catalysts
The starting point is easy.
The decision to pour amber liquid down the drain is horrifying to put into action, the swirling liquor which dances against white porcelain mocking him as he loses out on every heady drop; yet, he grits his teeth and he does it anyways, unsure of what else there is to do. He is too tired to play this game anymore, too tired to pretend that it's all a joke and that everything will be okay. Everything is not okay.
He is not okay.
But it doesn't matter how he's doing; the only thing that could ever impact him so deeply, could change him so truly, is his family. He pauses, tilting the flask up for a brief moment, whisky ceasing their waterfall into the sink; his mind's eye hones in on Ruby's smile upon the airship, Yang's pride when they had won the battle against the Leviathan. Then, he thinks back to the disgust, the disappointment, the devastation on his nieces' faces, their backs turning away from him upon Anima, leaving him behind- Summer and Raven's eyes, their backs turning away from him, leaving him behind-
He tilts the flask forward again, allowing the alcohol to run out of his flask until it is dry. As he dumps the flask in the garbage can, he has no regrets. He shall not be a burden to his nieces any longer.
A quick search on his Scroll tells him that five days is all it takes to quit drinking, to get over the worst of it- whatever "it" is. Qrow can handle five days. He's taken sips every five minutes for the past twenty years, true, but quitting only takes five days, it says. It can't be that hard, right?
…he hopes he is making the right choice.
[. . .]
3 hours in, and he doesn't notice the lack of liquor in his system. He'll be fine, he thinks; he just needs to finish up the report for James and sort out their lodgings and everything will be alright. He'll be able to pull through this.
And then, he notices the flash of concern in the other man's eyes. He frowns, red eyes locking with green, asking questions silently to which there are apparently no answers, for this man- Clover Ebi, or whatever his name is- he seems to be lost for words as well, unsure of how to respond to Qrow's wordless query.
Instead, he gestures to Qrow's chest. Qrow looks down.
His hand is in his inner coat pocket. It is empty, and his fingers curl, reach, grab around empty air. And yet, Qrow's hand does not move away until he consciously wills it to, grinning sheepishly to cover up the deep well of unease that begins to grow in his gut.
Clover looks perturbed, baffled by the behaviour. Qrow shrugs it off. He does not owe this Huntsman anything, after all, even if he is James' top soldier.
He'll be fine. It'll all be fine.
[. . .]
6 hours in, and his head has never pounded so thoroughly like this. He would rather be hungover; at least then, he would know that the pain had been preceded by some kind of pleasure, some modicum of relief. Now, however, his entire body is stiff, sore, aching. In the mess hall, he tries to eat dinner, but nothing is appealing to him; he tries to go to sleep, but his body seems content to do nothing but toss and turn, for everything is too-hot-too-cold-too-wrong.
Eventually, he gives up, getting dressed and going for a walk. He knows he should be at least pretending to rest, for they have an early morning planned to sort out their paperwork properly and outfit themselves for the cold clime.
He doesn't care, however, for all he can focus on is the need to move, to act, to do something other than allowing himself to sink into his bed and rot amidst this complete discomfort.
To his horror, he finds the Ace Ops' leader sitting in the common room in the officer's wing of the barracks. "What brings you here? A little nighttime exploration?" The words a teasing, a lilt in Clover's voice and a brightness to his eyes which unsettles Qrow. That level of ease is jarring amidst his turmoil.
Before he can answer, however, Clover's face falls, twisting into concern. "Hey, are you alright?"
He freezes stock-still, not even daring to blink for a few agonizingly-long moments as he swallows his heart back down into his chest, out of his throat. "I- I'm fine."
"You're sweating, though." There is no malice in this, just pure concern.
His hand reaches back into his coat, slipping back out a moment later. There is nothing there, after all.
He does not know why he barks back as aggressively as he does, spitting out an, "I'm fine, fucking hell, back off," before he can restrain himself. The red which flashes in his vision fades just as quickly, leaving him feeling unnerved and anxious and alone.
Clover is stunned. Qrow whispers, "I- I'm gonna head out."
And he does.
[. . .]
12 hours in, the sun is shining far too brightly for it to be legal. His eyes sting and burn against the light streaming in through tall, floor-to-ceiling windows; the mess hall is thrumming with energy and noise and life so vibrant he wants to run from it all.
He wants to drink- no, not wants; he needs to drink. He can feel his body crying out for it, begging to go back to the way things were. His hand has slipped into his inner coat pocket so many times he has lost count, the motion so engrained and instinctive that he barely even notices it until it is too late.
He does not eat anything as Ruby and Yang and their friends devour their breakfasts heartily around him. He sits amidst them all with a glass of juice, sipping through a straw. He sits on his hands until his stomach is full of liquid, and then, he gets up, ruffles his nieces' hair, tosses his glass onto Jaune's tray, and then shoves his hands into his pockets before leaving.
His goal is to find somewhere to be alone. Perhaps there is a broom closet on the way to the briefing room that is kept dark, that won't aggravate this headache as much.
In the dark, he won't have to hide his discomfort, either. That would be nice.
His stomach hurts. It isn't happy with what he has fed it.
[. . .]
Tap tap tap tap.
He looks up, glances around. Nothing is there.
Tap tap tap tap.
He feels his skin crawl, and he scratches absently, still trying to locate the source of the sound.
Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap-
He stands up, knocking his chair back with such force that Clover stares up at him, wide-eyed and clearly uncomfortable, a wary chuckle slipping past his lips as he says gently, "Hey there. Let's sit back down?"
"You'll never make it."
"Who the hell said that?" he hisses, spinning on his heel, one hand on Harbinger's hilt at his waist.
It is just him and Clover in the room, just as it has been all evening. Atlas' reporting system is nothing to sneeze at, after all, and if they do not hurry, it shall be light before they finish all of their tasks.
His eyes dart back and forth doubtfully as he rights his chair, slowly sinking back into his seat. He does not understand what is happening. Perhaps it is because of the headache dulling his senses, the pain and hunger in his stomach making him irritable, the lethargy in his limbs and the adrenaline coursing through his veins causing him to react in all the wrong ways.
He lets out a haggard sigh, then gets back to proofreading a report.
Tap tap tap tap-
His eyes widen. Nothing is around to make that noise. It isn't Clover, either, for he is just as still as Qrow is, engaged in reading as well.
Fingers seem to brush his skin and he shudders, the world skewing to the side, twisting everything.
Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap-
24 hours in and he is losing his mind.
[. . .]
48 hours in ends the touches and taps and calls, and instead allows the hunger, the weakness, the brokenness, to strike. His hands tremble as he dresses himself in the new clothes they have provided him, far more suited to the Atlesian weather than his old garments. His knees shake and knock together as he lopes down the halls towards the mess hall, where he joins the others without complaint. They are expecting him, after all.
He does not allow for their prodding to hold ground, brushing off their concerns at his odd, disgruntled appearance sardonically. He's pale? He just hasn't been sleeping well in the cold. He's trembling? It's just shivering, he's not used to it yet. He looks exhausted? Of course, who else is babysitting eight brats constantly?
It is when Nora comments on how little he is eating that he finally snaps, lashing out at the children, for they need to learn to shut their mouths and let people enjoy their dinner and-
Ruby and Yang watch him. They are sad, confused, uncomfortable, wary.
His hand flies to his chest. There is no inner pocket inside his new vest- that choice was intentional on his part.
Before he knows it, he is running, running, running- down the halls, up this way and that for he does not know the layout of Atlas Academy nor does he care. He just needs to leave, to use the excess energy that is rushing through his veins so quickly that he feels like his heart is going to explode, his body too frail and weak to actually support the movement.
Clover finds him in the lounge by their quarters; the lights are dimmer in here, for the moonlight is too powerful for the flimsy curtains over his windows, and everything in his body hurts. The younger walks over, laying a comforting hand between Qrow's shoulder blades as he vomits up stomach acid and juice and half an apple, proof of his day's efforts. He feels wretched.
No, that's a lie. He is out of breath and anxious, yes, but he feels nothing. He is numb.
And yet, the ache persists in his bones. Or maybe his soul. He is too dizzy to separate the two.
[. . .]
60 hours in, and he wonders whether Harbinger's blade would provide a smoother end to his suffering than just succumbing to drink.
At least, if he uses his scythe, Ruby and Yang will be able to know without a doubt that their Uncle Qrow kept his promise.
[. . .]
It is a full three days, a full 72 hours since his decision was first made, when Clover finally brings it up to Qrow. "Something's been bothering you, and I don't think it's just that you're having trouble adjusting."
Qrow shrugs, eyeing the door, waiting for the opportunity to flee, for this room is too bright and his heart is too dark, too weary, beating too rapidly to care about what anyone could offer him.
A worried face peeks in to look at him anyways, blocking him from the exit. "If you want," the younger says, "we can talk about it. We can go to the officer's mess! Have a drink, you know. We have a late start planned tomorrow anyways."
The sheer innocence of the words is likely the trigger- or perhaps it is just that Qrow has been waiting to taste a drink all week, and hearing the word triggers enough of a trained, habitual response that his entire body simply crumbles.
It is through broken gasps and panicked heartbeats, after he stops crying- only to hyperventilate and nearly pass out from the anxiety, then cry again in shame- that the words finally slip through his shattered veneer of false calm. He wants a drink, yes, so fucking bad- he whispers his pain, his fears, his desires to just be weak and give in because this shouldn't be so hard, he's so sick of things being so fucking hard-
He just wants it to stop.
Clover does not speak very much throughout this admission. After their mission that morning in the mines, he has not spoken much to Qrow in general. A part of Qrow feels such deep-seeded guilt in dumping all of this on the younger Huntsman, but he just… he does not know what to do.
Strangely enough, there is a light in Clover's eyes- understanding, concerned, admiring, as he pieces together all of Qrow's struggles for the past few days.
When Qrow has shed all the tears he can and his head is foggy with exhaustion and relief from finally letting out everything he has been bottling inside, Clover holds him. It is friendly, warm- comforting. "Keep at it. Don't give in."
Qrow cries again. "It's-"
"Hard. But you'll do it. If you can be such a great Huntsman with that Semblance of yours, you can do anything."
They both stay sober that night.
[. . .]
84 hours in, and he is weary. He sits in the briefing room, arms crossed, toe tapping anxiously against the tiled floor, just waiting for the damned thing to start so that he can focus on something, anything, other than the clawing sensation in his mind that begs for salvation. His fingers tap against his biceps, playing rhythms he does not understand, erratic and frightening in their need. He cannot stop it.
Perhaps he should just sit on his hands again.
Nothing is happening, he thinks bitterly, this is useless- I should just go get a drink, why am I even trying, I'll never get this over with-
However, when he moves to do so, to silently punish himself for movement by restricting it, he is stopped by a large gloved hand upon his shoulder. A cup of coffee is held under his nose. "This'll wake you up," Clover offers, smile genial and pleasant.
Half of Qrow wants to grab the cup and down it, just so that he can feel something. His rational mind stops him, however. He does not need caffeine to add to the painful cadence in his chest.
When he turns from the cup in Clover's hands, the younger takes it away. "Alright, more for me. Hold it for a moment, though."
Obediently, Qrow takes the cup, biting back the urge to toss it in his face, for who the hell does Clover think he is-
A water bottle is pulled out from a pack. "This should be better, right?"
He swallows thickly, fingers shaking as he takes the bottle. "Yeah," he rasps out.
And Clover smiles, taking back his coffee with a wink. "Not a great first guess on my part, but I'm sure I'll get it next time. Guess your Semblance wins this round."
Qrow can only blink at the younger as Clover moves to the front of the room, ready to begin the mission briefing for everyone; his mouth falls open, confusion and gratitude and shame filling him up from head to toe as his fingers curl around the bottle, squeezing so tight he vaguely fears the cap will pop off. He does not care if it does, though.
Silently, he opens up the bottle, leans back, and takes a drink. It is cold, sweet- soothing his flushed face, his jittery nerves, his heart that has been running a marathon for the past few days finally pausing, giving him some time rest. He does not drink much, for his stomach is still roiling and empty, but it is something.
He does not move to put the bottle in his inner coat pocket, nor does he let go of it for the rest of the briefing; his fingers are calm against its surface, and he is able to focus upon the missions and the screen, and the light does not hurt his eyes as badly as it did before. And on the way out, he grabs a small muffin from the back of the room, approaches Clover, and splits it in half. "It's too much for just me."
The muffin is barely half the length of his palm. Clover takes the other half without complaint, eyes creasing in understanding. "Let's eat, and then we'll head out." He holds up his piece. "Cheers to a successful mission."
And Qrow finds himself smiling, tapping his half of crumbling lemon blueberry against Clover's. "I can cheers to that."
They eat, and Qrow's stomach settles, and his fingers find purchase around the water bottle he sips from throughout the day rather than causing more harm.
[. . .]
96 hours in.
"You didn't reach for your flask once today, y'know."
"Really?"
"Yeah." Clover smiles. "Progress."
"…yeah." Qrow leans his head back to look up at the evening sky. His head does not pound as much as it did that morning, and his body no longer wants to twist itself inside out. He is calm.
His throat seizes. He is calm, but not whole; but that is okay for tonight.
"…progress," he whispers.
The word is sweet on his tongue, rolling off into the night air. He likes it. It does not lay expectations upon his shoulders, nor does it ask for a final result right away; it just demands a step.
He drinks some more water. He can do it. Just one step, every day. And then, perhaps one day, he'll be able to look back and see the whole journey behind him. Ruby and Yang would be proud to see that.
He glances to his side. Clover is looking up at the stars, as relaxed and confident as ever; yet, when he notices Qrow's curious gaze, green eyes and thin lips smile, all quiet, self-assured trust and safety.
He takes another sip. Maybe Clover would be proud to see it, too. The thought brings a smile to his lips, and he looks back to the crumbling moon, and the ache isn't so noticeable anymore.
[…]
120 hours in. Today has been a good day- not easy, not painless, but good. Ruby and Yang both hugged him before going off on their first missions as Huntresses. Clover looked excited for their own first mission as a duo, which ended up as a success. He is actually sleepy for the first time in days.
And that's a start.
-fin-