Work Text:
Couri is awoken by what he's pretty sure is a labour rights violation, but whatever, he needs the hours.
"Yeah, okay," he mumbles into the phone, voice still cracked from sleep, social skills not entirely loaded in yet. He hopes his manager didn't hear the pop of him removing his retainer before he spoke.
"Thank you so much. We called everyone else but a lot of people are sick right now."
He's probably supposed to respond to that but he forgets, resulting in a three-second silence that his manager eventually realises isn't going to fill itself.
"See you there, then!" she chirps.
"See you. Bye."
He swipes the call away and rolls over in bed. Pros of being Couriway: he slept in his clothes last night, so that's a timeskip for getting to the office. Cons of being Couriway: he's perpetually exhausted. He needs to be out of the house by the half hour mark to get to the bus in time (his car is broken again, Frostbyte's fault, long story) but he opens Twitter anyway. It's already on Feinberg's account, the last thing he looked at before going to bed. He doesn't really want to think about the implications of checking his roommate's social media so religiously, but then, the social media account in question is literally an updates account based on him, so he guesses they're both the freak, which cancels out to neither of them being the freak, probably. Anyway, he was right and Feinberg has been getting into Twitter beef at 3am again. How many times can your account get banned and reinstated before the staff nuke it altogether? Ah, well. It's not his problem, even if the argument is about him. It's always a coin toss as to whether Feinberg is in trouble for white-knighting him or insulting him. Usually it's both at the same time, so he has very few friends on either side. That's fine. Feinberg has never really been in it to make friends. Instead, he's in it for- well, who the fuck knows?
Couri finally gets out of bed, goes to the kitchen and pours himself some cereal. They can't be mad at him if he ends up late: that's their fault for giving him 45 minutes of notice to come in when he wasn't scheduled. His contract, he's pretty sure, says he needs two hours notice minimum, but he's not confident enough to quote that at them. He'd complain more if he didn't like his job… Or at least feel a sense of duty to his job. Never go into a field you're passionate about if you want to keep that passion.
Moving to the living room, he spots Feinberg's jacket strewn across the sofa. He has the itch to pick it up and put it away, but he restrains himself. Something about fostering independence. Something about not getting too reliant on each other. He unloads the dishwasher (again, Feinberg's chore, not his), puts in his bowl and flips the magnet to "dirty". The bus will have left three minutes ago. Is there even money on his bus card? Is there time to pick up lunch on the way? Probably not. Are there leftovers in the fridge? No, but there were yesterday, meaning Feinberg ate them during his 3am Twitter rampage. Maybe tall people need more food. Maybe tall people need to learn to share. He wriggles into his shoes, laces already tied, and grabs his gay little messenger bag from off the hook. Keys, wallet, phone, laptop, uniform. Would be nice to have his water bottle and his charger too, but there's not time.
When he opens the door, cold air hits him in the face like an anvil. The weather is probably a clue as to why he's being called in so early. He's already walked all the way to the bus stop before he remembers he forgot to leave a note for Feinberg. A text will have to do. "Called into work. Don't know when back. Get stuff for dinner? Canned soup? Or I'll stop at the store maybe." He rereads the text twice to check for errors, finally deciding to add an emoji at the end. Casual. It's casual. He's casual. Everything's always so casual. He refreshes Fein's Twitter (nothing new, of course he's still asleep), then the news feed (no clues about the situation), then his work chat (incomprehensible memes sent by his maniac coworkers). He's so deep in his phone that he almost misses the bus when it does show up.
The bus ride is okay apart from being full of university students that seem to him (26 and prematurely graying) like they were just born and don't even know they're alive yet. Luckily, they all get off at the campus, leaving room for him to sit down at the back and put his headphones on. He's been trying to learn a second language so he's listening to this podcast that's, like, the news in French but for beginners, except probably not enough for beginners because he can't understand any of it, but he might just be stupid. Is he stupid? "No," says the Feinberg in his head, "you're a genius. It's the French that are wrong." Okay, yay.
The office is basically deserted at this hour of the morning with the exception of Rose Rosebeams. Her eyebags look even deeper than Couri's. He waves at her and she waves back in the universal signal of "happy to see you but too tired to socialise". There are instructions left for him on the big whiteboard in the meeting room, along with an apology that the briefing couldn't be held in-person. The understaffing issues are systemic. First, trainee heroes need practical placements. These placements are unpaid, and although they're currently working on a class-action lawsuit, Couri doubts anything will change soon. Anyway, that means only heroes that can afford to work for free make it out of the course. On top of that, heroes need supervisors, which there's a lack of due to burnout, injury, lack of training, so forth. In the end, only about 12 trainee heroes get given the chance to become pro heroes every year, and that doesn't guarantee they'll actually make it. Did he mention they also have to pay for their own supervision? Why isn't that covered by course-related costs? Couri himself would like to be a supervisor someday, theoretically, when he has the time and energy and his caseload isn't massive. So, probably never. He sighs and walks to the bathroom to put on his uniform. Changing rooms aren't in the budget either, apparently.
At least his uniform is objectively sick. Purple! Cute little pilot hat and goggles! Big bright fluorescent vest for visibility purposes! Okay, so that's a little nerdy, but there's nothing cooler than staying safe. Obviously he thinks this, or he wouldn't have chosen the most dangerous profession he possibly cou- oh. Hm. Well, it's harm-reduction at least. He stops in the empty breakroom to pour himself a cup of dubious instant coffee. No milk, no sugar. Feinberg, who won't drink anything that isn't bright orange and carbonated, thinks he's insane. If Feinberg thinks he's insane, Couri reflects, he's probably doing something right. He puts his cup in the breakroom dishwasher and walks out to meet Rose.
"Sorry I kept you waiting," he tells her. "It's been a morning."
"It sure has," says Rose, releasing the tiniest bit of tension in her shoulders at the sight of him. "We got a call from Bastion Apartments. Apparently they're snowed in."
"Well, yes, it's Winter. Can't they, like, use a shovel?"
"Do you want to see a picture?"
Without waiting for an answer, Rose swipes open her phone. The page takes a second to load, then Couri does a double-take.
"Oh, yeah, no, that's… Not normal, I think?" he says.
It isn't. There's snow and then there's snow, bolded and italicised. There's so much snow you can't even tell there's supposed to be a building under there, let alone the biggest building in the city. To add insult to injury, someone's stuck a carrot and two pieces of coal into the giant snow-lump so that it smiles out at them with a- okay, that's quite cute actually- so that it smiles out at them with a cute but sinister and evil!!! Gaze. It looks like someone's written a message in the snow, too.
"What does it say underneath the face?" Couri asks, leaning in closer.
"Merry Christmas and a happy new year."
"It's February."
"My mum still hasn't taken down her tree yet."
"Do you think your mom might secretly be Frostbyte, then?"
Rose's brow furrows in serious thought.
"Probably not. She hates the cold."
"She might just be saying that to stop people from investigating her."
"That's a good point. I'll have a serious chat with her about not terrorising the general public after we get this situation sorted. We're already half an hour late, by the way."
"Ah. Sorry."
He shouldn't have taken the time to make that coffee, maybe.
"Can't be helped now," says Rose, patting him on the shoulder. "Are you ready to go?"
He is. The air under his wings goes from icy to pleasantly cool as the movement gets his blood pumping. Looking down on the city through the clouds, he tries to make out any familiar people or landmarks, but all the buildings are covered in snow and all the sensible people are at home in their- is that Feinberg? What's he doing out? Is he okay? Did something happen? Is he wearing Couri's scarf? That's cute. No it isn't, thievery is a crime! He should take a picture. No, he should cuss him out. No, he should go down there, pick him up by the scruff of his neck like a kitten and drop him home.
"Couri!" Rose calls.
Oh, she's way ahead of him. Feinberg will have to wait.
The only way he can tell when they've arrived at Bastion Apartments is by the giant carrot sticking out of the snowheap. Where did Frostbyte even find a carrot that big? Does he have an accomplice with some type of farming-based superpower? That would make sense, actually. Like, if he was a farmer, he might be tempted to make a pact with an ice-themed supervillain so that his opponent's fields would constantly be covered in snow while his crops flourished.
"Please never turn into an evil farmer, Couri, I have enough on my plate as it is," says Rose.
Oops. Did he say all that out loud?
The first thing to do is to set up cones and caution tape around the site. This won't stop anyone from trying to get in, but it gives the team something to point to and say "we did our duty to warn the public". The majority of the building's residents already evacuated when the weather warning went out, so they're shivering outside dressed in various outfits ranging from "weather appropriate" to "pajamas and flipflops". They're going to be shepherded into the local school hall which is functioning as a temporary disaster shelter. Rose does a quick headcount and flies back up to him, face worried.
"We're missing, like, six."
"Do we know which apartments?"
"Um, 3B, 7A, 8C, 2A."
"I'll check. They could just be out, right?"
"I hope so."
It'll be alright. It's his whole job to hold that belief, so he does, swooping in to where he hopes the window of apartment 7A might be and trying to clear the snow away with his gloved hands. Unsurprisingly, it doesn't do much. Well, he tried. Flamethrower it is, then. He tries not to take too much childlike joy in the operation of dangerous tools, but it's moments like these that he remembers his job is cool. Graphic designers never get a turn with the flamethrower. "Graphic designers don't have to risk their lives every day," points out the version of Feinberg in his head. "They sit in their comfortable desk chairs and play with the circle tool or some shit." This is part of the reason why Feinberg can never, ever know about his secret identity. He'd have to deal with worried, overprotective Fein, and Fein is already worried and overprotective enough. If Feinberg looked at him with big scared eyes and asked him seriously to quit his job, Couri might actually cave. He can't afford to do that, so he can't afford to tell Fein, so he can't afford to be daydreaming about a life where he doesn't have to keep secrets. This is- and continues to be- the deal. After several minutes of being flamethrower-ified, the snow covering the window finally melts and Couri busts his way inside.
The first group he rescues is a frazzled babysitter, a huge ginger cat and an eight-year-old girl. As he's flying her to safety, the kid tells him with great confidence that her name is Marnie, her mum has a cousin named Sophie, her dad's old cat was also called Sophie and her younger sister (one month old) is also named Sophie. Also that she went to the zoo once but she was very young and doesn't remember much of it except there was a spider which she got to touch (large) (fluffy) (not poisonous) (she's not afraid of spiders). After that, she has all the usual questions, such as:
"What's your name?"
"Icarus."
"Nicholas?"
"Close enough."
"How old are you?"
"26."
"That's older than my brother!"
"How old is your brother?"
"Four. Do you go to the pride parade?"
He chokes a little and almost drops her. That would be bad. That would be very very very bad.
"Sometimes I go to the pride parade. It's a bit loud, though, so sometimes I'm just proud at home."
He thinks this is a remarkably good answer for something he thought up on the fly (ha, on the fly! Because he's flying! Anyways) and hopes the conversation doesn't continue down this line of inquiry. No such luck.
"Are you a boy or a girl?" comes the next question.
Heeere we go again.
"I'm a boy," he says, straining to maintain his smile.
Hopefully he sounds confident enough to sell it. Hopefully she's young enough to trust in his authority on the subject.
"I thought you were a girl," says the kid, more thoughtful than accusing.
"A lot of people think I'm a girl because I'm short."
"Huh. Is that the only reason?" the girl asks skeptically.
Like, no, but you don't have to- okay, whatever, it's fine. It's an anecdote he'll be retelling for the rest of his life, probably, or at least for the next couple years if he's optimistic about his chances of going stealth. Is going stealth worth it if it reduces your store of funny anecdotes? Yes, he decides, but it's still a steep price to pay. In the time it takes to think all of this, he's already deposited her on the ground with her family, waved goodbye and gone to collect the babysitter (also named Sophie) and the cat (mercifully untalkative). These are probably the most eventful of the rescues he performs. The other missing residents are either a) out or b) too in shock to provide much entertainment, which is fair enough.
Once he gets everyone out, he flies to the school hall and finds himself serving hot chocolate with a ladle and handing out blankets while Rose is in the corner having a loud phone argument with their boss. It's about all the usual topics- understaffing, protocol, safety measures, etcetera etcetera. She's right, of course. She's just saying what they're all thinking. Still, the whole situation plus lack of sleep plus undercaffeination (yes, he already had a cup, no, it wasn't enough) is giving him a headache. He's dipping his ladle into the hot chocolate and dishing it out on autopilot, expecting the people in line to have their cups held out at the ready. This works for the ones with brains. It doesn't work for the man in front of him who is not holding out an empty mug but instead two lidded paper cups. Couri, not noticing this, pours hot chocolate all over the man's hands, his stupid chainstore takeaway coffees and- oh, that's a familiar scarf. In fact, Couri's certain he has the same one at home. Actually, he's certain he has that same man at home as well.
"Feinberg?!" he exclaims, then immediately clamps his mouth shut.
Oops.
"Icarus knows my name!" says Feinberg, smiling his silly smile (it always reminds Couri of a hippo for some reason) "Why'd you just attack me? That shit hurt."
Okay, any concern he had for Fein is now replaced by general pissed-offness.
"You'll live. And I didn't say Feinberg, I said 'fine?' like, 'are you fine?' because I was worried. The 'berg' was a cough. It's snowing. I have a cold. I might die."
"You're not going to die. I brought you coffee. It's wet now."
"Coffee is… Supposed to be wet? What?"
"The outside is wet because you attacked me with boiling water."
"It's hot chocolate."
"It's basically water. Is there even milk in this?"
"A lot of people are lactose intolerant."
"They should broaden their worldviews."
"I don't think it's a worldview issue? I think it's genetic?"
"I'm taking over here," says Rose, saving Couri's life once again. "Please stop burning the civilians."
"Be serious," Couri says, rolling his eyes. "He's like, actually fine."
"They do call him that," comments Rose.
"I feel like a celebrity," Feinberg says, his smile growing even wider.
"Yes, well, you hang around enough crime scenes and the police start knowing your name," says Couri. "Is that a good thing? Probably not. Which coffee is mine?"
"The one with your name on it."
One cup reads "Feinbert" and the other reads "Nicholas". Couri, sighing, takes "Nicholas". A bold choice for sure, but the flavour immediately reassures him that his decision was correct. "Feinbert" is probably some kind of whipped cream monstrosity.
The question of how this weirdo knows his coffee order is one that doesn't bother him as much as it used to. Feinberg first started showing up to his place of work about a year into their roommateship. He'd just been laid off from some kind of government-related stats job for all the usual economy-tanking worldwide pandemic reasons- it's not you, it's me, we still need you to put your stuff in this box and be out of the building by three, though, please and thank you. So, he was bored. His solution to this was to make a Twitter account and start calling himself an "independent journalist" (he's neither of those things!!). At first he was just following some news accounts, then more specific Icarus updates blogs, then retweeting Icarus memes, then weighing in on the daily Icarus discourse, then tracking Icarus from a distance, then getting (purposely, Couri suspects) involved in situations that would require Icarus to swoop in and save him. It finally culminated in Couri deciding that if Fein's heart was set on this (which it apparently was for whatever ludicrous reason), it was safer to have him where Couri could keep an eye on him, hence letting the coffee thing start. If Fein's knowledge of Icarus' coffee order was a little too perfect and specific, he probably just read it in some obscure interview Couri had done four years ago and promptly forgotten about. It didn't have to mean anything.
They stand around drinking their coffees for a while in (companionable?) silence, Couri sneaking sideways glances at Feinberg, Feinberg fully engrossed in taking the lid off his paper cup to lick the remaining cream off its inside surface. It's actually gross.
"Dude, it's all over your face," Couri finally blurts out.
Feinberg, unphased, wipes his mouth with his sleeve. It leaves a stain on the fabric.
"Did I get it?" he asks.
"Yeah, man, you got it," deadpans Couri.
"Well, I probably have to go now," says Feinberg. "My roommate wants me to go to the store."
"In this weather? Is he crazy?"
"I think so. I worry about him sometimes."
Usually when Feinberg mentions his roommate to Icarus, Couri tries to steer the conversation away as gracefully as he can. This time, though, he has to ask, right?
"What's there to worry about? Apart from him sending you out in a blizzard. Which I'm sure he wouldn't have done if he'd realised how serious the weather situation actually was. Or something."
"Dunno. He leaves early and he gets home late. I think they're working him too hard. I haven't said this, but I don't like him taking the bus back from work alone at, fucking, 1am or whenever they've decided to keep him to. It's a dangerous city. Also he's grumpy all the time because he's tired, which is annoying as fuck."
Couriway chooses to ignore this last point.
"We're working as hard as we can to make the city safer, yeah?" he says, hand kind of awkwardly hovering above Feinberg's shoulder. "I mean, I can't promise anything, but we're trying."
"I know," says Feinberg.
Couri can't tell what his expression means. There's a pause long enough that Couri thinks the conversation is over and is about to make an excuse to leave, except:
"Maybe look out for him if you see him, though," Fein says.
"I will," says Couri, trying his best to smile.
"You fucking won't," comes Feinberg's mumbled reply, but still he takes Couri's empty cup, then unravels his (stolen scarf) from around his neck and hands it to Couri. "You probably need this.
"Isn't that-"
- your roommate's scarf? He's about to say before he realises how insane that would sound.
"- Your scarf?" he finishes lamely.
"Obviously it's my scarf, why else would I be wearing it?"
"I don't know, Feinberg, maybe you borrowed it from somebody."
"I didn't. It's my scarf."
"Yes, you seem really sure about that," Couri says through gritted teeth.
"You're being weird."
"I'm being weird? I'm being weird? You're the one workplace stalking me and, like, telling me sobstories about your emotionally unavailable roommate from hell and giving me a whole scarf! I thought you'd at least take a break in this kind of weather."
"He's not that bad. Also, you should be taking a break, not me."
"I'm a hero. If I took a break, the world would end."
"Would it, though?"
"It would."
"Well, I'm a journalist. If I took a break, my Twitter followers would drop."
Couri rolls his eyes.
"Okay, get out of here. I have hot chocolate to serve."
"You mean throw at people?"
"Yes, I mean throw at people! Get out!"
Fein gets the hint and leaves. Before going back to the hot chocolate table, Couri sneaks his phone out of his bag to send a furtive text. "Do NOT go to store weather too bad sorry. Will get something on my way home. Pls stay home + keep warm thanks :-)". It's marked read instantly and the typing bubble pops up at the bottom of his screen. "dude relax i never leave the house" comes the reply, three seconds after Couri sent his message. "IK IK just making sure in case you were feeling stupid today" is what Couri sends back. So they're both liars, which means neither of them are liars. Or what?
The rest of the day goes by as expected. They're called out to another site to do more search and rescue, first aid, mental health support, other things they aren't technically qualified for but nobody else is available to handle. A building almost collapses on him, whatever. The tips of his wings are frozen, it's fine. He ends up working three hours of overtime that he's not sure they're going to pay him for, and that's beautiful, actually. Once upon a time he was fresh-faced and idealistic, always biting off more than he could chew because he wanted to prove himself so badly. Now he's just old and doing it because if he doesn't, who will? That's what he thinks on the bad days, at least. Should it concern him that the bad days are getting more and more frequent? Rose directs another patient over to him for bandages. He pushes the thoughts down and gets to work.
The bus home is mercifully almost empty, so Couri can listen to his video game soundtracks or his stupid French podcast or whatever undisturbed. Instead, he's just wearing his headphones out of habit, nothing coming through the speakers. He's pretty sure that if he has to hear one single extraneous sound right now he's going to start killing people. Closing his eyes, he tries to focus on his breathing. This is fine, actually. This is good. Now he can go home and do his long and complicated bedtime routine, every step familiar and exactly in order, until he calms down. If they ask him to come in tomorrow he'll say he caught the flu from being out in the snow all day. He's never faked sick before, they'll have no reason to suspect anything. He'll stay in his pyjamas all day and play Mario Kart with Feinberg. That sounds perfect, actually. It even puts a slight smile on his face that doesn't go away even when he feels a tap on his shoulder. He doesn't open his eyes. Surely he's imagining it. Stress-induced hallucinations were sure to come for him eventually, right? It happens again. Okay, so it's real, but if he ignores it it'll go away. It happens a third time. Couri opens his eyes to someone reaching over and yanking off his headphones.
"Hey!"
"Sorry, sorry. Just trying to get your attention."
It's some blue-haired idiot. Not that- um, not that there's anything wrong with that. It's okay to have blue hair and be an idiot.
"You've got my attention," says Couri. "Do you need something?"
"I'm, um, new around here, so I wanted to make some friends," says blue-hair, no remorse in their tone. "Great weather we're having, right?"
Couri is pretty sure this weirdo is lying to his face because he's certain he's seen them at the supermarket before at least 100,000 times. Whatever. He's an adult and he's going to be polite.
"Yeah, the weather's beautiful," he says.
Blue-hair's whole face lights up.
"You mean it?!" They ask.
"No."
"Oh." Blue-hair's expression falls. "Sorry about that."
"Hey, it's not your fault. You're not personally responsible for the weather."
"Haha. Yeah," says Blue-hair, not sounding entirely convinced. "I just meant, like, general sorry. Sorry-for-your-loss sorry."
"I mean, it's not like anyone died. It just made my work harder, that's all."
"Wait, really?" Blue-hair leans forward in their seat. "Where do you work?
Couri shifts.
"Weeell, technically I'm a graphic designer. I guess not 'technically'. I'm seriously and genuinely a graphic designer."
"But they're making you go to the office in this blizzard? That's messed up, no?"
Couri sighs.
"Yeah. You know, after the pandemic 'ended' they started insisting that everyone works from the office because the economy would tank if not for workers buying overpriced coffee on their breaks or whatever."
The bus turns onto a street featuring a cinema that's been closed since 2018, a cafe that shut down last week and another dozen shops that will likely be gone by the end of the year. It's doubtful that any amount of workers purchasing coffee is going to save this city. The government gave up on it to focus on richer, more conservative areas long ago. Meanwhile, Blue-hair looks thoughtful.
"I didn't think that would happen," they finally say.
"Are you stupid?" Couri splutters. "Sorry. Sorry. Um, but did you seriously think that everyone would get a day off just because of a tiny little severe weather warning? You're joking me."
"That's exactly what I thought!" Blue-hair exclaims, almost on the brink of tears. "You know, everyone looks so tired recently, so I thought we could have a snow day to give the city a bit of a break. Like a mini-Christmas. I even decorated the buildings like snowmen!"
"You what?"
Suddenly, Blue-hair slams down the button and the bus grinds to a dramatic halt, almost flipping itself in the process.
"Just-remembered-this-is-my-stop-very-sorry-got-to-go!" they shout, sprinting for the doors. "The weather will be better tomorrow, man, take my word for it. Blue skies and fluffy clouds from here on out, okay?"
"O… kay." says Couri. He's pretty sure Blue-hair doesn't hear him, though. The doors have already closed behind them.
When he gets home, he's greeted, shockingly, by Feinberg heating up canned soup on the stove. It must be for Couri, because Fein's own bowl is already on the counter, vegetables carefully picked out and thrown back in the pot. Couri puts his keys down as loudly as possible but Fein has his headphones on and doesn't acknowledge the sound. Sighing, he hangs his jacket on a hook by the door and walks into the kitchen.
"I told you not to go to the store," he says, tapping Fein on the shoulder.
Fein jumps, almost spilling soup everywhere. He takes off his headphones.
"What?"
"I said, I thought I texted you not to go to the store," says Couri.
Starting a conversation with an accusation is probably a pats, but it came out automatically and he can't take it back now. How do things always end up like this? Luckily, Feinberg doesn't bite the argument-bait.
"I didn't. I found this in the back of a cupboard."
So, that's a lie. Couri knows for absolute fact that the cupboards were empty this morning. On the other hand, he's literally lying to Feinberg about his entire job and identity, so calling Fein out on any of his bluffs might just result in Feinberg lashing out in return and forcing him to admit some secrets of his own. Also, he actually did forget to pick up food on his way home, so this is kind of a godsend even if it is built on lies. One last ill-advised question and then he'll lay off. For real this time.
"Have you seen my scarf?" he asks, as casually as he can muster.
Fein looks at him with an odd mixture of confusion, humour, anger and hurt. Or maybe Couri's projecting.
"What scarf?' Fein finally asks.
"You know, the purple one. You got it for me for my birthday."
"You're wearing it."
Couri looks down.. Wait. Fuck. True.
"No, I'm actually dumb." he says, trying to play it off. "I thought I lost it."
"Yeah, it's interesting that you're wearing it."
"What? Interesting how?"
Fein narrows his eyes.
"I just didn't see you leave with it this morning."
"You were asleep."
"Yeah, I was."
"And you didn't leave the house all day because it was snowing."
"Yeah, I didn't," says Fein, slowly.
"So I guess we're both going crazy."
"That must be it," agrees Fein, returning to his soup.
Another stalemate. This is how most of their conversations have been ending recently. If it were anybody else's friendship, he'd be taking bets on who was going to snap and kill the other first. As it is, Couri just feels empty.
"What were you listening to when I came in?" Couri asks, trying to keep his tone light. "It must have been loud if you didn't hear me."
"My hearing is fine. I'm not going to get fucking tinnitus or whatever you're worrying about."
"I didn't mean it like that! I was just interested. Like, maybe we could listen to it together."
This is potentially Couri's overactive imagination, but Feinberg goes slightly pink.
"Nothing important," he says, stirring the soup faster. "Soup's almost done."
"It's important to me," Couri replies.
It feels like an admission of something. Feinberg goes pinker. God, he's stupid. Couri tries to stop himself from grinning.
"Chess," Feinberg mumbles, finally ladling soup into a bowl for Couri.
"Sorry?"
"Chess. It's a musical."
"They- how do you make a musical about chess?"
"It's about the cold war. But also there's chess in it," Feinberg says, running his words together in an effort to get them out before he dies of embarrassment. "It came up on, like, my YouTube recommended because I was watching chess videos or whatever. It's really bad. But also, like, good. I dunno. The soup is pretty hot still, so maybe blow on it some?"
"Sounds interesting," says Couri, taking the soup. "We could, um, watch it together?"
"Sure," says Feinberg, like that's the last thing on earth he wants to do.
Info about Chess the musical: even people who like Chess the musical don't like Chess the musical. The whole concept is insane. It's by ABBA, for some reason. The plot is confused, the themes are contradictory, the characters are unlikeable and the politics are dubious. As a principled Marxist, Couriway is appalled. As a gay man, he's hiding his face before the second act has even begun. Feinberg looks over to see him crying during Someone Else's Story and flips the laptop shut.
"I was watching that," Couri sniffles.
"I think it's past your bedtime, little guy."
"I'm taller than you! I'm literally taller than you!"
"Sure you are, man," says Feinberg, reaching over to ruffle his hair.
Then, he's being unceremoniously picked up and carried to his own bed.
"Hey! Put me down! Just because I'm short doesn't mean I don't have rights!"
"Yeah, the right to be carried and the right to go the fuck to sleep," says Feinberg, flicking the light off. "Love you."
"Love you too," says Couriway, but the door's already closed.
In the dark, he climbs under the covers, too tired to change into his pyjamas for the second night in a row. That's not normal. Actually, it's becoming normal, which is what worries him. Maybe Feinberg and Blue-hair have a point and it's time for him to take a break. Maybe the whole city is conspiring to get him to go on vacation so that the villains can stage a coup. Sure. They can do that. He wouldn't even notice with the shit he's got going on. Lying there with his eyes closed, he tries to practice what the counsellor told him the one time he caved and went to one of his six work-funded mental wellbeing sessions. He works on simultaneously clenching each of his muscle groups one at a time and breathing in deeply, unclenching on the exhale. It actually works, which is annoying. Words and sounds dance behind his eyeballs as he gradually drifts off to sleep. Then, his leg twitches and he's jerked back awake, leaving him to begin the process all over again. After ten minutes? Two hours? Five seconds? of this, he gives up and takes his phone out from under his pillow. Sure enough, he has fifteen notifications, all from Feinberg's Twitter. His latest three posts are, in order:
- "sometimes i almost reach a zen state. i get so close to true happiness and then BANG i remember that i live in ranked city."
- "almost dropped my keys down a storm drain"
and
- "im so serious when i say im begging mcsr team to recruit and train more heroes. its just impossible for any of them to do their jobs at this point. while theres a hero shortage, what theres no shortage of is starry-eyed young adults with untapped potential. its just a matter of doing the bare minimum at this point like we just objectively dont have enough manpower."
Okay, the storm drain thing is a concern and proves to Couri that he isn't going crazy. Feinberg did actually leave the house to stalk Icarus today. Perhaps more insultingly, he even posted about it on his Twitter, operating under the bold assumption that Couri doesn't read that shit like the daily paper. He scrolls down further, but most of the tweets are some variation on:
- "i think theres a lot to say abt how we treat our heroes"
Couri turns off his phone, tosses it onto the floor so he can't reach it, then spends several minutes trying to pick it back up in case someone steps on it. He finally compromises by putting it on the bedside table. Eventually his eyes drift closed and he dozes off, but when he opens them again to check the time he sees that only an hour has passed. His bed is warm but his throat is dry and his body won't go back to sleep, so he slips out of bed towards a familiar light coming from under the living room door. Sure enough, Feinberg is still awake and on his laptop.
"What are you doing?" whispers Couri.
He doesn't have to keep his voice down, but there's something about being up this late that would make it feel sacreligious to maintain a normal volume.
"It's midnight, dude. I'm doing the Wordle," Feinberg replies like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
Maybe it is. Couri's metrics for what counts as normal are a little skewed right now. He sits down next to Feinberg on the couch, leaning on him a little. Fein is typing W-I-N-G-S into the little boxes. Three letters are wrong, two are right but out of order.
"What's wrong, man? Are fonts stressing you out?" Fein asks, eyes still on the game as he carefully spells out S-W-A-M-P.
"Yeah. The client wants one thing and I want another, you know? My design is better but I have to do whatever they want even if it's objectively bad because they're the ones with the money."
It comes out surprisingly sincere. Couri guesses he's still salty about how he got treated at his design job. Huh. He thought he was over that already.
"Well, what do you want?" asks Fein.
"Doesn't matter," says Couri. "You could try S-W-E-L-L."
Fein tries it. It's correct.
"Huh. Would you look at that!" he remarks, ruffling Couri's hair for the second time that day.
Is Couri like a pet to him, or what? No, he reassures himself while leaning into the touch, he's his own person with- with autonomy and shit. Feinberg opens sudoku in a new tab and they stay like that for a while: Couri's head on Fein's shoulder, Fein mumbling numbers to himself.
"What would you do if Icarus retired?" Couri asks suddenly, breaking the spell.
"Is he going to?" Fein asks, still carefully plugging in digits.
"I don't know. He looks tired recently. He's getting older, too. Maybe it's time."
"He is pretty old," Feinberg concedes.
"What? No he isn't!"
"You were just saying he is!"
"Right, but he's not, like, washed or anything!"
"He's totally washed."
"No he isn'tttt."
Couri pouts for a while, then, despite himself, gets so absorbed in watching Fein play sudoku that he forgets to be pissed off. It's not hard. Fein is, he's pretty sure, a genius, and watching him work is like watching Van Gogh paint or, like, Etho work with redstone. He's so caught up in the game that he actually jumps when Feinberg speaks.
"I think it would be a huge loss to the city if Icarus retired," Fein says.
Couri's heart sinks.
"Right. Yes. Of course."
"Let me finish!" Fein says, rolling his eyes. "I was going to say, of course it would be a huge loss. Obviously I would miss him. But-"
"Miss him? You don't even know him."
Feinberg hums thoughtfully.
"Maybe that's true. I feel like I know him better than you think I do, though."
"How? You've never met, as far as I know."
"No, I've never met him, but you can tell things about people by their actions, right? His actions have shown me that he's a man who sticks to his principles. I respect that. I think we need people like that on the hero team."
"He could secretly be an axe murderer."
"Sure," deadpans Feinberg, "he could secretly be an axe murderer. That would be awesome. Can you let me talk?"
Couri mimes zipping his lips shut and eating the key. He then realises you can't eat the key if your lips are zipped shut, so he mimes throwing it away instead. Feinberg smiles.
"Thanks. On the other hand, I think we forget that heroes are people, too. Just because they have powers doesn't mean we should be expecting them to work until they're too burnt out or injured to keep going. That's not sustainable."
Couriway opens his mouth, remembers it's supposed to be zipped, closes it again. Fein continues like he didn't notice, which is courteous, because he notices everything.
"I also think that his retirement would be a wakeup call for the establishment. If model hero Icarus can't work under these conditions, who the hell can? It might give the trainees some political leverage to at least get their supervision funded. I could even see a future where paid placements become the norm."
Couri nods slowly.
"You think the team could handle it if he left?"
"I think that's not his responsibility to deal with."
"Then whose-"
"I don't know. The mayor. The president of the hero agency. It shouldn't be on one guy to carry all that weight alone, especially since he's barely getting paid. Allegedly."
Couri sighs. It's the truth, but he doesn't like to hear it.
"Alright. Cool. I should sleep."
He doesn't move.
"Yes, Couri, you should sleep," says Feinberg, switching tabs to 2048 and merging numbers together.
Couri still doesn't move.
"Fein, there's something I haven't been telling you," he says.
It's stupid and impulsive and it's the thing that finally gets Feinberg to close his dumb laptop and look at him. There's a lot in that look. If Couri didn't know better, he'd say it was pleading. Fein doesn't plead, though. Other people plead with him. Fein is a rock and everyone else is just waves trying uselessly to wear him down.
"Not tonight," says Feinberg. "Maybe tomorrow. Tonight I'm finishing my puzzle and you're going to bed."
"We're both going to bed."
"Sure," says Feinberg without malice. "If it will shut you up."
"Tomorrow I'll call in and tell them I have the flu."
"Do you have the flu?" asks Fein, already reaching out a hand to touch Couri's forehead.
Couri bats it away gently.
"No, I'm fine. I just need a day off."
"Okay," says Fein. "So we're going to bed, then. Fucking shower first, though."
"Oh, true. Did I forget to shower?"
"I mean, apparently, 'cause you smell like weed."
"What? No I don't. Do I? Wait, it's probably 'cause I sat next to this person on the bus. They had blue hair and said- or, like, implied? That they control the weather. I didn't notice at the time since my nose was kinda blocked, but-"
"Oh my god," says Feinberg, already pulling on his jacket. "Evening plans cancelled. I need to kill Hax."