Corvus

Qrow sits in his bedroom. He stares at something, Clover realizes as he exits his bathroom, running a towel through his damp hair; in the darkness of the fresh nightfall, however, it is impossible to tell what exactly the other man is doing, for the moon's cycle has left but a sliver of silver in the sky, and his chambers have been left cast in naught but shadow. Whatever light does remain from the moon and the stars streams through his window in a thin line, striking just the edge of Qrow's back, his shoulders, his head; they are strong, fuller than before, more meat on the elder's bones since his lowest point in Atlas. Dark hair seems to mirror the sky, shimmering like starlight in the moon's reflection, illuminating the room in such a way that Clover can only focus upon Qrow, and nothing else. Qrow is all he has truly seen for quite a while now, whether Clover can admit it or not.

He does admit it. He knows where his heart belongs far too well.

However, it is due to his fixation, his infatuation, that he does not see what it is which Qrow is so focused upon until it is too late- until a hand has reached out, grabbing onto a glass filled with dark liquid, raising it up to the light to scatter golden beams across Clover's wall.

"Don't do it," he whispers before he can stop himself.

"I thought you said I was better now," is the hoarse reply.

I didn't say you were healed, is the silent assertion. It hangs far too heavy over both of them, cowing their shoulders with its weight. Clover does not know what 'better' looks like.

He assumes, however, that being freed from the bindings of addiction would mean that Qrow no longer would cry in his arms at night when the cravings and the anxiety brought in accompaniment grew too powerful. If he is correct, then no, Qrow is not healed- better, yes, but 'healed' is too much of a stretch, a goal so far away upon the horizon that he cannot even see it in the distance upon flat terrain.

Without a word, Clover shrugs on comfortable clothing and shoes, then walks over to the elder. The glass is removed from Qrow's hand. Clover replaces it with his own, twining their fingers, squeezing as he reaches over and dumps the liquor down the sink. He shall get rid of his own alcohol collection, he realizes; or perhaps he shall give it to someone for safekeeping. Vine wouldn't mind, and with his minimalist nature, he is sure to have room. Either way, Clover cannot keep it here. Not now.

For the time being, Clover simply tugs Qrow to his feet and pulls him to the door. Qrow attempts to extricate his hand from the younger, but Clover holds tight. He shall not let Qrow go- not anymore.

They are halfway down the stairwell leading to a larger hall when Qrow forcefully stops Clover, finally utilising the strength he usually saves for the battlefield in favour of planting himself firmly down, the force of his conviction enough to make Clover lose his balance on the steps. "Let go," Qrow whispers, voice utterly defeated. "I just-"

"I promised you," Clover responds without missing a beat. "I promised I'd be there."

There is a hint of shame accompanied by pink in his cheeks. "…People will see."

Clover glances down to their clasped palms and sighs. That is a fair point- he cannot deny that if anyone sees them, the ensuing talk would throw a wrench into the private intimacy afforded by their nightly sessions. Taking in a deep breath, Clover unzips his sweater, holding the collar open with one hand. "Get in."

Crimson eyes pop open in surprise and flustered annoyance. "I- excuse me, what the hell-"

"Turn into a crow and hop in." When Qrow simply gawps at him, Clover climbs back up the steps to stand beside Qrow- to grab his other hand, squeezing gently. "I'm not going to let you do this to yourself, Qrow. You always say it's not as bad when you're a crow."

Guilt flitters across the elder's face. "I've been a crow every night this week-"

"Because you've needed it. That's okay." It's not. Clover shall not say that, though- he has found that the elder fits in his arms far better than the corvid ever shall, and there is a certain sense of loss he feels every night he awakens with a beak preening his hair rather than long, callused fingers.

It is selfish, but he is a selfish man. However, he is a selfish man who still wants to see Qrow smile for once without looking so empty inside, so he shall shove his desires aside for now. If Qrow needs to be a bird, then so be it.

Taking a nervous look around, Qrow finally sighs and relents, the world shifting for a moment. Clover closes his eyes whenever the elder transforms; although it is strangely beautiful, the way hair shortens into soft feathers and fingers elongate into wingtips- the sight of Qrow's transfiguration into corvid does nothing but bring up acid in Clover's mouth.

The memory of that battle, of seeing Qrow transform for the first time, of being so thoroughly betrayed- it still haunts him. He does not know if he will ever forget that heartache, the one thing which tore him to pieces. After all, he does not know whether he has yet figured out how to put himself back together after that. Desperation and empty hope have served him well thus far, but they are not long-term fixes, and he knows it.

At least the transformation is quick. Once familiar claws have hooked onto his shoulder, he opens his eyes again and holds open his collar properly. The corvid slips into the front of his sweater, trilling as Clover holds its body through the cloth. His footsteps carry him off through a side exit, leaving him shivering at the chill in the air; his hair is still damp from his shower, but his chest is warm, at the very least.

There are benches which line the walkways around the academy. Although his breath forms thick clouds of steam in the frigid air, Clover finds one which is tucked in a nook and settles in, opening up the zipper a little further so that the corvid can rest its head outside, rather than hiding within from any curious onlookers roaming the halls. The bird makes no move to get out of his sweater, though, and Clover does not blame it, for he can feel ice invading his bones with every breath.

Still, as he strokes the top of a feathery head gently, he murmurs, "You feeling a little better?"

The crow clicks twice. Agreement.

Okay. With a small sigh, Clover leans back, looking up at the sky. The stars are far clearer from here, as the moon is hidden around the corner; they glitter in the distance, beautiful and gentle, shimmering out of reach.

Qrow is in his hands. He is still out of reach.

Before he can think twice on it, he begins to speak. "You can't let yourself give up, Qrow. I won't let you."

For a long moment, the crow is silent, still- then, it weasels it way out of his sweater, claws digging into Clover's chest, stinging.

Clover closes his eyes. Within seconds, there is a shift in the bench, a warm thigh pressed against his in the cold. "It's not as easy as just saying it," the elder murmurs, voice barely audible in its growl.

"I know. That's why I mean it when I say I'm proud of you."

Qrow lets out a long, shuddering sigh. Then, he leans his head onto Clover's shoulder, the simple act of intimacy heating the younger up from head to toe. "My head hurts like a bitch."

"Yeah."

"I feel sick."

"I'm not surprised."

"…I'm not better at all, am I?"

"You're not perfect yet. You're just on the way." Smiling at the stars, Clover reaches out his hand, grasping at the empty, chilling air. "One step at a time- isn't that what you always tell Ruby? One day you'll turn around and see how far you've come."

To his surprise, another hand enters his sight, grabbing onto his own. Qrow squeezes, silently asking for permission- silently lacing their fingers together, just as Clover had before. There is no blush on his face, no hesitance in his actions- just a man needing warmth.

Clover allows him to do as he pleases. As long as Qrow doesn't drink, they are one step closer to giving Clover a chance for happiness. Until then, Clover has no chance defeating a monster which they cannot see, even with his luck.