Corvus

He has never known what it truly means to be listless before this night.

Clover's eyelids flutter open, the man taking a moment to blink the haze away, details of his vaulted ceiling growing into sharp relief the longer he stares, the longer he gives his eyes to adjust. It is well before the sun is up in the sky. It is rare for him to be awake at this hour; in fact, ever since Qrow has come back into his life, Clover has been sleeping soundly every night. If it weren't for his own mental strain and fatigue, he would have been able to say that he has never been more well-rested than since the rookies came to Atlas.

The mental strain is there to stay, though. The cost of being a refuge, for providing the stability and safety which Qrow needs, is Clover's peace. He will pay the price any day, though. He has given his word- and his heart.

However, this night, as his eyes ease open and he looks down at the creature in his arms- it is a man this night, skin ivory-pale in the crumbling moonlight, the silver in his hair glimmering like starlight in the night sky- Clover watches a built, broad chest that looks far too fragile to belong to the Huntsman he has seen tear through monsters again and again breathing in, out, in, out, the movements so slight and relaxed that Clover almost wonders if he is breathing at all. For a moment, Clover smiles, his heart soothed at the sight, for in quietude, he is granted a chance to imagine, to play; he can pretend that there is no illness. He can pretend that Qrow has come here of his own volition, purely for Clover himself.

The fantasy does not last for long. That calm, slow-breathing chest pauses, starts. Thin, arched brows furrow, the wrinkle between growing more prominent. Clover silently places his forefinger between Qrow's brows and presses down gently, smoothing out the furrow, as tender with his ministrations as he would be with the corvid's feathers.

The wrinkle stays in place.

Qrow's shoulders shudder and shake for a brief moment before he grimaces in his sleep, turning to lean into Clover's chest more, hiding away. All that Clover can do is watch, expression impassive, heart raging with a storm of frustration and bitterness and want, for what is he supposed to do? Wake Qrow up from this apparent nightmare the man seems to be suffering? Watch him suffer? Hold him closer, push him away? What was the answer?

At least this week is over, and Qrow has some colour to his cheeks. He is eating a little more, smiling a little more. Clover has caught him tapping less, fidgeting less- his hand has been flying up to his left breast far less often, for he is slowly but surely forgetting the memory of the flask which used to live within. He no longer looks as pale, as gaunt, as withdrawn, and there is meat on his bones surely growing now that Clover is hovering protectively over him throughout the day, ensuring he eats full meals despite what the alcohol and lack of appetite is telling him. Qrow is getting better.

And yet, it feels like this limbo in which they are drowning will never release them, for Qrow does not know when the journey will end. That morning, he had asked a question which had rocked Clover to the core, one which still rings in his brain, one which still haunts his every heartbeat. Perhaps that is what is keeping him awake this night- perhaps that is what is keeping him awake at this hour, with the moon still far too close to its apex to warrant Clover's alertness. He still does not have an answer.

Brothers, how he wishes he did.

Qrow shifts and grunts and curls into Clover, every inch of bare skin exposed by comfortable sleepwear pressed against the younger, desperate to leech off of Clover's warmth. It feels hollow.

He swallows thickly as he looks at the elder, running his tired fingers through dark hair. How perfect it feels against his fingertips, how wonderfully the colour complements his own skin tone… none of those things matter. All that matters is that Qrow is here, and he's getting better, and they're moving forward, and even though Clover doesn't have the answers-

"When do you think I'll get better?" Qrow had asked earlier that day, red eyes misted and doubtful as he gazed across the expansive tundra from atop Mantle's wall during their patrol. "When do you think I'll be okay again?"

Clover hadn't responded. He hadn't known- he still doesn't, for the research he has examined has never given him anything conclusive in regards to timeframes, so-

But Qrow had seen that hesitation, and smirked, and snorted, and walked away. "Yeah," he had whispered. "That's what I thought, too."

And no matter how much Clover had tried to backtrack, tried to convince Qrow that it wasn't a futile task and that there were going to be bad days but he'd make it through anyways, Qrow hadn't listened. His mind had been made up.

So why are they still here?

Ninety percent of Clover thinks it is the longing for routine, for stability- for something in his life that will give Qrow a sense of normalcy and balance in this ridiculous world of theirs, already far too complicated with the mammoth task they have been given to protect the world. Seven percent believes it is likely due to safety, to fear, to worrying that misfortune shall fall upon the innocents of Atlas lest Qrow ever leave himself unguarded.

Two percent, a meager portion of his heart, wonders whether Qrow enjoys his company. He'd like to think so. It's hard to tell, though, when his partner is constantly at war with the world, with fate, and with himself.

And one percent wonders whether Clover has become more than a body pillow, a good luck charm, to Qrow Branwen.

As he is trapped within these thoughts, red eyes open, pulling away from Clover. Immediately, Clover closes his eyes, pretending to fall asleep; he silently curses himself, for his fingers still twine with Qrow's hair, but there is no way to hide that affection now.

He can hear the click of a Scroll, a barely-audible groan, the rough sound of callused hands rubbing against stubble over a clenched jaw. Then, to his surprise, he feels fingers intertwine with his, and it takes everything he has to not react to the tender motions as Qrow's body leaves his side, fingertips lingering against his own as if unable to bear pulling away- before they do, however, he feels a feather-light touch upon his temple, warm and so fleeting that he wonders if it is a dream.

It is not, however. He hears Qrow whisper, "Thanks, boy scout. Sweet dreams," as a blanket is brought up to cover Clover's half-exposed chest, tucked around his form with such care that Clover almost screams.

As footsteps begin to pad away, Clover peeks out from underneath his lashes, feigning sleep as long as possible. He watches as Qrow shucks off his sleepwear, his pale, exposed figure heartbreakingly gaunt in the moonlight, before he is dressed again and he heads out the door.

Clover does not sleep that night. His bed is far too cold for it- as he realizes that fact, all he can do is bury his face in his hands and roar, for he does not know how to comprehend the fact that he no longer knows how to sleep without Qrow Branwen; he no longer knows who is the dependent one; and, worst of all, he does not know why Qrow Branwen has kissed him on the temple before tucking him in, only to leave him behind. Clover doesn't know.

He's so sick of not knowing.