Tag 9 people you want to get to know better! @twettypuff tagged me, the utter NERD.
Relationship status: Single and attempting to ignore (gay-ly failing)
Favourite colour: Pink has always been my favorite color and still is even though i dont have a lot of it.
Top three ships: Sanders sides wise: Analogical, LAMP and Moxiety in that order.
Outside of sanders sides, i am also a TAZ fan and love my gay babies Hurley and Sloane. And Mangus and Julia. And for some reason people make davekat from Homestuck rlly cute so, yea. Thats three.
Lipstic or Chapstick?: if i had more colorful lipstick i would totally wear it all the freaking time but for now ill properly hydrate my lips. So, chapstick.
Last song: “hey brother” by i have no idea but i love that song.
Last movie: we watched a movie about horse racing in history and i LOVE it so much. Idk what its called tho
Top three shows: the good doctor, Greys anatomy, and the Walking Dead.
Top three bands: Broadway, broadway and random shit on youtube.
I am currently reading: random fanfiction online and kinda the Chronicles of Nick.
this one is a bit different compared to everything else, if you haven't already please read day 25 of mcsrtober 2024 as this is an epilogue to that
also this is based on the lyrics from rest easy, i'll see you again - cuco so check that out too!
“Did you see who you wanted to see?”
Death is a nice man.
He accompanies Couriway as he roams the space between the afterlife and life– not that he’s still alive, he just has unfinished duties that he can’t pass on without completing. Death keeps him company so he doesn’t get lost and end up in places he shouldn’t be.
Death is patient.
Couriway hums softly in reply to the question, sitting on his tombstone and staring off into the sunset. His wings hang limply behind him, phasing through the gifts placed at his grave, feathers still bloody and askew, stuck in the moment of time when he had taken his last breath. His legs swing back and forth as he thinks about the question, deep in thought as Death stands beside him, looking off into the sunset too, watching it dip under the horizon with him.
“Yeah.” He answers finally, exhaling slowly to force the heavy feeling on his chest to dissipate. “Yeah, I did. Even if it wasn't in the best of circumstances, I'm content with the fact that I at least saw him again.”
Death is silent. He is unjudging, simply because he doesn’t have the right. He only asks these questions to get a better understanding about why a soul hasn’t passed yet. He only talks for the sake of his role in life.
“Did you say the things you wanted to say?”
The answer to that question is clear even without saying anything.
No, he had never said everything that he wanted to say before his early death. There were hundreds of pages of words that he had written when Feinberg had suddenly uprooted himself from their routine of a life and disappeared abruptly, leaving a hollow gaping hole in Couriway’s life that stayed no matter how much he tried to distract himself from it or forget about it entirely. It’s an impossible task to forget someone that had basically been his other half, his soul deeply intertwined with Feinberg’s, their bond going beyond something that could be put into words. They were friends, but both of them knew that just being friends wasn't enough– it wasn’t a word that fit what they were towards each other. They both trusted each other immensely, and Couriway could count on one hand how many people that had been allowed to preen his wings, and even that would just be two fingers, and removing Feinberg would just make it one. He knows Feinberg, and he knows that man never trusted easy. He ran from the concept of connecting with someone for long enough to know more than just their name, and he had tried to do the same with Couriway before for some reason letting the avian be his exception to his self-made rules that he had later learned that were made because Feinberg was afraid of loving and being hurt by it again.
He knew Feinberg’s body and mind far better than his own, a hand squeezing his heart every time he thought about him during the nights where he had found himself alone in his own nest that felt more than empty even though it was his and no one else's and no one but him should’ve been found it but Feinberg had been the exception to that. Feinberg had been the exception to everything in his life. His instincts never screamed when Feinberg got too close to his nest, and the sight of the man in or near it made those instincts happy rather than flaring up and making him aggressive at the proximity, and it made him a bit sick to his core. His chest and mind had felt hollow every time he had laid in that nest alone, no warm body against his with gentle breathing that would also accompany his own, and when he turns his head, he expects a soft smile and cyan-brown eyes to look back at him in tired amusement, teasing him for still being awake even though he always would fall asleep before Fein would, but he sees nothing there, and it makes the tight feeling in his throat turn into a sob, clutching at his blankets and wailing into his pillows because it wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t fair at all that Feinberg just left like that, leaving nothing behind at all and forcing Couriway to face the world alone after they had been co-existing in each other’s daily lives for so long that without each other, things would feel wrong– the world was vibrant even before Feinberg had come along, but it actually felt alive when the man was around, the air buzzing with electricity and life, and now it’s nothing but the bleak muddied colors that he’s grown disgusted of seeing, and it had felt like the world had died when Feinberg left. He stood out against the murky world, golden wings and royal purple clothes extravagant against the average outfits everyone else wore as the world deteriorated in a blink of an eye.
He searched everywhere for anything that Feinberg had maybe left behind for him, hopeful that he could have some explanation on where he went and why he even abandoned Couriway in the first place. He tore apart his nest at some point, some foolish hope infested in him that maybe there would be something where they were together most– where they were always vulnerable with each other.
It haunts him, the question of why Feinberg left and how he doesn’t have a clear reason behind it he –thinks and thinks and tries to recall all of their interactions and their moments together, trying to find out why– why the man who had never turned his back to anyone just to make Couriway that exception to his rules and beliefs and pull him close every night and let him see the flesh hidden under so many layers and feel his heart underneath his ribs and touch the scars from challenging the sky that no one even knew about just to fucking leave without a single goodbye or explanation on why he would just throw everything away like it had meant nothing at all when it was everything.
And how was Couriway supposed to live his day to day life knowing the exact way Feinberg’s heart would beat when he was asleep or how his breathing would shift from his dreams or the way his expression was so soft when he was hidden from the world in Couriway’s arms where he confessed that he had felt the safest. Oh, what was Couriway supposed to do but mourn a man who had disappeared and made it look like he had never existed in the first place?
He roamed their home– his home, and everything of Feinberg’s was gone. Everything was moved back to make it look like Couriway hadn’t ever lived with another person but himself, and his heart– already cracked and nearby on the brink of shattering– finally breaks when he spots the shelf that had held the things that they made together just gone, their few photos together missing from where they were usually sat, their frames empty.
There's nothing left.
He knows that this was all probably meticulously planned, because it's Feinberg. He does everything with a plan, even if the problem at hand was little or not. He should’ve seen the signs because he knows that man. But what signs were there to even see? How could he have ever known that one day, without reason, Feinberg would vanish from his life completely? There weren’t any signs for him to notice, and if he went back in time to before Feinberg left then he's sure that he still wouldn't be able to spot anything either, because Feinberg was equally impulsive as he was calculating.
It’s laughable how predictable he must’ve been for Feinberg to so easily just disappear even though just hours before Couriway had seen and felt him breathing in his arms, clutching the avian as close as possible to him, and he wonders if Feinberg mourns him the same way that he currently is now. His nights are unbearable without the other man, and he’s miserable for he doesn’t even know how long before he does something other than mourn the death of a man who never died, but it’s a while. The world never stopped turning for anyone, so Couriway keeps going, even if it feels like his heart has been ripped straight out of his chest, the wound still fresh regardless of how much time passed.
It’s a weird thing, how even after everything, you still have to keep going like it never happened because the world stops for no one.
So he tries, and he keeps trying, and it’s hard to ignore the way his hopes get sent sky-high when he spots a glimpse of pink or blue in the sludge of people around him, because who would ever wear those colors but Fein? Those hopes don’t stay high for long when it immediately clicks after that no, Feinberg didn’t randomly reappear magically after being gone for years now.
Couriway misses him tenfold every single night, but he has to steel himself and tell him to get it together because a normal person wouldn’t still be stuck on a guy that had disappeared without even leaving a letter or anything behind at all.
Fate brings them back together eventually, and it’s not a nice meeting.
He had thought he was hallucinating or dreaming when he spotted colors too specific to be anyone else appear from out of nowhere, gleaming trident in hand as he moved past the waves of people, heads turning towards him as he basically glowed in the murkiness of the city, an air of unwavering authority emanating off of him.
In all his glory, stood Feinberg, uncaring of all of the attention (Feinberg never liked attention) and searching for something– or someone rather, because his eyes connect with Couriway’s, and it’s a moment of silence because Couriway really isn’t sure if he’s breathing or not because this… this was never supposed to happen.
Feinberg was gone, he was– no, Couriway never believed Feinberg was dead, but he knew that seeing the man again was close to zero because when he didn’t want himself found, he knew how to do it. So why? Why was he back? Why was he now staring at Couriway with thousands of incomprehensible emotions swimming in his eyes like he too didn’t expect it even though he willingly came back himself.
It doesn’t make sense.
Feinberg never made any sense.
He closes his eyes, his spectral form unmoving as he sits and remembers, going back to the mere minutes before he had bled out because of his best friend, the last thing he had heard before everything faded into nothingness was a soft broken whisper from Fein, a plea of some sort, words jumbled with a sob escaping the other man before it was all over, and oh man, he would’ve cried if he could when he had come back as a ghost after realizing that basically all of his good memories– the one that people said would always replay in those few minutes before you’re actually gone– were just him and Fein before he had lost the man to reasons that now he’ll never know.
Death stands beside him, passive as he watches the sun fall below the horizon and the moon come up to lay with the stars.
His confession weighed heavy on him, words swirling in his mind as his vision faded, unable to properly see how Fein reacted to what he said– he knows that Feinberg isn’t a man that loves– had he been scared of loving Couriway so much that he ran before it became something more than he could handle? It’s a thought that he occasionally comes to a conclusion with, and his heart is already shattered and frozen still, but it still hurts, knowing that feelings that he held onto no matter how much time passed would’ve never been returned and it would be his fault because he knows that Feinberg was a survivalist first and foremost, why would he ever stick around and stay with someone and god, even fall in love with them too? What hopeful little deluded dream had he been believing in?
He closes his eyes for a while, and when he reopens them, Feinberg kneels in front of his grave.
Feinberg.
He’s here.
Why is he here?
He doesn’t understand.
He can’t hear Fein– he looks at Death for answers, but he’s not there anymore.
Flowers are placed on his gravestone, and Feinberg is talking, and he’s– unfortunately, he’s never been good at reading lips. Fein fiddles with his switchblade, something that Couri had warned him countless times to not do and only scolded him further after he cut his finger, finally learning his lesson and he feels the instinct to do it again, but then Feinberg stops, shoulders sagging with what looked like a sigh.
Feinberg stays for a while, and he keeps him company, leaning against him and attempting to not phase through the man– it takes a bit of energy that he really doesn’t want to exert like this, so he phases through him and it startles him when he’s able to feel Fein’s breathing and heart beat, and oh, it feels like he’s actually laying beside him in bed again in a way– when was the last time they had been this close?
It’s comforting, feeling the low vibrations of Fein’s voice and heart, and if he closes his eyes, he could imagine that nothing bad had ever happened, and it was just another night where he listened to Fein aimlessly ramble until they both fell asleep.
He startles when Fein moves, standing up, and he watches him strip himself of all his belongings, and his world freezes when he spots the photos that had disappeared from his home all that time ago, placed in the bouquet of flowers and he realizes that all this time, Feinberg had kept them.
Feinberg kept them.
He kept photos that would remind him of Couri no matter how far he ran– no matter where he was, he would’ve had something that brought him back to those moments that he had shared with Couri. Feinberg never wanted to run– it doesn’t make sense. If he ran, then why keep parts of his past with him? Why keep photos of someone that he should’ve forgotten and let go of when he ran. He should’ve burnt and discarded all of these photos, yet he didn’t.
Couriway would never be able to understand Feinberg.
But that’s the thrill of it, in a way. If he could never fully understand the man, then he would just have to keep learning, and that’s not a bad thing at all; to keep discovering new things about each other.
Feinberg’s trident– the thing he never parted with– sits in the ground next to his grave, and he watches as Fein takes off running into the horizon, red and blue flickering in the distance.
He’s not a ghost bound to one spot, so he roams, Death staying near and keeping an eye on him, and he keeps his eyes averted from other restless spirits, vengeance clear on their minds while Couriway walks and walks, going somewhere that he doesn’t even know himself.
Oh.
He comes face to face with a detained Feinberg, stuck in a small cell with no sunlight, arms bound and orange really had never been his color.
Death doesn’t stop him from phasing through the cell door and approaching the man on the ground, sitting beside him. Feinberg looks hollow, stripped of life, and it’s probably something that would happen pretty soon with first hand murder being on his list of crimes. He moves to be in front of the man, reaching out to hold his face, and Feinberg’s shivers when his fingers phase through him, eyes opening slowly and looking straight ahead, right through Couriway, but it doesn’t really matter.
He presses a kiss against Fein’s face, and he’s unresponsive of course, but he looks up, and for a moment, they make eye contact before guards drag him away.
Couriway doesn’t stay for the execution, and Death accompanies him back to his grave, and his chest feels a bit lighter.
“Is it too late?” He whispers, looking at Death as he nods, and he has to accept it, even if he really doesn’t want to.
“Will I ever see him again at least? Maybe after I’ve passed on?”
“That is something that cannot happen. You are ready to pass on. You have done everything you wanted to do. He cannot accomplish that same objective. He is doomed to roam forever without you, a punishment for being the cause of your death, even if you forgive him, and even if he regrets it.”
It leaves him speechless, but he can’t argue with Death itself, so he stays quiet.
For a moment– it’s extremely brief, but it’s enough for him– he makes eye contact with bright cyan-brown again before Death blocks it, but that’s enough for him.
That’s enough.
Fein will find a way back to him, he knows that.
He trusts Fein.
[Full Fic]
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
🎤🎤"Fuck off Weasley," Lee said. "Boy," he said with an arrogant huff. "Like I'm not two months older than your scrawny arse."Blaise spent an hour sat at the bar of the Leaky wondering why the word "fuck", when said by Lee Jordan still made his cock swell. 8/19🎤🎤
