Corvus

His week is quiet and peaceful, and he cannot ask for more. He does not dare to.

For what feels like the very first time since the Fall of Beacon, Clover experiences a leisurely life. He sleeps early, wakes up late; he reads the paper and skips the news, focusing on anything but the state of affairs in Atlas while he sips coffee and eats fatty breakfasts. He spends his days milling about, reading articles and journals and novels he has been putting off for months and months after constantly telling himself that he'll take a break tomorrow, when tomorrow never came.

These actions build up over time in different ways. Every morning, he feels refreshed, bright-eyed and ready to take on the world, no matter how simple that world in which he has confined himself really is. As the day wears on, however, he finds himself feeling more and more lost; without a precise mission, it is difficult to gauge time, energy, ambition. He wonders idly as he washes dishes in his friend's sink when exactly it was that he began so fervently putting his entire worth into being productive. He doesn't know what to do without his missions anymore. What else does he have?

The crow.

And once those thoughts begin two days into his vacation, they cause a spiral so steep that he can scarcely breathe; it is a scant two hours before those thoughts drive him to a nearby store to pick up a small cushion. It is a black square, filled with soft down and bordered by stiff embroidery, the main expanse soft and sleek and smooth to the touch. It is about as large as his chest, with a heft to it that feels familiar, comforting.

He does not miss the crow, he tells himself as he places the pillow at his bedside and not upon the bed itself. He does not miss the crow.

But as the pillow creeps closer and closer to his actual mattress as the days wear on, so does Clover's regret in not buying one with any red, grey, cream, to it. He cannot forget the man whose face has managed to occupy his thoughts for weeks, and now that both Huntsman and corvid are one, he cannot unlink the two. They are intertwined irrevocably.

It is such a waste. His heart had been genuinely making a little space within for Qrow Branwen. Now, he wants to throw that space away. He tells himself that he does. He does not double-check the results.

What Clover actually does find success in, however, is rebuilding his resolve. Each time his eyes land upon the window of his friend's guest bedroom, the same thoughts run through his mind: he shall no longer open his window, for Atlas' skies are too cold at night to give anyone that opportunity to keep him warm. He shall no longer open his door, for his own liquor collection has been getting lonely without him, and there is no point watching others drink whilst he suffers, achingly sober. These thoughts are repeated often in moments of weakness.

…They are repeated often. After all, practice makes perfect, and anything can be trained into a soldier if it is repeated enough.

So, at the end of the week, Clover finds himself back upon the front steps of Atlas Academy with a lighter heart than he could have expected, but he does not know if that lightness means relief or whether it simply indicates the weight of his loss. There is a chill in the air- pervasive, sinking into his bones in a way that he doesn't recognize nor does he like- but he brushes it off and steps onward, for he has a meeting with James to mark his return.

The general's eyes are steely as he explains how mission rosters have worked out for the week. Clover does not react visibly when Qrow's name pops up for solo work ever since Clover's sudden leave request. When James asks how Clover plans to change the assignments for the upcoming week, Clover simply smiles and shakes his head, for there is no need to change what is already functioning well. There is no need to change around the cogs, to reassign the roles, to make new bonds form when sometimes, bonds do not need to be had.

James murmurs, "You need to tell me what prompted this, Clover."

The unspoken command hangs heavy in the air. So, Clover sighs, relenting. He describes seeing Qrow turn into a bird and back, adding vaguely, "I've seen the bird around, but I never knew it was him. Why didn't you tell me? Did you know?"

"I did know, yes," is the tentative, unsure response. "It's not exactly something Qrow or Ozpin has ever advertised, so I did not share it."

Clover purses his lips, trying to bite back the unexpected surge of emotion that absolutely crashes through him, for all of this heartache and confusion and paranoia could have been avoided so neatly had he just been informed. "Did you not think I should have known, in order to effectively assign more reconnaissance-based tasks to him? I was not aware of this ability. Our missions could have been modified had I known."

There is a flash of defensiveness in James' eyes that quickly crumbles to defeat. "You're right, Clover." He is earnest, true. "We are all on the same team. I shouldn't have hidden it from you- I suppose I shirked the responsibility, assuming Qrow would tell you himself. I guess he did not do that?"

"He did not, sir."

"That's odd," James breathes. His concern peaks only as he asks, "But, why is it such an important issue, Clover? How is that related to your leave?"

And Clover slips back into his routine. He smiles. "It's not, sir. It was just on my mind recently." Then, he salutes and leaves, for his obligation is finished, and even his commanding officer shall retract a command if it will break their subordinates.

There is no peace, no warmth to be had as he walks down the tall, lonely halls of the academy, his footsteps echoing off the walls. The sun has set after his arrival back to campus; he needs to go to bed soon, for he shall be running morning briefings once again, bright and early. He makes a mental note to pack his coffee from the mess hall beforehand. He does not want to have to make idle chat with Qrow by the coffee machine. He does not know whether his patience or his smile would crumble first.

Idle chatter seems destined for him, unfortunately, as a familiar figure pushes off the wall as Clover reaches the top of the staircase. "You're back!" Qrow murmurs, red eyes alight, lips curving into a genuine smile. Then, he pauses, quickly curbing his rare enthusiasm, shoving one hand into his pocket and running the other hand back through his hair, averting his gaze.

Clover takes a moment to simply look at Qrow, to take it in. The elder does not seem drunk. He seems perfectly lucid, his motions smooth, his balance strong. His skin looks better- cheeks ruddier, more vibrant, heartier.

He is here not expecting comfort, but companionship.

Then what are you doing here with me?

"I am," Clover replies at last, keeping his voice controlled as he shifts through his pack, searching for his Scroll so he can unlock his door.

Qrow's smile grows sheepish. "Yeah, I, uh- I saw your ship fly in. From the window! I mean- looking out the window."

He's been in crow form and saw me. Got it.

"So," Qrow fumbles, trying to salvage the conversation from the dregs of Clover's silence, "how was your vacation? Anything exciting?"

"I just visited a friend. Took some time to relax from Amity. Nothing big."

"That's good- that's… that's good."

Clover can sense the questions burning on Qrow's tongue. He does not care. "Did you need something, Qrow? If it's about a mission, we can go over it tomorrow."

Immediately, Qrow's brows draw together, the elder growing crestfallen at this clear rejection. "No, I-" He sighs, shoulders deflating with the exhale, his meager energy falling away. "I guess it's nothing much, boy scout."

"Alright." Clover finds his Scroll and unlocks the door to his quarters easily, turning back to nod to Qrow. "Tomorrow, then-"

As he looks at the elder, however, he does not see a man ready to leave. He sees a man with an arm stretched out, fingers curled as if desperately wanting to cling onto something, but fearing the repercussions. He sees the way crimson eyes widen, mouth opening to protest.

He is so, so tired of this.

Before Qrow can speak, Clover adds, "Also, I'd prefer if you just use my name. More professional. Have a good night, Qrow." And with that, he slips inside his room and locks the door behind him, leaving a shell-shocked Qrow outside in the hallway, alone.

Clover does not regret this action. It is better this way. Practice makes perfect, as they always say.

That night, the pillow which has stayed away from him finally ends up in his arms. It is a disappointing experience; while the weight and size and texture all match, there is no warmth. There are no eyes watching him, no soft coos, trills, clicks- there is no beak that could gouge his skin gently preening his hair instead- there are no talons that hold onto his hands as if they are something precious.

Clutching that pillow against his chest, the weight of- and lack of- that touch breaks him.

It is not because he has lost a companion, he realizes once he finds himself in a moment of lucidity, throat raw, eyes bleary. It is because his quarters are so damn cold even though the window is locked shut, even though his extra blanket is drawn up tight. It is because his chest aches, the weight sitting atop of it never enough to fill it.

It is because when he saw Qrow, no matter how damn taciturn he made himself out to be, Clover still felt himself melt and want the moment red eyes met his, for Qrow and the corvid he can become have both become synonymous with Clover's nights and with safety and with the feeling of warmth in his arms, and Clover does not know how to simulate that heat without a heartbeat, gently pounding in time with his own.