Chapter Text
Clover Ebi loves big . He loves loud and fierce; brightly; without apology or secrecy. His heart is as evident as the swath of fabric on his arm. He smiles and winks and compliments without hesitation. He stares you down from across the room with an exhilarating encouragement —daring you to step out, stretch in the sunlight, take up the place in the world that he’s determined to convince you you deserve. He warms your skin, content to relax and bask in a moment of peace, and just as ready to flare and burst into action. His affection is motivation and comfort, his love guiding and intense. There is a warmth in his eyes that could easily scorch everything away but instead radiates with a familiar soft light that feels like home.
His love is bold, brazen, a roiling blaze held within a collected smile. He shows his love proudly, in determined ways. Not reckless or wild but electric. His love is on display, but always distinctly personal, intimate. He will tell you he loves you in front of the world, not as performance or cockiness, but pride, full commitment. But his voice will be just as warm when he tells you he loves you in empty fields, it's voicing grand in its tenacity, its enveloping certainty.
He says it as fact, as easy as he says his own name, as familiar. He says it with heart and sincerity, that would almost be cloying if it were anyone else. He says it in simple, deliberate declarations; intent on speaking it all into the world, letting something so large live outside of just his own chest. He makes it grand and stunning while never seeming anything but kind and true and whole, and beaming.
So, it might have seemed a bit odd, how he first spoke his love of Qrow Branwen.
It was not grand, or verbose. It was not loud or spectacular. It was not matter-of-fact, steady, and unafraid of being heard. He said it not to proudly show it to the world; not even to convince the man beside him of its scale.
Instead, it was soft, nervous, measured. But what stood out most, was that Clover waited to say it until he knew he was the only one who would hear it.
The first time Clover told Qrow that he loved him, it was just so he could hear it himself; just to feel the weight of those words leave his chest.
Clover Ebi, whose love was as strong as the sun, took his time telling Qrow Branwen he loved him.
He did it in phases.
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They both knew that whatever this was between them it had long since passed beyond two partners getting comfortable together, but there was little clarity beyond that for a while.
It had been sharp and urgent at first; gasping kisses in empty hallways; electric embraces on low stakes missions; fumbling fingers and hitched breaths; and sudden retreats when unexpected voices were heard.
It was never cold or unkind, or only a means to an end when they needed to blow off steam, but it wasn’t exactly tender either.
Not that Clover hadn’t tried.
He certainly wasn’t complaining about the hurried moments, the sudden collisions. But, by now, he knew his partner well enough to know when he was worn thin. And he knew him well enough to know how reluctant he was to expose that frailty to anyone else.
In those moments, when his frayed edges were hastily hidden away, Clover tried to slow him down; tried to guide things less towards hungry and more towards care. And, if Qrow had simply balked at each calmer touch or kinder kiss; if he had clearly wanted only quick and urgent physicality, then Clover could have left it there. Clover’s love was scorching and blinding and he was fine for his touch to be as well.
But in those moments, when Clover tried to be slower — his touch warm and safe like gentle sunlit mornings— Qrow didn’t just shrug him off with no interest. Clover saw how they tripped the huntsman up; how his face softened for a moment; how his shoulders relaxed. Each time Clover tried to warm him with affection, rather than burn through their moments with desire, Qrow allowed it.
For just a moment, he glowed; Clover’s soft light reflecting back.
And then, as if realizing his lapse in self-control, Qrow flinched, distance and cloudy reluctance obscuring the raw emotion that Clover had just about uncovered.
Clover didn’t push too much. He didn’t want to risk the trust he knew Qrow had already struggled to grant him.
And so, most of their moments continued at Qrow’s pace; urgent, hidden, flint sparking against each other, and then gone.
Collars hurriedly pulled back up to cover marks. Heavy breaths muffled against each other until footsteps faded back down the hall. Fingers pulling roughly as they twisted through hair. Lips swollen and left open, alone, catching lost breath.
But Clover became more deliberate in the scale of such moments. They became less secluded, leaving them little time for more than hurried kisses, wrinkled clothes. He kept track of Qrow’s hands, distracting him whenever pale fingers hooked over a belt or fumbled at too many buttons. He pulled him back, drew his attention elsewhere, whispered firmly ‘no time’.
He never lit that fuse when they found themselves alone in one of their rooms, and on the rare instance Qrow tried, Clover responded not with heat but with a subtle warmth. At which, quickly enough, Qrow’s fervor faded and that glow of intent was clouded over again.
Clover certainly wasn’t doing it out of his own disinterest, and he almost felt bad about it the first few times (especially those nights alone in their rooms, when it was harder to make it seem anything but rejection) seeing Qrow’s frustration, mixed with disappointment, mixed with…
But it was that last thing in Qrow’s expression that reassured Clover in his restraint; relief.
And soon, Qrow pushed less as well. Not with a sense of defeat, or insecurity, but understanding. It was clear, this was what these moments were; flashing, burning, urgent, grounding, short. There was no further goal, no pressure of expectation.
No awkward tension when Clover hovered over Qrow’s shoulder with a light taunt as he walked away, no uncertain hesitation of where to go from there when Qrow pulled him around a corner and crowded against him; his movements rushed but not tense —almost even calmed—as Clover curled his fingers in his hair and worried his lip between his teeth before pressing a firm but tender kiss to his jaw and kindly whispering, “Back to work.”
Then, one night, it had shifted; curled into something softer, more delicate.
After a long week of missions and late-night training, Clover wasn’t surprised to see Qrow missing from the crowded table in the dining hall. But he hadn’t seen his partner all day, the general having insisted he take the day off after he’d gotten back from a solo mission the night before (a mission Clover still wasn’t thrilled about, since, for some reason that no one could seem to tell him, it had to be done on his own). So Clover was set on checking in on him before calling it a night.
But there was no answer when Clover knocked on his door or called his scroll. No training room with his name checked in. He was about to find James to ask if he’d heard from Qrow at all during the day, when it occurred to him to check one last place.
Sure enough, Clover found his partner up on the roof of the main academy tower.
Qrow’s head shot up as Clover opened the door, and Clover couldn’t have told you what his exact expression was as their eyes met, other than tired .
The Ace Ops leader slowly walked over to his partner, noticing the bunched-up wrinkles in the shoulders of his shirt; the jostled cape under his collar; the fidgeting fingers; the bloodshot eyes; the dry cracked lips and chill flushed cheeks; and the hair on his arms standing on end from the cold evening air.
He sat down without a word, a foot or so between them, and leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. And then, he just waited.
Clover didn’t open his eyes as he heard Qrow take a few slow, jagged, breaths, or as he felt him cautiously move closer to his side. Only when he felt icy fingers slide under his collar, rough stubble scraping clumsily at his neck, did Clover move.
Slowly, he slipped his hands under Qrow’s, pulling them down gently, before meeting the rich crimson gaze, his own eyes soft but sure. He shook his head, cupping Qrow’s cheek for a moment before speaking quietly.
“How long have you been up here?”
Qrow’s eyes narrowed for a moment, reflexive rejection of Clover’s softness , when he wanted fast and heavy and distracting .
And Clover knew that. He knew it was just a scramble for something that would mean Qrow wouldn’t have to keep facing whatever it was that was looming over him right then.
And he knew that that wasn’t what either of them really wanted this to be; just distraction. They may not have known what this was anymore. But it was —they were more than that, for sure.
Finally, Qrow relaxed, leaning back against the wall, and answered, his voice rough and low and small.
“Too long, probably.”
Clover nodded, leaning over to pretend to adjust a strap on his boots, giving Qrow a moment more of composing privacy.
“I don’t suppose there’s any way I’m going to be able to convince you to come back in quite yet?” He asked, letting a subtle levity color his voice.
“...No.”
The Atlesian sighed and nodded again, sitting back up and finally meeting Qrow’s eyes again.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” He paused, catching the hint of the snarky reply Qrow was forcing himself to hold back, “Other than that.”
Now it was Qrow’s turn to sigh, slouching over his knees and flicking at one of his rings absentmindedly, in what Clover couldn’t decide was frustration at being shut down or embarrassment at being read so easily.
“No.”
“Then, if it’s okay with you, I’m just going to sit here and make sure you don’t freeze to death until you’re ready to go in. Is that okay?” Clover smiled softly, carefully resting his hand between them, but not moving to touch his partner.
He saw Qrow struggle to keep the deep breath that came next steady. But finally, he nodded, before looking away again, hunched back in on himself.
Clover let his head fall back, watching the darkening sky. After a few minutes, he felt soft hair graze his skin, and he looked down to see Qrow resting his head on his shoulder. Slowly, Clover lifted his hand, palm open —a silent, unintrusive, offer— as he leaned his cheek against downy, dusty black hair. When cold fingers carefully brushed along his, Clover laced them together gently, his thumb dragging gently across the back of Qrow’s hand.
After that night, those soft moments slowly became as common as the heated ones.
They stayed in that unknown place for a while; not quite romance but more than a means to an end, more than distraction.
More often than not, their evenings together were spent in Clover’s suite. But Qrow always headed back to his own room when it was time to sleep, their unspoken agreement of not spending the night, keeping this where it was; careful and measured, still no expectations, but softer, more vulnerable than just urgent stolen moments.
Which is how Clover knew that Qrow must have had a particularly rough day, when he noticed his partner asleep on his couch one night, his scroll open on his chest, where he’d been waiting for Clover to finish the last of his paperwork.
Careful to not wake him, Clover knelt by the couch, gently slipping Qrow’s scroll from his hands. He couldn’t help but smile fondly when the older huntsman’s nose scrunched, and a raspy grumble grew in his throat as his eyes cracked open.
“Oh... “ Qrow yawned, rubbing his brow tiredly as he started to sit up, realizing his mistake. “Shit. Sorr-”
Clover shook his head and rubbed his partner's shoulder gently. He hadn’t missed how on edge Qrow had been all week; how tired his eyes looked every morning; how he couldn’t help but lean against Clover’s shoulder heavily when they sat next to each other in the truck, like just sitting up was an enormous effort. It was obvious the man hadn't gotten a restful night’s sleep in at least a week.
“You’re fine, Qrow. I didn’t mean to wake you up. Go back to sleep,” Clover took a moment, slowly taking his hand off Qrow’s shoulder.
But Qrow shook his head, pushing up onto his elbows, not looking at Clover, “No, I... I don’t want to... intrude. I can go on back to my-”
“Qrow.” Clover cupped his neck gently, thumb brushing through a long strand of dark hair behind his ear.
Something in Qrow’s voice, in the exhaustion clear in his every movement, made Clover push more than he usually would.
“You’re not intruding, Qrow. I like having you here. I...” Clover paused, before smiling and continuing before he could second guess himself, “I’d really like it if you stayed. If you want. Maybe a night with someone nearby will help you get some better rest.”
Qrow watched him, pupils wide, lips slightly parted; unsure of what to say, of what to do. His thoughts flipped groggily back to the soft warmth of Clover’s lips, and the gentle comfort of his hand squeezing his own. And, right that moment, the calming pressure of his thumb pulling across his cheek slowly.
“I...If you’re sure.” It was more of a whisper than he meant it to be.
“I’m sure.” Clover paused, thinking for a moment before carefully offering, “You can move to my bed if you want.”
He blushed slightly as he saw Qrow’s eyes widen at that, “Not… not like that. Just to spare your back a night on the couch.”
“Oh, right… uh…” Qrow looked away nervously.
“You just need a chance to actually get a good night's rest, and that’s more likely on an actual mattress than some old cushions. I can take the couch.” Clover knew he was pushing his luck. But the tiny crack of Qrow accepting his help was too good a chance, too close to that tenderness he’d run from for so long, for him to ignore.
“No!” Qrow sputtered awkwardly. “No, I don’t want to kick you out of… It’s fine, really…Thanks.” His voice was still rough with sleep, and something caught in Clover’s throat at the dusty pink flecks in the crimson irises peering out at him as Qrow blinked slowly, his eyelids heavy.
Qrow, who still hadn’t pulled away from Clover’s hand on the nape of his neck.
A silent moment drew out between them, neither one sure of their next step, of what the other expected him to do, or what he wanted himself.
Finally, Clover spoke, his voice soft but clear, unassuming, “So… It’s up to you. I just…” Clover looked away for a moment, deciding, and then stepping.
“I just want you to be able to get some rest. There’s… there’s no play here, Qrow. I promise.”
His heart twisted, in a way he couldn’t quite place as good or bad, when he saw Qrow’s brow raise, eyes narrow, and then soften.
But the jolt in his chest, as Qrow’s fingers rested over his own, and crimson eyes focused on him, all tiredness gone for just a moment, was nothing but wonderful.
“I know, Clover,” slender fingers squeezed around Clover’s tightly, “I know that. It was never about…”
Qrow sighed lightly, pulling Clover’s hand down with his to his lap, squeezing it gently again before letting go.
“Don’t suppose I’m lucky enough for you to have a spare toothbrush lying around by any chance," He couldn’t help but smile at how Clover’s face lit up at that.
“Actually…” Clover beamed, before standing up and motioning for Qrow to follow him into the bathroom.