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The sun over Couriway’s head is hot on the back of his wings, the sand below burning through his shoes, but the anger in his chest as he sees Feinberg stepping through the worn gate to the camp, small from his vantage point on the cliff, scorches his stomach.
His gaze tracks Feinberg on the ground below, shoulders still covered by that obnoxious pink and blue jacket, though it is stained with what looks like blood. He looks around, seeing the tents, ragged after weeks of being left untended— briefly, Couriway worried for his friends. It had been… a few weeks, at least, since they had set out in search for food, and they had hoped to be back by the end of the first.
Couriway sighs. What a nice thought.
Below, Feinberg sees Couriway, golden wings (he scoffs at how clichéd the concept is, not even taking into account that it’s real) silhouetted against the eternally clear sky. He sighs; he was hoping that the little mutant would be dead already. Maybe then, he would stop watching over this place like some kind of guard dog. The dull, greyed out name written on his shoulder twinges, though he hasn’t felt pain that wasn’t his own for years.
Still, he isn’t here for Couriway— since when was he, really?
The bundle tucked under Feinberg’s arm seems to burn through his flesh, though it is far cooler than the suffocating air around him. He, briefly, considers leaving it here, near the wall, but that seemed a little too dismissive of him, considering—
He could barely see through the red-gold vignette around his vision, now. Feinberg gripped his trident tighter in his hand, stabbing it into the sand like a crutch for a split second as he almost tripped over a body. He slashed forward blindly, but heard the sickening sound of point-through-flesh and was satisfied enough to take a step back—
— considering that this was almost certainly his fault.
He walks into one of the tents briefly. The interior is packed up— pens and stationery neatly lined against the back of the table, blanket folded up with the pillow on top at the end of the cot, bags near the entrance— which is unusual; must be that creature Couriway, again. Maybe he saw that they weren’t coming back and put all their stuff away. Begrudgingly, he accepts that this was not a horrible move to make, considering what he himself knows now.
He leaves the tent.
Couriway climbs down the cliff instead of flying, this time. He can feel the warning bells ringing in the back of his head, telling him of the predator down in the camp below. Still, Feinberg is only human (which stars he wished he wasn’t, if it would make him stop rubbing it in his face even though Couriway didn’t even fucking care—), and this would be fine.
This would be fine.
Obviously, it’s just as Couriway has that thought that he looks up from his spot just at the bottom of the rockface and sees Feinberg in front of him.
They stare at each other for a moment. Not even a moment, really— it’s half a second before Couriway averts his eyes, unable to stand it because he can feel the hatred boiling in his stomach, soaking through his pores, coating his skin red like the blood that poured from his face when he tore that cursed symbol off his face that was imposed upon him by—
Feinberg continues staring; if not because he wanted to, to make Couriway uncomfortable. It was clearly working, too; he saw the way he looked away, tensed, wings spread as if looking for an opportunity to escape.
A long pause. Then, Feinberg drops a ball of rags at his feet. “You know what this means,” he says, uncharacteristically quiet.
Couriway picks them up. He recognises the colours, the textures, the places where the fabric had been patched over. He also recognises the sickly fragments of pus-covered flesh that stick to the threads. Bile rises in his throat.
He practically throws the torn clothing onto the floor. “Shit,” he breathes. His shoulders drop, then tense, then drop again, unsure what to do, because he knew what they meant. “They…”
“Yeah.” Feinberg’s voice is quieter than expected.
A pause. Then, Feinberg lifts the trident off his back, holding it loosely in one hand. Dried blood, cracking, dulls the shimmer of the tip. The blood on Feinberg’s clothes is not his own; Couriway realises that now.
He staggers back, eyes blown wide, mouth dropped open. “Feinberg,” he says, something like anger-fear-dread sinking into his gut, “Feinberg. Did you— did you—” He cuts himself off. He wants to say something, terrified words clogging up his windpipe, but he couldn’t say anything through what felt like sewn together lips.
The silence, stretching thick between the pair, horrified in their own separate ways, speaks enough for the both of them.
“I didn’t fucking mean to kill them, alright,” Feinberg finally grits out, (but he did, he did, and that made it all the more horrible, didn’t it, that in the moment, his instinct was to kill and kill and not worry about whose face it was that he was cutting open and kicking to the sand-covered floor), “You know I wish you were dead in place of them as much as you wish it was me, but they were my friends too. Something— something came over me, yeah? That’s all it was.”
Couriway scoffs— does Feinberg think he’s this dense? “Right, yeah, and I’m supposed to believe that, you sick bastard.”
“I didn’t, you—”
“Okay, so,” Couriway says, stepping back, wings flaring in intimidation and stars it feels good to be the one to cut off Feinberg after all this time, “You come to my camp, tell me that oh, your friends are dead and it was my fault, and then you backtrack and then say that no it wasn’t, something came over me— who believes that shit?— and I’m supposed to believe that you aren’t in the wrong? What a joke—”
“Shut the fuck up, Couri,” Feinberg drawls loudly, (“Don’t call me that,” Couriway protests, which he ignores), having to stop himself from rolling his eyes because this is supposed to be serious, “Of course you don’t understand.” He laughs lowly. “Maybe it’s like— monsters relate to monsters, right? Our friends are dead in those bodies. The ones left aren’t even sentient anymore. Maybe that’s why you care so much about them, because you—”
“Did you even realise why I tore my skin off my fucking face?”
Couriway’s hands clench at his sides. His wings blot out the sun. The scar on his face is an angry red, as it had been since it had healed over. “I never wanted to be near you. I never wanted to feel your pain in whatever twisted form of empathy whatever higher being might be up there forced on me, especially not yours even, you awful, horrible, repugnant piece of—”
“Now, now, Couri,” Feinberg says, mockingly placating, “there’s no need to get so… worked up about this. If I didn’t know better,” and now Couriway can feel the sickly sweetness staining the air, “I would think you’re some kind of animal. But you’re saying that you aren’t, and of course perfect Couriway couldn’t be anywhere close to an animal. Oh wait,” A smirk, “that’s a lie, isn’t it?”
A pause. Couriway can’t breathe.
“Leave,” he says, hands shaky now, why were they shaking, “Get out of here. You—”
“Well okay,” Feinberg says, encouraging the scorn in his voice to become a little more pronounced, to hide the horror in his voice at the next thing he was about to say, “You’re going to kick out the only sentient life— oh, sorry, the only other sentient life left on this planet—”
“Get out!”
Couriway breathes heavily. His eyes are wide.
Feinberg raises his hands, face twisted in some unknown emotion. “Fine. Fine!” he said, voice raised in frustration, because why can’t he just understand, “I’ll go, and then you’ll die out here, and then I’ll be the last person alive even though you hate that I’d be getting that honour. Is that what you want?”
“Yes, if it means I can forget you even existed.”
Feinberg walked off. Faintly, some people-pleaser part at the back of Couriway’s brain wondered if he had somewhere else out in the middle of that wilderness. He pushed the thought away.
A ball of crumpled rags lay at his feet.