Don't Say "I Told You So"

Midnight Matters

Clover wraps a towel around his hips and uses another to dry his hair. Once he's done he swipes the steam off the mirror. He stretches, his back clicking a couple of times. The smell of sandalwood floods his nose as he sighs at himself. He has far fewer scars than he should, but the ones he does have serve to remind him of his limits. The biggest one is a small butterfly-like scar near his hipbone from the last time he saw Tyrian Callows.

He touches it with his lips pursed. Though he prefers to think of talent first, he knows the scar was luck. He was lucky to get away with his life. These new rumors of Tyrian's return make him nervous, but next time, he's sure, will be different.

Clover jolts with his pants halfway up his legs as his scroll buzzes. A text from Qrow. Got a minute?

Speaking of different. Clover's chest tightens. He finishes pulling his pants up, ruffles his hair and snaps a picture in the mirror. Cream-colored walls make his torso look darker, free hand tucked into his pocket. He sends it to Qrow with the caption: Sure. What can I do for you?

He carries the rest of his uniform to his attached quarters. Regulation requires everything to be pin-straight and pristine, but lately Clover allowed it to wrinkle. A sock on the floor. The covers of his bed drawn back at one of the corners. His boots, instead of standing at attention by the door, remain near his bed where he'd kicked them off after patrol.

Anyone else and Clover would have deep-cleaned the place, but instead he sits at his desk, content to let it be. He's not the leader of the Ace Ops. Not with Qrow. He's just Clover. And for the first time in his life, just Clover's enough.

Qrow's reply: Open your window.

It's almost too late when he does. A black bird shoots through the opening in barely enough time, there's a flash of dark mist, and Qrow rolls to a crouch on his floor, nearly soundless. He's fresh from patrol, the gritty smell of Mantle clings to him like a second skin. Harbinger gleams in the low light at his hip.

The huntsman straightens and rolls his shoulders. He avoids Clover's eyes as he glances at the clock on the nightstand. It's nearly midnight. "Sorry for comin' by so late."

Clover shivers as he shuts the window and cuts off the artic Solitas air. "Don't be."

"Need to talk to you about..." Qrow pauses, mouth half-open as he chews through possible ways to phrase it. He settles on, "what we're doing together." He meets his eyes, searching as he backtracks, "That's if this is still something we're doing."

"I'd like to continue, if that's what you're asking." Clover sits at his desk and gestures for Qrow to take the bed. He doesn't. The huntsman seems restless, unsure of where to put his hands, his eyes, how to stand. At last, Clover gives in. "You're killing me. Come on. Out with it. What's on your mind?"

Qrow lets out a frustrated noise. "I'm not good at this. I haven't been with anyone in years--well, beyond a one night stand. Last person I got involved with died and left behind a family." His hands shake at his sides and he finally sits, if only to stop his trembling. "I don't want to hurt you, all right? That's the last thing I want."

"The only thing that's gonna hurt me is if you don't want to try as much as I do." Clover leans forward to take his hand. "Let me tell you about my relationships. Here in Atlas, appearances matter more than the truth. If I didn't have Ironwood behind me, I'd be treated no better than the faunus just for who I'm attracted to. The last person I got involved with, about three months into it, looked me in the eye, shook my hand, and acted like he was meeting me for the first time in front of his wife."

A snarl works itself on the huntsman's face. "What a scumbag."

"He wasn't the only one in that scenario, believe me." He grits his teeth. "I smiled at his wife that night, joked with her. She was a good woman. And I felt like the scum of the earth. Anyone else in my position wouldn't. I mean, what luck--I found a good man, or so I thought, willing to stay discreet with me for safety's sake, but I wasn't about to waltz around with a man like that knowing I was breaking up a home. He had children. His oldest was about Ruby's age."

"I don't give a damn about appearances. And I could never look at you any other way than how I do now." Qrow squeezes his hand and gives him a fierce, hungry look. "Come here."

Clover stands, taking his sweet time to walk over. Winter wind howls at the windowpane. The smell of the huntsman's sweat mixes with the spicy body spray as he presses his face to Clover's chest.

A hearty laugh against the fine hair of his stomach. "You're beautiful, lucky charm."

"So are you. If you'd let anybody tell you."

Qrow paws at his hips, the cold of his rings a thrill on his skin. The huntsman leans in to kiss the butterfly-like scar on his hipbone. Clover combs through his black hair and coaxes a groan out of him.

"Can I tell you something I've never told anyone?" Clover whispers as the flush shows up on his stomach.

A pair of red eyes, half-lidded, peer up at him through thick lashes. "Please."

Clover's heart pounds. "As lucky as I am, I've never been in love before."

There's a flash in Qrow's eyes that tells him he has, but it fades fast. It's replaced by the cocky, almost hopeful glint that drew Clover to him in the first place. The huntsman stands and cradles his face in rough hands. "Never?"

Though he's stronger, thicker, and taller than him, Qrow somehow makes him feel small, vulnerable, peeling back the layers of Atlesian Ace-Op and huntsman to reveal a man. It's never Special Operative Ebi. It's never 'sir', something Qrow calls him when he's annoyed.

In these moments, Clover's skin erupts in goosebumps. Born in a cold, desolate place and all it took to thaw him was a hopeless cause, wrapped in three layers of stray dog and recovering alcoholic. How he questions the 'never' in his confession. The hope in his 'never?', as if surely someone like the ever-optimistic good luck charm had been in love before.

Clover shakes his head. He pulls him in by the coat. "I know we haven't known each other long, but--"

"A few months is a lifetime for a huntsman." Something in Qrow's eyes, the way his eyes glance at his lips, tells him he's had weeks that felt like years before. He's scraped to get home before. To get back to Ruby and Yang.

"Ever been hungry? So hungry you couldn't sleep?" Clover rests a hand against Qrow's stubbly neck.

"Yeah. I can't tell you how many times I'd starve all night, feeling miserable, but then the sun would rise and I'd feel that warmth," Qrow smiles, just a timid curl of his lips. "It was as good as a meal to me. To know I got to see another day."

His cheeks hurt from smiling back. "That's what it feels like to see you every day."

All the reply Qrow gives is to grip him tight and kiss Clover as if spilling everything inside him.