footprints in the carpet
There is something so surreal about hearing the words he has dreamed of all his life actually enter the world.
He has thought about them ever since he was a child; how would they sound like? How would the syllables ring through the air? How would it taste curling up through his throat, dancing upon the tip of his tongue, spoken into existence with all the conviction and strength in the world? Would it be robust, the words resounding into the air with power and bluster? Would it be sweet, a simple admission that instills hope and joy into others, giving him a sense of belonging which he has never truly felt?
Qrow does not know. He has never had the courage to even attempt to say them aloud. He refuses to build up false hope, only for it to be crushed into nothing with no remorse.
And yet, here he stands in a mine in the middle of Solitas, the lanterns lighting their way shimmering as they reflect off of the icy walls embedded with colourful Dust crystals; the smoke clears now that the Geist Grimm has run off, the soundness of the floor worrying him to no end thanks to the gaping maw which extends into darkness below, just a few steps past his feet; the air is thick with tension, the scent of acrid Grimm flesh lingering in the air before his nose grows too numb to discern any individual smells-
That's a lie. He can smell one thing clearly, despite the frigid temperatures and the stuffiness of the mine and the dust in the air- cologne which lingers a little too thickly to be flattering, emanating off the figure beside him. It is cloying, almost inciting a headache- his fingers instinctively reach up to pat his left breast pocket, but they find nothing awaiting them in these new, stiff clothes which have been provided for him.
All of this is just secondary processing, however. He does not truly comprehend any of these sensations, for his eyes are locked, wide-eyed and horrified, upon the lascivious, lazy grin which pulls Clover Ebi's lips. Green eyes crease in amusement, the words which Qrow has always dreamt of saying more than anything spilling forth from his lips with absolutely no sincerity.
"My Semblance is good fortune," the younger man replies, glancing over to Qrow. Qrow does not miss the way his eyes trail down Qrow's body and back up again, his lips quirking further up appreciatively. With a coy wink which Qrow has never wanted, he adds, "Lucky you, huh?"
With that, Clover places one hand upon his earpiece and walks away, murmuring orders to his teammates while Qrow is left reeling from what has just transpired.
He had thought the leader of the Ace Operatives was just an overconfident, yet jaded Atlesian Huntsman- a pole up his ass, a stiffness to his gait, a cockiness which Qrow longed to cool. But this? To be looked in the eyes and told that Clover Ebi apparently has everything Qrow has ever wanted-
He decides that he hates Clover Ebi. He also realizes that there is a reason he has been paired up with the younger man, and for the nth time that day, Qrow wonders whether him being there was ever necessary at all, if his misfortune was so dangerous that he needed to be countered with a walking good luck charm.
His fingers reach up for his flask. They find nothing. No, Clover. I'm not fucking lucky.