A/N: Warning- there is implied past self-harm in this chapter. I hesitated to put this in this fic, but in the end, I decided to do it. Read at your own risk.

Cameo Lover

Bracelets

As time passed, Clover got to learn more and more about Qrow Branwen. He revelled in it, soaking up each new piece of info he gained.

Qrow loved cards, but nothing of chance- games of reflexes were his favourite. He was uncannily skilled at any and every video game under the sun, easily destroying his nieces and all their friends whenever they hosted a games night. He was a hit with the ladies- the one time he went down to Mantle to check up on Jaune, the boy having been working on a long-term assignment as a crossing guard for preschoolers, Qrow came back to Atlas with a casserole and a loaf of banana bread, earning a pout from the jealous blond, who usually monopolized the affection of the mothers who dropped their children off with him.

But those things were all so trivial, so miniscule. They never meant anything to Clover in the long-run, because how could he focus on the fact that Qrow was good with older women when every single time they fought the Grimm, the elder ended up back onto the rooftop after, near tears? How could he focus on playing games with the kids when Qrow's eyes were always so fixed upon the old photograph of his original team, forever tucked away in his pocket, wishing they were here instead of Qrow himself?

And how could he care about games of chance when, for the first time in his life, Clover felt like he was losing one- like he never had a chance of winning Qrow's heart to begin with?

Sometimes, it felt like the closest he'd ever get to holding Qrow in his arms was in combat. After weeks of trying to find a hobby for the man besides cards, they had settled on just honing their skills in battle after the students were done training for the day. So, he often found himself in the training room after hours, swinging Kingfisher's line in a desperate attempt to get away from Qrow's unforgiving blade, Harbinger.

He could only handle so much, after all. Every time their blades locked, faces close, sweat streaming down their faces, and Clover could look into Qrow's crimson eyes just inches away, lips pulled up into that cocky, self-assured smirk of his…

Occasionally, the general would come join them. It was both easier and harder to sit on the sidelines and watch as Qrow sparred against James- but Clover appreciated sitting on the sidelines for those bouts. That way, he could truly appreciate the beauty that was Qrow Branwen as the man perched atop the high columns in the room, unfurling his scythe, a grim reaper of carnage poised to slaughter.

Whenever he watched Qrow, Clover felt undeniably feeble. That feeling was new to him- but he didn't mind it, not with Qrow.

The one thing that was going well, no matter whom he asked, was Qrow's drinking. After the first few weeks of withdrawal in Atlas, having cut so cold turkey that he hadn't known what to do with himself, the man was finally brightening up. His smiles came freer, his heart more open. Clover lapped up the attention, cherishing the laughter they shared on long supply runs and the quiet patrols of Mantle's walls against the Grimm.

Clover adored their training sessions with the former students, and the way that no matter how much Qrow stated, "Look, I quit teaching for a reason," Qrow was always undeniably the best at giving advice to the younger Huntsmen. Even Clover had picked up a few tricks from the elder.

And yet, it did nothing to bring him closer to Qrow. Everyone saw the change in him- instead of alcohol, he was actually eating proper meals, even sleeping once in a while. Everyone saw the way he looked healthier, more nourished, even putting on just enough weight in his cheeks that his nieces kept pinching them mischievously the way he did to them. But it didn't change the fact that something in the older man was clearly still suffering emotionally.

Clover wanted to cross the line with the other man- profess his feelings, wear his heart on his sleeve for all the world to see. Gods knew that the Ace-Ops already thought the pair were an item. Clover just didn't know how. How could he ask Qrow to give him his heart when Qrow's own was clearly so shattered, Clover didn't know how to make heads or tails of it anymore?

Would he ever be able to say how he felt?

The answer came one day, right at the end of a long match. He and Qrow had been sparring for hours, a particularly slow supply run leaving both of them antsy by their return at sunset. The students had long-since given up on watching the match, contenting themselves to go down to Mantle and play the night away, as they'd be off-duty the next morning.

Qrow managed to block a blow from Kingfisher, teetering on the edge of a platform. Clover saw his opportunity to strike, grinning and releasing the latch which kept the steel wire holding Kingfisher's hooked blade in. The reel unspooled, and with ease, Clover stepped back and jumped off onto a lower platform. On the way down, he hooked the handle of Harbinger's scythe with Kingfisher and pulled, knocking Qrow cleanly off-balance.

He knew Qrow could right himself and land on his feet- and even if he didn't, he would be fine. It didn't stop Clover from running forward and catching Qrow in his arms.

When Qrow finally realized how Clover was carrying him, the expression on his face made Clover almost double over in laughter. Equal amounts of embarrassment, shock, horror and amusement filled his eyes, mouth agape for a moment before he began to cackle, elbowing Clover to put him down. "I ain't a princess, c'mon!" he laughed as Clover sighed, relinquishing his grip to set the man's feet down.

"You're a princess to me," Clover chuckled, flashing a wink towards Qrow. "I'll save you anyday."

Qrow merely groaned, long-since used to his silly remarks. "Alright, kid, whatever you say," Qrow teased, stretching his arms high as he walked back to pick up Harbinger. The blade was lying on the ground near Kingfisher, still extended into its scythe form.

Clover smiled, pushing away the twinge of sadness in his chest. I wasn't kidding, Qrow. Before he could dwell on that too long, however, he caught sight of a tiny band on the floor. It took him barely a moment with the material in his hands to recognize that it was the bracelet that usually covered Qrow's right wrist. "Qrow," he called, jogging up to meet the other man, "I think you might've dropped this?"

Turning around, Qrow held out his hand to retrieve the bracelet without looking at it. As he extended his hand, however, Clover saw pale white lines- jagged, roughly-healed skin- all across the man's wrist.

How would a Grimm attack him there? That's not a claw wound- far too thin. It's old, no doubt. But Qrow has a pretty decent Aura- what would manage to wear him down enough to land an attack that intimate?

Qrow realized far too late where Clover's eyes had landed, and what the man was holding out to him. Qrow immediately grabbed the bracelet and slipped it on, face pale and withdrawn, the luster and joy from just moments ago nowhere to be seen.

It was quiet for a long, tense moment.

Finally, Clover whispered, "I'm not going to ask."

He wanted to. But it wasn't his place. It had clicked.

Qrow nodded slowly, a weak, empty chuckle slipping through his lips. "It's better that way. Life was harder back then."

"…Before Beacon?"

"Yeah."

"Was it because of your Semblance?"

"I thought you weren't going to ask."

He didn't respond.

Qrow sighed, tucking Harbinger back into its holster. "Being a bad luck charm isn't exactly useful for anyone. So until I found a use for myself, this was the better alternative. Better me than everyone around me." He snorted. "But unlucky me. Even that didn't work."

And with that, he left, and Clover finally understood just how right he'd been all this time. He didn't really know Qrow Branwen. He wanted to, but there were some things that he had no right to know.