Break My Fall
For the first time while sleeping in Clover's bed, he awakens in the middle of the night. It is not due to strain nor due to stress, however; his eyes flutter open, finding himself perfectly contented with the warmth the younger man provides, the blankets protecting him from all his woes. The pillow underneath his head is soft, comfortable, the moon's beams falling above his eyes, not disturbing his slumber. The heartbeat thumping in a broad chest, exposed skin covering it creamy and pure despite the scars littering the expanse, is soothing, the perfect lullaby to drown out the ache which haunts him.
By any normal measure, Qrow should be at peace.
However, Qrow's heart still leaps into his chest as he comes into awareness once more, for Clover is not asleep by his side. His eyes are closed, his face the image of serenity, but there is movement under the covers; large, callused hands trace circles upon Qrow's waist, a thick, sturdy leg thrown over his own weighing heavily against his eternally-cold frame shifting ever-so-slightly, hooking around Qrow, drawing him close. He can feel the rise and fall of Clover's chest, the breath hitting Qrow's fingertips which curl by his face nowhere near as slow and steady as one who is locked in slumber. Even in the darkness, he can see the way the younger man's lips quirk into a small, contented smile every few seconds, the expression always accompanied by just the barest increase in pressure from those fingers against Qrow's skin- as if the younger is assuring himself, over and over and over again, that Qrow is still here. That Qrow has not left.
More noticeable than anything, however, is the heat pressing against him; yet, the younger makes no move to alleviate himself of this desire, instead contenting himself to drawing Qrow close, pressing skin against skin, clearly treasuring this intimacy without daring to go further.
He has already gone too far once. Whether or not he holds back because of a desire to atone, or out of a desire to protect Qrow, Qrow does not know.
Qrow makes a move, shifting in place. To his absolute horror, those eyes remain closed, but the hand which caresses Qrow's bare waist rises to wrap around him, stroking the back of Qrow's head with such tenderness that Qrow almost weeps. "Shh," Clover breathes groggily, his contented smile never leaving his lips. "I've got you."
His heart leaps into his throat, alongside bile and disgust and shock and shame. Brothers, he really-
No. No, Qrow shall not allow himself to even think the words; he does not dare. The ache which surges into his chest is far too complicated a feeling to deal with now, in the midst of night. All he knows for certain is that when he reaches up his hand, laying his fingertips lightly upon Clover's high cheekbone, the flush which spreads across the bridge of his nose to the tips of his ears is so prominent that even in shadow, he can see it all.
Qrow shifts his leg, then freezes as he feels Clover jolt, his desire clear as day. Qrow bites his lip; he pauses, he turns to glance over his shoulder at the digital clock upon the bedside table. They have time.
So, he takes a deep breath- takes the plunge.
It is tentative. It is careful. Still, he reaches down anyways, swallowing down his shame and regret and instead focusing on the trail of hair he has become accustomed to, trailing down a stocky abdomen until Clover shudders, his eyes snapping open, all pretenses of sleeping falling away in his shock.
He never gives anything to Clover, the nights he allows himself to fall into the younger's bed. He never reciprocates, never acts; he simply uses the younger, taking and taking and taking in such a fashion that leaves him dizzy and breathless, vulnerable and keening. He always expects Clover to push him away when his hands guide Clover's mouth, Clover's hands, Clover's flesh, Clover's core, to where Qrow desires, and yet, Clover never does, accepting everything Qrow does as if it is only natural, submitting under the elder's selfish touch until he is spent- until he can gather Qrow up in his arms and whisper goodnight into his hair.
This is the first time Qrow has ever reached out for the purposes of purely pleasuring the younger. It feels wrong- forbidden, somehow. As if he is breaching the unspoken contract by which they abide. Clover does not pull away, however, simply sinking deeper into the pillow, brow creasing lightly in worry, in distrustful hope.
Qrow moves closer, his hands dancing across Clover's body, fingers lacing through curls, heat warming his fingertips. He does not know what shall be the younger's undoing. He has never tried to figure it out. So, the experimentation begins, trying again and again until Clover's eyes roll back, a guttural cry spilling from his lips muffled into the pillow with teeth bared. Qrow feels Clover release, feels the heat fall, weak and spent, lifting his hands out of the covers to grab a tissue, to wipe off the evidence.
I'm sorry, he longs to whisper against Clover's skin. He does not know why he has done this. He should not be egging the younger on; frustrated at himself, he rolls over, back facing the younger.
Without hesitation, Clover plants a kiss on the nape of his neck, then nestles against Qrow's back. "Thank you, Qrow," he whispers, exhaustion pulling him back into deadened slumber within a few minutes from the moment his arms wrap around Qrow's waist once again. His smile is breathtaking, as if Qrow has given him a reward for all of his hard work at last- as if following Qrow's orders has finally paid off in this most pathetic, meaningless of ways.
Horror washes over Qrow. Clover truly is a better subordinate than he thought.
I shouldn't be doing this.
And yet, he knows that he shall come back again, for the contentment which seeps into his bones from Clover's touch cannot be understated. He does not feel yearning for liquor this night. He does not feel broken, thirsty, empty.
Once the younger is asleep, Qrow picks up his things. He gets dressed, holding his breath lest the chilly steam formed from his mouth will alert the younger. And then, he is gone.
The heat does not disappear from his hands for the rest of the night. He almost wishes it would, so it might carry away the guilt, too.