touch (scintillas)

The handover of the station is straightforward, the trip back to Atlas Academy, uneventful. Qrow and Clover sit in the back of the truck while two engineers sit up front with the Atlesian Knight driving the vehicle; they are civilians, so the Huntsmen duo are happy to hide in the cargo hold. After all, no one can see the way their fingers intertwine, the way thumbs stroke skin, the way heads nestle against shoulders, in the cargo hold. No one can see Qrow finally demanding, finally reaching out, finally comfortable enough to initiate and show what he wants without Clover guiding him, and Clover cannot be prouder.

Once they have finally arrived back in Atlas, Clover reports to James on the setup of the station. He has to force himself to maintain a neutral smile as James announces that he and Qrow can have the rest of the day off, since they are originally only scheduled to return to missions the following afternoon, giving them a day to rest. "Don't tell the Harriet though," James laughs wryly. "She's been dreading going out there." Clover laughs, for he doubts it's the tundra as much as it is being trapped with Marrow with her patience as thin as it is. Then, he beckons Qrow to leave James' office with him.

It is only once they have left the office completely that Clover reaches out, grabbing Qrow's hand gently. "Will you stay at my place? We have a whole day," he murmurs, leaning his head close to the other Huntsman.

Qrow nods, a shine in his eyes which Clover has never seen before. It sets his heart alight.

So, the two make their way back to the barracks, taking back routes and fire escapes whenever possible to avoid the other Huntsmen and staff within the Academy. There is enough food in his own quarters to ensure that they can stay in his home as long as they want, and Qrow still has his kit with him, so they head straight to Clover's place with little delay. The air crackles between them, their palms burning to the touch where they are connected even through Clover's glove, and yet neither let go; they have been waiting for far too long for uninterrupted privacy that this chance is like a light breaking through the clouds at last, illuminating their goal, so close by Clover can almost taste it- almost taste Qrow.

The door closes behind them. Clothes are shed in a heartbeat, hands helping one another remove pins, buttons, laces, lips finding each other almost magnetically, barely pulling away to allow time to breathe, to allow space, for any space is already too much for them after the amount of longing that has been building up for so long. Jewelry and watches and Scrolls are discarded on his nightstand, ready to be cleaned up later, but for now they are merely hindrances, blocking access to flesh. More and more skin grows exposed in room, brightly lit thanks to sunlight streaming in through gauzy curtains hovering across tall windows, but no one has time to look, to absorb it anyways, so entranced in the feeling of finally, truly, being together.

Qrow finally pulls back first, panting lightly, his breaths hitting Clover's lips. "Let's shower first?" he offers shyly.

Clover wants to protest, for he does not care either way- but Qrow has been shifting and complaining about the chill in his bones for days on the tundra, so he simply acquiesces, grabbing Qrow's hand and guiding the man into the bathroom. The shower is turned on, steam filling the room too quickly for the ventilation to remove it, the air growing heavy and muggy in just a few moments.

There is one minute of silence between them, the only sounds filling the room the ventilation fan and the shower cascading against tiled walls. In that silence, Clover simply steps back, looking at Qrow; the elder's hunched form makes him look so much smaller than he is, so much more unsure. Without a word, Clover grabs Qrow's shoulders and gently guides him to straighten out his back, lifting the man's chin until he is finally standing tall, despite the discomfort and fear lingering in crimson eyes.

Then, Clover pulls back, taking a look at the man standing before him. For the first time, he realizes that Qrow is actually the same height as him. It is startling; for so long, he has viewed the elder as something almost fragile, breakable, but here he is, broad-shouldered and bold and proud, and Clover feels his knees wobble involuntarily as he realizes that an Atlesian uniform- an Ace Ops uniform- would be breathtaking upon his tall, lean, toned frame.

This is a man Clover would happily follow forever.

The water grows warm enough at last, and Clover guides Qrow inside, pressing kisses against bared wrists which are somehow even paler than the skin surrounding it, for he has rarely seen the elder without his rings and wristbands and watch. He leaves only half the lights on, allowing Qrow to relax in the shadows, for he knows that while the light does not bother him, being bare and exposed is still something which may set off the elder.

The first few minutes are quiet, peaceful. Clover and Qrow merely stand side by side under the hot spray, soap adding a clean, fresh scent to the humid air as they shampoo and condition and wash in the confining space that is not meant for two larger men. Clover wipes suds off Qrow's face, laughing as the elder blushes further, despite his skin already growing rosy underneath the hot water. It is peaceful, quiet requests to pass soap or get out of the way eliciting chuckles and groans and more than one, "Why didn't we just take turns, this would be so much easier-"

But as Qrow washes out his hair, his forehead finally free of dark strands as he pushes it all back, massaging his scalp, Clover takes the opportunity to run his washcloth over Qrow's shoulders, his back, gently scrubbing despite the elder's initial embarrassment. He works methodically, massaging the knots in tense muscles when he can, placing kisses along a pale nape as he works. He cannot see Qrow's face, but he can see the tinge in his ears, and they burn just looking at them; for a brief moment, he reaches the cloth around a toned chest, trailing it down, finding with delight that the flush has begun to affect Qrow elsewhere, too.

He takes a deep breath. Steps back. Kneels. Waits.

When Qrow realizes at last that Clover is no longer moving, he turns around, a gasp slipping through his lips as he realizes what the younger is doing. Panic cross his features and he murmurs, "Clover, get up- you don't need to, hey-"

"But I told you," Clover replies, looking up at the breathtaking figure before him, watching as water hits a once-again hunched back and trails over the curves and planes of Qrow's form perfectly. "It's my turn, isn't it? Start it off, c'mon. This won't be the only time today, so you don't have to worry about savouring it."

"But-"

He reaches out, grabbing Qrow's hands. "Look at me, Qrow," he murmurs wryly, affection oozing from every pore. "I'm not exactly fragile. And," he glances down, chuckling at his own desire, "I'm not exactly dreading it, either." He kisses scarred knuckles. "Whatever you want. I'll do it."

Qrow lets out a long, weary sigh. "But… you- I can't just do whatever-"

"I'm a soldier," Clover reminds him. "I like following orders, but I've been giving them for far too long."

That unspoken permission is what destroys Qrow at last, accompanied with one singular action from Clover which takes Qrow's breath away fully.

He opens his mouth, tongue lolling forward, closing his eyes.

When hands finally release his own, he sighs, contented as they find his face, brushing his wet hair back, winding through until they grip the back of his head, holding him still. Clover relaxes, releasing the tension that keeps him upright until he is fluid, compliant, breathing in through his nose as he waits.

And then, flesh and heat and Qrow lands upon his tongue, and he drops his jaw as far as it can go.

The movements are shy at first, probing, careful to avoid pushing too far too quickly. He melts at the tenderness with every action, and he lifts his hands and opens his eyes, his unspoken plea resonating through the steam-filled air. Crimson eyes widen further and nod, giving him the freedom to reach his hands around, placing them against firm muscle, toned curves, squeezing, kneading, relishing in the shivers and bucks that every touch elicits. And then, he grabs, and he pulls it all in, swallowing until his nose is buried in wet curls. He tries to inhale, catching the scent of musk and soap and clean skin before he swallows again and no air passes any longer.

With the steam and the heat and the humidity, he feels his head lightening the longer he stays there, feeling fingers curl into his hair and pull, claw, desperate and keening and wanton as gasps echo overtop of water tinkling across porcelain and tile, resonating in the small room with such force that he feels his own desire jump, aching for contact. He leans his body forward, pressing his chest flush against trembling knees as he swallows and swallows and swallows, humming with whatever air is left in his achingly-empty lungs. His own heat brushes against trembling shins and he coughs into his moans, snot running as his lungs lose the last bit of air they retain, his fingers losing their grip as the world goes grey for one blissfully heady moment.

Finally, he is freed, the fingers caressing his scalp pulling him forcefully off, allowing him to snap back into consciousness; his lungs fill, his body shuddering, broad shoulders almost losing balance and knocking into the glass door of the tub. One hand reaches up to wipe his face, cleaning him of tears and snot and saliva which he is not even aware to have shed.

And then, as he opens his eyes again at last, mouth open and ready once more, it begins again; but this time, it is not gentle. He does need to encourage the closeness, for suddenly, the motion is rough, fast, too quick to even comprehend; his teeth scrape skin on accident, but he does not even notice, for all he can feel is the fact that his heart pounds in his chest louder than it ever has before, adrenaline coursing through him, sending him on a high so powerful he can no longer think as flesh parts his throat, diving deeper, deeper, deeper, until his nerves start sending him false signals, until it feels as if his stomach should be filling up with every thrust. It is painful- it is cloying- his head bobbing back and forth without his input, the hands holding him in place tensing and massaging, the voice accompanying each motion growing more and more desperate. For a moment, he opens his eyes, only to see defined muscles spasm underneath a trail of hair leading down at his eye level, and he braces himself for the final rush as the motions hurry, hurry, hurry-

And then, his throat burns as he swallows it all, his mind going completely blank, the world going dark as his lungs give up and his heart stops and he is floating in nothing.

Then, he is back, coughing, feeling water from the shower slip over a shoulder and land in his nose as he gasps for air, conscious in the world of the living once again; heat is torn away from his wanting mouth, liquid which has been spilling down his bruised, abused throat now landing upon his face, stinging in his eyes. He closes his eyelids and waits, shuddering as he feels himself come down from a high he had not even known he had reached, but the stickiness on hair-covered shins is evidence enough, his fingers trailing along his mess in vague wonderment.

Finally, the body which has lorded over him collapses, hands untangling themselves from his hair in favour of cupping his cheeks, a washcloth wiping his face as gasping whispers of, "Oh my god- Clover- I can't believe- gods, how- you-" ring in his ear.

Clover finally opens his eyes as the cloth wipes away the evidence from his face, and he holds open his mouth again, then swallows. The rest is consumed. He is dizzy, but he is sated- and as he sees the heat and affection in the elder's eyes, he knows that the dizziness shall not fade, and he does not mind.