other.

He’s come to the dreadful realization that the reason he's been feeling off all this time is because he’s been aching for Feinberg all these weeks, and he can’t see any world where the possibility of the villain also aching for Couriway of all people would be possible. It just can’t be possible. He doesn’t understand Feinberg.

There had been a golden feather tucked carefully into the curls of Feinberg’s hair, and it’s been weeks so the villain must’ve still had some of the avian’s feathers from that night he should’ve forgotten about the moment he even stepped out of that apartment, but he had burned it right up without any hesitation, so Couriway doesn’t know how to take it. Why did he keep something for so long just to burn it up like that? Was it him trying to get a message across or did he just want to show Couriway how little he had meant to the villain? That couldn’t make sense– why was he holding onto the avian’s feathers? Both of them had been surprised to encounter each other this morning so it surely wasn’t a plan or anything of the sorts.

Oh, this poor bag of chips. He’s been death gripping the packaging while he had been thinking, and he pities the person that picks up that bag next, not knowing about all the crushed chips inside of it now. When he returns to the counter, Feinberg seems more or less still the same amount of annoyed and irritated, so maybe he’ll pick his words carefully this time. It was a bit of a dick move to make Feinberg look bad in front of his coworkers when he seems to just not have good relationships with anyone at all, he will admit that.

“Hey, I’m ready to checkout,” He calls, tapping on the counter to get the man’s attention and he inhales softly when stern cerulean eyes land on him.

Feinberg glances down before glancing back up at his face with a scrunched up expression. “It took you that long to pick out these three items?” He snarked, making Couriway roll his eyes at the tone.

“Are you always like this in the morning? Because I don’t remember this from the last time I stayed and saw you when you woke up.” His words stun Feinberg, rendering him speechless as he stares at Couriway, unable to make a good retort so he stays silent. His bag of snacks practically gets thrusted in his direction for him to grab, and it startles him for a moment before he takes it in hand, Feinberg’s retreating fingers brushing against his own and it’s like he’s been shocked, his heart leaping for a beat before he pulls away entirely.

“Do you ever think about how the reason things might be so annoying in the morning is because you haven’t had anything to eat and are hungry?” The avian brings up, lingering around due to how empty the store was, staring expectantly at Feinberg who leans against the counter with his arms crossed, huffing.

“My lunch break is soon, it’s practically my breakfast when I take it, so it just doesn’t matter at all.”

“But you’re hungry now, aren’t you?”

“Dude, why are you asking so many questions? I’m fucking working, there’s no need for you to interrogate me now of all times.” The villain snaps at him, growling quietly before turning his back and going back to organizing the boxes of cigarettes behind the counter, strangely focused on that task.

“I’m not interrogating you.” He retorts sharply, “I’m just worrying about your wellbeing because I know that you’re obviously not taking care of yourself at all!” He’s pieced it together with the eyebags under Feinberg’s eyes and his entire disheveled appearance, and he hears Feinberg scoff under his breath from his words. “You look like you haven’t slept properly in ages, and you apparently never eat breakfast so that’s probably why you never have energy for anything– actually, when’s your lunch break?”

“Why do you need to know everything–” A frustrated sigh cuts Feinberg's sentence off, gritting his teeth. “My lunch break is soon, why are you asking?” Sharp blue eyes are narrowed at him, and he shrugs as casually as he can, rolling his shoulders to get rid of the nervous feeling that washes over him.

“Do you want to go out somewhere to get something to eat? My lunch is usually a bit later but it would be nice to share something together,” Technically he isn’t lying, he’s picking up things he can eat while being on his shift so that he doesn’t go hungry, but Feinberg really doesn’t need to know that. Feinberg doesn’t need to know anything about Couriway at all because he actually already knows far more than he should, and he really can’t keep affording these slip-ups. The villain isn’t his friend, and he needs to get this fact engraved into his brain.

“Are you asking me out?” Feinberg sounds bewildered, and– okay, well, he expected either a yes or a punch to the face as a rejection to his offer, not… not that.

“If that’s what you’d want it to be, sure, but that was not my intention.” He’s really trying to be casual and nonchalant about this– god, yeah, sure you could sue him for accidentally phrasing it like he was asking the villain out on a date because he honestly kinda wants that but you can’t fault him for it. If that makes sense.

Feinberg just stares at him, and it really looks like he’s honestly considering Couriway’s suggestion to have lunch together somewhere, and he really tries to not look hopeful with the fact that Feinberg is actually thinking about it.

The villain stares for a little longer before his stiff posture relaxes, eyes growing less calculating and more tired, looking like a normal citizen working again rather than a villain hiding under a mask of one. “Okay, y’know what? Sure. I’ll take my lunch break with you only if you pay for wherever we go.”

He agreed.

He actually agreed, and Couriway hasn’t been shocked to death on the spot.

Should he cry or should he cheer? Or maybe he should be normal about this.

“Sounds good, when do you want me to come back to pick you up?” Feinberg looks up at the clock on the wall before looking back at Couriway with a small smile. “What about now?”

He blinks at the cashier’s words. “Aren’t you still on shift?”

Both of them watch as the long hand of the clock ticks over a number, and Feinberg practically rips off his apron, tossing it somewhere towards the back and practically leaping over the counter, miraculously avoiding knocking anything over. “Mustard! I’m taking my lunch break!” Feinberg calls towards the back, grinning widely before looking at Couriway and going “not anymore,” as he hears the villain’s coworker cuss him out from the back.

“Are you allowed to do that??” He sputters as Feinberg starts moving towards the fire exit in the back, unable to do much but follow the man out into the alleyway behind the store.

“No, but they’re understaffed anyways so they literally can’t afford to fire me.” The villain shrugs, dropping his hands into his pockets (He’s wearing sweatpants. At work.) and pulling out a box of cigarettes and a lighter, leaning against the brick wall of the alley. He watches as Feinberg pushes up a stick of pure nicotine from the tiny army in the box and takes the side with the filter between his lips (They look soft as ever, and Couriway hates how he knows how it would feel to kiss the villain, and he especially hates himself for always thinking about the feeling and wanting it. He hates how he feels like if he was allowed to kiss Feinberg as much as he wanted without any repercussions, all of his troubles would disappear and he would feel okay for once in his life. And god, he fucking hates how he misses Feinberg so much.) before putting the container away back into the depths of his pockets.

His eyes are drawn to the sight of the villain lighting the cigar, thumb sliding down the sparkwheel of the lighter to create a spark to make the flame, an orange lighting overlaying his face from where he’s partially hidden in the shadows. He holds the cigarette between two of his fingers, keeping it stable as he waits for it to light. It doesn’t take long before embers eat away at the paper. The lighter goes away, and Feinberg inhales something that will inevitably kill him straight into his lungs and doesn’t flinch.

Feinberg exhales slowly, smoke cascading out of his mouth, the cigarette growing a bit smaller between his fingers as ash crumbles to the ground, and Couriway finds himself wanting to catch the gray clouds that leave the man with his own mouth to swallow them down and seal Feinberg’s mouth with his own to stop him.

He doesn’t do any of that.

“You’re certainly full of bad habits, huh?” He says instead of doing anything that his traitorous mind keeps thinking about now, and Feinberg huffs, a tiny smoke cloud escaping him from the action.

“Is smoking worse than being a villain in your eyes?” Feinberg questions with a slight grin painting his lips, and Couriway scoffs.

“I don’t think it matters anyway.” He looks down at his hands as he speaks, a small frown etched on his face. “You kill people, but you’re also slowly killing yourself too, so I guess it balances it out in the end.”

“Smoking won’t be the thing that kills me.” The man beside him replies gruffly. “Of all things, you’d probably be the reason for my death.” Feinberg admits suddenly, the words barely reaching Couriway’s ears from how quietly he had whispered the words out into the air, looking away and taking another drag of the cigarette between his fingers as the hero stares at the side of his head because he refuses to look directly at Couriway after what he had just said.

He doesn’t know why, but his stomach churns at the thought of killing the villain even though that’s been his goal for years now. It’s a sickening thought, being the reason for someone's death. He’s heard about heroes killing villains before, and there’s always some guilt found in the now retired heroes but it’s overshadowed by justice because if the villain wasn’t alive anymore, then the less civilians would be killed.

It’s a necessary trade. One death to prevent possibly hundreds, so it should all be worth it in the end, and you should learn to accept this part of the job– accept the fact that there will be blood spilled by your hands and there will be very little that you can do about it in the end.

Couriway thinks about killing Feinberg again, and it doesn’t sound right in his head. There’s suddenly copious amounts of empathy towards the villain and he doesn’t understand why. He shouldn't feel like this towards Feinberg, but yet he does. He’s pushed aside his longing for the man so long ago that the sprout should’ve withered away and died already, but it’s still there and it always will be there even if Couriway tries his best to ignore it. Even the slightest bit of care or attention brings it back from the brink of death over and over again, and he can’t let it live. He needs to get rid of this hesitance that he knows will end up killing him in the end if he isn’t careful.

He’s made a terrible mistake, and he knows that it will surely cost him his life in the long run.

Every time he thinks about the man currently standing by his side, he’s only capable of thinking about the man that he saw behind those closed doors and reinforced walls. What is he supposed to do with all of this personal knowledge against Feinberg? It haunts him every night, knowing how Feinberg acts when he’s alone or around someone he trusts.

It haunts him because every time they’ve seen each other after that night, there’s been zero acknowledgement of what ever happened during those hours where it felt like no one else in the entire world existed apart from each other. He feels cursed with this awareness of who the person Feinberg truly is because no one would ever believe what he said about the villain was true. They’d probably think that he had been brainwashed by the man rather than believe any other possible outcome.

“I don’t remember you smelling like a smoker when I was with you, so when did you pick this habit up?” He questions instead of saying anything in his mind, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall, watching the light wisps of smoke float in the air around them, and he doesn’t know if the fact that he isn’t fully repulsed by the smell is caused by the fact that he knows it’s all coming from Feinberg or if he suddenly just doesn’t mind the smell all that much.

Feinberg taps the ash off the butt of the cigarette, quiet for a moment.

“Ah, fuck it. This won’t kill me to tell you,” he hears the man murmur, standing up straight again before leaning back against the wall. The brick digs into their back uncomfortably.

“Sometime after you left.” Feinberg confesses, still refusing to make eye contact. “You can look down at me all you want for it, I don’t really care regardless. I needed something to deal with it, so I picked something to keep my mind off of… you.”

“Won’t this kill you in the long run?” He ignores the admittance from the villain, blocking it out of his mind, refusing to know more than he should already. He hates how Feinberg shares things that are personal so easily, like admitting to Couriway that he would be the reason for his death and not even looking upset at it and telling the hero that he couldn't keep his mind off the avian and had to turn to something like smoking to divert his thoughts from it. 

“Pfft, you say that like I’ll ever make it that far in life to face the consequences of my actions. I think you and I both know very well that health complications won’t be how I die.” It’s morbid the way Feinberg talks about his own life. He talks about it like death haunts every step he takes, never too far behind but still not there yet, a certain type of uncertainty about if this one action will help death progress closer while you haven’t taken your step forward. He wonders how far death is from Feinberg. Was death looming over him every day waiting for the exact moment Feinberg made the wrong decision so that he could instantly steal the man’s life away?

He wonders for a split second if he could intervene and possibly find a way to prolong Feinberg’s life, but he shakes that thought away immediately. He can’t be thinking like this. He can’t be thinking about the villain like this at all. He’s killed people for god's sake, he shouldn’t ever want to prolong a killer's life, that doesn’t mean good for anyone and anything at all.

He hates how he feels this way about Feinberg so much. His feelings conflict with every belief and moral of his, and he doesn’t know what the fuck to do about it. He cares, but he really shouldn’t and he knows this. That one single night shouldn’t have flipped his entire world upside down, but it did, and now he can’t ever think about going back to strangers and wanting each other dead after sharing a bed with the man and feeling strangely at peace when he woke up in Feinberg’s arms.

And the kiss.

Fuck.

He’s never been a good hero– he knows this– but he never thought he’d be so stupid to corner himself with his actions and doom his fate by getting to know a villain while outside of their respective roles in society. He knows that he should regret letting Feinberg see him in such a vulnerable state and rely on the villain of all people to stitch him back up and wrap bandages around him when he could’ve so easily done it himself, but he can’t find himself to see that night as a regret. He’ll blame it on the blood loss making him stupid enough to turn up to Feinberg for help, but he knows all too well that he’s the only person to blame on how it turned out like this.

He wants to know Feinberg better even though this just means that he’s digging a deeper pit for himself, but in the same way that he’s making stupid decisions and mistakes, Feinberg seems to be doing the exact same thing as him.

“Hey,” Feinberg’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts, and apparently while he’s been wallowing in his mistakes and the past, he’s been staring directly at the cigarette being loosely held between the villain’s fingers. “What’re you looking at?” Feinberg questions as he moves the stick of poison, and his eyes can’t help but follow it as he brings it back to his lips again.

His lips. They were so soft. He had felt them against his for only a mere second, but he wants to feel them again. He wants to feel them everywhere else on his body– the ticklish feeling of kisses being scattered upon his flesh, the soft puff of warm air from their shared giggles and just being showered in the gentle pecks. He wants to feel Feinberg’s love and affection, and the want is a curse– a punishment for his yearning for the villain who would never return the feelings so deeply embedded into his soul. Feinberg is a punishment that he keeps coming back to, because he craves the way that it always distracts him from everything going on in his life and how it eats away at him almost carefully, almost like Feinberg doesn’t want to hurt him, but that would be impossible, because everyone knows all too well that everything Feinberg loves and cares about is doomed to die at the end.

He’s not supposed to love the villain, so he doesn’t. Whatever feelings he has for the man, they’re temporary and only there because currently, he has no one else in his life for any of these feelings to go, so they’re being dumped onto the closest attractive person that he’s talking to. It’s just a mini-crush, it won’t go anywhere, and it won’t become anything in the long run. Nothing will happen. You can tell him that he’s in denial, but if that helps wither away at the blossoming feelings in his chest, then he couldn’t care less.

He finds himself thinking about the consequences of loving Feinberg, and every time he reaches the end of his train of thought, he always comes up with the conclusion that he’d want to be Feinberg’s lover even if it meant that he’d die. He’d rather spend the last couple years of his life with someone that he truly cares about before eventually dying to his hands than not spend any actual time with them at all. He finds that he isn’t too against that thought. He wonders if this is what Feinberg feels like when he’s thinking about his future with all of his bad habits involved.

Wait, was he asked a question?

“Oh– nothing… just thinking about how people might find smoking enjoyable. I’ve never really spent time around smokers– the smell isn’t as bad as people make it to be… I don’t mind it as much.” He shakes his head as he speaks, and Feinberg taps the ash off the cigarette with a quiet hum.

“You wanna try it?” The cashier offers it to him, smoke leaving his mouth in thin trails as he speaks, and reluctantly, he shakes his head at the man.

“I don’t wanna waste anything of yours. I don’t trust myself to smoke anyway, I might somehow choke and die because I inhaled wrong.” Feinberg chuckles at his words, waving a hand in the air and stepping closer.

“Don’t worry, you won’t have to do much but inhale. Here, come closer.” He’s unfortunately very drawn to the man next to him, so he listens, and Feinberg leans down, taking a deep inhale of the cigarette between his fingers before pressing closer to the hero. Fingers carefully cup his cheek, thumb pressing against his sealed lips to urge them open, and he lets Feinberg pull him close and tilt his head, parting his lips as Feinberg leans in and– fuck, he’s so close, this is kissing distance– there’s such a small gap of space between them– his eyes can help but flicker down towards his lips as the man only leans until their lips are nearly touching, and he stops there. All the self-control in Couriway is wearing thin as they stay in his position, and it takes him a second to realize that Feinberg is exhaling, feeling the warm breath from him as he directly exhales into Couriway’s mouth, smoke coating the inside of his mouth– eyes pressed closed so that he doesn’t surrender to his urges and press their lips together.

He closes his mouth when Feinberg pulls away a bit, electric cyan staring into his dark brown, and all the air has left his lungs, the only thing remaining in him is the poison filled oxygen that Feinberg had provided him, leaving him feeling weak in the legs and dizzy.

It’s not bad… it feels addicting– though that kinda seems like the point because it’s coming from cigarettes, and terribly, he finds himself wanting more after he finally exhales. He doesn’t know if he wants more smoke or if he just wants Feinberg close to him, but regardless, it’s a dangerous dance.

Feinberg leans back in again, and god, he’s so alluring like this. He really needs to get his priorities in check because they are so screwed right now. He parts his mouth to let the smoke infiltrate, but he’s taken aback when lips suddenly press against his, making a surprised noise from the feeling. Thin trails of gray escape from the corner of their mouths, floating into the air– the cigarette absolutely forgotten and dropped to the ground near them, entirely focused on the feeling of kissing each other.

It’s nothing short of passionate– Feinberg kisses like it’s the last thing he’s doing before the world ends, and Couriway has no objection to it. There’s undefinable amounts of longing found in the kiss, short gasps of air being taken before their lips meet again. Feinberg tastes exactly like the smoke lingering in the air around them, only a bit sweeter somehow but the questions about it on the tip of his tongue get kissed away before he can get anything out.

His lips are still soft as the day he had left the apartment, and it’s all he can focus on when they pull away to breathe, comparing the kisses as they grow intoxicated by each other. Static builds between them, the air thick and heavy with tension, Feinberg’s eyes glowing in the clouds of gray swirling around them, and he loves the way they’re blown out, reaching up and wrapping his arms around his neck and pulling him down to reconnect their lips again, needing it as much as the other man did.

They’re stuck in their smoke scented world, the only thing mattering was the other, the avian’s wings coming up to hide them in a cocoon, isolating them from the world. Feinberg’s hands come to pull him closer, smothering any sense of personal space between them. His touch burns even through Couriway’s clothing, a hot trail left behind as he holds the avian, clinging onto him like an anchor. He cradles Feinberg’s face, stroking his cheek as they pant for air, practically breathing in the air the other exhaled from how close they were, eyes lidded and never leaving each other before they fell closed again as they met in the middle, his hand sliding under Feinberg’s shirt and feeling each and every single one of his shaky inhales and exhales in the kiss, refusing to even entertain the thought of pulling away for long enough to get a good enough lung full of air to continue again.

The air is thick, his fingers trail over ribs through skin and Feinberg groans, a deep noise that makes Couriway furrow his brow and focus on pulling more noises from the other man, eagerly devouring each other in kisses. It’s addicting. He feels like if they stopped, he’d be chasing this high forever until he found himself in this same exact predicament again, hidden away from the prying eyes of the public and letting all his layers fall away for one man, encapsulated in their personal bubble, letting the world fall away from their minds and only focusing on each other. 

God, what the fuck was he doing?

He gains some clarity through the haze of smoke, pushing the villain away, a hand firm on the broad chest in front of him. “We.. we can’t do this.” He coughs out, the small wings on his face spreading open to flap away the nicotine scented air around them, hoping to do something to clear their minds more as everything sinks in for Couriway, wiping saliva from his lips as he turns away from Feinberg. He’s kissing the villain in an alleyway behind the man’s workplace. He’s a hero, indulging in something that could ruin his entire career and reputation as a person. 

People see him as an idol– there are people that look up to him– and here he is, mingling with the man responsible for more deaths than he can count on all of his limbs combined.

He goes to pull away, but the villain clings on tight, eyes wide when he looks up to meet his gaze, pulled back close again. Feinberg wraps himself around the hero, trapping the avian in his arms.

“No.. Please…” Feinberg’s unfathomably desperate whisper breeches into a small whine, and it tugs unforgivingly at Couriway’s heartstrings. He’s truly still only a simple man even if wings abnormally sprout from his back and face and feathers decorate his body, along with an unexplainable warmth always radiating from him, he still finds himself weak to what his heart truly wants even as his mind screams at him that he knows better– and he does, but he still doesn’t listen to his mind anyway, only continuing to dig a deeper grave for himself to die in. “Let me have this for a bit. Let me have you, please.” They lean close again, lips almost touching and both of them looking at each other with so many unreadable emotions in their eyes before Couriway closes his and leans away.

“We both know all too well that this has already gone far enough, Feinberg.” He regrets his words immediately when a shadow crosses the villain’s face and he pulls away, the space made between them feels so much more than it actually is– like Feinberg is now out of reach even though they’re still right next to each other. The other man immediately looks distant, and he watches as the worker moves to enter the store again, only being stopped when a quiet meow echoes through the alley, startling them both out of their somber moods.

The cat eyes Couriway warily, gravitating towards Feinberg and coiling around his legs, making various noises up at the man while he walks further into the alleyway, and the hero can’t help but trail after him, deadly curious.

He watches from afar as more cats begin to gather around the food bowls already set on the ground as Feinberg approaches, calling up to the man as he stands at the direct center, a bag of cat food in his hands pulled out from seemingly nowhere. Several felines rub against his legs, going as far as attempt to climb him as he fills the bowls, pulling more stray cats from the shadows of the alleyway, and when Couriway can pull his eyes away from the absolute hoard of cats gathered, he hears laughing and it gets his attention immediately, snapping his eyes up to the source.

Feinberg smiles and laughs as the cat that managed to make it all the way up to his shoulders keeps brushing against him, clearly wanting all the attention in the world as the rest of the cats eat, quiet purrs growing in volume due to how many there are. His laugh echoes in the alleyway, hitched giggles as the cats lighten the mood and defuse the suffocating tension in the air.

He’s completely transfixed by the shining grin on Feinberg’s face, quiet with the fear of revealing the fact that he’s still here and able to witness this side of the man. It’s hard to breathe as he watches the cat’s love Feinberg’s presence, trusting the man enough for a few of them to fall on their sides and show their belly as Feinberg sits down, immediately swarmed by the strays. Cat’s are smart animals– Couriway doesn’t know much about them but he knows that they will always know before anyone else if someone is dangerous or not, smart critters they are. If there are this many cats that trusted Feinberg enough, then maybe he isn’t such a bad person after all? He’s making excuses out of practically nothing, but animals will most likely always know better than anyone who to trust.

There's a few that linger further away, shy and hesitant to approach the man already drowning in an ocean of fur. One starts to approach Couriway, meowing at him and glancing up at him curiously, dark brown eyes peering up at him. He doesn’t know what to do as it circles him, chirping up at him, a soft chirp escaping him in reply before he bites his tongue to silence himself.

“Couri! Catch!” His head snaps up at the voice of Feinberg calling his name, feeling the way his heart flutters from just the way it’s said, all warm inside. A treat for the cats gets thrown in his direction, a few of them detaching from Feinberg to come over towards the golden avian. Whatever tension that was between them has been fully diffused now, sitting in an alleyway with the guy and feeding cats who have now come around to Couriway also existing with the man who was usually here feeding them, demanding attention from him too.

When Feinberg is able to remove himself from the ocean of cats, it dawns on him that this killer takes care of cats that would normally be forgotten about and struggle to live on their own usually. He’s feeding them with what was probably bought with his own money and taking time out of his day to give each of them the attention if they want it.

“Hey, does the offer for lunch together still stand?” Feinberg questions, walking towards the street and looking back at Couriway, head tilted. He looks nice with the sunlight behind him. He doesn’t have time to appreciate the sight though.

“Yeah, of course. We can go now,” He nods and jogs a bit to catch up.

He won’t be forgetting about what happened in the alleyway for a while, but for now, he won’t focus on it– he can think about it later.

Chapter Text

They have lunch together.

They have lunch together!

They have lunch together, and Feinberg is in his stupid fucking work shirt and some extremely worn down sweatpants– which, when compared with Couriway’s outfit, really puts him to shame.

Compared to him, Couriway looks like he’s got his life together, wearing something that made him look like he planned to go out somewhere to eat– looking far more presentable than Feinberg ever would’ve, wearing a nice sweater on with some loosely fitted cargo pants, and he can’t help but appreciate the nice sight before him. Couriway smells nice too, it’s something he can’t put a finger on but he knows it’s nice compared to Feinberg who smells burnt and like smoke everyday no matter what. He would never in his life admit this to anyone ever, but while they were still back at the store, he absolutely could not take his eyes off of the golden avian for whatever reason.

It’s not like they haven’t seen each other, because they have seen each other quite constantly in the past few weeks. They’ve seen each other but haven’t really actually seen each other. Their encounters are nearly the same every time, but there’s always something different in the air between them, past the choking static and the suffocating heat, something lingers. They always meet with Couriway with his wings spread above him and absorbing all the sunlight that reaches his golden feathers, and Feinberg looking up at the hero, still squinting through his shaded visor made for the exact purpose of looking at Couriway without being blinded, or the hero perched upon something as rain pours down on them both, the steady yet violent current of thunder pulsing through Feinberg’s veins, the clouds rumbling above them both as they stare at each other, wounded but never extremely hurt– yellow feathers stinged black at the tips and pale flesh under thick colorful armor beginning to bruise. It's a weird trance that they put each other in– staring at each other and catching their breath before usually getting snapped out of it by a strike of thunder or the scream of a nearby civilian and leaping back into action.

They’ve been dancing around each other, never able to just fully commit to any attacks at each other, always a bit of hesitation between every fight and confrontation. They’ve made each other weak, seeing who they were behind the helmet and mask, afraid of harming the delicate bond that had begun to waver after weeks of never actually seeing each other beyond these violent encounters. Couriway sees nothing but his bulky helmet whenever they meet, and he’s grateful for that fact because with the way his eyes never leave the hero’s figure would be so extremely obvious that it sickens him with the thought of someone seeing him like this.

That night gave him access to a version of Couriway beyond these dances, and his brain itches for the softness that had occurred that night, a constant thorn in his side that bothers him every time he goes to end his day, laying in his bed on his side and staring, loose golden feathers in his peripheral and held between his fingers, a constant reminder of who and what he couldn’t have, permanently out of reach. He finds himself in awe of the hero sometimes, something that had never occurred before that encounter, and he catches himself more often than not openly gaping at the man hovering above him with strong flaps of his wings, now aware of how strong he was due to his day to day work after seeing his back while wrapping bandages around his body. 

He now sees and understands why Couriway is so adored by the public.

Couriway is a breathtaking man. Was this why Icarus wanted to reach the sun so bad? Because he saw sights filled with such beauty beyond comprehension that he knew that if he didn’t go for it, then he would never ever be able to see it again? Was he so blinded by the beauty that he forgot the dangers of reaching for it? Or had he been aware and went for it anyway?

He finds himself understanding Icarus more and more everyday, remembering the famous tale that’s been morphed and changed orally and through writing too, but he still finds one fact to remain the same, and it’s that Icarus was ecstatic for whatever he had been reaching for, and even as he fell to his death– he still smiled, because it had been worth it.

For Icarus, dying had been worth it for the sight he had seen.

He doesn’t know if the circumstances are the same for him for everything to be worth it for Couriway.

But then again, he doesn’t have very much to his name anyway, so what would be the harm? To give up everything for Couriway?

No, he can’t do that. He’ll never be forgiven or pardoned for everything he’s done. He’d lose every little thing that he does have that he can call his belongings, and he’s already outcasted enough in society– he’s sure that Couriway holds the same malice towards him that he had felt before that night now with how long it’s been. Their paths as civilians don’t cross– Feinberg works his shift at the quiet convenience store hidden in a corner and goes home and repeats the cycle, but Couriway’s life seems filled to the brim with things that would never include him anywhere in it– hell, the ideal life for Couriway was probably one without Feinberg ever crossing paths with him at all. It would’ve been for the better if they never knew each other existed, that’s for certain.

He can’t be blamed for not being able to take his eyes away from the avian when they meet at his job, finally seeing Couriway again and not Nova hovering above him, a mask covering the warm brown eyes to leave his expression unreadable. He had watched as the man roamed around the store, eyes tracing the golden feathers on sunkissed cheeks and his wings, shining like the sun was absorbed into them. He almost forgot to breathe for a bit as he stared, finally tearing his eyes away when they started getting dry and returning to the cigarettes behind the counter, anything to occupy himself and stop himself from turning to keep staring at the man that's been haunting his sleepless nights.

They had ended up behind his workplace, and here they are now, going out to eat together.

He doesn’t know what's happening anymore between them.

It's nice to have Couriway like this for some reason, but he doesn’t get why exactly. It makes him feel conflicted– or more so confused because one moment they're bickering and fighting, then the next moment they're kissing behind his work place and now he knows that Couriway tastes like victory and something else that he finds himself craving again, almost like a drug. It could possibly be a drug, he doesn’t know but also can't exactly find it in him to care enough to know, because he's already on the path of being addicted to nicotine. What's the harm of another addictive drug that could– and probably would– get him killed in the long run?

Maybe Couriway is that drug. That drug that he gets a taste of and immediately gets hooked on, just to never have it again and lose himself in the hysteria of trying to find anything to replace the feeling he had experienced once.

His lungs expand and the air smells burnt, smoke still lingering around him like a haze to cloud his thoughts even though they’ve left that alleyway where his mind was quiet for once, sunken into the bliss of feeling–

No. He should get a grip of himself. There were no feelings involved in that exchange. It’s normal for things to get heated if you get close enough to someone to practically breathe in the same oxygen that they had just exhaled directly from their lungs– and okay maybe now that he’s thinking a bit harder about it, that is a bit… of a not normal thing to happen between two people.

Especially between them.

They shouldn’t have ever gotten this close, and that’s a fact. There’s a lot wrong with what they have now, and they can’t keep ignoring it– not with how dangerous it is to their lives as a whole. What would the world do if they knew Couriway had these moments with someone like him?

Currently, he has the power to ruin Couriway’s life forever, and truly, it would be really easy to destroy his life, but finds that he can’t bring himself to even plan out how he would do it. Although he knows that he really shouldn’t be getting to know the man and even going out for lunch with him, he finds himself guilty of wanting these simple things he's been missing from his dull and repetitive life due to his self isolation and anxious thoughts of letting someone grow close again just to be backstabbed by the same hands that would hold him like he was the only thing that mattered.

Sue him for still being human. He can accept being called inhuman for the fact that he harnesses an abnormal power that normal people shouldn’t have and that he's killed people, but he’s tried to ignore the human urges that… come along with being human, but you can only push everyone away so much until you can’t handle the loneliness and hopelessness that comes with it and try to pull them back only to find the rope that once held you together cut in half with no one attached. He hates it a lot, but there's nothing he can do about it. The damage has already been done, and whatever hope he feels towards Couriway, he should find a way to crush it fast before it gets too out of hand for him to do anything about.

Couriway shouldn’t be a welcome distraction in his monotone life that he's supposed to be enjoying. He should be annoyed and strike when the hero is most vulnerable, deciding to trust Feinberg of all people, but he's acting the opposite of what he really should be feeling towards the other man.

One day, the result of all of this will end up with his death.

One day– the fateful day where everything goes downhill because nothing will ever stay good forever when Feinberg is involved– he will hesitate when he sees Couriway, and that will be how he dies.

One day Couriway will kill him for the greater good and all of these small moments they shared together will no longer mean anything, because why would a man who’s better off dead mean anything to someone? Especially someone like the hero. It would mean nothing to Couriway if Feinberg died, and that’s a fact. It would probably be an improvement to the man’s life– to everyone’s life probably. It would only be a positive that such a terrible threat was removed from the world, and maybe Couriway would receive a raise from the agency he worked for too, as a bonus for completing such a monumental task after such a long back and forth between them.

He made the dreadful realization many nights ago that Couriway has made him pathetically weak, and it disgusts him.

He shakes his head to get rid of the thoughts, palm tapping his temple a few times before consciously standing up straighter as he walks, ignoring the look he's sent by the winged man for his odd behavior. Now isn't the time to dwell on stuff like that, not when they're currently not in that setting right now.

Couriway’s presence next to him is solid and real, something that he can’t ignore even if he tried, and it’s not like he can ignore what they were doing not that long ago too.

The taste of Couriway and smoke lingers in his mouth, and so does the feeling of the avian's hands trailing across his skin, a feeling that makes him burn and shiver just thinking about it. Both of them kissed like they needed the other to breathe, and he doesn’t understand why Couriway would act like that during the kiss. They were supposed to be nothing to each other and forget that single day at Feinberg’s apartment, yet it seems like that day was just yesterday and now it's like they're trying to do what they were so afraid to do last time they saw each other at their most vulnerable.

He's so terribly weak that it's laughable. It's been weeks and the smell of the hero still clouds his thoughts when he pushes his nose into the pillow that Couriway had slept on, too hesitant to wash his sheets to get rid of the smell and continuously excusing it as laziness, unable to confront the direct reason why he hasn’t done all of his laundry. It's pathetic behavior from a man like him, especially when he's got the blood of hundreds on his hands, but something about Couriway makes him disgustingly human to the point where he wants to rip his heart out every time it beats a bit faster when he sees the golden feathers or when it aches when he thinks about the man.

It's a terrible weakness, and what makes it worse is that it's obvious too– horribly obvious, and it makes him sick thinking about it. The avian had broken past all his walls he had reinforced everyday of his life so easily, as if he knew every little thing to do so that he could slip right past everything and gain immediate access to his traitorous heart, and he hates it because he doesn’t know why it was so easy.

Was it because Couriway was vulnerable then? Placing his life into Feinberg’s destructive hands and trusting him to not crush his heart and kill him immediately? Was it because the hero went to him of all people and trusted him more than the other close friends he probably had that could've done a better job than what he had done in his bed with what little medical knowledge he had from taking care of his own wounds? Couriway is smart, and Feinberg has never doubted him one little bit due to how often he was able to stand his ground against him as a support hero, so why? Why did he do all this? Why did he willingly pick Feinberg out of everyone that would be oh so willing to help him without the chance of him being rejected and left for dead?

Sometimes it makes him miserable thinking about it, knowing that the person he had shared such a vulnerable moment with is a hero that could have hidden motives that he really should be aware of and keep his walls up because of the chances too. He doesn’t understand Couriway, and it tears him up on the inside. He misses someone he shouldn’t, and he knows he's doomed because of it. Couriway has already gained access to his traitorous heart by barely doing anything and Feinberg doesn’t know if the hero is aware of that fact.

He's terribly lonely, and this was something that is more than well-known, so to have someone come over and share such an intimate night with him only to leave had him longing for the feeling of another person in his bed with him again, feeling too small in his already quite small mattress, one that was realistically only made for just one singular person to sleep in. Every night that he crawls under the covers, he secretly wishes that there was another person with him that he could trust enough to turn his back towards in his sleep and to hold him too, because his bed feels too empty every time he closes his eyes. Behind his closed eyes, he sees golden feathers and hears a soft giggle in his dreams, brown hair and eyes catching his attention, round glasses reflecting his own reflection back at him, always reminding him who he was.

It's not just his bed, it's his entire apartment that feels empty, and he never minded it before because he never had anyone over to stay the night till the morning, but now he has had someone stay the night, and now his heart aches heavily when he thinks about when he had woken up and found Couriway sitting on the counter eating something in Feinberg’s clothes like he lived there, a sight that looked so normal and welcoming and also fake that he thought he was dreaming still.

But when he gets his suit back from Mime after repairs, he'll have to face Couriway again as if these moments never happened, and what will happen after they’ve fought with the intent to kill each other? Would Couriway confront him about it next time they saw each other without their identities hidden to the world? He knows exactly where Feinberg lives and where he works, and Feinberg knows absolutely nothing about Couriway in return. 

That realization leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, the thought making up glance over at the man that he's realized that he knows the basic things a stranger would and absolutely nothing more. That's funny– oh, it makes him a bit nauseous, actually– finally realizing that he's been seeing everything through rose-tinted glasses and that Couriway sees him as practically nobody important to him even after he had turned his back towards the one guy who's spent more time than anyone else trying to kill the hero.

This relationship with Couriway is supposed to be a shallow thing, something that he cannot afford to dip more than his toes into before retreating. It should’ve been nothing, yet it became everything in such a short amount of time, leaving Feinberg with his soul bared to someone that should be the last person to see him in such a vulnerable state with nothing offered in return, no equivalent exchange between them to secure it as at least beneficial to both parties.

He's fucked beyond belief. It makes him ill knowing how much power and blackmail Couriway must be holding over his head, aware of all the mistakes the villain had already made and ensuring that the hero would always have an advantage in everything. 

It wasn't fair– it's not fair how Couriway can be so happy and live such a good life while Feinberg has to resort to killing people and robbing places to make sure he'd see the next day. It's so unfair. He hates it. He hates Couriway and every hero there was and how people will always admire them for kicking people while they were already down.

He hates their power imbalance, and he particularly hates how Couriway seems to be so oblivious to it all. Why was he even doing this? He's using him. He has to be. There’s no other better explanation for what this could be. Why would Couriway be interested in an actual friendship and god forbid something more with someone like Feinberg who had nothing to bring to the table but trouble? He fell for the deception and tricks so easily, why did he ever think it was okay to have his guard down ever?

He jolts and flinches back when a hand grazes against his own, the air filled with a static charge emitted from the lightning stored in the vessels of his body, and the glimpse of golden feathers makes the electricity jump to his fingertips before unfathomably worried brown eyes meet his which make all the thunder retreat again, hiding inside his body and stored away until he needs it.

Couriway looks puzzled by his reaction and the static they can so easily feel in the air, a feeling that they both should be equally familiar with. A soft “sorry,” escapes him before he can put more thought into it, hoping it's enough to pull the hero's thoughts away from the static charge in the air. “Ignore it,” he pleads quietly, “I am not the villain right now, and you are not the hero, so you shouldn't worry about it. Don't ruin today for the both of us.”

The avian opens his mouth, and Feinberg fears the worst.

“Where do you wanna go for lunch?”

Oh. Oh, right– that– they were still doing that. Getting lunch together. That was still happening. That was still something on the table.

He flounders for an answer– for a good reply to the man. He thinks about a bakery, but eating something so sweet doesn’t seem so appealing when his stomach is in knots and doing flips upon itself. Maybe somewhere with fast food could work, but the thought of Couriway looking down at him for picking somewhere like McDonald's also sickens him, because why would a hero ever sink as low as to eat at a place like fucking McDonald's of all establishments?

“The café across the street?” He finally blurts out, and Couriway looks in the direction of what he's talking about, a flicker of familiarity appearing on his face when he lays his eyes on the building.

“That place works for me, I even have a discount thing there so it works out even better!” Couriway’s smile and words leave a sour taste in his mouth. Of course the hero would have a discount. Where wouldn't he have a discount? There's always people wanting to suck up to the hero, it's probably over inflated his ego to enormous amounts with the amount of civilians who crowd to him for any ounce of attention that he might possibly give them. He scoffs quietly under his breath before composing himself, casting the hero a look that gets avoided in favor of watching the street, cars going along their day in the city, always busy.

Couriway’s wings twitch from where they're laid on his back, almost like they’re itching to spread out and take flight. His fingers twitch too, some strange urge burning hot under his skin to touch the soft warm feathers. They reach towards the appendages before he stops himself, going to lower his hand which suddenly gets snatched up, a yelp pulling itself from his throat and a light shock zapping through his body from Couriway grabbing him to drag him across the street. He’s sure that the other man probably felt the shock, but it’s ignored in favor of being yanked through rapidly moving cars, a loud honk startling another jolt of electricity through him while Couriway laughs loudly, dragging him to the other sidewalk.

He’s spun around, eyes wide as he loses balance nearly immediately, but their intertwined hands keep him from falling to the ground completely. Couriway is still laughing as he holds Feinberg up, wings spread, and he really needs to shut his mouth because he probably looks ridiculous with it agape in surprise like this. The giggles echo in his head as he stares at the smile stretched so wide across the avian's face that it probably hurts.

His mouth closes with a click when he stands up straight again, their hands falling apart as they separate and Couriway’s sudden laughter ceases eventually, fading as he catches his breath, looking back over to Feinberg with that terribly bright smile that blinds him, and he feels his next inhale catch in his throat. It's not fair how Couriway can so effortlessly make him feel so weak, his pulse hot and heavy as his body tingles, his heart aching painfully in his chest. His skin burns from where they were touching, making him shake his hand out in hopes of getting rid of the lingering feeling (the feeling doesn’t fade, and even as it burns, he wants more of it).

No, it really isn’t fair.

The small wings on his face frame him so well, not to mention the sun behind his head creating a halo too, eyes scrunched closed under those stupid ridiculously circular glasses, and oh– oh, Couriway has dimples.

That’s… really cute.

What a horrible realization.

People walk around them on the sidewalk, and when someone pushes against his shoulder too strongly trying to walk past him, it gives them both a push to actually go inside of the place instead of lingering outside like two idiots.

The bell above the door chimes softly to signal their arrival, but he's unsure if it was heard over the hustle and bustle of the cafe, filled with people taking breaks for their own lunch times. He's weary, possibly unreasonably so, but public spaces full of people isn't something he's ever enjoyed or actively sought out, enjoying his job at the quaint convenience store hidden around the corner simply because there wasn't ever much foot traffic there meaning that it was usually empty or had one to two people in it at max.

There's a line of okay length between them and the register, and Couriway seems to already be distracted on his phone so he decides to start his endless doom scrolling as he waits, a tiny smile gracing his features at the sight of cats on his twitter feed. He marks down the amount of time between every time he steps forward, just so he doesn’t have to look up to check if Couriway has moved up yet so that he could take the space that had been occupied.

He accidentally bumps into Couriway the next time he tries to move forward, getting a wing fluffed out in his face (his feathers are so soft–) when he slams into the avian's back, startling the both of them. He looks up and– ah, they're already at the cashier. An apology is caught in his throat when Couriway turns to look at him for the sudden bump, but it doesn't come out, stuck on the top of his tongue but the words don't form, so he looks away and back at his phone instead.

Doesn’t he have to order too? But he hasn't looked at the menu, and he's pretty sure he doesn’t have an extraordinary order for them to remember with his face, so he can’t just hope that they remember– he can’t just bet on that, it’s not going to work out. Couriway seems to be unintentionally buying time for him, so he looks at the menu while the avian strikes up a conversation with the cashier. 

He doesn’t really listen, only catching the moments where the man's feathers ruffle with amusement and he shakes with a few giggles. Those small things draw his attention away from reading the menu, and when Couriway finishes his order and whatever wonderful conversation he was having with the cashier, he still doesn’t know what to order.

Somehow, he's been blessed with a miracle of some sort, because the worker looks at him and suddenly lights up with recognition that isn't reflected at all.

“Oh! It’s you!! Do you want the usual?” The worker– his eyes flicker down to the tag on their chest– “Nerdi” he reads, chirps at him and he doesn’t recognize the name or face at all. It tastes foreign on his tongue, words warping in his mouth weirdly when he replies.

“Yeah, that would be nice. Thanks… Nerdi.” He doesn’t feel like anything he said was genuine, his sentence lifeless and more of just trying to acknowledge the kid and getting the conversation over with. Somehow, he remembers Feinberg, but the glowing blonde hair and the face that has far too much life still in it for working in a job that has to do with customer service doesn’t ring a single bell in his head.

Nerdi beams at him, and he offers a small awkward smile back before he retreats from the entire social interaction itself and finds refuge by Couriway’s side, the presence of the shorter familiar at this rate, which is strange, because if he went back in time to tell his past self that he’d be having lunch with the Couriway, he’d probably be electrocuted to death on the spot.

His past self wasn’t very good at managing his anger– it’s gotten better overtime somewhat but it’s not a big improvement by any means. Mime suggested professional help which left the conversation in silence with Feinberg staring at him like he was insane, in which the other only shrugged then said “or work in customer service, maybe exposure might help you.” which, in retrospect, was possibly one of the worst suggestions ever, but he's too far in now to back out.

He knows his coworkers names, and they know his name. They’re understaffed as is so it’s not like he could even quit his job and force his coworkers to do extra for the missing person they once had that could usually cover anyone’s shift if he felt like it that day. He feels a bit mad even thinking about it. He's grown used to interacting with Mustard and Silver during his shifts, and rarely do they actually do more than just coexist in the same place together and work their miserable jobs, but when they do it's a nice moment. And the cats too, keeping them company and fed was also important, they didn't have much outside of him and they've grown to enjoy each other's company anyways.

“I didn't know you were a regular here,” Couriway starts small talk, tucking his phone away and focusing on Feinberg.. who does not do the same, keeping his loosely held in his hand but looking away from it. “I've never seen you here.”

“Uhm,” he coughs, “I actually don't know what he's talking about because I don't go here regularly–? at least, not enough to really remember his face or name..” He puts his phone face down, leaning back a bit in his chair as he talks. Couriway tilts his head at his words, and Feinberg shrugs. “I don’t go here during the day at least, I don’t go outside to eat much– cafes are loud and full of people during the day and.. er, well, I don’t particularly enjoy public spaces that much.”

“Do you think you go during the night and just don’t remember because you’re too tired?” Couriway reasons, and Feinberg frowns.

“No, I get more active during the night and would be more awake– well, unless I was.. doing something before, then the rest of the night is a blur.” He bites his tongue after he finishes the sentence, aware of how awkwardly he had hinted towards his villainry during the night, and Couriway doesn’t give much of a reaction, only the small flick of a head wing is what he gets as acknowledgement.

Couriway shrugs a bit, avoiding eye contact. “Well, it seems that you must go here often in your daze after your night time activities if the workers recognize you that easily.” He says, and Feinberg hums quietly.

“Seems like I do.” He replies, and the conversation falls flat there. Couriway looks out the window, and Feinberg looks back down at his phone. They don’t have that much to talk about– it feels awkward to try to talk about anything about their lives, both of them too hesitant to cross the already quite blurred line between them. They’ve kissed and they know what each other tastes like, but they can’t hold a conversation to save their lives. It’s embarrassing. They’re both grown men, but they can’t do anything about this situation between them.

Their eyes catch occasionally, Couriway people watching and Feinberg scrolling on his phone, and it shows their clean differences. The hero would rather watch the way the world moves around him, taking in the sights without interfering, silently observing how different everyone was, watching like a side character, witnessing part of another person's story unfold before his very eyes while Feinberg is stuck to his phone, scrolling endlessly with no real goal in sight.

He’s miserable, while Couriway is not.

It’s probably due to their views of the world, but Couriway is lucky, while he is not, and that is their major difference no matter what. No matter what he does now, nothing will improve with his life. Why even try?

He’s startled by the call of his and Couriway’s name, looking up and ready to step out of his seat to grab his order only to see that the hero has beaten him to it, talking to the basically glowing cashier and waving with his wing in return to the cheerful wave from the teen as a goodbye. Couriway carefully places his food down in front of him, and he accepts it with a curt nod, quietly wondering what Couriway’s order was compared to his.

It’s nothing too exciting, just a simple chicken sandwich with some water to the side– simple and healthy. He has a burger, and the leafy greens and red wet tomatoes draw his attention, making him frown. He might look childish for what he’s about to do but it's either he does this or just doesn’t eat at all, and he is pretty hungry, so he lifts the soggy feeling bun and starts pushing the lettuce and tomatoes off, deciding to also scrape off whatever sauce there was too, making a face at the thought of the texture. 

By the end of his reconstruction of the burger, all that’s left is the patty and melted cheese between the two buns, and only then does he take a bite, wondering why this was apparently his usual rather than just some plain burger.

It seems that Couriway has the same question because he speaks up after he’s done chewing. “Why didn’t you just get a cheeseburger if you’re just going to pick everything off?” The hero eyes the discarded vegetables to the side, and Feinberg coughs, chewing mechanically on his bite before he swallows.

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, “apparently this is my usual, and I don’t really understand why either. I’ll just trust what the worker says– even if it’s probably wrong.” Couriway hums quietly, and Feinberg watches as the avian reaches for the discarded red and green with the plastic fork provided by the cafe.

“Do you think they were trying to make us spend more money here? The kid looks nice, so I don’t think he would do that, but it’s not out of the realm of possibility– you did let them give you whatever.” He’s unblinking as he watches Couriway talk and feed himself the bits that he had taken out of his burger, silent for a moment as the other man eats.

He swallows thickly, about to ask where the hell does the man go out to eat for something like that to occur, only to realize suddenly that he hadn’t ever paid for the burger. Sure, he had said that Couriway would pay for wherever they were going, but he was joking. He really hadn’t meant that seriously even though it wasn’t like he was joking either, but this would mean he owes Couriway something– it means that he’s now in debt to the man even though it was just a lunch. It’s not a lot but it’s still something that makes him anxious, being indebted to anyone ever.

“Did you pay for my food too?” There’s a small strain to his voice, and his appetite is all gone, replaced with a heavy feeling in his stomach that makes him nauseous. He’s stressing himself out for no reason, he knows this, but he can’t help it. His mind is a conflicted mess, constantly stuck between trusting Couriway but also not because at the same time the Couriway that’s sitting across from is also Nova, which is why he’s so conflicted as is.

Could he trust the other man to keep their second lives outside of these sparse meetings?

“Yeah, of course I did? If you’re worrying about the price I had a discount, I don’t expect or really need you to repay me. You’re fine, I promise.” He hates– oh, how he fucking hates how the words actually work to calm him– whether it be because of the tone or because it’s fucking coming from Couriway, he doesn’t want to say it’s either of them. Couriway says it so casually, like paying didn’t mean something– like it wasn’t money straight from his wallet, but he’s sure that Couriway has plenty of money, along with the discount the overpriced items must not seem that bad at all. But he’s spending it on Feinberg, and he doesn’t deserve such charity as this.

He nods mutely, his leg bouncing under the table as he looks back outside. He’s antsy, fingers fidgeting, and he’s craving for something. He looks away from the window, only to see Couriway looking out instead, a soft smile on his face with sunlight cast down on him almost like the sunbeams were gravitating towards him, drawn in by the upturn of his lips that he’s been attempting to pull his eyes away from. He’s craving something terribly unhealthy for him, he’s realized. He shouldn’t, yet he does. He knows all too well how bad it is for both of them– the negative effects are already well noticeable everytime they interact– yet he still wants it unfortunately.

Couriway turns and meets his eyes, and Feinberg turns away.

Man, he needs a cigarette.