Cutting Ties
"You cannot be serious, Qrow."
"Do you think I'd fucking lie about this?"
A heavy sigh, a disbelieving snort. "Guess all I can say is 'you're welcome' for introducing you two. So, are you actually going to cut it off, then? You two would be good together, you know."
"Fuck you, James," Qrow spits instantly as he hangs up, crouching down to rest squatting upon his haunches. Instantly, he regrets his anger towards his old friend; James had no idea his employee's connection to Qrow would run so deep. No one could have known.
It doesn't change the fact that everything is different now.
He runs a hand back through his hair, pushing his bangs up out of his eyes, allowing his gaze to trail upwards to the stars; they are barely visible, the light of Crow Bar's flickering neon signs drowning out any celestial bodies that may have been present in the distance. The few that remain seem to flicker in his eyes- merely satellites. Fake. Man-made.
Meant to one day break.
Fate cannot be broken.
He groans, then looks back at his phone. James has sent him a message, long and convoluted as always; the core idea is clear, though. Whether you tell him or not, you signed a contract.
Qrow does not even want to bother thinking about what will happen in the next two weeks. Clover does not know the truth about his soulmate- he suspects, but the man always suspects everything Qrow says, as he should. When he sees the younger again, however, how in the world shall he face him? Shall he tell him the truth? Shall he hide it?
Either way, James is right. He promised to cut Clover's red string. As long as Clover asks for it, that is what Qrow is contractually obliged to do.
But what if Clover says no? The younger's attraction towards Qrow has been made clear time and time again, the longing glances and lingering touches seared deep into Qrow's skin. His words, no matter how scathing or ridiculous or teasing, always soften when it comes to Qrow, leaving behind nothing but the sense of truly being cherished in a way Qrow has not felt in years, no matter how many temporary lovers he has taken on to warm his bed time and time again.
He glances down, looking at his little finger. The string is so prominent it hurts, pulsing with a vibrant energy that cannot be drowned out by the darkness of night, by the wash of streetlights and shop signs filtering into this dark alleyway. It is undeniable, whole, connected.
He knows strings can reform. He knows that with a strong enough connection, those whose strings have been cut can find their way to another once again. It is exceedingly rare, for fate does not tend to cast its eye upon the same person twice.
And yet, here he is.
It isn't fair.
He snorts. Life never is fair- not for him.
For the next week, he does not sleep well. He does not eat well. He finds himself back at the bar again and again- more than a few times, he accepts the invitations from other patrons to go to their homes, intruding upon a different bedroom each night in a desperate attempt to break the thread without Harbinger's use.
It never works. He knows it is futile. He always wakes up colder than ever, his finger burning, knowing that his soul's counterpart is just on the other side of town.
A week after his discovery, the patron who slides into the seat next to Qrow is the worst one possible. Clover looks at his nearly-catatonic state with obvious panic, the man abandoning the friend he had come to the bar with in favour of coming to Qrow's side, immediately trying to gauge the situation. Qrow does not drink heavily around Clover, after all- Clover has never seen the dark side of Qrow's silent, tumultuous grief. He has never seen Qrow outside of the professional context.
He has never seen how easily Qrow can crumble on his own.
"You still wanna cut it next week," Qrow slurs once he realizes who exactly is looking at him with such worry and care.
Clover blinks, startled; however, he is quick to recover, as always. "My thread doesn't matter right now, Qrow. What happened-"
"You don't understand how painful it can be," Qrow whispers, laying his head against his arm.
Clover stares at him for a long, quiet moment. Finally, he murmurs, "You're not going to cut my red string, are you?"
That final question cuts Qrow to the very core, and before he can stop himself, he totters up to his feet and bolts to the dingy bathroom at the back of the bar, cutting in front of the unsuspecting man who had been heading towards the single-person room. He does not bother closing the door behind himself, however, far too focused on opening up the toilet seat in time for the bile and vomit and alcohol to rush up his esophagus, burning every inch of his throat and mouth, the stench and sound of his ungainly retching filling the air unceremoniously. His ears ring, drowning out the disgusted cries of the disgruntled customer he has cut off; he pays it no mind, however, too focused on the bitterness of stomach acid and the ache of self-loathing that has consumed his drunken mind.
He does not want to cut Clover's string. Almost twenty years earlier, he had cut his own red string of fate right at the source, sawing off the thread's tie around his own pinky; and then, he had spent the next three years drowning himself in so much liquor to numb the gaping void left in his soul that he could scarcely believe he still lived.
He doesn't regret it, though. There is no way in hell he would have ever told one of his best friends, his brother-in-law, that their red strings had led to one another. There is no way in hell he would have ever told the father of his nieces, the man he has called a brother since he was in high school, that their hearts had been irrevocably intertwined from the get-go.
Not when Taiyang's heart had always belonged to Qrow's sister, and later, their other best friend. Not when Taiyang had always been heterosexual. Not when Taiyang had always wanted a little family of his own, made of his own flesh and blood- not when Qrow could never give him what he wanted.
So, he had cut their string, and Taiyang had tasted what Clover has wanted from the start: freedom. Qrow has suffered for every single bit of that freedom so deeply that even now, the thought of it brings another wave of disgust wracking through his body, forcing tears from his eyes and pain to slice through his heart.
He does not want Clover to go through that.
Panting for breath, he leans his head against the corner of the sink, relishing in the feel of cool porcelain pressed against sweat-drenched skin. If he does not cut it off- if he lies about doing it, if he leaves their threads connected- what then? Clover's attraction to him has been made clear time and time again, and Qrow knows that if Clover offers, he will join the younger in his bed. However, would Clover still want him if the thread is cut? Will Clover's feelings die down the moment the single thing tying them metaphysically together is broken?
Qrow reaches up, clutching the material of his blazer over his heart. He doesn't want to see Clover suffer the way Qrow had when he had cut off his own red string years ago.
He doesn't want Clover to walk away, though, either.
Cool, gentle hands grab his shoulders, tenderly helping him to his feet. Qrow leans into that touch, seeing Clover's concerned expression through the mirror hung over the sink, the dim lighting casting deep shadows upon their faces; it is nowhere near enough to blur out the fact that Qrow is a veritable mess, face blotchy and hair clinging to his forehead in his drunken stupor.
Rather than shunning him, however, Clover simply hands him a glass. "Water," he murmurs. Obediently, Qrow takes it, using half of it to wash out the taste of acid in his mouth before drinking the rest slowly; while he drinks, Clover's hands lovingly push his hair out of his face, rubbing gentle circles upon his back.
Qrow hates it. He hates this care, this unabashed wanton affection. It's all built on nothing more than fate.
In a week, it'll be built on nothing at all- if it even still exists.
He has to cut the thread. He knows it. He'll cut it off directly from Clover's finger, just as he always does to prevent the other party from experiencing pain. This is Clover's initiative- he shall suffer the consequences, as he should.
…he just wishes that resolve didn't taste so sour.
Once the glass is empty, he walks back out to the bar with Clover's help. The younger has already settled the bills, and Qrow can only laugh wearily and grab his coat off his chair when the bartender chides him for overdrinking. In his mind, he promises to call Taiyang to pick him up the moment he can figure out how to unlock his phone while the world still spins around him- he'll take his best friend's scolding and his nieces' worry over the accusatory, frightened way Clover watches him as he rejects Clover's offer to see him home.
You won't want me by next week. It's okay, Clover. No one ever does.
Clover does not follow him out of the bar when Taiyang arrives to pick him up. Qrow does not look back.
One week left.