Work Text:
Clover perked up at the sound of a telephone being slammed into its dock. He let his arm drop down to his desk from where it had been doing the tricky work of propping up the tired tilt of his chin, and a small smile cracked his face.
“A good one, then?” He asked teasingly across the divider.
His only reply was a long, drawn-out groan, which seemed to carry within its exhausted tone the very weight of the world—or at least the weight of being one of the higher-ups in an Atlas call center.
“Come now,” Clover continued chirpily, soul-crushingly reminiscent of his customer-service voice, “What’ve you got to whine about? You’re the boss!”
Pale fingers curled over the flimsy partition separating his and his partner’s desks, followed shortly thereafter by a sharp red-eyed glare and a forehead creased deep with stress. Qrow was not in the mood for his jibes. “That just means I get the calls once the customers are already angry, and you know it, Mister Co-Manager,” he hissed.
Clover’s smile gentled. “Yeah. You okay?”
Qrow pulled himself to his full height and slumped wearily over top of the divider, resting his cheek on his sprawled arms. He shrugged as much as his melted position allowed. “Mm. Fifteen minutes’ break.”
“Woo,” Clover shot the other man his best jazz hands, pleased when it coaxed a soft laugh out of his coworker.
The laughter faded, but the corners of Qrow’s lips remained quirked upwards. “You got five more minutes?”
Clover snorted, glancing at the glaring red numbers of his desktop timer. “Four minutes, ten. Nine. Eight. Seven.”
“Alright, alright. You’ll drive yourself crazy at that rate.”
Clover balanced his chin against his fist, gazing up at Qrow, whose features were softened indistinct by the cheap fluorescents buzzing just on the grating edge of consciousness overhead. There were dark gray circles under his eyes. “I’ve got a pudding cup?” Clover offered, already pulling open one of the loud, clanking metal drawers under his desk. It screeched and Qrow flinched, but he held out his hand nonetheless to accept the little plastic container of lemon-flavored empty calories.
“Thanks, Cloves,” Qrow muttered. The smile he sent Clover was startlingly genuine.
Gods, when had they become so sad that pudding cups were enough to bring about such an unwarranted level of gratitude?
Qrow ripped the lid off the pudding, disappearing back behind his divider for just a second to retrieve a plastic spoon before reappearing, now towering much higher over the separator so Clover could see from his chest, up.
Clover raised an eyebrow, casting a surreptitious look about the room—lines and lines of desks made for a dizzying view, and there were so many voices talking and phones ringing that it formed a new sort of white noise. “You’d better not let Ironwood see you sitting on your desk like that.”
His coworker absently twirled his plastic spoon through the pudding, scooping it up just to let it plop back down. Clover could see how his jaw clenched. “What’s he gonna do, fire me?” Qrow snorted derisively. His pretty eyes caught the lights and glinted harshly. “Whatever. I hate this job.”
Clover frowned. “Yeah.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” He glanced away. “Just…. This job would suck more if you left, I mean. That’s all.”
Clover felt Qrow’s eyes boring holes into his skull. He winced internally. That was too real—a real stand-up way to expose his long-held crush on his desk-mate. Hesitantly, he looked back up to gauge his coworker’s reaction, mentally prepping himself for the worst.
So, imagine his surprise when he was instead confronted with a version of Qrow’s expression that was—endearingly bashful. His cheeks were dusted a lovely, soft reddish pink the same shade as his eyes, which were slightly widened. His lips were parted around a quiet gasp, which rushed from his chest when Clover made eye contact.
Clover felt his own face growing hot. “I—sorry. That wasn’t very—”
“Actually,” Qrow coughed awkwardly, his unoccupied hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck, “Uh. I’d be a lot more miserable without you here, too. So. Yeah.” He cleared his throat, going back to eating the pudding Clover had given him with laser-focused intensity. He wouldn’t meet Clover’s eyes.
This did not stop Clover’s weak little heart from leaping in his chest, however. His entire body thrummed with warm pleasure. “That—That’s good,” he stuttered.
Qrow merely nodded.
A phone rang, loud and piercing, instantly cutting through the settling tension. Reflexively, Clover made a grab for his handset, but when he picked it up, he found that his hadn’t been the one ringing.
Instead, Qrow was staring, startled, down and to his left, where his own phone presumably rested. “I still have twelve minutes,” he said hollowly. Clover started when he realized that his coworker’s eyes had grown wet.
He retrieved a tissue, offering it to Qrow as he made to stand, fully intending to circle around their desk block to take the call for him. “Here, Qrow, I can—” He didn’t make it even two steps before the timer on his own desk began to vibrate furiously, signaling that his break had apparently come to an end. He hovered uncertainly.
Qrow sniffled quietly, stress lines already reappearing across his face. “It’s fine, Cloves. I’ve got it.” He plucked the tissue from Clover’s fingers and dropped back behind the divider to resettle in his desk chair, clutching the pudding cup he’d barely even been able to take a bite of like it was his sole tether to the land of the living. Clover remained standing, watching as Qrow took a deep, slow breath in and out, then picked up the shrill-ringing torture instrument.
Finally, Clover sank back down into his chair as his timer went from vibrating to beeping angrily, reminding him that the boss would be notified if he didn’t get back to work, now. He grit his teeth as he slammed the ‘off’ button.
On the other side of the divider, he heard Qrow’s rough voice: “Yes, sir… I’m sorry, sir, I was taking my break… yes, sir… no, sir, she’d assured me that the issue was resolved at the conclusion of our last call… I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know how she could’ve possibly broken it again… I—yes, sir… No, of course I don’t mind speaking to her again.” A long pause. “Yes, sir.” The happy beep of a call transferring, and then Qrow was speaking again, falsely cheery, “Good evening, again, Ma’am….”
The bout of yelling that Clover could hear even through the neighboring phone’s tinny speaker and the intervening partition had him grimacing. He’d had quieter drill sergeants.
But then his own phone was ringing, and he couldn’t worry about Qrow any longer—he likely had his own lecture to receive. So, with a heavy sigh, he pulled it off its dock and took just a second to compose himself, then chirped into the receiver, “Ironwood Technology Systems, you’ve reached Assistant Manager Clover Ebi… Yes, sir, that’s E-B-I—”
“ —And the last time I called, I spoke with this dreadful young man who was no help at all; I wrote down his name, his name was ‘Amin,’ A-M-I-N, and I was just calling because I feel like employees like that, who don’t help, should maybe be written-up; though I’m sure your company has already fired him, or I hope so, because I didn’t talk to him this time, but I was honestly just really dissatisfied with my customer experience last time, and I feel like I deserve a discount on the repair service you all sent out, and—”
“I’m terribly sorry to interrupt, Ma’am,” Clover broke in tiredly, “but was Mr. Amin unable to help fix your computer?”
“Oh, no, it works now.”
He planted his face into his palm, rubbing roughly at his forehead. “I’m sorry, Ma’am, if the computer is working, what part of Mr. Amin’s service was dissatisfactory to you?”
“Well, he didn’t sound happy to help me.”
Clover withheld his sigh, his eyes tracking Qrow as his coworker stood from his desk and began to pull his coat on. Clover had been trying to get Qrow’s attention all day, since their conversation over break, but he hadn’t been able to hold to even a moment of the other man’s time. He glanced a tad desperately at his watch, the numbers steadily blinking a cool ‘9:13’ up at him. This call had gone way past clock-out (on a Friday, no-less), and he grew even more desperate to bring it to a close as he watched Qrow prepare to leave.
He tuned back in.
“—and when he called me ‘Ma’am,’ he kind of had a tone, you know, a rude tone, and it was just very disrespectful, and he had just the thickest accent, and it was very hard to understand him, and I feel like as a customer I shouldn’t have to put up with that, right? And as the customer I think I should really have that repair service comp’d, and--!”
She was working herself into a circular frenzy, and as Qrow plodded tiredly to the door, tossing out the less-than-appetizing pudding cup he’d never gotten to finish along the way, Clover interrupted again, admittedly less smoothly than before, “Ma’am, I’m glad to hear your computer was repaired. Thank you for your review of our employee, we value the input of customers like you, and we here at Ironwood Technology Systems appreciate your business. I’ll be sure to address your concerns with our employee right away.”
He wouldn’t. Marrow’s accent wasn’t even thick—it merely held the musical lilt characteristic of Menagerie. Not to mention, the kid was practically a model employee. Clover sincerely hoped that he got out within the next year or so and found something better; he was a bright, young thing. Loads of potential.
"What? Excuse me, young man, didn’t you hear me? My experience was unsatisfactory. As I told the young lady who answered the call the first time, I’m requesting a discount on the repair service for all the trouble your employee caused me!”
Clover rolled his eyes. He was thirty-two. Hardly a kid. Plus, the woman’s expectation that she’d be comp’d if she threw enough of a fit was completely ridiculous. “I’m sorry, Ma’am, but I’m afraid I can’t offer you a refund, seeing as how you’ve stated that your computer is functioning. I’ll have a conversation with the employee that caused you trouble.”
“This is ridiculous. I want to speak to your manager.”
Qrow exited the office. Clover stared after him forlornly as the annoying little bell that’d been strung above the doorframe (like they were in a novelty candy shop, rather than hell disguised as a call center) chimed merrily. Another missed opportunity. He huffed, “I’m afraid my manager went home a couple hours ago, Ma’am. Would you like me to take a message?”
The woman’s loud scoff echoed down the line like a death knell.
" I’ll call again tomorrow. What was your name again, young man?”
“Clover Ebi. E-B-I. Thank you for your patience, Ma’am, you have a good night.”
He hung up before she could respond, unable to bring himself to care about the lecture he’d undoubtedly be receiving from Ironwood on Monday. Quicker than a thought, he had his coat on and his computer off—his bag thrown over his shoulder and his scroll’s digital timecard scanned. Then he was rushing out the front door, eager to escape the confinement of his place of employment and hesitantly hopeful that Qrow would still be lingering around. Waiting for a cab, maybe.
And by some stroke of luck, Qrow was indeed still outside—but he wasn’t alone.
Instead, two little girls were hanging off him. The shorter of the two, a tiny thing with black hair so dark it almost shone red in the streetlights and a cute little winter dress on, was quite literally dangling from Qrow’s raised arm, while the taller one, sporting a wild mane of fiery golden locks, was merely clinging to his leg. Clover tried not to be distracted by how easily Qrow was holding the little girl up, instead choosing to redirect his attentions to closer observance of the children—and then he remembered a few months ago, when Qrow had shown him a framed photo off his desk—had named the figures pictured therein with a voice that was thick with fierce, quiet pride so strong and emotional it almost rang more like sorrow.
“You two must be Qrow’s nieces,” Clover called out as he approached, trying his best to appear non-threatening, “Ruby and… Yang?”
Qrow shot him a small, shy smile that melted Clover’s brain just a tad. “That’s right. Them and their dad seem to have decided to surprise me with a visit.” He coaxed the girls out from where they had taken to ducking behind his legs, startled by the newcomer. “Ruby, Yang, this is Clover; he’s a friend from work.”
Reassured that Clover wasn’t, in fact, a total stranger, Yang blustered forward, planting herself firmly at Clover’s feet. He looked down at her, surprised. “You work with Uncle Qrow?” she demanded hotly, arms crossed over her chest.
Clover smiled at her, crouching a little to get on her level. “Yup. We share a desk.”
“That’s so cool!” Ruby giggled, and Clover saw that she was missing a couple teeth, one from the top row, and one from the bottom. “Is your job really fun?”
“Uh—”
“The funnest,” Qrow interrupted quickly, “Right, Clover?”
“Right,” Clover agreed readily, and tried not to think about how Qrow had definitely almost stress-cried over a call just hours before.
“That’s not a word, Uncle Qrow!” Yang glared up at her uncle with all of the ferocious energy of a very tiny dynamo.
“It’s not?” Qrow gasped theatrically.
Clover’s heart warmed at how Qrow interacted with the girls. He knew that his coworker was proud of his nieces, but he’d never realized how good he was with kids. It was sweet, and certainly not helpful to his attempts to smother his crush—but hopefully the need for that would end tonight, even with the unanticipated witnesses.
Then a man jogged up to them, dreadfully underdressed for the cold weather (and that was coming from Clover, who had only begrudgingly thrown on a thin windbreaker this morning with which to face the below-freezing temperatures). He paused a second once he reached their little group, bending over with his hands on his knees as he caught his breath, each exhale forming an icy cloud in the air. Once he’d gathered himself, he straightened up with a final, heavy sigh, already talking. “Alright, guys, I’ve got us set up in the three-hour lot, which should be plenty of time to find someplace to eat and get back here so we can head back to Qrow’s apartment for the night. I’ve got some coupons for a couple great places in Mantle that aren’t too bad a walk, and—”
He cut himself off as his eyes landed on Clover and instantly narrowed. “Hey, buddy, why don’t you move along?”
Clover’s jaw dropped a little. He raised his hands placatingly, taking a step back, “I—”
“Whoa, Tai,” Qrow interrupted, one arm around each of the girls, “This is Clover. He’s a friend from work.”
“Oh!” Tai’s expression was night and day—where only seconds ago, he had looked ready to burn the world down if it meant that Clover would buzz off, now he was grinning like he’d won the lottery. “Sorry ‘bout that, Clover!”
“Uh—it’s okay?”
“Yeah, daddy, Uncle Qrow was just tellin’ us about how fun his job is!” Ruby cheered excitedly, bouncing on her toes.
“Was he?” Tai asked with a raised eyebrow that spoke volumes. Qrow couldn’t seem to meet his eyes. “Well, then,” the sunny blond turned back to face Clover, setting the matter aside for now so that he could instead reach out a large hand for Clover to shake, “It’s very nice to meet you, Clover. Ruby and Yang are my daughters. Sorry for the scare.” He grinned wide.
Clover smiled, a little bewildered, and took the hand. “It was no problem. Nice to meet you.”
“And sorry to run off on you so soon, but we’ve all got a dinner to get to before parking burns out! You Atlesians charge an awful lot for those lots!” Tai winked, laughed, took a step back, and threw a heavy arm around Qrow’s shoulders, resting his other hand on his younger daughter’s head. She turned her face up to him so his palm, which remained unmoved, was covering her eyes. She giggled.
“Oh, I’m not Atlesian,” Clover replied automatically, “But I understand. Have a good night!”
“Ah, sorry again, then,” Tai said, “And you, too!”
The little family turned away, and it wasn’t until Qrow cast one last glance over his shoulder that Clover finally remembered that he’d been intending to talk to the other man before the night was through. This realization apparently sapped the sense out of him, as he found himself suddenly calling Qrow’s name into the frigid night air.
Qrow turned fully, startled, mouth already open to question, and the rest of his family had also stopped, staring back at him with puzzled expressions that made Clover’s face burn hot in embarrassment. “I just—” he squeaked—and he did not squeak, “Sorry. I wanted to talk to you for a second. It can wait.”
Qrow’s brow furrowed in concern. And then he was walking back toward Clover, and Clover’s heart stuttered in his chest. “It’s fine. It’ll only be a minute, right?”
“Right.”
“So?” Qrow came to a stop in front of him, popping a hip out to rest his weight on just one foot, which definitely wasn’t fair because it made it very hard for Clover to keep his eyes on Qrow’s face. He blushed heavily.
“I, uh,” Clover stammered, “I wanted to know—” he trailed off, cursing himself internally. He was an adult. He had never had problems asking men out before, but apparently all it took was a pair of exceptionally attractive eyes and a sharp bit of wit to reduce his higher functions to mush.
“Yeah?” Qrow prompted after a drawn-out moment, and he was really beginning to look worried, now.
Clover decided to throw caution to the wind, praying that he wasn’t about to mess up the only good thing about his shitty job. “Would you wanna go out to dinner with me sometime, Qrow? Just us two?”
Qrow’s sharp intake of breath had Clover’s gut clenching, tying itself into a painful knot. He felt sweat forming along his brow despite the cold, and the panic had his chest fluttering with contradictory feelings of floaty tightness. He hadn’t realized just how much he’d wanted this until he’d spoken it into existence.
But then Qrow was peering up at him from under thick eyelashes, that soft blush from earlier making its encore appearance. “Sure. That’d be nice.”
“Cool. Great!” Clover felt like he could barely speak around his massive grin. “I’ll talk to you about it Monday, then?”
“Sounds good, Cloves,” Qrow smiled.
Big, fluffy snowflakes were just beginning to drift slowly to the ground all around them, and Clover could see Qrow’s nieces trying to catch the frozen crystals with their tongues over the other man’s shoulder. He could also see Tai’s fierce glare. Which… was troubling, if he’d just heard everything Clover had said to Qrow, but he figured that he could worry about that later.
For now, he had a date.
“Alright,” Clover said, and just barely prevented his workbag from falling off his shoulder, catching it fumblingly moments before it tumbled into the snow. He reached out with one shaking hand to squeeze Qrow’s. “Goodnight, then, Qrow.”
“’Night, Clover.”
The minute they reached their table, Clover hurried around to pull out Qrow’s chair for him.
The gesture earned him a raised eyebrow and a little laugh, but Clover had been raised right, and anyway, Qrow sat, so he must not have been knocked too off-kilter. Still, Clover was flush with embarrassment as he took his seat, and he buried his face in his menu.
It was a Friday night, two weeks after when Clover had initially asked Qrow out—it had taken time to get things settled into some kind of arrangement, and then time after that for Ironwood to agree not to be a total hard-ass and to let both of them out an hour early on the same day so they could make their reservations (not, of course, that he knew they’d requested the time so they could go out together; neither of them had any intention of letting him butt his way into their business).
Around them, the lighting was just a little too dark. Other couples and families chattered at other tables, but theirs had been wedged between two large, fake ferns, and it gave the illusion of privacy. The place smelled primarily of fish and that particular scent that hung universally in the air of all mid-range Mantle restaurants. It was distracting.
Clover tried harder to focus on the words in front of him.
“Hey,” Qrow said quietly, and then the Appetizers were being dragged away from him with a gentle, persistent sort of force. His date was looking at him, lashes falling low. “It was cute. Relax, Cloves.”
Clover’s face only grew hotter. He was grateful for the dim lighting in the dining area. “I just don’t want to mess it up.”
“You won’t,” Qrow replied, and presented Clover’s menu to him again. “Besides, I work in tech support. My standards of fun are so low.” But he was smiling, and he nudged Clover’s foot with his own under the tiny table-for-two.
Clover’s shoulders dropped. He laughed. “Funny, mine too.”
“Oh?” Qrow crossed his arms on the sticky tabletop and leaned forward. “And what do you do for a living?” he asked, coy.
The corners of Clover’s lips twitched upward at the game. “Mm. Pro wrestler.”
“I’d buy it, arms like those,” and Qrow batted his eyelashes like a maiden in a pre-War movie. He reached out as though to touch, and Clover’d have let him, except then the waiter came.
“Orders?” the kid grunted, looking tired in that soul-deep way Clover knew intimately.
“A minute?” Qrow didn’t turn his simmering eyes from Clover’s.
The waiter left.
Clover wasn’t entirely sure where this new confidence was coming from, but it had him feeling undeniably hot under the collar. He swallowed and glanced back to his menu. He realized, suddenly, that maybe Mistrali food had been a poor idea—he’d been hoping to treat Qrow by taking him to one of the nicer places that he could afford, but looking at the menu now, he was struck by the fact that he didn’t really know how to pronounce a thing on it. He was going to look like a moron.
“So, was it your favorite puppy, or just the runt of the litter?” Qrow asked.
Clover blinked. He looked up, dumbfounded at the total non sequitur. “Huh?”
Qrow shrugged. “Just wondering which of your dogs the menu killed to be getting that kinda look from you.”
Clover groaned. Dropped his face into his hands. He mumbled something, and when Qrow made an inquisitive noise, repeated louder: “I don’t know how to say anything on here.”
A moment of silence. Then Qrow snorted.
Clover whined. “I grew up in a backwoods town off Argus! We barely even had a diner!”
“Well, lucky for you,” Qrow began, and confiscated his menu for the second time that night, “I grew up in Mistral, and I certainly haven’t forgotten the language.” He flipped the laminated (sticky, why was everything in here sticky?) pamphlet open in front of him, scooching his chair around the side of the table with a series of short screeches that he seemed utterly unashamed of, until he was pressed right against Clover’s side.
Clover burned. Gods, he was over thirty. Had working for such a depressingly long time in IT really gotten him so deprived?
Qrow was warm against the tight-packed muscle of Clover’s bicep when he leaned closer, pulling the menu around so they could look together. Clover felt faint. How had he ever managed to work up the nerve to ask his coworker out? Evidently, the divider between their work stations had inspired a certain kind of false confidence in him—he had never been ready for the full experience of having Qrow so close.
“What were you thinking?” Qrow nudged him, and he forced himself to concentrate. He skimmed the menu with his eyes, pretending it wasn’t the first time he’d properly done so. He zeroed in on the first dish with shrimp that he saw. He liked shrimp.
“That one?” He pointed at the description that sat beneath the name he didn’t feel confident saying aloud.
There was a judgmental slant to the way Qrow set his lips, all pursed at the corners. Clover frowned, less sure of his choice, now. “What?”
“Only,” Qrow rushed, like he’d been wanting Clover to ask, “that’s just never good unless it’s homemade. I don’t trust some restaurant,” and here he glanced suspiciously at the vaguely Mistrali-style décor that surrounded them, “to get it right for you.”
Clover raised his eyebrows, surprised at the strength of opinion Qrow held for something that, to him, seemed like such a non-issue. Then he laughed, suddenly feeling so much more comfortable. “Okay,” he said, resting his chin in his palm and staring at Qrow adoringly, who swiftly proceeded to look back at him like a startled bird, “What would you recommend then, chef?”
Pink dusted high and familiar over Qrow’s cheekbones, and the world felt once again set to rights. “Shut up,” he grumbled, “I’m just trying to make sure you don’t get food poisoning or something….” But despite his complaints, he carefully examined the menu like he was scrying his future from its greasy, greasy contents. Finally, his pointer finger came down hard on something on the next page. “This one.”
“That one?”
Qrow nodded, self-assured. “You like shrimp? That’s the one.”
“Sounds good to me.” Clover smiled and shrugged, and he drummed his fingers against the lacquered tabletop. “But you should probably pick something for yourself before the waiter comes back.”
“Please,” Qrow scoffed, “I knew what I was getting before we even came here.”
He left it at that, and when the waiter returned, looking substantially more annoyed after dealing with the family a couple tables over, Qrow shuffled together the menus and handed them over without prompting, flawlessly ordering for both of them in the same breath. The easy grace excited something in Clover that he tried not to acknowledge for now—not on a first date.
Qrow sent him a look out of the corner of his eye like he knew anyway. His irises smoldered. He didn’t move his chair back to the other side of the table until long after they’d finished eating.
Clover endeavored to walk Qrow back to his apartment. It was a frigid night (as if Mantle knew any other kind). The moon shone full overhead and spilled silver over the otherwise-gloomy streets, the only thing in the sky that couldn’t be obscured by the light pollution from Atlas. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen, yet still an icy sleet fell all around and crystalled their eyelashes so they stuck.
Without needing to be told, Clover could glean that Qrow, like most who worked in Atlas, could not afford to live there—rather, he took up in an apartment in Atlas’ sister-city, Mantle, where rent was cheaper and everything less well-kept. Clover should know. He was in the same situation, himself—they made the same hourly, after all.
There was a simple and pragmatic saying in the city that went, “No-one lives in Mantle ‘cause they want to.”
An exaggeration, maybe—there had to be someone. But Clover’d never met them.
They made it to Qrow’s apartment building in silence and without fuss, a strange mood falling over them on the way. Rather than head in when they got there, though, Qrow simply linked their hands between them and led Clover on. Clover followed.
They came to a tiny community park and laid themselves down under a sad, drooping tree with thin branches weighed by ice that dripped freezing water on their upturned faces. Their hands stayed linked. Clover was glad he’d elected to wear a coat tonight.
After a few minutes, Qrow rolled over onto his side, seemingly uncaring of how the snow was like to ruin his worn leather jacket. He dragged their intertwined hands up and tucked them both under his cheek; the roughness of his stubble scraped across Clover’s knuckles. Against the cold air, Clover grew warm. He rolled also, facing Qrow.
“Need to stop by the post office early tomorrow,” Clover said, not knowing why.
Qrow raised sleet-glossed eyebrows. “Gotta be off, then?”
“Mm. No,” Clover murmured, and his fingers twitched against Qrow’s cheek. “I can go before work Monday.”
Qrow groaned, rolling his eyes up to the sad, wilting leaves above. “Almost made it the whole night without talking about work.”
“Sorry,” Clover grimaced.
Qrow hummed, but said nothing else. Then, “Tonight was really nice, Clover. I had fun.” The way his voice softened over the syllables of his name made Clover’s breath catch. His cheeks were red, but it was hard to say whether or not it was just from the cold.
“Just wish I could’ve taken you somewhere nicer,” Clover said, then chuckled weakly. “That something I’m not supposed to say?”
Qrow pushed out a low laugh with a puff of frosty condensation. Traffic going by on the road just a few yards away made their privacy take on a strange shape. “I don’t mind. The venue or the comment.” He drew swirls into the snow between them with his unoccupied hand. “It was nice,” he repeated.
“Good,” Clover replied, earnest, “I’m glad. I like when you’re happy.”
Too much, he winced.
Qrow seemed unbothered, however, aside from tightening his hand in Clover’s, eyes darting away for a breath before returning to meet Clover’s once more. “Well,” he hesitated, then plowed on, “I hope that I’m able to make you happy. Next time.”
“Next time?” Clover echoed, breathless and hopeful. He scooted closer.
Qrow bit his lip—nodded.
Clover couldn’t help it—he pumped a fist in the air victoriously, like he was a kid again, back in high school and cheering for the home team. Qrow, beside him, was laughing, smiling like the sun breaking through a thicket of storm clouds after a long rain.
It took a while for the exuberance to fade back to more normal levels, but finally it did, to the sound of a horn and a car’s squealing brakes not far off. Clover resettled into the snow, pretending like he couldn’t feel the cold seeping up to his back through his clothes.
They lied beside each other for a long time, then, hands clutching tight, staring at the moon through the glistening branches and sagging leaves.
When Qrow spoke next, he surprised Clover: “Why are you in Atlas?”
Clover started, but Qrow had turned over onto his back again, looking steadfastly upward, and his grip on Clover’s hand had loosened. So instead, Clover thought.
He thought about growing up poor in a forgotten Argus shipping outlet with too many siblings and not enough adult hands, staggering through high school underfunded and uncared-for, and finally, with no other real prospects, being picked up by the Atlas military when they came recruiting, starry-eyed with the hope of doing good in the world and making something of himself along the way.
Then he thought about getting there—the hazing, the hush-hush or outright hostile way other recruits and COs had addressed his sexuality to his face, the years and years of his life he’d ended up giving to the whole thing anyway, until he’d been thoroughly disillusioned and left with nothing else to give—until he’d served his purpose and been tossed out on his ass with little more than a good luck to ya.
Going home would’ve been admitting failure. And he’d never been all that close to most of his family anyway. And then he’d gotten a job working under Ironwood, and the rest was history.
But all of that was too much—too personal, too overwhelming for the occasion. Not yet.
So instead, what he said was: “Got sent from Argus Base to here for service and never really managed to slip away after I got discharged. You know.”
Qrow was already nodding like he could hear everything those words hid.
Clover hesitated, then, “You?”
He caught the furtive glance Qrow shot his way, and how it fled just as quickly. “Promise not to laugh?”
“Why would I laugh?” Clover asked, confused.
Qrow sighed, and when he spoke again, it was so wistful that it made Clover’s gut clench up like a fist. “I was a danseur. And Atlas is where all the best academies are.”
“When you say ‘danseur’…?” Clover trailed off.
“Ballet. I wasn’t… I mean, I wasn’t stellar, or anything. Certainly wasn’t going to make a principal title anytime soon. But. But I mean. I was good. I was.”
Clover squeezed his hand.
“I had some trouble, in my twenties, with alcohol… I don’t drink anymore, obviously, but… my company, it had some problems. Companies are supposed to be held to strict standards so their ballerinas stay healthy—dietary standards, mostly, so that everyone is… so people are eating, you know?” He paused. “The people in charge weren’t listening, and a few of the girls got pretty sick, and me, too, I—” He shook his head. “I took it higher. There was an investigation. And next thing I knew, I was twenty-seven, still with plenty’a years of dancing in me, and I’d been fired. When I applied at other places….” His voice broke.
Clover could fill in the blanks. And there was nothing to say to that.
After a minute to compose himself, Qrow continued, in brief: “It was easy for them to say that I was just some alcoholic who couldn’t be worked with. And I’d never gone to college. Most dancers don’t. And then I just… couldn’t leave. And I was in Atlas.”
It was a familiar narrative.
Clover rubbed his thumb over Qrow’s frozen knuckles and wondered how many people came to Atlas just to shrivel up in the cold. He almost wished he’d shared more, himself… but hopefully, there would be time for that some other day.
“You have all these visions for how your life will go,” Qrow said quietly, “And you never think it’ll be like this.” Clover opened his mouth to respond, even though he wasn’t quite sure what to say, but then Qrow was suddenly rolling back toward him, an urgency in his movements. He looked at Clover and his eyes were aflame even as tear tracks had put a dusting of frost across his cheekbones. “But,” he said, breathlessly, “But one good thing did come out of Atlas, at least.”
Clover tipped his chin, questioning, and then Qrow’s freezing hand was laid over his cheek, and his expression was all intensity—easily-read. That ferocious, burning warmth that had tingled through Clover’s core in the restaurant returned with a vengeance. “Can I—?”
Qrow nodded frantically, and then Clover was hovering over him, pressing him into the snow as their lips connected over and over—taking their time with each other until finally Clover forced himself to pull away when he felt Qrow shivering under him. Their gasping breaths spilled from their heaving chests and mingled closely in the space between them. The air felt humid. Qrow stared up at him with hazy eyes, hair damp and hanging limp over his forehead. Clover swept it tenderly out of the way, overcome with a breed of emotion that he didn’t know he’d ever felt so intensely.
And the words pushed up against the backs of his teeth, fighting to escape until he couldn’t do anything but let them spill forth: “We’ll get out of here,” he swore fiercely, and a full-bodied shudder wracked Qrow beneath, “No more Mantle. No more Atlas. Someday.”
“Little early for a proposal,” Qrow joked feebly.
But already he was pulling Clover back to him, and like second nature, Clover went.