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Feinberg had known about Couriway for a while. It wasn’t that he was actively scouting info on the other actor, but when Oliver had sent him the script and a list of who he wanted in each role, Couriway’s name hadn’t taken him by surprise. They hovered around the same circle, really. They had more than enough mutual friends to make it near impossible for him to not know of him.
Couriway had been in the industry for a while. He was a competent actor and a good friend, based on what Feinberg knew from secondhand. Outside of that information, he didn’t care for much more.
Fein had accepted the role easily. If it was Oliver handling production, and Redlime who had written the script, then only a fool would give up a chance to star in it.
He didn’t usually consider himself a fool.
A soft makeup sponge tapped beneath his eyes, and he shit them tightly on instinct, face scrunching up more than he’d wanted it to. With a hand on his chin, Raddles huffed, poking him lightly.
“Ow! The fuck?” Feinberg whined.
“Keep them open, it’s gonna crease,” Rad warned, and he did as she said.
He allowed her to maneuver his face however she wanted, correcting over and erasing the dark circles beneath his eyes. He let his gaze drift out of the shadowed canopy they sat under and to the field where the cameras were being set up— the same field where Couriway stood, helping them test the focus.
“Did you do his, too?” Fein asked absently.
“Who? Couriway?” Rad asked, and when he nodded, she grinned. “Yeah, obviously. Didn’t I do a good job? He cooperates way better than you do.”
“Not my fault,” he protested quietly, and with a flurry of powder that made him want to sneeze, Feinberg was discharged from his chair and permitted to start shooting.
He pulled in where Couri was already sitting, plopping himself down next to him and fiddling with the zipper of his track jacket, waiting. And waiting. And waiting and waiting and—
Look. Feinberg liked his job, don’t get him wrong. He was good, disgustingly good, for a rookie in comparison to the man next to him, and it wasn’t as if his connections hurt. He was the second person Oliver had cast for this, wasn’t he? He had the skill. He certainly had the luck to boot.
That didn’t mean it wasn’t boring, waiting around with a near-stranger, in the form of his one and only co-star.
The two of them sat in a corner of the set, the grass soft beneath the morning sun. Oliver had wanted to fix something gone wrong with the cameras, supposedly only needing a few minutes, so it’d probably be rude for him to leave and get his phone now. But Couriway was— Something.
He wasn’t sure. It was weird, talking to him. Thank fuck they hadn’t done a chemistry test before they started filming.
Couriway blinked down at him as Feinberg’s back hit the grass. “What’re you doing?” He asked, turning to look at him.
“Nothing. I’m just bored,” he mumbled, shutting his eyes and shielding the upper half of face from the sunlight with a raised hand. He hadn’t gotten enough sleep last night— not because they had to wake up early, of course. Unfortunately, a 9 AM call time didn’t mean Feinberg was going to be able to magically fall asleep at a neat 11 PM. What was he supposed to do? Late night Rocket League with Danny had been a siren in the waters.
“It shouldn’t be that much longer. He’s so good at production, isn’t he?” Couri said, staring at the bright orange beanie that made Oliver stick out like a sore thumb, messing with the cameras a while away.
He hummed in agreement. For a moment, the two of them fell into silence, before suddenly, Feinberg felt something block the heat of the sun entirely. When he opened his eyes in confusion, he froze. Couriway was leaning over him, casting him in the shadow he left.
Something twinged in his head, a dull feeling gnawing at him. “What’re you doing?”
“I’m bored, too,” he shrugged, the movement allowing the sunlight to leak back onto him. Maybe Feinberg was making it up, or maybe his mind was playing tricks on him, but something about Couri’s face seemed a shade redder.
Did he get a fucking sunburn? On their first day of filming? Fein thought this guy was a professional.
“Did you not bring sunscreen?” He blurted out.
Couri seemed taken aback, if only for a sudden, before his expression evened out again. “I borrowed Fulham’s, yeah—”
The sound of Redlime’s voice snapped both of them to attention, ringing over the speakers. Feinberg didn’t linger any more on the thought, pulling himself out from under Couriway to dust himself off. He had a job to do, after all. He didn’t need to worry about sun protection, of all things.
The wind blew quietly as they took their places in the field. While Fein had snapped into focus, Couriway seemed the same as ever, light and airy. It took him off guard, how disgustingly easy it was for Couri to possess his character. Maybe they were just similar.
He wondered if his own mindset could shift just as quickly. If he could look into Couriway’s eyes and see the face of the best friend he’d been cast as, or if he’d be forcing the perspective.
(Really, it didn’t matter. He could fucking act without getting that into it. But something told him— it’d be easier than he imagined.)
Couriway’s voice was soft as he spoke, the lines rolling off his tongue effortlessly. The sharp coattails on his vests drifted behind him like deep purple feathers of a pretty bird gliding in the air. He’d traded out the glasses he usually wore for a different pair, thinner and shinier, the frames morphing into tiny golden stars at the hinges. He really did look the part.
The clapboard came down almost hesitatingly, like the man behind it was too confused to use force. “Okay, okay, cut,” Oliver called out, staring at him. “Feinberg forgot his fucking lines.”
“What! I’m sorry, okay?” He started defensively. “God— God forbid a guy get a little bit in the moment!”
Couri’s hand was cupped over his mouth when he looked back again, the laughter fading from his face as he cleared his throat and took his position once more. Fein’s face flushed. With embarrassment. And sun damage. Nothing else, really.
He wondered what Rad had seen, blending concealer and blush into Couriway’s skin, dusting his eyes with shadow, and—
Why would he wonder something like that?
-
It was dark out already, and Feinberg didn’t have a ride. To his credit, he never did, having no license and no desire to bug his friends every day they filmed. He stood at the edge of the building, waiting for his Uber app to load.
“I’ll drive you, if you want.”
His head turned so fast it would snap as he looked at Couriway. “Huh?”
“You’re actually deaf. I said I’ll drive you. Probably more comfortable than ubering, right?” He nodded his head in the direction of his car, taking a step forward invitingly.
Feinberg should’ve refused, told him not to bother, and made his own way home.
Right. Anyway.
He sat in the back of Couri’s car as the other hummed, seatbelt clicking into place, a hand reaching to turn the radio off. “Can you type the address in?” Couri said, waving to the little screen at the front.
Feinberg leaned over the gap between the two seats in the front to fumble with the interface. He didn’t miss the way Couri bit down on his cheek, nails dug into the pads of his fingers. Even after he’d gotten the GPS up and ready, it took a moment of silence before Couriway snapped into it, hands back on the wheel.
What the fuck was his problem, then?
-
It was the sound of Feinberg’s own voice that was playing on the screen, late in the afternoon, when everyone else was busy with their own work. He didn’t have work to do yet, but stupidly, he’d shown up early anyway. On the couch was one person, sitting alone, knees pulled up.
A picture of his face was zoomed in in HD, the back of his hand wiping the sweat off his forehead, and Feinberg physically cringed.
“You’re watching those?” He said, stepping over to lean against the back of the couch.
Couriway jumped at the sound of his voice. Which was stupid, considering he’d been listening to Feinberg’s episode for the past— twenty minutes, maybe, depending on which one it was. His hands raised up like he was trying to cover the screen, before remembering he wasn’t watching on a laptop, and giving up on it.
Fein stared at himself on the tv. They’d really done him a few favors with the lighting, huh? He used to run in variety shows, before he kept winning them all, and it got too boring. This must’ve been his last win, right before he’d quit.
He whistled quietly. “They kinda made me look good as fuck, no? No?” Turning back to look at Couri, the other’s face was covered with his hand.
Couriway wasn’t looking at him as he spoke. “You look the same as always to me.”
Which could’ve meant anything.
“Are you gonna sit down, or are you just gonna stand?” Couriway asked after a moment of silence passed.
Feinberg shrugged before walking around the couch and plopping himself down on the opposite end. The other straightened up a bit more. “Why are you watching this, anyway?”
“It came up on autoplay,” he answered, a bit too fast.
“Seriously? Gross.”
His own body moved across the pixels, each action fluid and graceful, and yeah, maybe he did devolve a bit after that era. Couriway was staring straight ahead when he glanced by to check, more focused than he was, and as a bright beam of fake lightning struck, Feinberg frowned as the version of him on screen shook in excitement.
He never really liked watching anything he was featured in. He wasn’t quite sure why he would start now. It was weird. Things were different when he was around Couriway.
Hesitating, Couri spoke. “Did you like it?”
“What, winning?”
“No, the— The participation. You didn’t always win,” he corrected.
“Dude, I won, like, twenty times in a fucking row, I basically did,” he grinned, coming off more arrogant than he’d intended. “It was fine. I had fun most of the time. Unless I got rolled and ate shit on national TV.”
Couriway laughed. “This isn’t even close to national TV, relax.”
Feinberg reached over, exiting out of fullscreen so that he could check the viewcount. “That seems close enough to me, no?”
And Feinberg liked to say he was good with details. The fact that he didn’t notice how he was in nearly every thumbnail on the sidebar, and how most of them had been viewed close to completion— well, that was just what human error was like, right?
-
Couriway’s hands were smooth in his, not at all calloused enough for the stubborn hard worker he was trying to depict these days. He held on tightly, not thinking of whether his palm was cold or not, nor whether he was holding on too tight.
“This is it,” he heard Couriway breathe as the other turned around to face him, the two of them now standing at the top of the smooth stairs, a warm orange glow bathing over them from lava he was sure would be edited in later. “We can’t go back.”
Feinberg reached for the string of shining orbs hanging at his belt, the resin eyes glassy and light. “Wanna do the honours?”
Couri caught them gracefully as Fein tossed the string of them up. He better have. Feinberg was going to riot if they had to shoot this stupid scene again. The eyes popped into their slots within the frame of the portal, and a deep purple light turned on, flooding the room with colour. It turned the end of his soft brown hair a bright violet, the edges of his face flushing into lilac. He tucked a loose strand behind his ear before shooting a glance back at Fein. Just to make sure he was still there, still with him, the anxiety melting off his face as he did.
Feinberg’s heartbeat looped in a sickening beat. That wasn’t in the fucking script.
Couriway stepped onto the frame, ready to drop down into the cavity that had been made beneath the portal, and Fein’s hand moved on its own, hooking onto his wrist as if the other would drift away if he didn’t.
That wasn’t in the script either.
Fuck. He was so stupid.
The two of them tumbled in together as the top of the clapboard came down with a sharp click. Fein caught himself on his forearm, landing with his legs half-tangled with Couriway’s, and scrambled away as fast as he could to get off of him. Above them, production was a hum of voices that he couldn’t decipher.
Couri’s eyes were on him, wide with— something. Surprise, maybe. Probably annoyance, if they had to reshoot. “What was that about?” He said, voice painfully neutral. “You never improvise.”
“You improvise too much,” he huffed, dragging himself up and out of the pit..
“Okay, relax. Can a guy not be in character?” He laughed, taking the hand Feinberg offered out of habit to pull himself out too. “Wow, so chivalrous.”
Was he— making fun of him?
He frowned, turning away so Couri wouldn’t be able to see. Surely not. Unfortunately, Couriway was too nice for that, having already run off, now returning to him with two bottles of water in hand.
They didn’t end up shooting again after all.
Their lunch break came up quickly, and Oliver decided the shot wasn’t all that bad. Feinberg ended up at one of the smaller tables lying around, his phone plugged into Poundy’s power bank after forgetting his at home, picking at the food on his plate. He hadn’t managed to leave enough space between the chicken and the rice, and now they’d mixed together at the edges.
“Has this guy touched a single fucking vegetable the entire time?” Fulham said at the sight of Feinberg’s plate as he sat down.
Couriway huffed with laughter, having returned at the same time. “Did you expect him to get a salad?” In his hand was glass tupperware with the sandwich he’d brought from home, and atop it, two bananas from the basket. He left one at Poundy’s currently vacant seat, and the other one in front of Fein.
Distracted from being able to give Fulham a proper protest, Feinberg blinked at Couriway. “Uh, I didn’t ask for—”
“If you don’t want it, I’ll take it,” Couri said. “You usually get one, so—”
Couriway cut himself off with a high-pitched yelp as a pair of hands landed on his shoulders without warning, making him jump. The topic quickly dissolved as Couri sputtered and Poundy showed no sign of regret.
Fein stared at the fruit in front of him for a moment, the ends of the peel still a fading green. He’d remembered. Feinberg didn’t like it when the peel started to spot with brown.
(It had to be some kind of joke.
Maybe Couriway wanted the connections. Or maybe he wanted something else from him. Otherwise, there was no reason for him to act so attentive, so… nice?
Either way, Feinberg had already made up his mind. He and his co-star would have a professional relationship, nothing more and nothing less. So if Couriway wanted to win him over for whatever stupid reason, it wasn’t going to work.
He didn’t really feel flattered. He just felt uneasy.)
A piece of broccoli landed on his plate, the source of the vegetable both lanky and British, with the audacity to giggle, and he snapped out of his thoughts.
Fulham avoided his gaze in a way that was almost theatrical. “Nah, look at me, come on,” Feinberg said, grinning. “I’m— I’m gonna fucking kill you.”
Poundy piped up. “So it’s actually illegal to kill someone on the job—”
The same piece of broccoli landed on his plate next. Poundy seemed unimpressed, shrugging at the sight, and accepting it was probably what he deserved. Unfortunately, it looked far less jarring on his plate than it did Feinberg’s.
And Couriway hadn’t stopped smiling the entire time.
-
Danny sat beside him, a half-empty beer in his hand, matching the significantly fuller can of soda in Feinberg’s. His feet tapped against the ground absently, like he was busy considering something, before he suddenly spoke. “You and him aren’t together or anything, right?”
He nearly spat the drink from his mouth. “What the fuck are you talking about? Who— Who’s he?”
“Dude, don’t spit, that’s gross,” Danny complained instead of answering his question, because he was fucking stupid. “You know…? Like, Couriway.”
“Do you have a brain problem?”
“Dude! You’re so fucking mean, forget it, I don’t know why I asked.” He huffed, turning a few degrees away from Feinberg, crossing his arms like he was actually mad.
What on earth had he done to give him that impression? Feinberg liked to think he was fairly professional, compared to the rest of his friends. He didn’t have seven people saved as boyfriends in his phone. He didn’t even have one.
He groaned, setting his can down. “Why are you even asking?”
“Dylan told me he’d give me thirty dollars if you weren’t. Please, bro, I really need the money—”
“No you fucking don’t?”
“—So if you’re into him, can you just wait until filming ends? For my sake?”
“I’m not!” He insisted, swatting him on the shoulder. “You’ll get your thirty dollars, dude, chill out. And stop talking about it. It’s weird.” That was the correct word for it, right?
He didn’t exactly know how to describe it. Feinberg didn’t like anyone like that. They weren’t even friends. Not even close, and definitely not to the degree where he could— God, why did Danny have to bring it up and make everything confusing? Asshole.
The other had already moved on from the topic, now busy showing Feinberg the stupid reels he got on his page. He tried to focus on the words and the people and the sound of the music but his mind ran circles around him and he couldn’t keep up.
He had to have an issue in his head. Something needed to be able to explain it.
Fein just wasn’t sure if anything could.
-
(That night, Feinberg had a dream.
It was the final scene they had shot. The room itself, he knew, had been a sea of bright green to be edited in later, but his mind had already replaced it with the deep void and dusty lilac he knew was intended.
Couriway’s face was blurry, like a cloud whose edges were fading away into moisture and precipitation. His hands grazed Feinberg’s, ever so gently, as if he were something to be handled cautiously, treasured. That cemented it for him. Why would someone like Couriway hold him like that?
Off the top of his head, he could still recite the script, and this wasn’t part of it.
His voice ticked, soft and quiet, echoing in the endless nothingness. In front of them, the portal out of this place was open, and the island was quiet. Stone the colour of pale golden sand shifted beneath his feet as Couriway pulled him closer to the edge of the fountain, and now, his form had condensed, his face a swirl, out of focus.
“What do you want from me?” Feinberg’s own voice muttered without his control, and Couri’s fading body seemed to shift with laughter.
He pulled him into the portal, their bodies pressed close together, the softness of the other spreading into fog.)
Feinberg woke up with a fading recollection, but one that was still too clear.
His throat was parched. Dragging himself up from his bed and not bothering to straighten up the blankets at all, he brought himself to the kitchen, drowning in a glass of cold water as he tried to flush the headache from his skull.
In little white letters blinking from his microwave, the time read as three in the morning, which meant he hadn’t been able to get much sleep at all. As Fein rubbed at his eyes, he found his phone, dialing whatever number he assumed would take him to someone still awake. Maybe Fulham wasn’t a great person to air his confusions on, but he’d probably be awake— and hopefully sober to boot.
The phone rang. Once, twice, and then nothing.
“‘Yello,” came Fulham’s voice as the call connected, clearly much less tired than himself. “Fein?”
“Hi,” he greeted back, yawning loudly and not bothering to mute his mic.
“Do you need something or are you calling for shits and giggles? ‘Cause if you wanted to join, I was gonna boot up a game of geo and—”
“Have you ever, like, dreamed of someone…?”
The line went quiet. Fein sighed, lifting himself to his fridge, and sliding down to sit against it, knees tucked up close. His fingers tapped a shaky rhythm against the floor as he waited for Fulham to respond.
“Who was it?” He asked, like he was begging Feinberg to get on with it already, unimpressed.
Because he wasn’t stupid, Feinberg refused to answer. Speak up and leave it to Fulham to tell all their friends? Over his dead fucking body— and please, ignore the fact that he’d been the one to call in the first place. “I’m not telling you. You’re gonna tell the group chat and ruin my career.”
“Son,” he deadpanned. Feinberg could practically see the exasperation on his face.
“Not my name.”
“Dreaming about Silverr versus dreaming about, fucking, Poundy, is gonna have me saying different shit.”
“Why Silverr?” He asked, almost pouting, before remembering that everyone dreamt of Silverr. He stood up with a groan like his joints were creaking hinges, pulling his fridge open to retrieve one of the cans sitting inside. His sleep schedule was fucked, anyway. “You don’t need to know. That’s not the important bit.”
If Fulham heard the sound of the soda tab clicking open with a hiss, then he neglected to mention it. “You are miserable,” he drawled. “I’m gonna guess if you don’t tell me. Infume? Reign—?”
“What the fuck is the logic behind that?”
“I’m thinking about the people who could be your type, don’t interrupt me. Mime?!”
He plunged his face into his free hand. “I’m hanging up.”
“It isn’t fucking Couriway, is it—?”
The call disconnected before he could be required to answer that question.
Feinberg slid the rest of his way down, his back down flush against the wooden floor as he stared up at the dim ceiling.
Why did things have to be so complicated?
Text notifications gathered against the wallpaper of his lockscreen, all with the same zoomed in profile picture, which he pointedly ignored. He turned the phone face down on the floor, and sipped slowly until his can was empty.
-
He leaned on his forearms, phone clutched in one hand as the battery gradually ebbed away. Condensation dripped onto the rippled oak tabletop, and absently, he stirred the ice through the tall glass of pepsi that Feinberg already knew was too watered down for him to want to drink anymore— but at the same time, he couldn’t push it away. What was he going to do without a distraction?
Feinberg supposed that inevitably, it was always going to end up this way.
He truly didn’t hate his co-star, of course not— he’d gotten through months of filming with him side by side after all, and had been prepared for several more, had Oliver not managed to streamline their schedule so well. He didn’t hate Couriway. It was— normal, to feel some level of discomfort, wasn’t it?
Everyone liked Couriway anyway. What did it matter if one person didn’t?
Couri sat at his side. It was only to be expected, that the only two sober people in their entire party would end up picking the same corner of the bar to wait it out in. After all, Couri couldn’t leave until Poundy did, and Feinberg had promised to pay the tabs this time.
The other wasn’t even on his phone the way Fein had been pretending to scroll earlier. He simply stared around the room, head turning slowly back and forth like there was something to look for. The rest of the cast was rowdy. It came free, with the spirit of celebration and alcohol on their tongues. Every once in a while, Feinberg could feel his warm brown eyes land on himself, and for only a moment, his throat would feel drier than it used to be. Then again, Feinberg had never been good at figuring out his own mind.
This time, Couriway met his eyes, and held his gaze. Feinberg blinked, eyelashes fluttering fast as he stared back, watching the other’s head tilt, mouth handing open like he had something to say. The bright purple lights made it even harder to tell what he was thinking.
“Are you still drinking that?” Couriway asked, and something in him deflated like it’d been expecting anything different.
“Am I— uh, no, I guess not,” he responded, glancing at the soda, slowly diluting. “Why?”
“Are you attached, or can I have it, then?”
For a moment he paused, because surely he could afford his own drink, before Feinberg pushed the glass over, offering it to Couriway without a word. What? It wasn’t like he wanted it anymore. “I’ll flag them down for another straw,” he said, and was waved off with a shake of the head.
“Eh, don’t bother anyone, I don’t really care,” Couri said.
Feinberg couldn’t help but watch the condensation stick to his fingers as he tapped the glass, pulling the straw up towards himself rather than leaning down and he’d never really noticed how full his lashes were from this angle, or how smooth his lips were, and how Feinberg was sure his hands would be so much smaller if he could hold them in his own, and—
Fuck. Was he drunk? He had to be.
Couriway set the straw down, tapping the moisture off his lips with the side of his thumb. “You’re staring, by the way. In case you didn’t notice.”
He ripped his gaze away, tone as even as he could possibly make it as he spoke. “You’re imagining things, I think that drink was spiked.”
“Fuck, really?” Couriway said, rolling his eyes and playing along. “Does that make neither of us sober? That sucks.”
He tried to think of something to respond with. Rudely, he was interrupted as Couri’s shoulder bumped into him, as if he’d let himself tip over to the side. “Wh— What the fuck are you doing?” Feinberg sputtered, instinctively reaching out to catch him, hand fumbling and landing on the curve of his waist. Immediately, he let go again, as if the warmth had scorched his skin.
“You said it was spiked, didn’t you?” Couriway shrugged, a grin spreading over his face. The audacity of it all. “Doesn’t it suck that I can’t hold myself up? Guess you have to help me, as your coworker.”
“...Are you even trying to act?” He responded, because what else could he possibly say to something like that? “Oliver’s not bringing you back for the sequel.”
Couriway laughed. “No, not really! Is it working yet?”
He scoffed, looking away and shoving him lightly so he could readjust his body to face Couri’s instead. Couriway’s hands landed around his shoulders, linking at the back of his neck. Feinberg bit down on his own tongue as the feeling of skin against skin, of his gentle heat, spread through him.
Actors did this with their co-stars all the time, Feinberg reminded himself sharply. For all of Couriway’s legacy, he would’ve done so, too. It wasn’t like they were special.
“Something is fucked in your head, Couriway.”
Couri’s nails grazed his scalp as he wrapped a curl around his finger, a sensation Feinberg hadn’t expected himself to be willing to bear, and he wasn’t certain of how to respond, hands hanging at his sides. He sighed, leaning backwards, which only served to make Couriway stumble even closer.
The other’s head moved, peeking past Fein to check on the moving masses that were the rest of their party. “They’re not watching. They won’t remember, even if they see. Promise.”
“What, like you’re worried? You started it, asshole, you deserve a scandal.” Cautiously, he raised a hand back up to hover at Couriway’s hip, an inch of space between them. This was normal. They’d been closer, during filming.
(Then again, that was filming. This was purely Couriway and Feinberg.)
“This is not on me,” Couri argued back. “You couldn’t catch a hint if it was sitting naked in your hotel room and—”
“I’m sorry? Sorry?” He stammered, voice pitching up.
His palms cupped the sides of his face, forcing his head downwards. Feinberg allowed it, leaning close so Couri wouldn’t need to reach too far up if he wanted to— y’know. Do anything. Not that Feinberg had any ideas, per se, but if he wanted to, then he could.
“Are you gonna be normal about it?” Couri hummed, close enough that Fein could feel his breath flutter.
“I’ve been normal the entire fucking night, can— can a guy catch a break? Seriously?”
Couriway sighed, the corners of his mouth tugged up. “Fine.”
“Yeah, that’s my name—”
“You’re so fucking stupid, Fein.”
Their lips crashed together, and Feinberg would like to call himself a natural at many things, but this wasn’t one of them. His bottom lip caught on Couriway’s teeth. Maybe Couri was doing it on purpose. He wouldn’t put it past him.
The upbeat music and cacophony of laughter around them numbed into a hum in the back of his head, fading away like there was no one else in the room. This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real. If he waved his hand through, Couri would disappear into a soft wave of mist, and it’d be over.
But he wanted it to be real.
He pulled at one of the hands on his cheek, pushing his fingers between Couriway’s, his grip tightening so his nails dug against his knuckles. Fein had been so sure for so long that he would hate it, the feeling of someone else, the proximity, the body that melted into his own— but Couriway felt different. It felt like dreaming. He could still taste the sweetness of watered down pepsi, lingering between them, barely breathing until Couri dragged himself away first.
At least one of them had self control, ignoring the fact that Couri had initiated in the first place. He took a greedy gasp of air, and pulled Couriway back in.
Everyone liked him, after all.
Feinberg didn’t know why he’d been so sure something like Couriway wouldn’t captivate him eventually, too.
“Fein,” Couri hummed, the vibration of his voice passing through him. “I can pay for a driver or something. We can—”
“I’ll pay,” he cut in quickly. “I’m already paying for the rest, I don’t fucking care. Let’s just give Silverr my wallet.”
“Silverr? He has to be wasted by now.”
“He’s, like, a high-skill drunk, though,” he argued, tugging at Couri’s hand. “Come on. They won’t even miss us. Mine or yours? Let’s do yours, mine is probably still too messy, and—”
Couri’s thumb grazed over his lips. Feinberg fell silent.
“We probably shouldn’t leave them to fend for themselves, huh?” Couriway backtracked, having the decency to sound disappointed about it. “My car’s still close.”
Feinberg fumbled blindly for his phone and jerked his head towards the door. “Okay,” he said, almost dumbly.
Cold air whipped against his flushed face as the door swung open, and he held onto Couriway’s hand tighter than ever as the other dragged him forward. The car door opened with a click, and Fein felt his back hit the cushioned seating with a thud.
Couriway’s hair fell in a halo around his face, arms framing Feinberg’s head as he held himself up on top of him, doing his best not to lose balance and collapse, sending their faces crashing together. Now that the lighting wasn’t so artificial, he could tell his cheeks were red like they’d been drinking.
Fuck. What on earth was Feinberg supposed to do?
He’d never been that good at self control.
-
Messages with Unknown:
Unknown: I asked poundy for your number
Unknown: he’s too hungover to ask questions
Feinberg: who is this?
Unknown changed a nickname to fein <33
Unknown: fuck
Unknown: no fuck why is it public
fein <33: ohhhh ic wait
fein <33 changed a nickname to couri :)
fein <33: ok two hearts is kinda forward dont u think
fein <33: idk u like that
couri :): LMAO
couri :): you’re getting cancelled tomorrow morning.