ride with me

There is a shift between them that night- something indelible, something carved deep within. Qrow's eyes shine as he looks at Marrow, and Marrow cannot help but beam back. Perhaps it is the ease with which they can banter, their words bouncing back and forth with not a care in the world. Perhaps it is the way that Qrow's easy-going grin is so easily able to outshine the constantly-looming anxiety which lingers in Marrow's heart about his mission.

Perhaps it is the crinkle of Qrow's eyes, the soft wistfulness in his smile, as he, after so many days on the road side-by-side, finally opens up to Marrow.

The older man no longer seems to care about hiding his heart from the younger, it seems. He speaks so much more that day, his ambling words floating leisurely above the clopping of hooves on dirt-packed, dusty roads. Qrow knows everything about this entire desert, it seems; in order to fill the amicable silence, he gently guides his horse to remain alongside Fetch, leaning over ever-so-slightly as he points out landmarks and recounts the tales of those who have resided, passed through, survived, in each one. He seems immeasurably wise for someone who is barely over a decade older than Marrow; and yet, he still has a vibrancy which feels so foreign to the younger. His eyes sparkle as Marrow asks questions and listens along attentively, the easy pace of their beasts allowing them companionable, quiet conversation. It is intimate, and Marrow finds that he enjoys it without question.

And so, the day passes without any issues. Marrow is more than deft at lighting the campfire, so that is his role for the night as Qrow brushes out Harbinger and Fetch's sweat-soaked hair. By the time the two weary horses are cared for, Marrow is already seated by a steady fire, having laid out their bedrolls and readjusted their supplies so that they can finish up the rest of their journey with ease. Once the elder joins him, he hands off the bag of jerky and drifts off for a moment, his eyes dreamily locked onto the horizon.

There are so many stories in this land, he has learned that day. The crumbling shacks which lined the poverty-ridden streets of lower Mantle were so much more fragile than the immovable desert, and yet, Marrow had always thought the endless expanses of dust and sky to be so much more lifeless than those bustling streets. With so many of Qrow's stories simmering in his mind, however, he knows that the desert is anything but lifeless, empty; the stories are merely more isolated, privy to only those who are fortunate enough to witness their birth.

Pale blue eyes drift upwards to the stars. It is a clear night, but due to his closeness to the fire, it is difficult to make out the stars; he knows distantly that should he walk a few metres away, the sky shall open up above him, but he is too weary, too contented, to move an inch.

"You look comfortable," Qrow rasps, taking a swig of his whiskey.

Marrow feels his lips pull into a smile on instinct as he lies back on his bedroll, looking up into the sky. The edges of his vision are tinged with the firelight, dancing flame glimmering just beyond his sight, and sparks rise to the heavens every moment or so, the tiny crackle and pop of the dry brush soothing to his ear. "I am," he murmurs, reaching his arms behind his head as a pillow.

Qrow hums in acknowledgement, and then, he does something very peculiar to Marrow.

Marrow does not know what his voice sounds like to other people, but however it may appear, he knows that the sound of his heart could never match Qrow's gruff, rasping baritone. The man's voice has always been soothing for Marrow, his wry humour and dry manner so simple and honest that it warms up Marrow's gut at the slightest word; his confidence is so unlike that of the Aces, the Atlas Group filled with members riding on bluster and force rather than qrow's quiet, calm self-assuredness.

He had not known that Qrow could sing, however. Yet, after a day of listening to Qrow's rambling stories, Marrow wonders whether he can even afford to be surprised anymore, for here they are- here is Qrow. His words are unintelligible, whispered under his breath as lilting notes drift through the air, but the clarity of his rugged, hoarse voice is unmistakable. Marrow freezes, heart pounding in his chest in time with the rhythm of the melody.

The elder swigs from his flask, interrupting the melody as he gets back to humming. His large, jagged knife is so strangely juxtaposed with the relatively small piece of wood which he is whittling down, the scraps falling into a neat pile which he systematically pushes into the edge of the fire. Marrow lifts himself up onto his elbows in a daze to watch the actions, utterly baffled by the surprisingly-soft voice filtering through thin lips.

After what feels like simultaneously a millenia and the blink of an eye, the younger dares to ask, "What song is that?"

Qrow's motions stop, his body stilling in place as if he had completely forgotten about the younger's presence. Then, he snorts softly, the rueful humour in his voice nowhere near enough to hide the embittered gleam in crimson-turned-orange eyes. "It- it's nothing too fancy. Just an old lullaby their ma used to sing to them," he explains. "After a long day, it's soothing. Just a habit now, I suppose."

Marrow sits up despite his weary body, wrapping his arms loosely around raised knees. "Yer nieces?"

"Yeah. Their ma and me- we were…" A troubled exhaustion washes over Qrow's visage, his features seeming to sag all at once. "We were best friends. She saved me, y'know?"

"I can't imagine you needing saving," Marrow replies thoughtfully, scooting closer to the fire. Lifting his hands to relish in the warmth of the flames, he carries on. "You sound like you've been everywhere 'round these here parts."

"You tend to go everywhere when yer a bandit."

At this, Marrow's blood runs cold. A bandit?! Since when-

Before he can cry out in protest, the elder sighs, noticing his stunned shock. "Used to be. Summer and Tai- the girls' parents- they pulled me outta that life, me and my sister. Convinced us to settle down in Patch."

Marrow knows these names vaguely, having heard one too many stories about these distant figures who had clearly been a part of many of the adventures Qrow had relayed to Marrow throughout their journey that day. Just one look at Qrow's face paints a somber picture of the outcome of this particular tale already. "It didn't last," Marrow says.

"Nah. Raven never could stay still. She had a kid with Tai, decided she hated 'playing house', and then left in the middle of the night. Never came back. Summer was there to pick up the pieces, and eventually she and Tai had a kid, too. Now it's just me and Tai."

Pressing his lips together tightly, Marrow digests this information. The jerky turns slightly in his stomach, his unease growing as he peeks over to Qrow out of the corner of his eye. The elder continues to whittle, his knife never stilling, the steady stream of chips never ceasing to fall to the dirt; and yet, it is clear that there is so much simmering behind hooded eyes.

Marrow does not know if he wants to see more. He does not know how to deal with any of this; bandits were dealt with strictly by the Aces, but did they not raid towns just as the desert clans did when all is said and done? Qrow clearly was a good man, having taken care of Marrow so unflinchingly without any other motivation, so he could not chastise nor rebuke the elder for past actions. The number of histories painted through Qrow's veins were far more than Marrow's, that much was clear; having been cooped up in lower Mantle for most of his life, he had spent each day with the same people, with the same places. Only in the past six months had he truly stepped out into the world once he left the ruins of his home to join the Aces. What pedestal did he have to stand on in order to preach to, or even to comfort, Qrow?

So, Marrow shrugs and asks the one question which remains clear and unfettered through all of this. "Why don't you stay with 'em?" When Qrow's eyes finally leave his work to land wide-eyed upon Marrow, the younger flinches, but does not look away. "Anyone can tell that you love 'em more than anything… why don't you live there all the time, rather than just visiting?"

Qrow's hunched shoulders and built chest rises, then falls, then rises again as he sucks in one deep breath after another, thin brows drawn tightly together, cracked lip caught between straight white teeth. He does not speak, merely focusing upon the flames dancing amidst the dark desert, the shadows cast by the fire nowhere near enough to distract the elder from the apparent enormity of Marrow's question.

Suddenly, a howl rings out in the distance. It is too far off to be of any concern, so Marrow ignores it; what follows, however, is a guttural cawing, the hoarse cries of carrion filling the skies, clearly instigated by the coyotes. Almost as if in response to those frantic caws, Qrow smirks without a lick of joy, his hands stilling at last upon his work. "I'm a bad luck charm, kid," he murmurs wearily.

Before Marrow can say a word to protest, the elder tucks away his knife, stretches, and clambers to his feet, tucking his hands into his pockets with a resignation that strikes Marrow to the core. "I'll take first watch," he announces. "You'd best be wakin' me up before dawn during your watch if we're to make any headway tomorrow."

Marrow quickly stands as well, crying out, "Hey, Qrow-"

But his words are interrupted by nothing more than a crooked, wistful smile and a large hand pulling down the brim of Marrow's hat in an attempt to feign lightheartedness. "Get some rest," the elder instructs. "I'll keep a lookout, don't you worry."

And with that, Qrow walks off, steps heavier, more trudging, than usual. Marrow watches as the older man takes post upon a nearby rock, facing the darkness with red eyes turned black in the darkness. This conversation is done, it seems.

Marrow does not despair for Qrow's clear, resigned sorrow, however. After a few minutes of silently worrying for the other man whilst laying in his bedroll, Marrow hears that same familiar melody trickle back to Marrow. Qrow had been correct- the lullaby is indeed soothing, and Marrow falls asleep to the sound of Qrow's low, gentle voice naturally.

xxx

It is hard to refute Qrow's achingly lonely claim to misfortune as the new dawn arrives, and with it, more stories from the elder. He has traveled to more well-nourished lands in his youth, but they experienced droughts after Qrow's prolonged stay, he explains matter-of-factly; when he had first thought to settle down in Patch, there was a freak storm that managed to somehow flood the little town in the valley, destroying far more than he dares to admit. "The last time I stayed longer than a week," he says dryly, squinting through sweat-soaked brows at the sun climbing higher and higher into the clear blue sky, "there was a fire that nearly burned the damn bank down. I ain't no fool- haven't stayed longer ever since."

Marrow gawps at this information, his hands patting Fetch's neck absently as they trot along the dusty path. "But it wasn't yer fault, was it?"

A shrug. "I wasn't the idiot smoking in the office, if that's what you're askin. I was at home with the kiddos."

"Then why blame it on you?"

To this, Qrow throws his head back to laugh, shoulders shaking as the sound rumbles out from his belly. "No one's goin' around to blame me!" he chuckles, wiping his eye with a foolish grin on his lips. "I mean, not for any of that, mind you. When I was still with the bandit tribe that raised me, yes sir, I was always to blame- not anymore, though."

Marrow takes pause in the ensuing quietude. There is so much to think over as their horses continue their easy pace; the sound of hooves on the road is easily tuned out, giving him the peace of mind to reflect on what has been shared. His body has grown accustomed to this journey, after all; his legs no longer ache from the hard ride, his hands always ready to support and guide Fetch along their path. His stomach no longer rumbles and his canteens are full thanks to Qrow, leaving him with little other needs to worry about, other than the constant desire to wash off the desert's grime. This, he does not mind, though; in Mantle, the air had always been filled with soot, the skies almost always grey. He is accustomed to dirt, to smoke and char filling his lungs.

He would rather be covered in earth than in coal dust, after all.

But it is not his physical body which aches as Qrow's words repeat again and again in his mind. Marrow recognizes the defeat in Qrow's eyes, the quiet understanding in his strong form.

Everything that has gone wrong in his communities has always been most easily blamed on him. He is not considered one of them, after all. Who 'they' are, he does not truly know.

The horses relish in their midday pause, drinking and resting in the shade which Qrow has so easily located for them along their way. With their coats already slick with sweat from exertion, they hang their heads in relief as the two men work through their coats with brushes, easing the stifling heat. As they care for the creatures, Qrow murmurs, "Still thinkin' about what I said?" When Marrow hums in affirmation, the elder merely chuckles. "I told you, you're too soft."

"Is that why you named her Harbinger?" Marrow asks suddenly, looking over to the weary mare by Fetch's side. "A bad omen, right?"

Qrow pats his horse's neck lovingly, his smile widening as she gently lips his vest and lays her head against his for a moment. "It just fit, y'know?" the elder says, simple and sincere. Almost heartbreakingly so.

"I don't think you're a harbinger," Marrow mutters under his breath. "You've done nothin' but help me, and you didn't need to at all, but I dunno how you can still say-"

And just like that, his words sour in his mouth. Bile tastes far more pungent after so many days on the road, and the acid which splashes up his throat and into his mouth is utterly, incorrigibly vile, even more so that his disgust from just a few nights earlier.

"What's that?" Qrow asks, glancing back over to Marrow, his grin faltering for a moment.

Marrow swallows once, twice, thrice. Then, he draws himself up tall and sends the other man a shy wave, his smile as confident as he can muster. "Said nothin' over here."

Narrowing his eyes suspiciously, Qrow nods, but does not press the matter further. For this, Marrow is ever-so grateful; he does not know how he could ever look the man in the eyes and firmly say that Qrow is not bad luck to anyone, although his heart longs to soothe the other man's still-aching wounds, the grief behind his eyes still bleeding behind those red, shadowed eyes. Marrow cannot say anything, however. What is he to do, confess that Qrow's words may be true?

How else can he describe the fact that he has been send here to lead the wealthy little town of Patch to its doom, and that Qrow is the one guiding them all- including his nieces- to their end?

It is only later that evening that Marrow manages to force something other than barely-bit back apologies from his lips. "I don't think you're bad luck," he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the crackling of their small fire.

Qrow rolls his eyes and hums in response, the man still whittling away as he is wont to do. "Yeah?"

Holding back his words all day had been exhausting. Therefore, instead of explaining too much, Marrow merely points up towards the heavens, his hands glowing orange-umber in the firelight. "Would've had more clouds without you, I reckon," he says with a limp grin.

And yet, to this, Qrow's reaction is genuinely so sweet that it eases some of the guilty ache in Marrow's heart. "Could say the same thing to do, kid," the elder teases, his eyes flashing under his long fringe.

Marrow's gaze flits upward. Once blindness from the fire fades away, he can see a sea of stars glittering from up above, a tapestry of gems enshrouded in black satin. "The stars are real beautiful tonight," he murmurs softly.

Qrow grunts in affirmation, and that is that. Marrow does not continue the conversation, retiring to bed soon thereafter until his shift comes about for their nightly watch. It is better this way, he tells himself; after all, he has no idea how to put into words the one thought which continues to circulate in his mind until he falls asleep.

Qrow cannot be a harbinger. How could he be, when the greyed strands in his hair remind Marrow of the starlight?

xxx

Why it has come to this, Marrow does not know. Yet, he cannot deny the rush of adrenaline that takes him over as that serrated blade which he has seen in Qrow's hands again and again come after him, the other man's swings frighteningly precise. With each attack, Marrow is given no time to think, no time to plan; all he can do is react, his body moving with a fervour that he has not since felt in years, his own knife managing to defend himself from relentless attacks with barely a millisecond to spare. Grunts of exertion echo over the dark surroundings, their bodies moving in tandem as Marrow desperately attempts to keep up, the fading starlight his only guide to following Qrow's blade. Everything is instinct and sweat and a raw, primal fear-

And pride.

After what feels like an eternity, Marrow suddenly feels it; like a surging wave, he rushes forward, ducking under the elder's extended arm to tackle the man's chest, catching him off-guard. With a cry, Qrow loses his balance and topples, that brief moment of surprise enough for Marrow to knock his blade out of his hands, bringing his own to a stubble-covered, long neck.

Although it is dark, the brilliant smile which flashes up at Marrow through heavy gasps for air is blinding. "I'm really impressed, kid," Qrow laughs dryly. "I knew you'd be good, but you actually managed to one-up me?"

Just like that, the adrenaline triggered by Qrow's intensity during their formerly-playful sparring session drains away. With a sheepish squeak, the younger is on his feet, his own knife tucked away in favour of helping the elder up. "I- I'm nothing special," Marrow fumbles, shaking his head. "I just had a lotta practice, that's all."

Qrow's laugh dries out as he catches his breath, his hand sweaty and all-too hot in Marrow's own as he allows the younger to pull him up. That large hand- callused, worn, but gentle nonetheless- squeezes gently, the motion sending a flash of surprise down into Marrow's gut. "I just didn't think you'd be that good. You make a good sparring partner." Before Marrow can find any retort, his mouth suddenly painfully dry as his entire face heats up immeasurably, Qrow adds, "How do you make it in a real brawl, though? If blood's an issue and all that."

A weary shrug is all Marrow can give for a moment, the man staring embarrassedly at his boots. Even in this early dawn light (or lack thereof) he can see the layer of dust which has settled into every nook and cranny of the worn leather. "I… just try not to hit anything too vital."

"It takes a lotta skill to know exactly how to do that," Qrow muses. "You're not as good as me, but you can tell when there's an opening. That's not easy to teach."

Marrow lets out a long, deep exhale, feeling his heart finally return to normal. "I had a lot of practice in Mantle," is the simple, telling confession.

Qrow hums, finally releasing Marrow's hand in favour of heading to the horses. Over his shoulder, he drawls, "Anyone you leave alive could hunt you down, y'know?"

His feet bring him to a jog so as to keep in stride with the elder. "I know," Marrow says, "but I'd rather risk that than kill needlessly." His lips twist into a frown, preparing himself for the berating to come; every time he had gone easy on an opponent in the Atlas Group's main camp, he had been ridiculed, insulted. No one this soft could join the Aces, they always said; the fact that he had made it among their rank despite his weakness, his inability to hurt, had been controversial in itself.

He cannot bring himself to aim to kill, however. Isn't incapacitation enough in a fight? Why did everyone always expect him to shed blood, to be so merciless?

If people had more mercy, he thinks bitterly, then maybe things woulda turned out different. Maybe Ma and Pop woulda lived.

When Marrow finally sees Qrow's face at last, however, his weary words fall away, the other man's wry, affectionate smile stunning in the first few rays of sunlight creeping over the horizon. "You've got more spine than any of those folks you comrades in the Aces. You know that, right?"

Marrow clambers onto Fetch's back, soothing the horse with gentle strokes along his neck before guiding him to trot beside Qrow. His entire face feels tense, brows knitted together so tightly he wonders in the back of his mind whether he shall ever be able to separate them again. "I'm really nothing," he mutters under his breath. "I just… learned to survive. Whether I should've or not is a different story, I suppose."

"I think you've done mighty well," Qrow replies with ease. "I should get you to teach my nieces how to brawl like that. They could learn a thing or too, and they're too stubborn half the time to listen to me or their old man."

I think you've done mighty well.

Marrow bites his lip, peeking out of the corner of his eye to Qrow, his gut stirring. As the sun begins to rise, the light illuminates Qrow's pale face brightly, leaving his weary skin in sharp contrast with his dark, dusty clothes and hair and cap. It is frighteningly handsome- but even more so, it is lonely.

You've done mighty well, too, he thinks faintly. Then, he blushes, staring at his hands balled up in his familiar reins. Maybe one day I'll get to say it, too.

Oh, how he longs to say so. If those words could save Qrow- if they could bring Qrow some happiness- if Qrow would feel happy looking at Marrow-

It is an empty dream. They ride along. Marrow trains himself silently the entire time; discipline is not exactly his strong suit, but if he can vanquish the desire welling up mercilessly in his gut at the mere presence of the elder, then perhaps the guilt will fade, too.

xxx

"We'll be there in two nights," Qrow murmurs, taking a swig from his bottle. The man keeps the opening upon his lips for a few more seconds, however, draining the remaining dregs of liquor. The motion is sudden and surprising, a sudden determination in his eyes as he finally sets the bottle down, grimacing at the emptied contents.

Marrow swallows thickly, tearing his gaze away from the elder before his flush can be spotted. Instead, he turns to the fire; it is small, wavering constantly under assault from the winds which have begun to tear their way across the desert. It is stronger than any of the previous nights, and although the duo had set up a makeshift windscreen using their packs to defend against the gusts, the small flame still flickers, dancing endlessly. He holds out a hand to the flames, sighing as barely any warmth tickles his fingertips. At least the moon is out, he thinks dryly. We'll be able to see, if nothin' else.

It is easier to distract himself with these idle thoughts than to face what Qrow has said- or the fact that Marrow's stomach twists in his gut, equal heat and longing and heartache racing to consume him. His eyes had been locked on Qrow's throat bobbing as he had drunken the remainder of his liquor; his mind, however, had done nothing but focus on the somber, unspoken truth.

Their journey together is almost at an end. Marrow will have to part from Qrow in a mere two day's time. Two more nights is not enough-

He does not want to say goodbye to Qrow Branwen, he has learned. The flush in his cheeks and nose and ears, despite him having had none of Qrow's spirits, is proof enough as he peeks over to the older man. With just the briefest glance, his stomach and heart leap in his chest, breath stuck in his throat, body aching to move closer.

He does not drink. Never has- his father had enjoyed his liquor, but Marrow had preferred to stay away, far too light-headed after one sip to ever feel truly safe with a bottle.

He wants to know what that whisky tastes like upon Qrow's lips, though. Just that much- a wisp upon the elder's breath, the shine upon his lips- would be enough, he thinks.

Then, he withdraws from the fire, wrapping his jacket and blanket around his shoulders tightly. The biting wind cuts through his fantasies in an instant, sucking away any heat and leaving him with nothing but shame. What in the world has he become, after just days of riding with Qrow? Two men- that's unheard of, he moans internally, eyes watering from his guilt and the brisk air. If he found out, he'd hate me. What kind of impure, foolish nonsense- maybe I've really gone mad on the road. Hare said I would, that I'd never make it on my own… maybe she was right. Maybe I'm cracked. His lips wobble, but he merely tucks his face against knees drawn up to his chest. He needs to hide it, after all. He cannot confess the source of this yearning in his gut, this desire which he has never felt before. Just two more days.

Then, Marrow can begin to forget about the handsome, kind, striking figure that is Qrow Branwen. How, he does not know.

At his side, he hears Qrow shift, his knees popping as he stands and stretches. "This fire is doin' shit with the wind. At least no animals will be out and about tonight. Let's go lie by the horses, kid," Qrow says. When Marrow does not move, however, the elder steps closer, his hand landing upon Marrow's shoulder. "Kid, what's-"

At that slight, unexpected contact, Marrow jumps, looking up at the elder at last. Just as quickly, he grows acutely aware of his own expression, the heat in his cheeks a dead giveaway. Frantically, he splutters and looks away, plastering a smile upon his lips. "Uh, yeah! Yessir, I'll go in a second. Don't worry 'bout me."

He moves to stand as Qrow withdraws. Before Marrow can fix a genial smile properly upon his face, however, the elder's rough fingers come under Marrow's pointed chin, jerking his face upward to look at Qrow dead-on. Crimson irises dance, flitting back and forth as they examine Marrow's embarrassed vulnerability. The younger bites his lips, looking away; in his mind, he knows that he has more than enough strength to pull away. He had bested Qrow in their earlier sparring match, after all- they are at least on fairly equal terms- and yet, he finds his strength fading as his nerves focus entirely upon that brief spark of contact between them, his cheeks and lips and neck aching for that touch to spread.

Spread, it does not. That touch may as well have, however; Marrow can only gasp as he watches Qrow's eyes widen, a spark of understanding and shock flashing across his face before his lips twist into a scowl. Instantly, Marrow pulls away, his body hot and cold at the same time, the disparity between his desire and his total fear numbing him to the core.

He has been seen.

Softly, he sucks in a weak breath. "I'll… I'll be on my way if you want," he breathes, voice hitching as he struggles to keep an even keel. "Say the word, and I'll go."

After what feels like an eternity, that familiar hand slips into his own. "Get over here," Qrow mutters hoarsely, pulling Marrow along.

Before the younger can even truly come to terms with this, he finds himself being pulled onto the ground next to Harbinger. Fetch is already asleep, the exhausted horse upon the other side of the healthy, but weary mare. Qrow drags Marrow close so that the two may rest against Harbinger's stomach, the warmth from her figure settling deep within Marrow's bones instantly. Thankfully, she is mild-mannered, the beast merely flicking her tail lazily for a moment before settling back into her own sleep, allowing the two men to lean against her. Her size acts as the perfect protection for them against the wind, and soon enough, Marrow is able to relax slightly, the numbness fading away.

By his side, Qrow reaches into his jacket pocket and snorts, his hand coming out empty. "You… finished it, right?" Marrow murmurs, curling up with his knees tight against his chest again.

"My nieces don't like it much," Qrow rasps. "I try not to drink in town."

At this, Marrow cannot help but smile, but it is a feeble, empty happiness in his heart. "You're a good man," is his faint reply, voice muffled by his knees, his back shaking as he sits pressed against Harbinger's side. "You're good to them. They're real lucky."

A warm touch lands upon the nape of Marrow's neck, sending a full-body shiver arcing through his spine. For a heartbeat, Qrow withdraws his hand; then, it is placed back against the nape of Marrow's neck, massaging tense muscles underneath Marrow's kerchief and ponytail. "You're… upset," the elder whispers.

The wetness blurring his eyes brings a hammer of self-loathing upon Marrow's head, forcing his head lower against his knees. "I… this has been a good trip," he rasps, voice hoarse and thick from emotion. "I don't- don't really want it to end."

Silence. The mare's heartbeat is palpable in their contact, Marrow's back warm and protected thanks to her larger form; he finds himself breathing in tandem with the horse, heart nowhere near as calm as Qrow's fingers continue to idly massage the nape of his neck, the movements so slight it seems like he has forgotten he is holding Marrow at all. Marrow dares not to speak, to break this tense contact. Despite himself, that touch is enough to heat him up once more.

He knows this is wrong. Everything about his upbringing, about life in Mantle and life in the Atlas Group, has told him so.

He does not pull away.

And, for some reason, neither does Qrow.

Marrow does not know how much time passes between their clumsy exchange and now, but as the fire begins to sputter its last breaths across their small camp, he begins to wonder whether the elder is sleeping. So, tentatively, he lifts his face, looking through his dark hair at the other man, desperately praying to see closed eyes and serene stillness.

Qrow's red gaze is still locked upon Marrow. As they finally make eye contact, the elder's furrowed brow eases, a sense of strange resolve filling his gaze. "C'mere, kid," he mutters at last. "You're still cold."

Marrow's reply dies in his throat. He is not cold- not anymore, with Harb at his back and the wind having been cut out and Qrow's touch upon his skin- but he cannot bring himself to say as much as the other man pauses, looks away, and holds out his other arm, beckoning the younger closer. "Hurry up."

Although his face looks the same, his ears are pink in the light of the moon. It is not the same flush from liquor, however, and Qrow's eyes are clear.

Silently, Marrow shifts over to lean into the elder's embrace. It is clumsy, in all honesty; they are both more bones than not, their lean muscle not providing any kind of softness to cushion their lanky limbs and saddle-sore bodies. Still, as Qrow's stubble-covered chin moves to rest upon Marrow's hair, his arms moving to drag both of their blankets up over their close-pressed forms, Marrow does not protest in the slightest. He holds his breath instead, head spinning at the faintest scent of Qrow's familiar musk and that slight cologne the elder has had about him since the day they had met, whisky dancing atop it all- heady, dizzying. He wants to memorize this scent, the heat shared between their bodies, the comforting shape of the elder filling in all of the empty pieces of the younger.

And when Marrow begins to shiver, relief finally surging through him fifteen minutes into this embrace, the elder's grip only tightens. He is not turning away.

It does not feel real.

Come morning, Marrow finds that he has slept better curled up in Qrow's arms than any night before; never has he felt such strength in his muscles as he stands, bouncing around their camp in a manner both spry and timid, unable to look the elder in the eye. That shyness is quickly dismissed, however, as the elder hands him a cup of hot tea brewed over a quickly-rekindled flame; after the brisk night, it is instantly soothing, a smile spreading automatically to Marrow's lips at the warmth.

Once his cup is emptied, that warmth does not die, he finds. Instead, the lip of a cup is replace by two lips- soft, searching in their motions despite being chapped and bitten and thin. Marrow's eyes snap open, stunned, but he does not pull away until the elder has separated from him. "No?" Qrow mutters, his own ears red as panic and bitter regret begins to flash in the elder's expression. "Goddammit kid, I'm sorry, I-"

Marrow's arms wrap around the elder's shoulders before he knows himself what is going on. "Please," he replies, voice cracking.

And just like that, they understand. Lips join once more, meeting in quiet, chaste harmony; not once does either man push further, the creeping of the sun over the horizon acting as a countdown to end their intimacy. Yet, Marrow finds that he does not care, for the other man's arms reach to wrap around his waist and cradle the back of his head, and soon enough all he knows is warmth and longing and the faintest hint of liquor and Qrow.

They part, lips bruised and shining. Qrow's smirk looks more painfully wanton than ever before. "Get yer ass in the saddle, kid," he grouses lowly, the slight growl of his voice striking Marrow to the core.

So, Marrow smiles, his heart achingly full, head spinning as they finish cleaning up their camp and set out for the day.

That night, they kiss again. Qrow's arms are the perfect place for Marrow's weary body, and just like the night before, the tension between them is cut by this contact that neither man dreamed they would need. It is tender, their desires unspoken, their feelings kept deep inside.

Marrow does not push for more. It is enough that he can spend this last night with Qrow's lips in his hair. One more night. Then, it'll be goodbye. His hands tighten their grip, fingers interlaced with the other man's touch. This is it.

At least he may sleep this night knowing he had been right all along. Whisky does taste better upon the elder's lips.