Chapter Text
Clover’s design process rarely involved a singular clear inspiration or theme. He liked to meld things; divide collections up just so, so that multiple themes wove in and out from start to finish, taking the spotlight in a few pieces before slipping into the background, requiring the audience to pick the details apart in order to see the full interpretation. He liked his collections to be practical first, accessible, with the thematic artistry there to study more at a second glance.
Every so often he would have a grander, more extravagantly inspired idea. They never seemed to lead to full collections, just a handful of ideas meeting his standards before he felt satisfied. But there was one project he’d spent much more time with; that he’d played with in so many ways, no restraint, no interwoven themes, just one clear, complex, breathtaking focus.
Collections ideas usually developed over time, with Clover testing out thematic combinations until he honed it down to a perfectly balanced mosaic. But with this one, he knew exactly what it was right from the start. There was no brainstorming over his drafting table, no shuffling sketches around until the collection started to take shape in front of him. This time there was just one muse to hold his attention.
He had been watching Qrow combing through his wings one evening, a daily scene, when all the details of the moment seemed to rush over him like water, carrying him gently down to one picturesque destination. The soft rustle of feathers; the dark charcoal and ashen dusted down; the smoothness with which each feather shifted and parted, bunched and splayed as Qrow tended to the large graying black appendages folding out from his back.
In that one moment; as he watched the pale expanse of his husband’s back - dotted here and there with faint clusters of freckles, and long faded scars - peek out from under the striated dark curtains of feathers that curled around him as he preened, Clover knew what the first piece of his next line would be. What the entire collection would be based around.
Qrow Branwen had always been stunning; slender frame and sharp features softened by fluffy layers of dark faintly curling hair. The delicate striking features of his youth had aged with a grace and dignity that had turned pristine romantic beauty into a ruggedly charming allure that still managed to make Clover’s knees weak after all their years together.
But Qrow’s wings were something he had never drawn attention to when modeling. They were there of course. But folded, relaxed, as unobtrusive to the focus on the designer’s work as possible. He wasn’t exactly ashamed of them, but he had never seen them as a part of himself to be flaunted. They were always something to be worked around . Out in the world, his wings were something he’d rather not draw attention to. But at home - away from work, away from designers and cameras and expectations - Qrow’s wings were utterly magnificent. They were expressive. They were grand and unavoidable and simply breathtaking. They were not obstacles to his beauty, but a captivating example of beauty itself.
When they first met, Qrow did everything he could to hide his wings from the world, and from Clover. While he couldn’t truly conceal them; far too tall and bulky to be covered with clothes, he did try to make them as low profile as possible. He kept them pulled in tight, always folded neatly at his back, tucked against each other into the smallest silhouette he could manage.
It had been a number of months into their relationship before Clover saw them fully. He had seen more of them than Qrow let show in public, sure; little glimpses of less well-kept plumage beyond the dark silver dusted secondaries as Qrow himself relax more. So Clover had a vague idea of the less than immaculate condition they were likely in.
But when Qrow finally unfolded them in front of him something in Clover’s heart had shattered at the state of them.
The feathers visible most often were nothing especially eye-catching. They weren’t flashy or invitingly soft, just plain dark feathers streaked with gray here and there. But they weren’t ugly either. They were acceptably intact and full, with a shine that would draw no gasps of awe or shock.
Underneath that though, when spread to their full size, they were frail, somber things. The feathers were tattered and sparse in places; the color dull and muddled; the muscles stiff and shaky. While they weren’t quite to the state to be called concerningly sickly, they were clearly in poor shape, unkempt and ragged from stress and neglect. Sobriety was helping them recover slowly, but the stress of withdrawal and nerves and restriction, piled on top of old injuries, had likely been even less kind to the dark dusty plumage than the drinking.
Even then, Qrow hadn't hated his wings. They had just never been a point of pride or focus for him, and when life had started to wear him down, they weren’t a priority. By the time he pulled out of the worst of the apathy and exhaustion he had tried to drown with alcohol and realized just how poor a state he had let them, and the rest of his life, get to, he knew he had to do something before things could get any worse. Getting sober had been a big step, a step he was genuinely proud of himself for, but it left no energy for all the habits he'd need to break and form in order to take care of his wings. That was when he had started to hide them, ashamed of his inability to do such 'simple' things as take care of himself.
Slowly, Clover had helped Qrow heal - both physically and mentally - the image of his wings. Clover was a comfort on days where it felt like too much; a gentle reminder and encouragement while building routine; a soft, patient, touch when Qrow couldn’t quite do it all on his own. Qrow was endlessly grateful for Clover's kindness, his patience and understanding, his lack of judgment, his love. And even then, it had taken a long time before Qrow could meet Clover’s eyes without shying away when he told him how beautiful a part of him his wings were.
It had been a number of years now since Qrow’s wings had returned to their full splendor. And every night as Clover watched him tend to them, he felt a swelling pride and admiration for his husband. There were still the occasional nights when Qrow would ask for help; when even the now long familiar routine was more than he could manage. But it was a task that Clover did each and every time with absolute reverence and honor. It was one of the ways in which Qrow trusted him that he was forever grateful for.
And now Clover couldn’t stop his heart from racing at the idea of a collection that embraced that beauty. Designs that incorporated, praised, romanticized this part of his husband that never failed to steal Clover’s breath. That was a comfort and a shelter, a glory and a wonder. And even more importantly, the idea of showing the world, showing Qrow, just how precious he was, every inch.
He knew it would have to be Qrow’s decision in the end though. There was no point, no genuine, respectful, dedication if Qrow wasn’t comfortable with the idea.
He got to work the next morning; figuring out the details, developing options for designs, pulling together the full concept, getting it all ready to present to Qrow (while not putting so much work into it that he’d feel too guilty for wasting Clover’s time and effort to say no).
The hardest part was just going to be keeping it a secret until then.