There's not much to do on a rainy day. There's never been much to do.
Visit a grave, say your goodbyes, turn away from the loss because what did it ever mean anyway? What did anything mean? Lost love that was doomed from the start, doomed in kisses and smoke and drink and too much lust to ever develop safely - doomed from two worlds that had never been meant to collide in the first place.
He doesn't blame Ruby, of course. Like always, he blames himself.
What else could he have done? Been better. Spent less on drink. Given him more time, instead of going to his own shitty apartment and drinking himself stupid after missions, only to turn up slurred and needy, forcing Roman to bring him up from that low and then tear him down again in every lovely way possible.
He doesn't blame Ruby. He blames himself for not sticking around after Amber fell, for not sensing Cinder's Aura and killing her then and there. He blames himself for the Wyvern, for the Grimm that had taken over Roman's penthouse and trashed all his books, his trinkets, his every memory. He blames himself for not making Roman trust him, for not convincing Roman enough that he wouldn't turn around and turn the man in once they were done. He blames himself for joking about the airship, for not picking up on the hints about security, how their last words to each other were 'stay safe'.
What a way to break up. . .
Qrow falls to his knees in the mud, away from every other person and so far, the Grimm. Summer's grave lies before him, gray and bleak, and Qrow regrets that for every person he lost, there had never been a body. Rain falls from the sky, and Qrow doesn't even care that he's soaked. He cares that it would've been Roman who took his clothes off, scolding him for ruining the fabric. Scolding him for getting his carpet full of rain water. Scolding him for turning up unwanted on the balcony over and over and over again, until that scowl turned into the fondest of smiles whenever he showed up like the bad omen he was.
Piss drunk and screaming into the night. . .
Qrow closes his eyes, tears mixing with the rain. It hurts only a little bit less than Summer, but that doesn't mean he stops crying. It's not like he can make a grave for Roman anyway, so the best he can do is turn up at Summer's and pretend she's still there to make him feel less like shit.
Why did he always have to fall for the people who were so damned understanding?
He's left his flask back with Tai, and the pain of his head clearing, the shaking, the blood churning in his veins, isn't enough of a distraction. Blacking out with the cream liqueur and the memories Roman gave him isn't enough of a distraction. Getting struck by lightning wouldn't be enough of a distraction.
Qrow throws his head back and wonders just how cruel Ozpin's Brother Gods are, to take away something so precious. Maybe it's because Roman was inherently evil - but then again, so was Qrow. Or maybe those two were just right bastards.
Qrow wants to say it's the latter, but he only blames himself. What else can he do?
There's not much to do on a rainy day, after all. The most he and Roman ever did was curl up on his extremely expensive couch, trading drinks and kisses until they were too high on each other to do much else. The least he and Roman ever did was pass each other in the street, with small glances and smaller smiles, Qrow with a hand on his sword and Roman with his hand on a girl not much younger than himself.
Qrow had never met her, and he wonders if she mourns.
Apparently Ruby had fought her, thrown her into the void, and that had set off Roman. She admitted to never looking back as the airship crashed, never looking back as she went on to find Weiss. Qrow doesn't blame her, of course. Ruby hadn't known. But Qrow does - he knows how Roman could love, could care, could break through defenses with one quick quip and leave anyone and everyone around him charmed. Qrow supposes the girl must mourn, too, if she was even still alive.
It had rained after Beacon. It was raining now, too.
Qrow looks to the sky, blinking away the pain that eats him from the inside out, consuming him over and over and over again, just like with Summer. He doesn't remember what her Aura feels like, nor Roman's. He can't. He won't. He refuses to remember. Each drop pelts him though, each drop a stinging reminder of what he lost - how Qrow will always, always lose.
Qrow knows he shouldn't try. 'One should never do anything on a rainy day,' Roman had said, shooting a smile over his shoulder as he grabbed himself and Qrow a few glasses. 'You'd be wasting the opportunity.'
Qrow knows he never had one to begin with. There was nothing to do on a rainy day, and there had never been anything anyone could do for Qrow Branwen.