Archive of Our Own

President Poundcake visits his house for lunch. It’s been thirty minutes and he hasn’t made any jokes, which means that something is wrong. He pitches a recruitment for the third season of Taskcrafter and doesn’t even complain about how Feinberg is going to win, which also means whatever issue plaguing Poundy has been bothering him for a while.

“Spit it out.”

“Huh?” Poundy pauses midway through a bite of his burger, “Did you poison this?”

“You wish. Ask the question you wanna ask already and stop stalling.”

“Can it wait? This is actually pretty good. You’re putting your 50 hours spent scrolling on delivery apps to good use.”

“Just one delivery app, actually.”

Feinberg cracks open a can of soda and manages to get through the entire drink before Poundy finally speaks. When he does, it’s dead serious, and the last possible sentence he expects to come out of his mouth.

“Do you… Have you fallen in love with Couriway?” 

Feinberg squints.

“What? That’s such a dumb fucking question to ask.” It might be the sugar rush that fuels the large burst of emotion that follows. Mostly, there’s relief. He thought it was going to be bad news.

“Okay buddy,” Poundy says, bristling slightly. “Maybe I was reading too much into the moony eyes, but don’t blame a guy for having some imagination. I really thought—”

“That’s not what I said at all,” Feinberg cuts him off with an air of impatience. “Isn’t it obvious how I feel about Couriway?” He’s under the impression that everyone except Couri himself has seen through him, but saying it out loud still makes his stomach twist violently. 

Poundy stills for just a second, before his jaw drops wide open. Maybe he should consider dropping bombshells on him more often if his reaction was always going to be so comical. 

“You won’t tell him,” Feinberg says, in that familiar tone he takes when instructing teammates.

Poundy splutters. “What the fuck do you mean don’t tell him?”

“I mean exactly what I just said, dude.”

“Why?”

“If he doesn’t reciprocate, I want to hear it directly from him, not you.”

“Fein, the likelihood of you eating a vegetable is higher than Couri rejecting you.” He ignores the middle finger Feinberg sends his way, barreling onwards, “Have you been listening to anything he says when you’re mentioned since forever? It’s disgusting.”

“Only for a few years.”

“Semantics. I’m sick and tired of him bouncing on it, is the fucking point.”

Feinberg rolls his eyes. There’s no hiding the upwards twitch of his lips, though. “Or maybe he’s just a supportive best friend. Ever consider being that sometime?”

“I am an amazing friend,” Poundcake says, and it is unfortunately, unequivocally true. “Feinberg, I don’t care how you do it, just get your shit together and let him know. Trust me, it’ll work out.”

The soda crumples under his fingers as he regards the odd bit of sincerity in Poundy’s last sentence. Feinberg pieces fragments of the situation together in his brain, analyses it like he has a thousand times before, and comes to the same conclusion.

“I’ll think about it.”

—

True to his word, Feinberg thinks about it for a day. Then a week. Then a month. He cycles through every excuse in the book until he’s left with none. Thankfully, event after event throws itself at him, and he makes sure to wave it in Poundy’s face without bringing Couri up, as if to say see? I’m busy. Can’t do anything today.

He’s certain Poundy is one straw away from ripping his hair off out of sheer frustration. But like the good friend he is, he keeps the secret, and Couriway is none the wiser. 

—

It’s the day before Minecraft Championship Pride, also known as the perfect time for Feinberg to cram in a last minute call with the Red Rabbits. Grian is busy pairing socks or whatever that strange man is known for doing during his free time, so it’s a relief that Shelby and Cleo pick up in an instant.

The discussion goes swimmingly (teammates who want to have fun but are also willing to try are practically all he can ask for by this point), they ask all the right questions, and for once in his life, Scott has mercifully granted him a team that has a second frag. Individual performance has never been a problem to Feinberg, but here he sees the potential to win together with his team. To further stoke his growing conviction, it’s what the majority are predicting, even if some of it are just Grian enjoyers tipping the scale. How much of a rarity is that?

Feinberg’s just about done scanning through his MCC statistics on stream when he hears a rustling to his right.

“Couriway,” he greets, “Need anything?”

“You left the window open for me to fly through,” Couri sounds more touched than he should be, really, but completely unsurprised that Feinberg is able to discern that it’s him without even turning around.

“Mhm.”

“I could kiss you right now.”

“I’m still live, by the way,” Feinberg says, and Couri freezes. “Say hi to Feinberg chat.”

Feinberg’s chat, which was already off speculating the reason behind Couri’s sudden visit, promptly proceeds to lose their minds. There’s a slew of question marks and laughing gifs and wow, this bit is almost certainly getting clipped. Because, surely, that’s what Couriway intended for it to be. A bit. He’s no stranger to content farming himself. Professional Speedrunning pays a lot, but the people watching pay infinitely more.

Couri waves with one of his wings. “Hi, Feinberg chat. So we’re all ignoring that, right?”

“Yeah. That’s good, I was about done here anyways.” He tactfully doesn’t acknowledge any of the messages joking about what might happen between them ("he’s getting his kiss off screen guys") after the stream ends, and shuts down his computer with a hasty goodbye.

“Awesome.” 

“You come by so much, I’m too lazy to get up and unlock the door each time. It’s only this window that’s open, so don’t try the other ones unless you feel like smashing face first into glass.” Feinberg swivels his chair to finally face Couriway. He blinks, raising both his eyebrows. “Why do you look like you just robbed a florist?”

Couriway spins to give him a full view of his outfit. “Because flowers are cute, Feinberg. If you think it’s not, don't say anything, Spacebrownies made it. It’s what I’m wearing for MCC and it’s too late to change now.”

There’s an assortment of poppies and daisies twisting from the lower half of Couri’s pant leg to the entirety of his left sleeve. Replacing the golden crown that bears indication of his past world records is a rainbow flower crown, resting halo-like on Couriway’s hair. It’s like someone took the world’s most colourful paintbrush and flicked it at him. 

“I’m aware,” Feinberg drums his fingers on his armrest. Couri is decked in shades of plum, making his allegiance to the Purple Pandas more than clear. “I never said it wasn’t nice. It’s just that MCC is tomorrow.”

“You can never be too early.”

He does hate latecomers. “I guess.”

“Speaking of early, my team was talking about voting to play Build Mart first,” Couriway strolls his way over to Feinberg’s couch and throws himself on it. There’s an ironic smile on his face. “I’m sure you’re really excited about that. We’re definitely not the only ones, too.”

Feinberg makes a vague noise of frustration, moving from his setup to sit next to him. Build Mart needs to be in the latter half of games played so his team can reap the high coin multiplier benefits, but his competition is far from cooperating. “I don’t get it. What’s so fucking bad about Build Mart that people are dying to be rid of it?”

“You’re unfairly good at Build Mart, which is terrible for everyone else.” Couriway’s tone is equal parts fond and frustrated. 

“It’s not only me. Grian and Shubble are decent as well… that probably makes it even worse, but it’s not like everyone else is automatically ass because we’re good. It’s a losable game.” Is what comes out of Feinberg’s mouth, because it technically is losable, but he’s fully expecting first place. 

“They are. You’re still in a whole different league though. It’s like, not even close.”

There are some things in life that prove to be immutable. Examples include the sky being blue, Hax being full cleared, and Couriway going out of his way to praise Feinberg when literally nobody asked.

Feinberg cranes his head back and feels the brush of yellow feathers tickling the base of his neck. Couri’s wings twitch, eventually staying put. “Can I ask you for something?” 

“Of course.”

“Vote for Meltdown instead?” 

Couri snorts. “I can’t do that.”

“That’s messed up.”

—

Build Mart gets played first as expected, but Feinberg doesn’t see a universe in which it could have gone better. He completes every single Gold Build with at least 45 seconds left of the 2 minutes allocated to each one without fail. Whenever he waits, he spots instances of players huddled around Gold Builds he’s long replicated, frequently making return trips as well as complaining about the difficulty of having to perfectly memorise it. For the Red Rabbits, any struggle with that aspect is overcome by Feinberg’s preternatural image recall alone.

One of the times he runs past Couriway, they make eye contact. Spilling in Couri’s hands are blocks he’s trying to rush back to his team, a look of poorly concealed panic on his face an indication he might be too late. Feinberg, ever-focused on winning, doesn’t smile and doesn’t wave, but he gently shoulder checks him as they make contact, and the message is simple: Good Luck.

When the scores roll in, second place hardly even comes near.

Couriway: how did you do the nether one first try i had to go back to look at it 3 times

Feinberg: just remember the blocks

Couriway: how

Feinberg: idk just remember 

Feinberg: its like just going the right way instead of using glowdar

Couriway: shut up you’re so unhelpful

Victory is sweet, but Couri’s message is almost sweeter.

—

The voting for the next game culminates in a two way tie between To Get to the Other Side and Bingo. Feinberg’s skilled at both, but his team frankly doesn’t appear to have quite the same edge in speed bridging. He’s confident they’ll do better in Bingo as opposed to anything requiring raw movement; TGTTOS is the clear option to play first. As the random dice clatter down to decide which game gets picked, he waits with bated breath.

There are complaints that luck always takes the side Feinberg stands behind. It puts him on half a heart instead of zero, gifts him with endless strays, lets him go perpetually unpunished. For today, those claims are proven right.

“It’s To Get to the Other Side,” Shelby exhales, visibly relieved.

“Okay. That’s not terrible," says Cleo, and Feinberg can only agree with their assessment.

“As long as it’s not Bingo.”

“The stacking gimmick is back for this one, bless Scott. We can all just piggyback off you while you build and parkour us to victory, Fein.” Grian’s delivery is humorous, but the gameplan is completely serious. Get close enough to a player and you can lift yourself up to sit cross-legged above their head, like riding on an invisible saddle, all while not affecting said player’s performance. Letting Feinberg literally carry all of them might be their best shot at succeeding.

“There’s some maps I have to crouch while building, which will eject everyone off me, so I don’t think it’s viable each time.” Feinberg hums, evaluating the ones that cycle through his head. “If it is though, I’ll comm where I am in the crowd and if you find me in time before the game starts, it’ll work out.”

—

The first map is just parkour and a dropper, but Feinberg does abysmally by his own standards. He fails two skips and stumbles his way through the drop at the end, registering a subpar placement. Every competitive bone in his body creaks in abject horror. If they were going to do well, if they were going to win, being average wasn’t good enough. 

It’s okay. He might be sucking right now, but there’s five other maps left for him to redeem himself and bump his placement up, so he doesn’t dwell on the issue. Out of sight, out of mind. There are bigger problems to worry about, anyway. Cleo gets themselves lost with a minute left on the clock, and it’s far from pretty. Feinberg is about to step in, but his teammates beat him to it.

“It’s okay,” Shelby attempts to be reassuring, voice crackling into their comms channel.

“No, it’s not,” Cleo says plainly. 

“No, it’s not,” Grian echoes, “You got this though. Go up those white stairs.”

“Then to your left, Cleo,” says Shelby, “and up the other stairs.”

He can see Grian nod approvingly. Thirty or so translucent bodies float around them, waiting for the stragglers to finish so the next round can begin. “To your right now. Just keep going up, up, up, and you’ll see the dropper. Try not to stop.” 

Feinberg’s not as close with Cleo as Shubble and Grian are, so he’s more than happy to let the pair guide them while he goes and scouts out extra coins. Being able to fly around in spectator makes it easy to create distance.

Despite his competence in ordering teams around, Feinberg loses footing adjusting to new people outside of it. It’s like plunging into unexplored waters when he could just stay in the HBG kiddie pool. He isn’t predisposed to starting conversations, not unless a topic that he’s interested in crops up, in which he’ll indulge and yap on and on (few people in the world dare tell him to shut up, stranger or not) until everyone in the vicinity grows sick of him.

The Red Rabbits are nice, though, and eager to win, and that’s more than enough fuel to work with. Cleo descends the dropper. They may not obtain a great score, but they at least finish the round. He can deal with this.

Map two goes far better. He bridges his way through the entire course, dodging and weaving between swathes of red sand and cacti. Grian perches on top of him, shrieking something encouraging every few seconds.

“Let’s go Fein! I feel like I’m the one who’s winning!”

He needs to crouch for a certain jump, so Grian hops off, but they’re such a short distance away it isn’t too detrimental. Shelby mentions in passing how she’s not far behind, which means all three of them can easily get into the top ten.

“Fein,” Feinberg doesn’t glance back. Dunk him underwater, and he’d still be able to place the cadence of Couriway’s voice. It sounds close. “What if you slow down and let me hitch a taxi to second place?”

Second place. That means there’s still somebody between him and Couriway. He zeroes in on the finishing point, pitching his speed up to the maximum. “Can’t do that.”

“Aw man.”

Feinberg whacks the closest target he can find and secures his first placement. 

Third map. No course, just a looming void, some vertical glass panels, and a speed bridging dream. He tells his team to follow him on the left, and he’s not the only one, judging by the horde of people crowding around him and the low yet indiscreet mutterings of ‘Find Feinberg’. Whatever. Everyone can mooch off him all they want so long as he gets the highest placement.

Feinberg surges forward like lightning the very moment the game starts, tuning out the visual clutter. This time, his teammates get lost in the sea of bodies, and the person that does find him lets out a joyous laugh.

“This is wonderful,” Couri says as Feinberg shatters through a glass barrier, lead overwhelming. “Wonderful teamwork.”

“I’m the one doing all the work.”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

He doesn’t feel the pressure of a floating Couriway sitting above him, but there’s a feather-light grip on his hair, like he’s trying to anchor himself closer to Feinberg than he needs to be. It’s almost comforting, in a sense. With his team, there’s the implicit expectation that he’ll carry, that he won’t fail. That expectation is still present here, but if he misplaces, tumbles into the all-encompassing darkness with Couriway’s body pressed against him, the Purple Pandas are worse off for it too.

That is, if Feinberg did mess up. It’s a good thing he’s never made a mistake in his entire life. He picks a reliable wall to lean against and places red concrete after red concrete, never crouching once. There’s fun to setting a familiar rhythm, hitting all the right notes and getting rewarded for it. They’re less than twenty blocks away from the end now. 

Couriway shifts above him. “Thank you, Feinberg.”

It’s terribly earnest. Feinberg wonders if he should say something in response, but it doesn’t matter. A vicious hand shoves into him, and the hairs on his scalp burn as Couri’s grip turns steely, then vanishes completely. He’s falling fast, nothing between him and the gaping void of death.

Thinking on the spot, he angles his body to block clutch on a ledge, and lets a breath of relief escape him. Did Couri really dismount just to hit him? First place is out of reach now, but maybe he can secure a top five—

He’s two blocks away from the end when a second hand stretches out and punches him off into the void, again. It’s like his heart sinks through his body. Feinberg twists around to see two stark faces: Apo’s is devoid of any strong expression, focused on the task of completing, while there’s a mix of several emotions cycling through Couri’s.

He’s staring straight at Feinberg, like he’s not sure whether to laugh or feel bad. The mere thought of Couriway being the one to throw him off twice after using him so casually sends a spike of annoyance that blazes hot in his chest, so shocking he feels his fingers go numb. 

Because Feinberg’s the best fucking guy to ever do it, he block clutches, again, and starts to stack up. “Why?” He grumbles to himself, “It’s so stupid.”

Miraculously, he still makes it into the top ten. It stops him from being fully aggravated like he would’ve been had he actually died, but the biting pang of betrayal doesn’t go away. The messages from his chat claiming that Couri was in fact the culprit don’t help in the slightest either.

“What the hell is his problem?” Feinberg glides around in spectator mode to get more extra coins floating around, but he’s also keeping an eye out for familiar glasses and a purple ensemble. Eyes sharp as ever, it doesn’t take long for him to hone in on his target.

“Couriway,” with their translucent bodies, it’s as if two ghosts are conversing, “what the hell is your problem?”

“Huh? What was wrong with riding you? You didn’t kick me off.” Couriway says. 

Feinberg schools his face into something socially acceptable. “I don’t care about part, ride me all you want—” He furrows his brows, cheeks tinged red, “—but if you get off me and punch me into the void while I’m building us both a perfect path to first and second place it just. Like. Doesn’t even work!”

Couri looks completely baffled and maybe a tad bit amused. Feinberg has an inkling he misstepped somewhere before he even opens his mouth. “That wasn’t me, Fein. It was Antfrost the first time and Apo the second time.”

“Oh.” Immediately, it’s like someone vacuums any grievances he has with Couriway out of his body and replaces it with a new type of exasperation. “Those motherfucking—”

“Ahem.” Grian very pointedly clears his throat. Feinberg realises far too late that he made the fatal mistake of leaving his comms channel completely unmuted. So much for a private conversation.

“Oh. Sorry guys.”

“Keep it family friendly.” He can hear Cleo’s warbled laughter pick up on the channel, and wonders whether it’d be less embarrassing if he just failed the speed bridging.

There’s a stilted pause before Feinberg nods at Couriway. “So my bad, then. I didn’t see Ant at all.” He knows Couri isn’t the type to harm him unless it’s a game that necessitates combat, yet jumped to the conclusion anyways. Guilt over being an asshole is a rare, uncomfortable feeling for him to harbour, one he wants to shuck away as soon as possible. He should really stop treating his chat as a reliable source of information. 

“It’s fine. No flaming my teammate though, I totally would have done the same thing if I was in Apo’s position. Sending you flying sounds like a fire clip.” 

It’s a bold faced lie and they both know it. Feinberg still laughs, sharp and one-note. “Nevermind, fuck you.”

“Watch it with the sailor's mouth.” Couriway chides through his own laughter, “Grian’s actually gonna kill you if you get any less PG. You’re scarring all the children that watch him.” 

“I muted this time. Triple checked and everything.”

The last three maps go spectacularly. He talks out loud, sometimes to chat but usually to himself, and is quick to delineate a gameplan for each round based on his successes and (fairly few) failures alike. Feinberg gets first, ninth, then second, and the times in which his teammates placed higher help contribute even more towards their placements. He had gone into this one fully unsure how well they’d do, but there was never anything to worry about.

Couriway: @Feinberg can you stop hogging first place

Count on Couriway to single him out in the public MCC chat. Feinberg’s fingers fly across his keyboard in his quest to reply. 

Feinberg: i didnt even get first dude my team did

Feinberg: purpled got one more coin than me for this one

Couriway: okay you’re first place in my heart 

Couriway: what now huh

Feinberg reads and rereads the message, letting out an involuntary chuckle. It’s easy to script out at least twenty different replies in his head, but he can’t bring himself to draft them with seven thousand people watching his every live move, so he just sends a heart emoji and reunites with the Red Rabbits. Hopefully, it’s enough.

SwbPoundcake: ‘first place in my heart’ and you dont even flirt back LOCK IN OMFG

He freezes the stream to open up his private messages and scoffs. Clearly, Poundy doesn’t fucking think it’s enough.

Feinberg: since when did you watch MCC

Feinberg: also couri’s just being nice that’s not even flirting he always talks like that

SwbPoundcake: FEINBERG DO YOU SEE HIM TALKING LIKE THIS TO ME 

SwbPoundcake: at least you have the decency to reply to me i send him a trillion messages and he AIRS ME THE FUCK OUT

Feinberg: no

Feinberg: but you’re not a person he gives encouragement to in general 

Feinberg: you’re like a statistical outlier

SwbPoundcake: you know what else is an outlier you being this much of a fucking pussy

Promptly, Feinberg closes his private messages and unpauses his stream. To sic his feelings on Couriway at risk of ruining his perfectly good tempo is something that can wait. Couri hasn’t ever ignored him before, regardless of how swamped he is with tasks or how occupied he is planning events. It’s arduous work, having to push through No Reset, to possess the willpower to never turn back after so many seeds of straight slop, to die and come back stronger for it. Perseverance has always been one of Couriway’s many admirable qualities. He shows up with a beam on his face and a spring to his step, dark circles and unkempt feathers be damned.

Feinberg isn’t that special, and this side of Couriway isn’t reserved only for him. Everyone should see it, should have the awareness to recognise how dedicated he is to his craft, to his friends, to everything he ever does. It’s what drew Feinberg to him in the first place.

He knows Poundy understands. Poundy just has a skill issue, or maybe he’s a terrible, no-good texter.

—

In the Decision Dome, it’s clear that nearly every other team wants Bingo played next, and there’s nothing he can do to delay it, which sucks. He pulls out his comm and types out a flurry of messages in the public server chat. Not that anyone’s going to see it amongst the tumultuous wave of people spamming BINGO, but he feels like complaining anyways.

Feinberg: so why does everyone hate bingo

Feinberg: i don’t get it

Feinberg: you’re literally just crafting and mining

Couriway: DO NOT DO BINGO

Couriway: ****

Couriway: Feinberg you’ve never been more right

A spark of affection rises in his chest, and Feinberg smiles down at his comm. At least someone outside the Red Rabbits is on his side. Nice to see the four of them weren’t the only sane people in the event.

—

They win Bingo by a landslide steeper than Build Mart, somehow. It’s beautiful. Trying to beat the best Draftout player in Bingo goals is akin to trying to catch a leaf in a thunderstorm. For every task Feinberg completes, there would be another knocked off by a second person on his team, and the point gap ends up widening into a large abyss. He didn’t even have to do that much directing. 

“How did you find a single tropical fish in the ocean?” Couriway flies up to him after, hair damp and a rather salty expression on his face. Feinberg fights the urge to ruffle it, or poke at his lenses, dotted with tiny water droplets.

“I don’t know. I didn’t do that square, was in a cave clearing off half the board.” There’s a hint of smugness in his tone that undercuts his attempt at being casual about winning. 

“I swear, the people who got it done hunted them into extinction and I lost on spawn RNG. There’s not a single one left!” Couri vehemently throws his arms up into the air. All Feinberg can offer as solace is a clap on the back, and then immediately regrets doing so because wow his outfit is drenched. But he can see that Couri leans into the touch, and decides to just deal with it even as seawater drips onto his shoes.

“Unlucky.”

“You’re damn right. I bet if you went into that ocean you’d beat the odds and get five of them by your feet.”

“You know what they say,” Feinberg laughs, “it’s better to be lucky than good.”

Couri eyes him, and it makes him feel like he’s been shoved under a microscope. Usually he’s the one puzzling things out, but Couriway is more astute than he lets on. “You don’t actually believe that.”

“You think so?”

“Maybe. But you don’t think it applies to you most of the time.”

Feinberg shrugs, and it might as well be a concession. Couri can probably hear his ego singing from a mile away, about how you don’t get to the top just by being lucky, and if nobody else takes advantage of the situations they’re put in, then well, they’re all fucking imbeciles and he’s better than them anyways. 

“For the record, I don’t think it actually applies to you either,” Couriway says, in that usual wholeheartedness of his that makes Feinberg want to look away, “You’re too good even for MCC.”

“Don’t let Scott hear you say that. He already threatens to permanently bench me each time I win.”

—

There’s a for-fun building challenge interlude, which Feinberg isn’t opposed to. The more competitive side of him wants to cut the fluff and get to the shit that matters, but he recognises that isn’t what MCC Pride is meant to be about. It keeps things lax, lets him ruminate about what game order would be optimal.

His team settles on the Bisexual Bunny Pride Float for their glorious theme. He’s fully out of his element, and for the next several minutes, he’s the least valuable person on his team. Cleo, Shelby, and Grian are excellent builders. Feinberg thinks back to the last thing he built that wasn’t just exact Build Mart structures (a lopsided house collecting cobwebs in some random server) and cringes hard.

The three of them start constructing a bunny each, leaving uncertainty to bend around his brain, poke at how he’s a fish out of water.

“I’ll do some touch up work after,” Feinberg sheepishly offers. “Trust me, you guys do not want me building any sort of animal.” Even thinking about the awkward amalgamation of blocks he would have to try to mould into some kind of presentable rabbit has him wincing.

“No harm trying,” Shelby says, finishing the base of her bunny and moving on to build the skeleton of another one.

He doesn’t want to just freeload and do absolutely nothing, so he hovers over the smallest bunny and tentatively reshapes its ears, adding to the face. Two different shades of purple. Put some glasses on it and he could probably pass it off as Couriway. It’s tempting, but time runs out.

Every team’s build gets displayed in a neat line. Feinberg spends a good few minutes flying around and marveling at all the creativity. Give him a hundred years, and he’d never be able to come up with any of this on his own.

In the distance, Couriway stands beside Lexie, another one of his teammates. She whispers something in his ear, nudging him incessantly, and Couriway chuckles, neck unnaturally flushed. They’re both staring at him like he’s one of the spectacles on the float.

“Freaks.” Feinberg frowns, looking away, but it’s at that moment Couri walks up to him.

“Fein, did your team really make the bunny float?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s so awesome.”

Feinberg gestures at the bunny he worked on. “That tiny purple one has your spirit.”

Oddly, the flush on Couriway’s neck spreads up to his face. “Did you build that one?”

“I helped, so I guess.” It’s gotta count, right? He briefly scans the rest of the builds, but can’t tell the teams apart. “Where’s your float?”

“Oh, I can show you.” Couriway brightens, reaching out to clasp Feinberg’s hand and drag him along.

His interest in the builds diminish so rapidly it’s like it was never there at all. The only thing Feinberg can focus on is their intertwined fingers, and the warmth of Couriway’s palm, which sends a jolt through his entire arm. Couri is pinker than ever before, squeezing his hand like it’s a lifeline. It’s in moments like these where he thinks back to Poundy’s words and feels a glimmer of optimism nestle between his ribs. 

“Here,” Couri says. Feinberg assumes Couriway would let go of his hand and pre-mourns the loss, but he keeps it clutched tightly, using his free hand to point at the float his team put together instead. “I think we did a pretty good job.”

The Purple Pandas have a giant heart constructed out of lesbian colours, alongside a sapphic throne and some miscellaneous queer decor. It looks great, but something peculiar catches his eye.

“Is that supposed to be me?” Feinberg blinks. There’s a build of a cat near the side of the float with fur the colour of his hair, which wouldn’t ring a bell if it didn’t also have a pink visor. His ears heat up, and he’s never been more grateful for the existence of headphones in his life.

“Yeah. I tried to have the colours match the heart. It’s not often I get to put my building skills to use.” Couriway leads him closer, finally releasing his hand to give the cat a pat on the head. Envy twinges within Feinberg, a feeling mortifying enough to take to his grave because that is an inanimate object. Did he get himself drunk without knowing?

“It works well.” Feinberg replies. It comes out more flustered than he’d like, and if he says anything else he’ll be in trouble, so he wisely decides to shut his mouth.

“Isn’t he cute?” Couriway turns his gaze away from the cat to stare directly at him.

Feinberg swallows. “Very.”

“I was going to add a trident, but I didn’t want to disrupt the colour scheme.”

“That’s okay. I can still tell it’s me.” He shrugs.

Couriway’s eyes lock onto something behind Feinberg, and he smiles rather strangely. It’s like he barely even hears his response. “Um, I think I need to get back to my team. They’re calling for me. See you!” 

He nods, and Couri hastily launches off, soaring like he’s trying to make up for time in one of his Icarus runs. Which would make sense if they weren’t currently peering over the results of a game worth exactly zero coins. Feinberg turns around to see the rest of the Purple Pandas standing several blocks away, chatting conspiratorially amongst themselves.

What the fuck was that about? 

—

Parkour Tag’s next up, and the rest of the Red Rabbits cheer emphatically when it gets picked. It doesn’t seem the most horrible, but Feinberg has only played it once before. Being put in a noticeable disadvantage because of a lack of experience would piss him off if (and only if) they did badly, so it being in the earlier half can only be for the best.

“Tactics,” Feinberg huddles up with his team, spouting out anything intuitive to him, “If you’re a runner, rotate, make sure to split up, and keep high ground. I can hunt the first four teams, Grian the next four, and then Shelby takes the last one regardless of who we go up against. That way, we don’t have to worry about the order.”

“Okay,” Cleo says. “Does time matter?”

“If I tag all three of them before their hunter gets all three of you, we win anyways, but surviving longer gives more coins, so yeah. Just do your best guys.”

It turns out that best is better than he expected. Feinberg wins three out of four of his hunter rounds, and morale is high when they get matched up against the Purple Pandas.

“Couriway will be hunting.” Feinberg says, fully confident that he’s right.

“How d’you know?” Grian’s beady eyes are politely curious.

“He wants me bad.”

With the way all three of their heads snap to him, you’d think he just proclaimed an undying urge to make out with his best friend. 

“As in like, he wants to be the one to get me out.” Feinberg clarifies weakly, but their expressions don’t change in the slightest. Great, now he’s not just the local S Tier but also the local weirdo. “It’s round six, I know he knows that I’d have hunted the max amount of times allowed by now. Chill on me.”

“Sure, bud,” Grian says slowly, entering the hunter’s box.

“So, since he wants you,” Cleo tries their absolute hardest not to giggle. If only there were channeling tridents in the MCC venue, he could strike himself with one to get out of this humiliation ritual. “Will he target you first? Me and Shelby can run the opposite direction then.”

Feinberg gives the other side of the map a long look, pondering the question. Standing in line are four silhouettes he can hardly distinguish, but it’s evident the shortest one is Couriway. He imagines picking apart his brain, and it doesn’t take long for him to arrive at the correct conclusion.

“No, you should disregard where I am. He’ll save me for last.”

—

A horn sounds, and they’re off. 

The runner Couri goes straight for is Cleo. He jumps swiftly from a chain fence to a series of rainbow coloured blocks and tags them within the first ten seconds, near merciless. Feinberg shakes his head at Shelby, a grim signal to further split up. Couriway’s jaw is set, and the determined twinkle in his eye tells Feinberg this is going to be a lot tougher than what he originally anticipated. It brings a slight smile to his face despite the circumstances. 

Cleo hurries to give them comms on his position, using spectator mode to their full advantage. “He’s about to be chasing you, Fein,” Feinberg can sense him inching closer and straightens up, but Couriway makes a sudden right turn, sharper and more jarring than obsidian. “Er, nevermind, going for you Shelby—!”

It’s a nasty collision, far too late for anyone to react. His comms convey the cry of surprise Shelby lets out as Couriway picks her off, and he inhales. Just him left as sole runner, in a maze of buildings all distinctly unfamiliar. 

Feinberg parkours up a pink and blue tower, putting as much additional space between himself and the floor as he can. It doesn’t even stall that much time, if he’s honest. Couriway has to-the-block information of where he’s currently standing, an advantage to being hunter that he now finds himself missing dourly. Backed into a corner, Feinberg plays the part of a good little Red Rabbit, and runs like his life depends on it. 

In a consistent clockwise rotation, Feinberg sprints through row after row of rainbow buildings, until the patterns blur together. Deftly jumping from one ledge to the other, his heartbeat thunders in rhythm with his own footsteps, crescendos in his ears and drowns out his own thoughts. 

Feinberg can’t see where Couriway is, but he can hear him getting closer. It’s like he’s playing one of those unskippable horror game cutscenes, in the moments where the monster closes in and everything gets moodier though the surroundings stay the same. Never before has he been scared of Couri— the very notion sounds ludicrous even now. Yet, there’s an inexplicable rousing in his gut and sweat to his palms, and he reminds himself there are first times for everything.

Is this what it feels like to be prey? To fear for your own survival? A thrill creeps up his spine as he feints continuing his path forward, only to do a 180-degree swerve backwards and run back the way he came from.

Feinberg can’t see where Couriway is, but he still knows him from the inside out, and his prediction is that he’ll have tried to cut him off, catch him and his consistent pace off guard. There’s a frustrated huff from somewhere behind him, and he revels in the sick satisfaction of being right again. 

Not fear, then, is what he concludes. It’s the same rush of adrenaline he gets when pearling on three hearts, when picking Doogile during the World Championships, when consuming soda with enough sugar content to kill a small animal, when Couriway holds his hand and asks if he’s alright. Definitely not fear.

He lands on the ground, losing the height advantage, but doesn’t let up his pace one bit. His team channel lights up. 

“Turn back, Fein. He’s on your tail now.”

He’s vaguely aware of Cleo’s warning blasting into his headphones, and skids to a stop, pivoting on his heel to continue on his original path. He takes in new gulps of air, and it feels like somebody is actively shovelling gravel down his throat.

Shelby gasps. “Perfect juke!”

40 seconds left. Both excitement and dread overwhelm his senses, turning his breaths uneven. 35 seconds. Feinberg puts all his effort into sparing no glances back, because he doesn’t think he’d recover from the aura loss if he rams himself face-first into a wall. 30 seconds. He feels a slight breeze on his shoulder, Couriway’s hand just barely missing a swipe at his jacket.

25 seconds left.

Feinberg dashes into a room painted with the colours of the pan flag, and is presented with two pathways: Stairs further to his left, or an exit closer to his right. The opportunity for Couri to try and cut him off a third time is far too easy if he starts beelining it towards the stairs, so the choice is clear from the start.

He prides himself on knowing Couriway, but sometimes it’s easy to skim past the fact that Couri knows him too. Knows how to adapt to the shit he comes up with on the fly, knows where his headspace is, knows all his dumb unimportant habits. Hundreds of little things accumulated over several years of speedrunning and playing in events or escape rooms together, all culminating into the next present moment.

When they’re on a common side, there’s instances where they just click when nobody else can, but when they’re not, the same information transforms into invaluable weaponry. 

So Feinberg can’t blame Couriway when he brazenly ignores the staircase and angles his body to the right before even Feinberg himself does so. He sees him closing in from the corner of his eye, and like clockwork, thinks: I lost. It’s the sentence Feinberg repeats the most in games where something fortunate eventually happens and he wins regardless of the numerous odds stacked against him. It leaves people wanting his head on a pike, but he likes winning enough to deal with it. Sadly, luck isn’t here to bail him out of this one. 

Couriway lunges as if he’s carrying a spear, doing a full body tackle straight into him. All the times Couri’s called himself a brick make sense now, because the momentum makes it feel like he’s been hit with a hard cement wall. They both go toppling down in an instant. There’s limbs everywhere, the words TAGGED are flashing annoyingly bright on his visor glasses, and his head is basically exploding. He chokes out a wheeze-laugh.

Disappointment comes with losing, like it always does with Feinberg, but it’s easier to deal with when there’s still three other teams to play, and doubly easier to deal with if the person he loses to is somebody he respects. Besides, being pinned down by Couriway isn’t the worst position he’s ever been in.

“Just nowhere good to go,” Feinberg grimaces, banging his fist against the floor. His comm is a few blocks away, having been flung out of his hands during the impact.

“I got him guys,” Couri grins triumphantly into his own comm, and frenzied cheers erupt from his team. He’s panting slightly, chest rising and falling, having mostly lifted his upper body off Feinberg but pressing insistently down onto his shoulders with his palms. His skin burns. “I’m officially too skilled at this game.” 

Feinberg catches his own breath. “I was lowkey working you for a second there, no?”

“Nope. It was actually so easy I didn’t even break a sweat,” Couriway is beaming.

“Okay, but you didn’t need to pounce on me like that,” Feinberg raises his head up, eyes sweeping over him in an accusatory manner. They’re still on the ground and he still isn’t being let up. If it was anyone else he would’ve been less charitable, but it’s Couriway, so he doesn’t really care. “You gave Cleo and Shelby a light tap on the shoulder at worst.” 

“I had to be sure you didn’t somehow weasel your way out of it. Especially since it’s you.” It’s both a compliment and a complaint, which brings a smile to Feinberg’s face. Couriway leans down to jab a finger into his chest for dramatic effect, and suddenly they’re a lot closer than they initially were.

Maybe Feinberg does care, just in a different way than what people would expect.

“Since it’s me, huh?” Feinberg’s brain is whirring, running a billion blocks an hour to take in every detail of Couriway’s face. The flutter of his eyelashes, the light sheen of sweat on his forehead, the curve of his lips, and how, disconcertingly, he looks hungry. “Well, that’s high praise for a man that’s been bested. Nothing I can do about that.”

There’s a challenge in that sentence, daring Couri to do something. Anything, but preferably closing the gap. For a second, Couriway glances down at his mouth— Feinberg thinks he might’ve won even after losing, but that stupid horn that signals the end of the round sounds, and the spell instantly shatters.

Unbelievable. Couriway’s hands fly away from him as if scalded, and he nervously stands up to check if any other spectators were observing. He goes to routinely straighten his tie, before remembering it’s not there, and adjusts his flower crown instead.

Feinberg makes no effort to stand up for a solid five seconds, staring blankly at the rainbow wall to deal with the mild disappointment pooling in his gut. 

“Uh,” Couri begins, before Feinberg shakes his head to silence him.

“Help me up?” He extends out an arm. Couriway grasps it like an olive branch, hauling him up and keeping him close until he regains balance.

“Hey,” Couri tries again, voice more stable, but there’s an underlying anxiety he can tell is crawling through his skin, “are we good?”

“Couriway,” Feinberg says, softer than he would with anyone else. “Of course we’re good.”

—

37 Unread Messages from SwbPoundcake

There’s a nuclear bomb waiting in his DMs. Most of it is Poundy going tweaker mode and spamming a long string of nonsense, so he skips to the end, where his messages actually become legible.

SwbPoundcake: ??? why did the stream suddenly go black

Feinberg: dropped my comm and it somehow cut my connection

Feinberg: i fixed it so it’s chill 

SwbPoundcake: wtf went down during that crash

SwbPoundcake: i know you were with couriway

Feinberg: nothing happened

SwbPoundcake: bullshit

Feinberg: im being honest

Feinberg: disappointed?

SwbPoundcake: not for my own sake

Feinberg gets an insane juke on Jojo, swears on stream, runs multiple rounds around 4C, and swears on stream again. The image of Couriway floats resolutely at the back of his mind, but the Red Rabbits win their last three rounds of Parkour Tag, landing second overall, so at least he’s doing something right.

—

“Alright fellas, what do we do for this one?” Grian asks. New game, new strategy. He seems extraordinarily interested in being done with Meltdown in particular. PvP isn’t the specialty of anyone here, so Feinberg understands the aversion. 

“I’ll rotate around the map, you guys should stay close to me. We’ll stick together and try to shoot teams in the back,” says Feinberg. Arrows that turn people into ice cubes in one shot sound overpowered in theory, but when every team gets heaters that can unfreeze players, there’s really no point in picking off one specific person in a group, unless—

“Over time, teams will naturally spread out, and some people will fall behind. Maybe they’re getting coin crates, maybe they don’t expect us. Whatever it is, we kill off the stragglers.” Feinberg runs his hands over an ice-tipped arrow, “Play aggressive, but try not to draw fights out. It’ll be messy when the map starts to decay and everyone scrambles to get into a room that isn’t crumbling.”

The Red Rabbits nod in agreement. Three rounds of Meltdown, and the first begins with a blast. Feinberg takes a right, keeps a careful eye trained on the map. His team obediently trails after him, checking for any blind spots or high structures to take advantage of. In a maze-like room brimming with coin crates, he spots signs of another team, and gestures for them to wait near an exit to safety.

It isn’t easy defeating the Green Geckos, who send a relentless volley of arrows their way. But the Red Rabbits spring into action, and Grian and Shelby combat the team with their own shots whilst he and Cleo set out to destroy the enemy heaters. They play corners, hit all the right angles, and the result is a clean sweep.

“Nice one guys,” Feinberg says. “This room now.” He ushers them through, casts a wary gaze at one of the larger buildings. “There’s people across from us, let’s go left.” 

“Uh, guys, I think somebody is behind us,” says Shelby.

It’s all the warning he gets before she turns into ice before his eyes. Grian gets struck too, eyes wide as saucers. Feinberg places a heater at their feet, but melting takes up time that neither of them have. It’s a frustratingly good ambush. They've evaded his sight completely.

Footsteps, close. Feinberg hears them, hears the rustling of wings, and purses his lips. 

The Purple Pandas.

Feinberg dodges the first shot taken at him and fires one back, then two. His first arrow skims Couri’s hair but the second one misses by a long shot, which is probably bad. Really bad, actually. What is up with him this round? He takes out a third arrow— Couriway already has his notched. Couri lets it soar, using the momentum to carry him to a better viewpoint on Feinberg. His stomach churns.

“Cleo, run.”

Unfortunately, there’s no running when three of his teammates are at his back, ready to retaliate. They break the heaters he had placed down, and that means there’s nothing else he can do to salvage the situation. He and Cleo are surrounded. Yet, they still look like they’re searching for a way out.

“Feinberg, if you ask desperately, might he let us go for the sake of peace and friendship?”

He laughs. “Not a chance.” 

Couriway, kind but unrelenting, would never squander an advantage, and Feinberg, too egotistical to beg for such a thing, would be insulted at the mere thought

The ice splinters across his chest and spreads faster than he can track. Feinberg grits his teeth at the feeling, biting and unpleasant, TEAM FROZEN indicator beeping obnoxiously on his visor. He can’t move or do much of anything, but he glares at Couriway and figures it gets the message across.

“I’m sorry Fein, I had to do it.” Couri sounds especially pleased with himself. “Am I TAS or what?” 

It’s a shame he can’t talk.

“I’m going to assume you would have said yes.”

Feinberg blinks, slowly. 

Couriway blinks back. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Because there’s somebody aiming at you, idiot.

Feinberg throws him his most unamused look. Couriway somehow receives the hint and dives out of the way in the nick of time, signalling his team to do the same. He crouches down behind Feinberg, and past the frost there’s flower petals brushing at his back, arrows pelting him and shattering on ice.

This guy can’t be serious. Why is Couriway using him as a barrier instead of the wall? His wings are practically compressed into him. If the ice cubes took body temperature into account, Feinberg would’ve already melted, no heater required.

“Ohh,” Couriway launches a counter attack, lobbing his arrows at the general direction of the enemy. “I understand now. You know, you make for an awesome meat shield.”

Losing might be easier if it’s Couriway, who naturally softens the blow, but it only amplifies the craving that whirs at the back of his head. To try more, prove that he’s better than this because he is, just needs the chance to flaunt it. It doesn’t matter if his opponent is friend or foe (or a secret third option) — a win is a win. But then there runs a different type of craving, one that tugs him away from the game, as unlikely as it is. Desire for a blinding smile to tilt him into oblivion, for yellow wings to wrap around him, for Couriway to chase him again so that when he gets pinned, Feinberg can flip their positions around and gloat.

Essentially, it’s a multitude of things he shouldn’t be thinking about while frozen solid. His team can’t afford senseless distractions. So, Feinberg dedicates himself to more reasonable thoughts: Next round, I’ll win.

—

Feinberg examines the map before round two starts, plans out a better route so they run into lesser teams. Nothing is ever set in stone in Meltdown, but there’s always a pattern to follow. If they avoid the rooms with higher coin crates in favour of survival coins and kills, they should get a higher score than before, or at least create an opportunity to snipe off weak links. 

The strategy works, for a short bit. They get into a short scuffle with the Yellow Yaks (who lose) and the Aqua Axolotls (who retreat to a different room), but the path remains clean, no messy multi-group fights or surprise attacks. He checks his comm.

Only four teams left.

Feinberg climbs upward, assuming a flanking position behind a laddered wall. His bow is drawn taut, and he patiently waits for somebody to step into his line of fire.

There’s one. It’s all he needs.

It isn’t until after he deals the inciting blow that he realises it’s Lexie. Couriway places a heater near her, and the clock ticking down at his redemption starts. 

“We hold them here. Either they fight or they die,” Feinberg says.

The Purple Pandas are situated precariously on an open bridge. It’s wide, but there’s little cover, nothing to shield them from any elements whatsoever. A rickety structure dooming them from the start. His eyes dart around, tracking the vague purple shapes, and he leads each shot,  careful to not miss. A satisfying ding sound echoes in his headphones as he hits two in a row, and the remaining figure hesitates, then retreats.

Feinberg surges forward, vaulting over his cover to give chase. “I froze three. Destroy the heaters and guard the bodies, don’t let them revive.”

“And the last one?” Shelby asks.

“I’ve got him too.” 

A riptide of delight washes through Feinberg when he turns the corner into another open space and Couriway, instead of skittering away, turns around to duel him. He quick-fires an arrow at Feinberg, who skids to a halt in the nick of time. The fire in his gut is back, an ebb and flow of flames he can’t seem to be rid of. 

“That first round was insane,” Feinberg says whilst firing back, and although it comes out a tad short, the grin that spreads across Couri’s face is blazing.

“Thanks.” Couri puffs up like one of those proud mating birds, “Hey, I can still make a comeback in this one.”

“You can.” A mild acknowledgement, like it wouldn’t threaten Feinberg’s Meltdown competitive history to lose this early twice in a row, “if you run right now instead of fighting me.”

“Smug bastard,” Couriway says, but his eyes crinkle up.

There’s a lot more room for Feinberg to sidestep around the second arrow that immediately flies his way. Icy bolts clatter onto the floor, bounce off the walls, filling the room with a soft blue glow. Feinberg is methodic in his counter attack; it’s nothing personal—the more teams gone the better—but he aims with slightly more vigor than expected, vision tunneling. Only seconds pass, but it’s like they spend an eternity trading shots back and forth, an eternity of making Couri dance.

They’re both well-acquitted when it comes to surviving battles of attrition. Couriway’s done the same thing ten thousand times in ten thousand different ways, while Feinberg has spent countless gruelling hours chipping away at his own All Advancements world records. Somebody has to crack, but he’s never let the pressure get to him before this. Today would be no different.

Feinberg’s next arrow lines up perfectly with Couriway’s heart, surely thrumming furiously beneath the layers of clothing and sinew. He relaxes his shoulders, feels the tension drain from his limbs, and lets go.

Ding.

“Sorry. What did I say?”

The temperature plummets. Before Couri can react, a sheet of frost blooms across his body, enclosing his arms, his legs. There’s a startled expression etched onto his face, mouth agape, ice catching light and sending iridescent shards that glitter in his eyes. It’s eerie, seeing a man so active be forced to stand completely still.

Feinberg peers at the map and murmurs into his comm. “Whole team down. Take a left into the main area first, I’ll make sure nobody’s trying to trail us.”

He mutes after he gets a general assent, which leaves him alone in a random room with a frozen Couriway. The air is brittle and near oppressive in its chill, and he’s not even the one in the ice cube. Feinberg stares at the doorway. When it becomes clear no team is immediately jumping him, he gives into impulse and traces the side of Couri’s face. A gentle brush with his fingers, like he’s handling a literal ice sculpture. Couriway is far from being fragile, but the longer Feinberg stays, the more delicate the moment becomes.

Feinberg swipes a thumb over an icy cheek. “So, we’re even now.”

Silence.

“Blink if you want me to fuck off?” Feinberg curiously presses his thumb down, testing. 

Couriway’s eyes remain wide open, piercing him with their intensity.

Every detail on his face is perfectly preserved, from the gleam in his glasses to his feathered ears. He’s beautiful like this, putting it bluntly, and Feinberg wants to look forever. However, as he cradles the rigid figure in his hands, he can only think about how the Couriway he’s grown to know is full of energy, perpetually warm. This unmoving, cold, statue-like state he’s in feels indescribably off by comparison. It almost makes him regret freezing him in the first place. He wonders if the Couriway from the first round felt the same, talking to a Feinberg that couldn’t acknowledge him. 

The packed ice doesn’t budge, doesn’t crack no matter how hard he pushes, so Feinberg prods at his face a few more times in the name of research. Couri’s gaze follows where his body cannot, and he has an inkling that he isn’t particularly entertained. Or maybe he is, just because it’s Feinberg. 

“This is good content, no?”

He’s running out of excuses to stay. His team is waiting, the outer ends of the map are decaying, and he would rather eat glass than throw in any tournament, serious or not. It still takes strength to tear himself back.

In the few moments Feinberg has left to spare, he dips briefly forward. His lips brush against Couriway’s forehead, against the layer of frost separating skin from skin, and it’s an ice bath. Nothing more unique than tasting extra cold water. Yet, his heart flies quicker than a rabbit’s, a steady staccato rhythm that doesn’t let up.

He’s never seen Couriway go this long without blinking.

It elicits in Feinberg a confident smile, fills him with the daring to hope even more. He chuckles, although nothing is really funny, just to fill the air.

“Good luck next round.” 

—

“Let’s move. All together now.”

The third round of Meltdown ensues. Feinberg directs his teammates on positioning like a shepherd herding sheep, continues avoiding coin crates, and scores another couple of eliminations, never faltering in his decision making. They’re one room away from the main hall when it happens.

“There’s a team holding us at the exit, we fight this,” Feinberg peeks the corner, coming face-to-face with—

“Couriway.” He’s utterly bemused. Again?

“Feinberg.” Couri says with his usual lilt. There’s colour in his cheeks and he’s never looked more alive; the sight is near relieving. 

Feinberg draws his bow first, both teams scurrying to match him. He’s too busy barking out instructions to his team to say much of anything else, but as he starts pushing in, he feels the ground crumble rapidly beneath him, stone blocks disintegrating as if concrete powder.

What? Why at the exit first?

In the heat of battle, neither team had noticed the floor near the door giving way. Feinberg can only furrow his brow in bewilderment as he plummets towards the boiling lava, an ugly orange glow consuming his vision. Had he really been too locked in on fighting to notice the map decay? His small consolation as he flies back up in spectator mode are the death messages from the opponents rolling in. Good thing the miscalculation wasn’t only on his end, but there’s a small pit in his stomach all the same, his fists clenching and unclenching. 

“That was insane. Weren’t we at the end of the room?”

“I almost made it out,” Shelby says sadly.

“Welcome to the Grian Meltdown experience.” A tired Grian mutters.

“It’s fine.” Feinberg says, “Just so weird the destruction happens that early. Eight people died.” 

Feinberg combs through the chat log to confirm the team elimination notifications, and his frown only deepens. He mutes up, mid-rant about how scuffed it was that the decay started from the exit of the room instead of the back (he’s learned over the years to complain about bad game elements to his chat mainly, so as to not disrupt team morale), when a ghostly figure emerges from the wall.

“It sounds like you’re not a big fan of us being spleefed,” Couriway says.

Feinberg raises his eyebrows, frown dissipating. “Are you stalking me or some shit? Why have we run into each other every round?”

“Hello?” Couri laughs, “Maybe you’re stalking me!”

Maybe it’s simply fated to be, says a voice in his head that sounds strangely like President Poundcake. Feinberg ignores it.

“Couri, I have better things to do than stalk you.”

“Oh right, right,” Couriway says, a faint smile on his lips. “Better things. Does that include kissing every person you turn into ice on the forehead?”

“Only the ones I’m sorry about killing.” 

“Really now.”

He sees an out, and takes it. “Yeah, not many of those around. Do you use every person you turn into ice as a human shield?”

“Only like, the abnormally tall ones that won’t mind.”

“That’s interesting.”

Couri’s smile turns teasing. “Yup. Also wouldn’t hurt if they were really accomplished, skilled—”

“I get it dude.”

“—stupidly smart, hot, stuff like that.”

There’s a barrage of question marks flooding his chat again. Feinberg exhales. “You’re slobbering all over it. Might as well wipe your mouth when you’re done.” 

“What? You can’t take the compliment?”

“If you hear the same thing too many times it becomes old news.”

“Really,” Couri side-eyes him, genuinely skeptical.

“No,” Feinberg says easily, ego insatiable. Even if it were true, the person who’s steeled himself to do the same thing a hundred thousand times feels like the wrong guy to complain to. “I’d never get bored of you.”

If Couriway blushes, the translucent sheen of his body in spectator mode hides it, but he casts his eyes away, and it’s indicative enough of something.

“Good, because you’re stuck with me for a long time.”

—

Ace Race comes and goes, and then Railroad Rush. There’s some fanfare, but Feinberg doesn’t catch a glimpse of Couriway for either games. He hovers near the scoreboard, where he staunchly keeps his place at the very top.

“One more game left before Dodgebolt,” Grian says. “We’ll do our best, won’t we?” 

“Of course.” 

—

Battle Box. One of Feinberg’s three statistically inconsistent games, and the prequel to the Grand Finale. Two facts that don’t gel together.

He had pondered, for a long while, what the best strategy for Battle Box was, only to come up short. Much like Parkour Tag, its nine rounds of each individual team pitted against another, except winning the game constitutes filling in a three by three plot in the center of the map. The tricky aspect is killing off your opponents, which gives extra coins, but you technically didn’t need to do that to win.

“Basically, a game of rock paper scissors. How effective our play is depends on what the opponent does as well, how aggressive they are.” Feinberg hums. It was a subject in his call with Shelby and Cleo, where the topic of wool rushing was brought up.

A large number of viewers strongly branded wool rushing as banal, boring, cringe. Where was the fun in immediately booking it to the center and praying the enemy flanked because they expected a fight? Where was the content in completely ignoring an entire aspect built into the game, especially when teams that win after wiping all opponents reap more coins than those who end the round instantly? To engage in PvP was to uphold an unspoken honour code, granting the win to those that play better.

He had tried before, to balance both, occupy the center early and get eliminations (can’t blame him for being a greedy coin merchant), but it was finicky at best. The mere concept of taking team fights loomed over the Red Rabbits like an ominous cloud. They weren’t composed of the best combatants, and he knew that. He also knew that if they did well wool rushing as a team, there was a very high chance they would make Dodgebolt. And acquiring the chance of doing that, putting his team in that position, meant more than the kills.

Feinberg can take the sizeable sting of not breaching the top five on Battle Box’s individual leaderboard if it’s the objectively right play. Flexibility is required in a game like this. 

Couriway: good luck

Feinberg: thanks

Feinberg: hopefully i dont need it

Couriway: we will see :D

Feinberg’s going over the map with his team, discussing with Grian about whether to get to the plot and wool rush through the river (good natural cover, the center island is elevated so they won’t see him emerging until it’s too late) or by taking the path to the right (no shade to Grian, but it’s too visible and just a worse choice in terms of the element of surprise) when his comm beeps again.

Couriway: are you not going to wish me gl back

Couriway: i need your luck to rub off on me

Feinberg: last time i did that we both fell into lava

Couriway: sooo you hate me is what im hearing

Feinberg: .

Feinberg: good luck

Couriway: yay 

—

“Okay, everyone sprint down the middle like we covered, but I want Cleo and Shelby running interference while Grian and I place the blocks. Sounds good?”

A chorus of agreement, melody to his ears, and the matches start.

Round one against the Green Geckos goes perfectly. The enemy splits down the sides instead of going for the center, and by the time they realise what’s being done to them, it’s too late to matter.

Round two goes less well. The Blue Bats meet them in the middle, and when Feinberg delivers the instruction to fight, the Red Rabbits pivot is simply shoddier in comparison. They hadn’t discussed what to do if the opponent was also wool rushing. Swords drawn, they’re eliminated without much fanfare. 

Feinberg revisits the drawing board. “If they’re there at the same time as us, then we need to give up our first plan and just instantly switch to PvP. No point attempting to fill if we don’t have space.”

“At least it’s over quickly regardless of how we do.” Cleo says.

Round three. Purple Pandas. When the countdown starts, he thinks back to the last time he talked about Battle Box with Couri and tampers down a sardonic laugh. Feinberg can almost hear his past assessments, along the lines of well, it is just better for points if I get the kills but also win the round. Filling with the enemy team alive immediately forgoes that. Don’t you agree?

The good thing about resorting to a measure that he hasn’t tried before is that nobody will see it coming.

Not even Couriway.

The barrier drops, and Feinberg sprints ahead. “You guys know what to do.”

He gets to the middle a solid second before anyone else does, speedrunning skills paying off, and starts to break the three by three of white concrete, replacing it with red blocks.

The Purple Pandas take the side bridges instead of swimming through to the center, but they realise faster than the Green Geckos what his strategy is. An arrow whistles through his hair and he crouches down. Four blocks filled.

Six blocks.

He’s banking on the enemy panicking. Banking on them attempting to kill him because of that panic, instead of taking their own blocks and trying to fill the three by three to truly stop the win. Lexie and Couri reach the center, and his team tries to fend them off, but Couriway, nimble as ever, slips through and dashes to him.

When he raises his sword and plunges it determinedly into Feinberg’s heart, Feinberg doesn’t flinch. Couriway drives it in deeper, and he can see his health count dropping, feel his lungs shrieking at him to strike back, but none of it matters. It’s a simple task to ignore the pain and place down the eighth block while Grian fills in the ninth. Feinberg grins, wild and flippant, the blood gurgling in his mouth tasting like sweet victory.

WELL PLAYED flashes bright across his visor. All weapons vanish, and his skin knits itself back together as if he’s never been hit in his life. Spectator mode has him instinctively phasing through the island into the water, but when he resurfaces, Couriway is still standing next to him.

His face is contorted into a multitude of expressions, like he’s not sure whether to be shocked or impressed or angry at Feinberg, and every emotion is just crashing into him all at once.

“Hey, Couriway.” 

Couriway, Couriway, Couriway. Feinberg likes saying his name, likes dragging out the ‘a’ sound. He tosses the ball into his court, and waits. 

“You. Feinberg. Wool rushing and turning a blind eye to extra coins.” Couri says, ogling at him like he’s an alien. “Did they swap you out for somebody else in the middle of the game?”

“You just don’t get it,” he waves a flippant hand around.

Couriway reaches a hand up, runs it across the blade of Feinberg's tie, tender. Then his fingers wrap around it, and he tugs him fiercely down, tiptoeing to whisper into his ear:

“I know your soul hurts.”

It’s hard to judge if he’s being playful or disparaging. Probably both. The flames in Feinberg’s gut roar at full force, clamber up his throat and heat his face, licking at his ears. He can hear Couri’s measured breath, blowing hot air onto his neck.

“Not in the slightest,” Feinberg smirks, even as he glances over at his kill count and feels a piece of himself die after seeing the number, too pathetic to name.

“I don’t believe that.”

“God forbid a guy switches things up sometimes.” 

“What about your indiv score?”

“Who gives a fuck?” Says Feinberg, who absolutely gives a fuck.

Couriway pulls at his tie again, bringing them eye to eye. “You!”

“I don’t know dude, you’re the one that sounds more tilted over it. Don’t tell me you’re rooting for the enemy?” 

“You’d never be my enemy.” Couri says, stubborn and without hesitation. His words are coming out in a rush, but the moments where he spews what comes to mind first often carry the most weight. It’s what makes him a good commentator, charisma mixed with conviction. “And I’ll always be rooting for you, so if you’re gonna beat me, you should at least maximise your coins.”

“Whatever.” The words make his heart sing, but Feinberg stands ten toes down. “It was still the right play.”

“If you say so.”

“I know so.”

—

The next few rounds aren’t terrible, they go six for nine, putting their team in the upper echelons like he’d wanted. As for Battle Box’s individual, Feinberg gets some middle of the pack number he doesn’t bother glancing twice at, lackluster rank for a lackluster performance. As long as Purpled chokes, he should still be first in coins overall.

For once, it’s not his own name in the top five that catches his attention.

“Couriway!” He walks over to the Purple Pandas. They’re looking at him weirdly, but Couri’s head wings raise and flap, like a dog wagging its tail.

“Hi Feinberg,” Couri trills.

“How many kills?”

“Didn’t keep track, but I aced a team.”

Third in Battle Box for this MCC, and first in the last Battle Box he played. Statistically, Couri is the player with the highest coin average for this game in specific. He delights in the fact. 

“That’s awesome. I’m really proud of you.” Feinberg pats him on the shoulder. 

For some reason, it’s this that turns Couriway the colour of beetroot.

Feinberg pauses. “Why are you so red?”

Couri’s answer is shameless. “You’re proud of me.”

“This isn’t new information.”

“I know that,” Couriway says, a cheeky grin on his face, brilliant and beautiful, “Just wanted to hear you say it.”

“I’ll say whatever you want me to,” Feinberg replies bluntly. The game of chicken is starting to tire him out. Doesn’t he know this, too, by now? Surely he does. “Just ask.”

He’s left to watch Couri digest his words in real time, scour his body language for any sign of misinterpretation, and then realise that there’s none. An indecipherable expression crosses his face.

“My team is calling me,” Feinberg says, comm beeping with pings from the Red Rabbits. Then, he quietly adds, “I’ll be in the Hall of Fame if you want to chat during break. When you show up, turn your stream off.”

He gives Couriway a second friendly, not-in-the-slightest-bit-romantic pat on the shoulder, and leaves before he can say a word. 

—

“What’s up?” Feinberg meets the Red Rabbits at the overall leaderboard, and feels silly for even asking the question. He soaks in the numbers, a loose weight off his chest. 

“We’re amazing, that’s what’s up!” Shelby says cheerily.

First individual, first place in team rankings. The only thing standing between Feinberg and another MCC win is one game of Dodgebolt and the Yellow Yaks.

“Excellent work guys,” He smiles, sincerely touched by the effort. Regardless of how things were going at any time, they retained their team spirit the entire way through. The most fun Feinberg has is when he’s winning, but if they hadn’t made top two, he’s certain he would’ve still enjoyed himself.

“What’s the Dodgebolt strat?” Grian questions.

“I’m gonna be honest, I didn’t prepare anything for that,” Feinberg says. “I believe we’ll do well, take your time with shooting.”

The statement alone appears to be a confidence booster for the Red Rabbits, who continue to chatter gleefully amongst themselves. He’d love to stay and talk, really, but—

“I’m gonna dip, but I’m coming back before Dodgebolt starts, I swear,” Feinberg says, backing away and pausing his stream. “Just have somewhere to be.”

Cleo grins, “Tell Couriway we say hi.”

—

15 Unread Messages from SwbPoundcake

Sorry Poundy, he thinks. You’re gonna have to wait.

—

Couriway joins him in the Hall of Fame. Empty, with most people congregating around the main area outside or around the leaderboard. Feinberg hovers the area meant to display the winners of this year’s MCC Pride. For now, it’s completely blank.

“Your tie is crooked,” Couri says. “It’s probably my fault for yanking on it.”

“That’s fine,” Feinberg grimaces as he fiddles around with his tie, which was already coming loose before but now seems to be unravelling in his hands. “Or, maybe not. I’m a fucking bot.”

Couriway grows more amazed and amused by the second. “You’re telling me it takes you longer to tie a tie than loot a Bastion.”

“You don’t wanna know my tie tying PB. It’s abysmal.”

“Here, let me,” Couri exasperatedly reaches out to undo his tie completely, fingertips tracing his collar. Time ticks by at a snail’s pace despite his fast movement to redo it.

“Thanks,” Feinberg mumbles. “I’m unlike you. This is the first time in a while I’ve seen you without a tie.”

“Yeah yeah, you don’t dress like this often. But it’s hot when you do.”

There isn’t a trace of sarcasm in his voice, no bit to tease out for the viewers. Couriway isn’t joking this time. Feinberg ponders, privately, if he was ever truly joking, all those other times. 

Mouth dry, Feinberg chuckles. “Imagine how I feel. You’re in a suit every single day.”

Couri finishes the front loop with steady hands, then walks his fingers up Feinberg’s body, and he’s hit with a violent yearning. He brings up his own hand to encircle Couri’s wrist, feels at the pulse point, hammering away. They’re as close as they were in Meltdown, except with no ice between them.

“Fein,” Couri says, wings twitching with purpose, “what are we doing here?”

Couriway’s expression isn’t guarded, typically never is, heart on his sleeve. What’s written on it isn’t caution or fear or disgust but—

Hope. And that previous hunger, multiplied by tenfold. 

He says honestly, “I'm not sure.”

It wasn’t his intention, but seeing his own restlessness getting reflected on someone else’s face is almost funny.

“What do you want?” Couriway near demands, gripping at his shoulders, his neck.

“Lots of stuff,” Feinberg says, hint of a smile forming, “Mostly just whatever you’re willing to give me, but unless I’ve horribly misjudged something I think we want the same thing—”

Couriway pulls him down into a fierce kiss, weaving his free hand into the back of his hair to have him closer. Feinberg feels like he might explode from the heedy rush of it all, the passion, but also the raw affection in the way Couri strokes his neck. Gently, Feinberg runs his own hand through Couri’s wings, breath hitching at the sound it elicits.

“Is this it?” Couriway asks.

It takes a second for Feinberg to compute the question. “I’d say you got the general idea down.”

“It was good comms.”

“I’m known for that.”

Feinberg goes in for another kiss, shorter but sweeter than the last. He finally releases Couri’s wrist to cradle his cheek, inviting and alive, and it’s euphoria he’s never before felt. Couriway is warm, staring at him as if spellbound. He basks in the radiating body heat and drinks in the sight.

“This is unreal.” Feinberg says.

Couriway laughs not unkindly, brushing their noses together. “Oh, it’s real. It better be, if not I’ll be totally fucking devastated.”

“You and I both.”

“We have a lot to talk about.”

“We do,” but the adequate words appear to elude Feinberg at the moment, so he strokes at Couri’s side just to hear him hum. “We can do that later, no?”

“You make a convincing argument.” Couriway says. Feinberg dips down to kiss him again, but Couri holds out a hand and gives him pause. “We have to do everything later. You have a Dodgebolt game to play.” 

“There’s still two minutes left before I need to meet back up with the Red Rabbits.”

“Mm,” Couri taps a finger against his lips. “If you win, I’ll reward you. How’s that?”

“Motherfucker,” Feinberg laughs. “And what if I lose?”

“You won’t. Easy peasy.” 

—

“My Battle Box plan did work, by the way.” Feinberg says while they walk back to the open area.

Couri rolls his eyes. “You’re still on that?”

He smiles fondly. “Of course I am.”

“Always the first to tell me I’m wrong.” Couriway grumbles, no real grievance behind it.

“I’m also the first to glaze you when you’re right, so it cancels out.”

“Whatever.”

—

Dodgebolt ensues, the arena open and coated with ice beneath the white wool carpet. Couriway sits on one of the front benches, so Feinberg can see the red foam finger he’s waving in solidarity with the Red Rabbits. He takes a deep breath, washes away the crowd chatter as best as he can, and focuses on the best of five. 

Feinberg’s greatest consistency in Dodgebolt is being inconsistent with his movement, dodging and ducking around the arrows that are aimed his way more often than not. He lets Grian and Shelby shoot before he does, just to keep the pressure off them and ensure that they don’t accidentally hit the same person. It’s a strategy that works, and Feinberg cleans up anybody they don’t manage to successfully snipe off the arena. 

They win two rounds with similar ease, but round three goes to the Yellow Yaks. Purpled gets a good angle on him and hits home. Feinberg watches the remaining alive Red Rabbits get slowly picked off, calmly trying to manage his team’s nerves whilst still keeping their confidence high. The chat discussions about a potential reverse sweep are a mild concern, but it’s nothing they can’t bounce back from.

Round four begins, and Feinberg wonders if he’s washed or if the pressure is actually starting to get to him. He gets schooled by Snifferish, knocked out the earliest in an awkward attempt to shuffle backwards from her. The numbers dwindle, until it’s Kara versus Cleo and Shelby.

Kara goes for Cleo, eliminating them in one hit. Shelby witnesses it, and instead of waiting for a second shot to be fired, immediately yanks the arrow from Cleo’s body to aim back at Kara. The arrow flies true, soaring straight into Kara’s chest.

The stadium goes quiet for a second, before cheers erupt, filling his ears with raucous screams from the crowd. RED RABBITS WIN blares on his visor, and as disorienting the flashing lights are he feels like floating. What a save.

“Amazing Shelby!” Grian and Cleo shriek, alongside a slew of other praises that flood his headphones. 

“Unbelievable. That was a crazy shot.” Feinberg says. He can’t keep the grin off his face.

“Dude, we all did amazing!” Shelby laughs, shaking slightly. They’re all teleported to the winners stage, given crowns and a special coin, and he soaks in the roar from the other teams, the rainbow confetti streaming down in waves. 

“Well, it was lovely playing with you all. Scott will never let this happen ever again,” Grian says.

“He won’t,” Feinberg says. Having a functional team was fun while it lasted, though.

—

SwbPoundcake: congrats on the gay pride coin man

SwbPoundcake: now can you reply or is couriway rubbing off on you

Feinberg: you could say that

SwbPoundcake: what does that mean

SwbPoundcake: hello??

SwbPoundcake: wtf does that mean????

Feinberg: you were correct

Feinberg: about it all working out

He watches the three dots appear and disappear numerous times before Poundy’s messages are finally sent.

SwbPoundcake: fucking finally

SwbPoundcake: dont say anything else we need to discuss this in person

Feinberg: okay man

—

Feinberg meets Couriway near the center of the main hub, a while after all the Red Rabbits had logged off and ended their VODs. Couri pulls him into a bone-crushing hug, clutching at his jacket like it’s a lifeline. Despite it feeling like his insides are being flattened, he leans into the embrace.

“Hey, we both have crowns now,” Feinberg says.

Couri chuckles. “We do. That finale was phenomenal. You’re phenomenal.” 

“That final shot was really cool,” Feinberg says, casually releasing him. “So how about my reward?”

“Some of my team is still around,” Couriway says, subtly gesturing to some of the Purple Pandas a distance away. “Is that a problem?” 

“I don’t care if they don’t care.”

There’s faint amusement on Couri’s face. “No need to worry then. They were uh, either discussing how you had to die for being too good at the game or talking about how much you desperately wanted me whenever your name got brought up.”

“…Is that why they were all giving me weird looks?”

“Yup.”

Feinberg is silent for a bit. Then, he says, “I can’t believe they figured it out before you did.”

Couriway lightly shoves at his shoulder. “Quit yapping,” he says, before craning his head up to press their lips together.

Feinberg places his hands on Couriway’s waist, idly fiddling with the petals of one of the many flowers attached to his outfit. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be tired of this. The feeling of floating, much like he’d won all over again, and Couri smiling against his mouth, fingers in his hair. There’s whistling in the background that his brain blocks out.

“If I’d lost, would you have actually withheld this?”

Couriway’s eyes twinkle. “Nah. I probably would’ve made up some nonsense about it being a consolation prize.”

“You love me too much.” 

“And so what if I do?” 

They stay in the lobby for a while after. Couri has this one specific rock he’s insistent on keeping purple with the paint gun gadget they’re given, and Feinberg has this habit of pacing back and forth between a specific set of thin glass panes. It’s simple to just talk. But eventually, Couriway gets sluggish, and Feinberg gets bored of balancing.

“Do you have anywhere you need to be?” Couri asks.

Feinberg shrugs. “Draftout, but not for several hours.”

“Let’s go home, then?”

Couriway extends out a hand, and Feinberg takes it.

“Let’s go home.”