Cutting Ties
His favourite bar is just as classy as ever, its booths comfortable and refined, the dim ambiance only aided by the light din of other customers speaking underneath the tinkling jazz floating above them all. This is the place where he should feel completely at ease, and yet, Qrow finds that he is anything but comfortable as he awaits his client in a familiar booth at the back of the bar, fingers tapping nervously upon the table, the ice in his Collins glass slowly melting as it sits there, untouched.
I could just cut it on my end. He'll never know.
Qrow would know, though. Qrow also knows that he is not strong enough to endure that pain ever again. He suffers no false pretenses on his own strength; losing this soulmate connection which has so unwittingly toppled his world off its axis would break him.
Finally, Clover arrives. They exchange wordless nods as the younger slides into the booth; for once, Clover does not smile when the waitress comes by to take his order, simply asking for a glass of water to begin. "You… you might want to get something to drink," Qrow mumbles. "You're going to need it."
Wordlessly, Clover swaps his glass of water with Qrow's liquor, for they both know Qrow shouldn't drink before the deed is done. "There."
The elder lets out a sigh, the sound bouncing off the younger's guard miserably. Clover's expression is worried, conflicted; he shows no weak points with which Qrow can attempt to move his mind away from this inevitable breaking point. Clover can likely tell that Qrow does not want to go through with this. If only you knew why, Qrow thinks bitterly, and you'd realize why I haven't slept in two weeks.
"Are you going to cut it here?" Clover asks at last, sipping Qrow's diluted whiskey.
Qrow sips Clover's water. It does nothing to quench the dryness in his throat caused by anxiety and fear for Clover. "If you want me to."
And then, Clover allows the guillotine to fall. "I do."
Qrow looks into the younger's eyes, his words falling away as he realizes just how deaf the ears upon which his words fall truly are; Clover has made his choice, and nothing will change his mind of that. This is only underlined by the fact that as he waits for Qrow's response, Clover reaches into his satchel and pulls out an envelope containing a cheque for the exact amount Qrow is owed for his services rendered. It is exorbitant, as usual.
The guilt makes the transaction feel far worse than it should.
"Freedom to choose, huh?" Qrow murmurs, the irony of it all sour and acrid upon his tongue as he tucks the cheque away into his wallet. "You've certainly made a choice."
He reaches out to pick up his water once again, but he is met with Clover's touch, the younger man grabbing onto Qrow's hand as if the elder is the most delicate, wonderful thing in the world. "I've chosen you," Clover says simply. "Why isn't that enough to just cut it off?"
His words are breathtaking. Qrow cannot handle them.
Pulling his hands away, he clenches his fists upon his lap before one hand retrieves Harbinger from its holster. Clover spares him a strange glance before understanding sets in once again, the younger realizing just a beat too late what exactly rests invisible to the eye in Qrow's hand; on instinct, Clover holds out his hand, displaying the red string for Qrow to see. "I'm ready."
Qrow gulps, inhales, exhales, then sighs, slumping back into his chair. His heart pounds in his ears, drowning out the din of the innocent crowd. He longs to say it, to let the tumultuous words which have caused havoc in his heart over and over again over the past two weeks finally spill forth from his lips.
Looking at Clover's deadpan expression, Qrow makes his decision. He cannot be the only one to know.
"Even though I know who your soulmate is?"
Clover's expression is a curious thing, the way it shifts to cope with this newfound information; his brows furrow, rise and relax, nose scrunching then smoothing, lips pressing together into a thin line only to fall agape. The only constant is the look of utter disbelief carved into his eyes, green almost the colour of pine needles in the dim lighting of the bar, thick lashes almost black, outlining his surprise garishly. Qrow takes it in silently, watching, Clover's breathing stutter before the man splutters, "I- how?"
"They're in this room."
The disbelief shifts into distrust, just as it should. "You cannot be serious."
Shrugging, Qrow opens up Harbinger's blade, running his fingers along the sharpened, gleaming edge of the shimmering, tiny blade. It yearns to touch his string- and soon, it shall have its way. The anticipation of the blade, of Qrow's soul's energy, causes the entire piece to thrum and vibrate with an energy that cannot be contained, the hair on the back of Qrow's neck rising in response to the crackling electricity in the air. He casts a glance at Clover's bared arms; gooseflesh covers his skin, although he likely does not understand why. "I can show you, if you'd like."
For a long moment, there is silence. Then, Clover downs another third of the glass, only to nod resolutely. "Okay."
With this permission, Qrow holds out his hand. When Clover obliges, placing his palm upwards in Qrow's, the elder places the opened blade's hilt into Clover's palm, concentrating on solidifying this little piece of his soul even further. Clover's eyes widen, horror creeping into his expression; Qrow can imagine what he sees, what he feels, the silhouette and weight of a pocketknife beginning to grow clearer in jade eyes where there previously had been nothing at all.
"If there is even the slightest nick of the thread, you shall feel it. I'll try and be gentle."
Before Clover can utter a single word, Qrow demonstrates by sliding the blade against a single fiber extending off of Clover's little finger. Immediately, the man doubles over in pain, eyes bugging out of his head and mouth falling agape as his soul desperately attempts to save his sanity after being assaulted so suddenly.
"It's a pain that cannot be forgotten," Qrow murmurs as air begins to rush into Clover's lungs once again, the younger gasping and panting for breath now that the initial shock has passed. "That was just the beginning. It'll haunt you for a long, long time, you know." He sighs again, the weight of the world upon every syllable. "At least you know that I'm not fooling you now, though."
Through teary eyes, Clover nods. This admission is enough to start; without hesitation, Qrow begins to trace the back of the blade along the knot tied around Clover's finger, dragging the dulled side of Harbinger down the thread which shimmers more brightly than anything else in this entire bar. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Clover's shoulders trembling as the blade brushes against this manifestation of Clover's soul. As he moves along, however, the shuddering ceases upon Clover's shoulders and instead begins to wrack Qrow's body against his will, his fingers trembling as he pushes the blade along their connecting strand all the way across the table until his hand, and the blade which begs to taste spiritual thread, trembles with the sheer effort of keeping their thread intertwined.
When he pulls the blade away from the thread, he places it against the table, then groans, pushing his hair messily out of his eyes. It takes him a moment to calm down after the invasion of his heart to finally breathe properly again; when he is steady once more, he opens his eyes and looks at Clover. There is no more coy, knowing humour in those eyes. Gone is Clover's mask, his resilience, his persona which he wears as a journalist. He is just… betrayed.
"I wish I were lying," Qrow breathes.
"I thought you cut yours off."
"I did." He smiles humourlessly, the words ashen in his mouth. "It reformed when it found its way to you."
Clover simply stares at him, finally understanding everything which has been wracking, tearing, tormenting Qrow for the past two weeks. Gone is the judgement and the annoyance, leaving behind only mixed frustration and regret and comprehension, all of which forms the most bitter, broken ensemble Qrow has ever seen.
"I can cut it off. It's customary to slice it off by the client's end- to save the unknowing participant the pain. It'll hurt."
"You really cut yours off in the past."
Ignoring the hidden question gleaming in Clover's eyes, begging for knowledge on why Qrow would ever submit himself to such terrible pain, Qrow merely adds, "If you cut it off, you may not want this-" and he gestures between the two of them dryly, "-anymore. This might just all be a part of that 'fate' which you despise, boy scout."
The crestfallen look in Clover's eyes should not hurt as much as it does. However, Qrow is a professional. He will do what he has been paid to do.
Clover's large hand reaches out, grabbing onto Qrow, gingerly pulling the hand that wields Harbinger towards himself. Qrow allows him this motion- he is just curious about the spiritual object that will severe the tie between them for once and for all- as he prepares to convince Clover to rethink the pain he shall soon feel.
He does get a chance to speak, though. Qrow does not realize it until it is too late, but Clover tightens his grip on Qrow's hand, and before Qrow can react, Clover guides Harbinger down to sever the thread upon his finger at the base of the knot.
And just like that, the one thing tying them forever… is gone.
Instantly, Clover doubles over in pain, eyes rolling into the back of his head as the string upon his finger disintegrates. Qrow hooks Harbinger back into his belt while he slides out of the booth, making it to Clover's bench just in time to catch the younger before he collapses completely; Clover shudders and trembles in Qrow's arms as the elder eases Clover back into his seat, anchoring him in place with his arms around Clover's waist.
It takes a good few minutes for the convulsions to stop, leaving behind naught but ragged breath heaving against the crook of Qrow's neck, along with the echoing, visceral void which he can sense upon the edge of his soul. The fallout on his end has left no pain as a burden; it is only Clover who suffers. Qrow can still sense the loss, however, more profound than any words could ever capture.
"You're an idiot," Qrow mutters, brushing sweat-soaked hair out of green eyes.
Clover looks up at him, almost drunken from the liquor mixing with the pain, his eyes glazed over, hands clutching his chest with a desperation that Qrow remembers far too well despite the near-decades since he had experienced it himself. "You felt guilty," Clover gasps.
"It's my job."
Somehow, Clover still manages to smile through his pain, an image which chills Qrow to the core. "And you do it well." His voice is faint, breath ragged and hollow.
Suddenly, Qrow is struck by the wrongness of the situation. This is a client, and their previous attraction to each other must be gone now; it is wrong of him to take advantage, to stay here when their transaction has been completed and when Clover no longer has any reason to want Qrow there. The fallout of cutting his thread is Clover's sole responsibility, not Qrow's.
And yet, when Clover breathes against his shoulder, "Stay- I just- need to ca-catch my breath," Qrow finds himself spellbound.
"Can I-" Am I allowed to even touch you now?
"Don't go," Clover gasps. "Stay- please."
He does not move, he does not breathe; he merely rests in place, ordering a drink for himself when the bartender finally comes around and more water for Clover, avoiding her confused, curious gaze as wandering eyes try their best to peer into Qrow's heart, to figure out exactly why one of their regular customers holds this younger man with a desperation that screams they are going to lose one another soon.
As if this is the last time they shall ever see each other.
It is.
The drink arrives. Qrow downs it in one go, the heat and giddiness hitting him far too quickly thanks to his painfully-empty stomach. For a brief moment, Qrow debates letting Clover go despite his pleas to get Qrow to stay, for there is nothing in this arrangement but heartache, only mounting the longer Qrow clings to what can never be- what has been destroyed by their hands combined.
The alcohol gives him some courage, though. He holds on. It feels right, even though everything else about this situation is wrong.
When the waitress comes to their private booth to get them refills, Clover finally lifts himself off of Qrow. The elder tenses, expecting to see the same empty, shattered gaze he had seen in the mirror for years after cutting off his own thread all those years ago; and yet, he does not see that whatsoever.
Clover is just… quiet.
Without a word, he lifts himself out of the booth. He pays for his drinks. He nods his head towards Qrow.
And just like that, Clover Ebi leaves the bar- and Qrow- behind.
Their transaction is complete.
Qrow does not know how he ends up at the till, nor how; all he knows when he finally drags himself out of his booth is that the bar is suddenly closed, the other patrons gone, the bar silent while the waitress sends him pitying looks, for Qrow has never been turned down before in such an oblique way. She has no idea what the implications of what has just occurred mean, of the intensity of his loss.
Fate had given him a chance to find what everyone else begged to chance upon, and Clover still took the opportunity to let go.
As he opens the door, he winces as a blast of frigid air strikes his cheeks, causing him to bury his face into his scarf. Absently, he makes a list of things to do; he should check in with the girls, and see if Taiyang needs any help with them- he should reach out to James and apologize for blowing up at him, for he still has not reached out after their last heated conversation revolving around Clover- he should contact the next potential client on his queue, for he already has a list of those whose cases will surely be far easier, and far less emotionally taxing, than dealing with Clover Ebi.
He does not make it far out of the door. Leaning against the wall barely ten feet down from the bar's entrance stands Clover, the man's face far more vibrant, far more put-together than it had been in the bar. The lively curiosity which highlights Clover's journalistic instinct is back, his lopsided grin and calm, cheerful visage belonging not to someone whose soul should have been desperately eating itself from the inside out in an attempt to find what it has so suddenly lost.
Qrow opens his mouth to speak. Before he can, however, Clover steps forward. He went for a walk, he says, pointing down the road as if it is naught but a casual, whimsical story he is retelling and not the explicit steps he took to erase Qrow's existence from his heart. He has gone for a walk around town and come back two hours later, only to see Qrow through the windows when the rest of the patrons have already gone home. He voices what Qrow can see in plain sight, explaining how halfway through the walk, he began to feel better; how now, he feels whole, as if there had never been a problem to begin with.
It does not make any sense. But- but what about-
Suddenly, Clover begins walking away. "I'm no longer your client," Clover murmurs. "Although, I feel like I should get my money back."
Qrow pauses, watching the younger take a few steps forward into the brisk night air, leaving Qrow behind slightly. "Why?"
Turning on his heel, Clover sends Qrow a smile that is far too sweet to belong to someone who had been whimpering and shuddering in pain for hours earlier. "Because," the younger quips, a wicked grin on his lips, "I paid that much money-"
"Clover-"
"-only to get the worst pain of my life, and to top it all off, if I'm right, the string didn't even disconnect!"
And just like that, Qrow realizes that he has lost his mind; or, perhaps, this is what happiness truly feels like, for Clover lifts up his hand underneath a streetlamp, holding it out for Qrow to see.
There is a thread upon his finger once again.
You chose fate.
He does not know how, does not know why; and yet, the string shining upon Clover's finger burns a brilliant crimson, shimmering so fiercely that it illuminates the world itself, drowning out the lights of the nightlife. Qrow's breath catches in his throat as he follows the loop and curve of that thread down to the ground, criss-crossing countless others littering the ground, until the string leads him back to his own pocket.
It looks beautiful glistening against his pale skin. As if this is where it belongs, more than with anyone else.
"But… we cut it."
"Is it still connected?"
"…yeah."
"I should get a refund, huh?"
"…I'm sorry-"
"Unless you can pay me back in other ways. Either way, I'm not your client anymore."
Qrow's hands are tucked into his pockets. As he watches Clover, he holds up one hand, palm facing the younger head-on; the shimmering thread binding the two men together glistens, renewed under the flicker of nearby advertisements and streetlights. The vermillion is true, pure, untouched.
Unmarred. As if there had never been an incision in the first place.
Without a word, Clover comes back, holding up his hand and placing his palm against Qrow's. The string glows ever-stronger, eventually shining so bright that Qrow has to look away; the moment he does so, however, he feels Clover's fingers intertwine with his, their little fingers burning with the connection of their red threads, so indelibly engrained into their very beings.
"I had the freedom to choose," Clover murmurs. "I could've left."
"…Yeah."
He repeats what he had told Qrow in the bar earlier that evening. Now, however, those words bear a weight, a truth, to them that cannot be expressed. "I've chosen you."
The wind rushes over them. It is cold. "You really are a lucky bastard."
Clover squeezes his hand. "Let's go home, Qrow."
After a long, long moment of hesitation, trepidation filling his core, threatening to drown him completely, he finally lifts his head high.
This is the first time they have ever left the bar together. The contract is done.
"…Your place or mine?"
Harbinger shines on his belt, illuminating Qrow's path home, but it does not matter, for the contract has been fulfilled. It has eaten. It is content, and Qrow is truly, unequivocally happy with his life.
-fin-