Break My Fall
He cannot sleep.
It is painfully jarring, just how different his night is going now that he has sworn himself to sobriety once again. He can barely close his eyes for a moment before his brain begins to send signals begging for more, causing his heart to race, his skin to grow clammy, his joints to ache and his teeth to hurt and his mind to scream, for all he wants is silence.
Why is it that sleeping in Clover's bed had granted him a reprieve, but his own willpower cannot give him even a modicum of rest?
He hates it.
After hours of tossing and turning, of getting up and pacing around his frigid room, of making a cup of tea and washing his face for the nth time and drawing a bath so he could sit in something that might ease the dull ache slowly carving him out from the inside, Qrow gives up. He cannot remain in these quarters on his own, where four walls threaten to close in with no reprieve, no distraction.
His brain jumps back to the mission from earlier that day. If he had been able to distract himself by hunting Grimm…
Wordlessly, he throws on his clothes once again and opens up his window, wincing at the fresh blast of freezing Atlesian air which strikes his cheeks, immediately raising the hairs on the back of his neck, his damp arms covered in rising gooseflesh. He shivers, but does not move away, instead closing his eyes and taking in a deep breath.
It takes but a moment to transform. He has done it again and again over the past twenty-odd years, the action as natural as breathing; as long as he has his Aura, the familiar seed of extra magic embedded deep within his core, shining a brilliant pale green amidst a sea of red power, is always accessible.
His heart twinges as he locks onto that seed of magic, drawing it up and through his fingers, channeling it into every pore, every muscle, every follicle. This magic belongs to Ozpin.
And Ozpin has abandoned him. It feels almost dirty to still be relying on his power.
But there is no point in thinking on that now. All he needs is for his head to stop aching, for his heart to stop begging for solace. He just needs some quiet. So, he allows that magic to begin transforming him, compressing his body, tightening his muscles, hollowing out his bones, until he is a man no longer.
His voice always sounds strange to his reshaped ears, trilling and clucking, but the sounds of a corvid have become just as much a part of his identity as his own natural voice; the strangeness is not one to hate, for he knows that he shall always find solace soon- in flight. Without looking back, he leaps out of the window and spreads his wings, immediately sighing in relief as the air slides around the camber and glides swiftly over his long feathers, lifting him upwards. As the air hits the bristles around his face and the wind steals the breath from his lungs, Qrow no longer feels anything.
It is perfect.
So, he aims for height. Atop Atlas Academy, he shall survey the floating landscape. He shall find the best places to rest, the safest places to perch, the best winds which can ease his pain. It shall be hard at this dark hour, but he shall do his best. He shall fly high into the sky and use the cover of night to protect his secrets- his transformation, his shame, his heartache, his confusion, all of it- for in the sky, no one can rival him. No one can catch him in his regret when he flies.
At least, no one should be able to catch him.
He is not alone when he alights atop one of the highest peaks his weary wings can find. For a moment, he believes to have found rest; it takes barely a second to realize that that is false, however, a slight shifting shadow enough to catch even his weak avian eyes. He freezes in place, glancing over to look at the source of the movement, his heart plummeting in his puffed up chest as he realizes that the person who sits upon the rooftop of this building is none other than Clover Ebi.
The man looks different now, dressed in civilian attire that is actually fitting for the freezing temperatures; Qrow shrinks back into himself as he takes in the image of the younger man dressed in boots and darker slacks and a warm sweater, perched in a nook of a window with a book opened upon his lap. His hair falls upon his forehead, his widows peak hidden by brown locks that cause him to look so much younger than his usual stoic self; however, the grimace on his face and the pensive set of his jaw do nothing to hide the frustration emanating from the man's every pore.
I need to leave.
His talons click against the railing upon which he stands, the sound echoing just loudly enough to grab the man's attention. Qrow stiffens, praying that his dark plumage will allow him to blend into indigo skies, but after Clover's eyes widen and his breath catches in his throat, it is clear that the man has caught him.
Qrow sighs as the man stands, the sound naught but a growling in his throat, a tiny whistle through his beak. He does not need to see this man- not now. He just wants a reprieve.
To his surprise, Clover does not approach him, merely taking a seat upon the rooftop a metre away from where Qrow sits. "Hey there," the younger murmurs, his voice curious and calm as if trying not to startle the bird. "What're you doing here, little guy?"
Qrow stares deadpan at Clover, his beak falling open. What is this gentleness? What is this softness?
Qrow's heart twists bitterly in his chest. Is this sweet act how you won me over last night, too?
The mere thought of it brings the taste of bile and liquor into his throat. He squawks. Clover's eyes brighten like a child's, fascination and joy overtaking his features in a way that Qrow would have never even thought possible. The man immediately straightens up, waiting for Qrow to react, his grin growing so oddly sweet that Qrow almost allows himself to move closer.
He does not. He does not know for certain what ails the younger- he does not need to care, either. Clover is just another name to add to the list of mistakes which has long-since grown impossible to track in Qrow's life.
Clover isn't his first drunken regret. He just hopes that Clover is his last.
…his head no longer aches. Now, however, he is growing colder than ever, and there is no whiskey to warm his bones whilst he suffers the Atlesian chill, and Clover watches his every move, and Qrow is tired.
He just wants to sleep.