Break My Fall
When he awakens, his heart is at peace. His head does not pound, his body does not ache, and his eyes open with an ease he has not felt for months. There is a contentedness that lingers in the pit of his stomach even as the light ceases to blind him, his eyes adjusting to instead find the sunlight illuminating the pristine quarters of Clover Ebi perfectly. Crimson eyes trace lazily over a neat desk in the corner of the room, a singular sweater draped over the back of the rolling chair tucked underneath it; Clover's Scroll sits upon a small coffee table surrounded by two chairs, the ensemble placed by floor-to-ceiling windows surrounded by gauzy curtains, but not a cup is to be seen. The kitchenette looks immaculate, not a crumb out of place, and he can see the polished bathroom through the open door, the morning sunlight reflected off of white tile and porcelain.
Everything about Clover's quarters is put together, clean. Healthy. Orderly.
Grimacing at the pain in his hips, Qrow rolls over, heart seizing in his chest as he catches sight of the immaculate face in front of him. Clover still sleeps. Not a hint of strain shows up between thick, dark brows, tan skin almost rosy in the frigid morning air that not even heat generators can alleviate. His thin, wide mouth is curved into a faint smile, long lashes laying on dark circles that Qrow has never really noticed before, but now can see in full view thanks to Clover's vulnerability. His arms still rest around Qrow's torso, one ankle locking around Qrow's calf.
Clover is so, so warm, the fluffy blankets draped over them paling in comparison to the heat emanating from every inch of bared skin pressed against his own.
And Qrow has never felt more disgusting in his life.
I really did it. I really slept with him.
The nausea which roils in his gut only intensifies as he recalls vividly just how tenderly Clover had held him the night before. There had been no lie in Clover's actions- only pure, unrelenting want, those emerald eyes so full of unabashed desire as he submitted yet again, so different from the strong, confident leader who normally strides down Atlesian halls-
Qrow extricates himself from Clover's grasp as stealthily as possible. His clothes lay in front of the bathroom door; as he hobbles over, his Aura sparking to life to alleviate some of his aches, he comes into view of the mirror above the sink. What he sees makes him sick.
In broad daylight, his arms are toned, but spindly; his battered chest, which used to be built and strong, is hollow, his ribs showing through pale skin stretched too thin between scar after scar. The divots of his hips are not sexy as much as they are frail, showcasing just how little flesh, how little strength, resides in his body.
Since when had he become like this? Since when has he been so weak?
The image stings to look at, but the sight of his face is what makes all of the ease and warmth that had soothed his heart all night disappear in an instant, for the face staring back at him through messy, ruffled grey-streak hair bears so much guilt that Qrow can already taste the tears threatening to roll down his cheeks.
He has used Clover, and his heart hates him for it.
Yet, with the way Clover had given in so quickly- with the way that Clover's touch had eased Qrow's pain so easily- Qrow knows that he will be coming back to Clover. The temporary relief is worth it, he thinks, ignoring the bile rising up into his throat. He needs relief from his cravings, from his heartache- otherwise, he will go mad. If strong, built arms are what he needs, then he shall use them as long as Clover allows.
Silently, he slips into his rumpled clothes, wincing at the movement. Then, he goes to the open window, willing Ozpin's magic to course through his veins. The other Ace Ops have rooms in this wing of the academy, and he will not risk being caught amidst his sins.
Before he leaps out of the window and into the brisk morning air, allowing it to lift up his wings and carry him away, however, he hops back for just a breath, taking a moment to look at the man still innocently asleep in the bed. Clover shifts, exposing a firm, muscled chest and sculpted biceps; it is in such stark contrast to Qrow's willowy form, where his bones feel so hollow that sometimes he wonders who is heavier- the bird or the man.
Either way, he does not want to break.
So, he leaves behind the man in his slumber, ignoring the fact that he already knows just how heartbroken Clover will be when he opens his eyes at last.
A dog of Atlas. One of James' men. He's just a soldier.
He shudders, but does not turn back.