Corvus

He spends the evening in anticipation, taking his dinner to-go from the mess hall just as it is about to close for the day. He has absolutely no energy to play the role of the kind, approachable leader of the Ace Ops tonight, for he is cold, he is weary; he scarfs down his food in the dark the moment his reports are completed and submitted, staggering off to the shower right away to warm himself up from the frigid blizzard chill. However, even that too is taken care of eventually, and he ends up walking out of the bathroom with loose sweatpants and a towel around his neck just as the moon begins to light up the night sky, drowning out all the stars from view.

The silhouette at his window beckons for his attention. He freezes for a moment, his fear instinctive, his hand flying towards Kingfisher from where it hangs upon its hook on the wall. Then, he relaxes, ignoring the adrenaline pumping through his veins which readies him for combat.

Battle is not what he shall face tonight. Heartache is more accurate.

The bird is at his window. Wordlessly, he opens the latch and allows the creature in, murmuring, "You know, you could just knock on the door. No one will judge you."

The crow squawks at him quietly in response, maintaining a respectful distance by perching upon the windowsill. It watches him through red eyes which are far too sweet to belong to the man who has managed to complicate everything.

Clover sighs, pulling out a chair for the elder, as well as another for himself. "I'd like to talk about this, please." When the crow doesn't move, simply watching him carefully, Clover runs his fingers through his hair and points between the chair, to the window, then to the door of his quarters. "You either talk or you leave, Qrow. I won't be used."

Not anymore.

The soft trill which leaves the bird's beak is heartbreaking in its somber tone, but it finally moves, hopping onto the chair. Then, before Clover's very eyes, the bird's body glows a deep red before morphing into the tall, gaunt Huntsman he has grown to unwittingly, unwillingly, cherish. Shame plays across those perfect, angled features as Qrow looks down at his clasped hands, leaning forward to rest his elbows upon his knees, one foot tapping nervously against the hardwood floor. He does not look up at Clover. He does not speak.

"…How do you feel?"

"Like shit," Qrow rasps.

"How long's it been since you had a drink?"

Qrow does not reply. Clover takes this moment to look, to truly take in Qrow's image; he had thought that, based on Qrow's calmer demeanor, the man had been doing better, perhaps, in Clover's absence; he had given life to the thought in the back of his mind that perhaps Qrow never needed him to begin with, that the man's colour could soften, that his cheeks would fill out, that his worries would decrease, even when the younger wasn't around. Now, however, he can see all of those things to be false, the moonlight casting harsh shadows against his downturned face, accentuated all of the age and weariness and sickness that is plaguing the man from the inside out.

"Qrow," Clover asks, worry beginning to blossom in his heart, "how long has it been?"

"…four days." Clover's heart sinks in his chest as Qrow begins to smile, sardonic and biting, the bitterness and regret evident as the nose on his face.

The younger leans back in his chair, clasping his hands over his stomach, staring at the high, vaulted ceiling. He had last had a drink four days earlier- but not since Clover had come back to Atlas. He had been drinking until then, but until then he had been able to hold out.

"How have you managed to avoid it for the past few nights?"

Qrow's lips purse together, clearly reluctant to speak. When Clover repeats the question, however, he whispers, "I slept on your windowsill when it got really bad so your Semblance would protect us. I'm fucking pathetic."

The shame which emanates from every pore at that admission is gut-wrenching; and yet, there is something in Clover's gut that swells with a strange, sick pride at the thought. He is needed.

It is not an excuse for what Qrow has done. It does, however, ease some of the pain, knowing that he was not suffering in limbo alone. "You're not," he murmurs after a moment. "I… I'm sorry you felt like you needed to resort to that." Putting on his usual, professional smile, he says, "If you give me some time, I'll look up resources. Medicines, or treatment plans. There aren't many from what I know, but I have full access to all our archives, including in the medical ward- I'll figure it out, find out what we can use to help you with-"

"I don't want-" the elder interjects.

"-without telling everyone," Clover finishes, smile remaining in place despite feeling just as exhausted as the elder appears.

To his surprise, Qrow perks up. "You… you would-"

"I'm not going to tell the world, Qrow. I do, however," he adds, moving forward to mimic Qrow's body language, to set him at ease, to close the distance, "think that we should tell James." When Qrow opens his mouth to protest, he explains, "Otherwise, he'll keep asking you to join us for drinks in front of others. That's no good for now, right?"

Thin, waxy lips fall shut as Qrow's protests die in his throat. "…fine."

"Okay." Letting out a long, heaving breath, Clover continues, "So. What do you need from me?"

Pale cheeks turn pink, the hue lighting up the bridge of his nose, delicate and pearly in the moonlight streaming in through the window. "I… It's selfish," he whispers.

"A bit late for that, don't you think?"

Qrow winces. "…yeah, I deserved that."

Clover shifts in his seat, uncomfortable. He has expected some resistance to his words- to see Qrow so broken up about the suffering he has caused Clover makes him feel almost guilty. "I hope you know that I meant what I said," he breathes, running his hands over his face, frowning as his damp hair falls back into his eyes. "I want to help. That hasn't changed. We're allies, and… and you mean something to me, Qrow." He snorts bitterly. "I wish I knew what, now."

Qrow's eyes are as wide as the moon as they look up at Clover, all torn, broken attention.

"But I… I spoke to you about things in…" in a way that was candid, that was open, that is fucking humiliating to think about because I never expected you to be ever able to reply- "-not the most professional manner. And I'd like you to keep what I've told you to yourself."

Surprisingly enough, some anger flits across Qrow's face. "Brothers, Clover, do you think I would ever share-"

"You didn't share the most basic thing with me. I'm pretty sure I have the right to be skeptical."

The elder deflates instantly. "I… everything you said stays with me. I promise."

Clover watches him, taking in a deep, long breath, holding it, then releasing it slowly, feeling some of the tension drain from his body. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay. That's the best I can hope for." Standing up, he approaches Qrow, pausing only when he is a mere foot away. "You never answered my question, though, Qrow," he murmurs, looking down at the other man's crown. The elder lifts his head, face shining in the moonlight; instinctively, Clover reaches out, placing his hand upon Qrow's cheek as he says, "What am I to you?"

For a moment, Qrow does not answer; instead, his face immediately turns into Clover's palm, nuzzling it the same way the crow always has. Clover both curses himself for not seeing it earlier, and melts, for he knows with that one gesture that the actions he has taken have made the kind of profound impact upon Qrow that Clover will never be able to full understand, no matter how much he longs to.

Then, Qrow says, his normally strong, husky voice barely audible as it cracks in shame, "…you're safe."

Clover swallows thickly. He has been mulling over everything Qrow told him in that tiny hidden room for hours; that being a crow reduces his symptoms; that being in Clover helps even more; that appearing in front of his nieces after breaking his promises is more painful than anything. He can empathize with the elder's plight. He can understand how all roads have led to Clover, the one person who can withstand the dangerous, unfortunate sobriety and the broken intoxication in either form.

Perhaps that is why he looks away, so tattered and broken-hearted that he suddenly wants to cry. "I'm… shit, Qrow," he says, fists clenching tight as he draws his touch away from Qrow's yielding face. "I'm…"

"You're?"

He hates how much his words rock him to the core, eliciting tears unbidden into his eyes. "I'm more than my damned Semblance, you know."

And as Qrow staggers to his feet and watches his tears begin to fall, wide-eyed and horrified and frantic as he tries to calm Clover down, Clover can only hide his face behind his hand in shame, for he understands now- he, too, is a liar. He knows what Qrow means to him. He has known it subconsciously for weeks, ever since he started wondering what it would be like to give his heart up to the Huntsman- ever since he realized that his chest tightens in pain a little every time he realizes that there is no reason for the elder to ever look at him twice.

He is in love with Qrow Branwen, despite everything the elder has done- despite the magical thread that has connected them both, that has perverted their relationship to an oddly-intimate, wholesome farce.

That realization is choking, cloying; he cannot believe the audacity his heart has to swell up at the thought of it, the thought of Qrow, looking at him the same way, looking at him without tears in his eyes and without drunken regrets and without avian innocence. Just… Qrow. The man.

He almost gasps, swallowing it down out of pure prideful spite than anything. He has already bared his heart enough to Qrow this day.

Qrow is upon him in a second, worry etched in the lines upon his face. "Hey, what's going on?" he asks, grabbing Clover's shoulders, examining him from head to toe. "What's wro-"

"Do you need to be a crow to fight it off right now, or do you just want warmth?"

The elder pauses, thrown off-kilter by the question. "W-what-"

"Do you need to be a crow right now or not?"

Qrow pauses to take stock of himself. "I… guess not."

"Okay."

Without a word, Clover pulls Qrow's hands off his shoulders and instead wraps his arms around Qrow, one hand holding the elder's face close against the nape of Clover's neck, the other pressing into the small of Qrow's back, pushing into him. Clover knows his warmth is overpowering next to the elder's body, too gaunt and frail from lack of sleep and emotional turmoil. He is intentional in his actions, holding Qrow tight so that his built arms can wrap around Qrow wholly, so that when he moves to sit back upon his bed, the elder transitions easily to sitting upon his lap; so that the perfect warmth which Clover has missed for so damn long can finally sink back into him, easing the weariness in his bones.

It is only after a minute of this that Qrow finally snaps out of his stupor, mumbling, "Clover, what-"

"You want help," he said. "I'm happy to give it. But I want this, if that is alright."

"But," the man splutters against his collarbone, clearly embarrassed beyond belief- As if you haven't been in my arms countless times before while drunk, Clover thinks bitterly, not like you remember- "isn't it more comfortable if I'm just a crow?"

"Sometimes, yes, sometimes no," Clover lies, taking in a deep breath, inhaling the scent of aftershave and Qrow, carving the sensation of Qrow's silky, grey-streaked hair gliding against his cheek into his heart.

Qrow sighs, breath hot against Clover's neck, but he eventually succumbs, curling up in Clover's strong arms and closing his eyes to ignore his sobriety and his instinctive need to change that. Clover is happy enough with that- happy enough with the fact that his Semblance shall give the elder peace, and that his heartbeat does not betray his feelings.

They both know that when morning comes, Clover will awaken tucked into his bed, window up, extra blanket drawn up. They both know. And when it does occur, and Clover finds himself alone again, he lets himself chuckle ruefully and throw his head back against his pillows, for none of this is what he expected to be embroiled in when a strange Huntsman crash-landed on Mantle with an old woman and eight children in tow.

He does not know how to help the elder. But he shall try- Brothers be damned, he shall try. He shall try because he dreams; perhaps if one day, Qrow can join him at the officer's mess and simply drink water while he drinks his beverages of choice, Qrow will finally look at him, too.