Corvus
Life has a tendency of moving forward so subtly that one can never truly realize that things have changed until they are already settled within new routines, new patterns, new waves of triumphs and failures. Clover has never truly understood this sentiment until now, but it has become engrained into his heart as the sun rises over the horizon each morning, greeting him with soft rays that ignite a sea of stars glittering upon the tundra as the night sky fades away. After all, nothing is mundane with Qrow around- nothing is normal, nothing is routine.
And yet, he has never felt freer than the time he spends fighting by Qrow's side.
Qrow relapses. Clover picks him back up. They shed tears and curse at one another, but Clover wakes up in the morning with Qrow's limbs still intertwined with his, so they keep on going.
A few weeks later, he almost relapses again. He stays strong anyways. The tears shed against Clover's skin still burn with the same amount of shame as if Qrow had fallen, though.
The patterns and cycles repeat, again and again, a broken record which merely lengthens the time between each stumble. Clover does not stray, however; he has a goal, and he shall see to it.
After all, every time Qrow looks at him with such life and vibrant warmth after so many weeks sober, Clover knows that he is fighting for the right cause. However, the pattern is still utterly exhausting to him. There is no way to pretend like he is alright; every single time he finds Qrow hiding away in shame, he knows that he shall not rest that night, for he must figure out what is going on, what has led the elder to do this.
It's not easy. He is so tired. And yet, whenever Qrow whispers, "Thank you, Clover," against his skin, he knows that he shall pick the elder up as many times as it takes.
The first full month without a drink is a baffling one for Clover. He simultaneously relishes in the peace which has become a part of their lives, and yet misses a conflict which he is not even consciously aware is lacking. He can tell that something is different as time goes on, but he cannot place his finger on it as their schedules grow more and more hectic amongst the doldrums of work and life. There is not enough time to think of why he is sleeping so well; he merely accepts that fact gratefully.
That milestone, however, is understood at last when Clover sits in his room one evening, reading an article upon his Scroll. They have managed to get the evening off, allowing Qrow to come up to his quarters earlier than usual; it is a blessing, for every bone in Clover's body aches after a few days of rigorous missions and training to top it off.
When Qrow first hands him a glass, he does not notice what lies within until he brings it up to his nose. Then, he freezes, staring dolefully up at the elder as Qrow takes a seat at the table across from him. Qrow does not bear a glass for himself, instead placing a mug of what smells like chamomile tea in front of him as he opens up the show his nieces have been recommending him to watch as of late upon his own device.
"Qrow… why this?" Clover asks, raising the glass of whisky towards the elder.
Qrow smiles, shrugging. "Your teammates mentioned that you used to always drink a glass after hard missions. That's not a bad habit in itself." His eyes soften, smile growing a tad bit sheepish. "I figured it was time to stop making you change your whole routine for my sake."
"And… you're… you're okay with that?" Clover breathes, wide-eyed and flustered and confused.
Qrow raises his mug of tea, holding it up to clink against Clover's own glass. "Once in a while is fine," he chides teasingly.
The layers to his voice- the depth, the emotion, the truth, for they both know that Qrow never would have made it this far if it were not for Clover and the devoted affection and care he has given so unequivocally to the elder- brings tears to Clover's eyes. He takes a sip instead of letting them fall, relishing in smoky notes which he has faintly missed. It's delicious and relaxing, a routine which he has been so removed from for so long that it almost feels foreign, indulgent.
And as he sips away at his tiny serving, Qrow doesn't even flinch, eyes focused upon his show. He is unbothered by Clover drinking just a foot away.
So, when they go to bed that night, despite his light buzz built up after abstaining from drinking for so long, Clover takes extra care to brush his teeth, to wash his face, to remove any trace of liquor upon his lips. As he kisses Qrow goodnight when they settle under the covers, Qrow does not flinch. He does not pull away, the taste of Clover's kiss leaving no trace of whisky upon his breath.
Strangely enough, it when Qrow turns into a bird for a brief moment that the date truly clicks for Clover, looking at the large corvid fluffing its feathers upon his pillow. "Qrow," he murmurs, "it's been a whole month."
The bird freezes, cooing and trilling softly as it looks up at him.
"You've been going strong for a whole month, Qrow." He lays out his arm across the pillow, heart melting instinctively as the bird rests its head upon his bicep. "You- do you still get headaches?"
For an achingly long moment, the bird does not respond- and then, it shakes its head, clucking from deep within its throat.
Pride and relief and amazement bubble up into his throat. Quietly, he whispers, "We have a day off tomorrow. Tonight, can I have my- can you be a human, please?"
Can I have my human, please?
Without a word, Qrow's familiar red Aura illuminates the room, the creature shifting ethereally into a sleepy man dressed in naught but oversized sleepwear. "I guess…" Qrow takes in a shuddering breath, clearly just recognizing this fact for the first time as well. "I guess I might not need to sleep as a crow as much anymore, huh?"
Clover sits up, brushing Qrow's hair out of his eyes. "Yeah," he affirms, cupping the elder's cheek. "If you need to, just let me know, but… I'd like it if you just stay… you."
Qrow's flush is darling, Clover thinks.
To his surprise, Qrow lies down first, holding his arms open invitingly so as to hold Clover. They have been doing this more as of late; "You have bigger muscles, but I'm clearly the older one," Qrow teases every time Clover's body instinctively curls into Qrow's arms. Clover always wants to deny it, but the fact that he never feels as safe as he does when Qrow is sober and present is one which he can never deny. So, Clover lies down, accepting the protection and affection, for it still feels like naught more than a fantasy to be cherished like this.
To be cherished equally is perfect. There is no need for words. To Clover, Qrow is everything he has ever needed in his cold, detached life; to Qrow, Clover is simply Clover. He is not his Semblance, his power, his duty. He is simply a man who enjoys his hair being combed through with callused fingers as he drifts off to sleep.
That is all Clover has ever wanted.
And when he awakens the next morning, Qrow still holds him in his arms, his breathing steady and his cheeks flush with life. Clover lingers there for a moment, merely watching his chest rise, fall, rise again; his heartbeat echoes in Clover's ears, the rhythm so perfectly engrained into Clover's memory that he could walk to that cadence forever.
Qrow will try his best not to drink that day. Clover will help him the best he can. It's small, but the fact that he is not alone as he greets the new day is enough to tell him that they'll get through this somehow, together- be it with a corvid or with a man.
Either way, crimson eyes shall look at him with affection throughout it all. He's not alone. They'll be alright.
-fin-
