Corvus
The routine is built painfully quickly; the first day, Clover leaves his window open, cradling a trembling corvid in his arms. The second day, Clover leaves his door unlocked, ready to hear it click open whenever the man who Clover shamefully longs for decides to enter; he keeps sleepwear in the room for the elder, always ready to hold him once Clover is done his work. Then, they repeat, and repeat, and repeat, falling into this rhythm that is so unusual, yet feels so right, that Clover silently wonders why they never tried it in the first place.
Qrow is amazing throughout this first week, for he does not take a single sip; each day he reports back to Clover more haggard and weary than before, but with a glint of pride shining in his eyes despite it all. He is staying strong. He is not giving in. He is embodying the fierce Huntsman his nieces have always looked up to, and that mere thought is enough to set Qrow's heart alight so brightly that it shines through his eyes, a glimmer of hope beginning to kindle molten-red depths the likes of which Clover has never seen in him before.
Qrow is breathtaking in his resilience, fortitude, strength. When Clover tells him that- tells him that he's proud of Qrow, that he's impressed and taken aback and incredibly awed- Qrow's face lights up. For those few heartbeats, he goes from breathtaking to absolutely ethereal, and Clover cannot help but wonder if this is what a healthy Qrow would look like all the time.
He is breathtaking in Clover's arms, too. Perfect. Innocent. Ethereal. Clover never verbalizes that idle observation to the elder, though- those are for him alone, the shy, frustrated murmurs of his heart.
Despite this positive change in Qrow, however, Clover feels disgusting.
He knows that Qrow is simply trying his best. He can see the strain in the elder's eyes, the fatigue deepening the lines around his mouth as he loses sleep and tosses and turns and fidgets and wants, each day as the man arrives to their morning briefing. Although Qrow's skills are just as strong as ever- in all honestly, they are likely improving as alcohol is flushed out of his system, as he becomes more used to fighting while sober, as he learns to push aside these cravings that have cursed him for so long- it still does not change the fact that Qrow is struggling, yet still putting on the bravest face possible in order to keep Ruby and Yang in the dark.
Even though he knows that this struggle is so deeply engrained in Qrow's very soul, Clover still feels repugnant as he wakes up every morning to an empty bedroom. He may have been helping Qrow, using his Semblance and his warmth and whatever the hell else Qrow saw in him, as rigid and Atlesian as Clover has always been; but Clover can see his actions in no other light than a selfish one. He feels like a user. He feels such satisfaction every time the bird flies into his arms, every time the elder climbs into his bed, waiting for Clover to hold him; it is heady and so goddamned warm that Clover feels himself blissfully ignoring the fact that he is trying to help the elder recover, instead relishing in a quality of sleep that has never been better now that the elder is here.
And yet, the space Qrow leaves behind always tastes bitter, sour. He wants to help the elder, yes- but he is also doing it in the vain hope that one day, Clover will stop being the body pillow and heating pad and good-luck charm Qrow needs to heal, and will start being a person.
One wry thought begins to arise in his mind every morning as he readies himself for the day. He's always been a number, a name, a rank, an ID, in Atlas. He's always been alright with that.
Why couldn't it have stayed the same?
It is not only his selfish desires that brings him secret misery. He lies to Qrow, too; he feels less guilty about this, however, for he tells the elder that he is working on mission logs and preparing briefings for far longer than he actually needs each evening. Qrow is always kind and understanding, his weary smile and drooping eyelids silently conveying his crushing disappointment without a single word.
Qrow will never push, however. When he had seen the small, black, plush pillow on Clover's bed, he had asked what it was for- and Clover had told him the truth. The guilt in Qrow's eyes at Clover's response has been enough to prevent the elder from ever pushing, ever wanting more from Clover than he is able to give. Clover does not know whether to be proud that he had been able to admit- even partially- just how much he cared for the man, or whether to regret it, for now Qrow is far too reserved to ask him for more, and Clover will happily give more- give anything- to make Qrow better again.
His guilty conscience is always eased thanks to his trips down to the archives. His rank grants him permission to view almost all of Atlas Academy's records, including the majority of their research; so, he goes down there each night and looks at anything and everything he can find relating to addiction and alcoholism and withdrawal, desperate to find the piece of the puzzle which is missing in Qrow's journey.
He just wants to make it all a little easier for Qrow. He wants to see Qrow smile often enough that it doesn't always feel like such a damn surprise when he does.
His evenings spent poring over documents and studies and journal articles do nothing but fill him with such deep-seeded culpability that he almost has to bite back frustrated tears every time he leaves the archives. He has always felt nothing but pride in serving Atlas, in holding up the banner of his kingdom, residing at the top of the world; and yet, now, all he can feel is bitterness.
How is it that his home has spent more time studying how to build weapons to fight others when they have yet to understand how to conquer one's own demons? More importantly for Clover, how has his people managed to so profoundly let down the one person who Clover wants nothing more than to protect?
What little research does exist terrifies Clover. He worries for Qrow, for if what those papers say is true, then the chances of Qrow one day getting killed by his own head rather than Salem or the Grimm or anything else… those chances are astronomical, and it makes Clover sick.
He does not find anything that can help Qrow, no matter how long he searches. That leaves Clover returning to his quarters every night, either finding a corvid or a man- both fitting into his embrace perfectly, filling the hole in his heart he never knew he had; but at the same time, it leaves nothing more than sour regret and disappointment upon his tongue, for Clover will never be enough for Qrow. Not in the way he longs to be.