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.)