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He has been able to hold it together until now. In the darkness, however, there is nothing to protect him- no way for him to pretend.
The quarters to which he has been assigned are simple, barebones. He appreciates that simplicity, for there is nothing to grow attached to. It is just another hotel room after the hundreds in which he has resided over the years, and he does not mind, for he cannot foresee himself staying here for a moment longer than necessary.
He pauses. But… where could we go?
He looks down at his hands- shudders- grimaces; his fingers tremble just as his head pounds. His brave face in front of Ruby in the airship when putting away his flask had been one thing, but now in the isolation of his room, there is no one with whom he must save face. He longs to drink. He longs to erase.
Biting his lip, he allows teeth to sink further into flesh until he can feel sparks of his Aura rising up to the surface to heal split skin. The momentary pain is distraction enough, however, and he reaches into his inner pocket, eyes closed, and tosses the entire flask into the nearby wastebasket. He made a promise. He must keep it. The thought of Ruby’s disappointment if he does not keep it causes his throat to constrict so painfully that he cannot breathe for a moment.
Finally, he is freed, leaning forward and resting his hand upon the bed. He is careful to not touch the new outfit laid out for him; it just looks wrong, with its subdued greys and embroidered buttonholes and many layers. He understands its practicality from a Huntsman’s viewpoint, for his normal blazer and slacks are not meant for the ice and snow eternally permeating the lands of Solitas, and unless he wants to spend his entire time here away from Ruby and Yang, confining himself to live beside heat lamps in Mantle, there is no way he can avoid changing his clothes.
His fingers are callused after so many years of petty injuries and gripping onto Harbinger that the sensation in his fingertips is diminished; and yet, as he finally begins exploring the needlework, every fibre of this cloth brushing up against his skin feels like a lightning strike assaulting his senses, running along his nerves from the tips of his toes to the base of his neck, all the way up to behind his eyes. It fills him with such dread that Qrow wants to weep.
Tottering to his feet, he stumbles over to the wall-length mirror by the bathroom. He looks at himself through bleary eyes; even in the darkness filling the room, there is a sliver of moonlight which illuminates half his figure. He is striking at a distance, all confidence and poise; for a moment, he sees himself twenty years earlier, back when he was young and full of bluster.
He had hated blazers back then. Qrow winces as he reaches up to his necklace, tracing the angled cross laying against his collarbone; when focusing on the reflection in the mirror, the touch almost feels foreign. It feels like it doesn’t belong to him, but rather, to another- someone lighter, softer, sweeter- someone with long, dark brunette hair, a white cape complementing his red one so perfectly-
Summer had been so proud of his first blazer. “It’s white so we match!” she had chirped, all wide grins and teasing giggles, pride shining from every pore as he had slipped on that clunky catastrophe she had bought him for the winter solstice before their graduation. He had looked good in it anyways- just as he still looked good now, with the ghosts of her fingers fixing his lapel, doing up the buttons he has long since forgone, straightening out his necklace and smoothing out the wrinkles. She had been so proud-
He does not realize for a moment that the strangled gasp which echoes through the room comes from his own throat. When he does register its source, the illusion fades. Silver eyes disappear from his periphery, naught but a trick of the moonlight. Qrow is not the young, vibrant Huntsman he had once been.
He steps closer to the mirror, taking in his image carefully. Brothers, since when had he last shaved? He should have taken care of it before his shower, but he was in such a state beforehand that he hadn’t even thought about actually cleaning up beyond washing the salt and sweat and fear off his skin. His fingers almost ache as he runs them over his stubble, well on its way to becoming a proper beard he never wanted; his blazer is torn and stained, cape bedraggled and limp, slacks wrinkled and faded. Even in shadow, the scuffs on his loafers stand out. His forearms are covered in scars left by years of battle, his collar is stained with liquor he does not want to admit consuming. The left inner breast pocket is stretched thanks to its former constant companion of whisky.
Qrow sighs, stepping closer to his reflection, feeling undeniable shame rising up like bile in his throat. Is this tired, broken man the person who had been ‘guiding’ those children all this time?
…no wonder the girls have begun to move on, to leave him behind.
Angrily, he turns away from the mirror, ripping off the blazer. If he has to wear new clothes, then fuck he’ll do it. He has nothing else to do anyways, nothing else to prove, no dignity left to protect-
The moment he picks up the grey dress shirt, he freezes, for it is too clean. Too pure, too unstained, unsullied by years of tears and battle and regret, but it’s not the kind of purity he wants. This purity will not last, for he is constantly caught up in too much battle, too much bloodshed- his bad luck will sully and stain and suck out every bit of life-
He is so, so tired, and he just doesn’t know what to do.
Trembling, he removes his blazer, leaving behind just his undershirt. He pulls his wiry, lanky arms through long sleeves, rolling them up on instinct; the thought of covering his forearms makes him feel restricted already. The grey makes him feel sickly, and for a moment in the darkness, he cannot differentiate what is skin and what is cloth. He is already but a corpse. This isn’t what Summer had wanted him to wear, all those years ago. He does not match her wearing this.
He sighs, staring down at the rest of his clothes. He does not have time to mope. If he does not dress himself now, he knows he may go back to the wastebasket, go back to making mistakes. Go back to pretending like he still knows what he is doing, like his former mission is worthwhile.
He does not know what is worthwhile. He just wants Ruby and Yang to be safe- to be proud of him.
Shoes, off. Slacks are next. Socks, too, for he needs to swap his own for the woolen ones provided. How James’ people were accurately able to guess all his sizes is beyond him; it does not matter, though, for he stands in front of the mirror, a witness to his own scrawny, lackluster inadequacy, all his pride and strength depleted by age and drink and heartbreak-
He presses his lips together, and with shaking fingers, he begins to do up the buttons on the dress shirt. One, then two, then three- fingers scrabbling up his chest, hiding away his scars and the ribs which he has been ignoring in his reflection for far too long. He lets out a haggard sigh once everything is covered.
Next is his waistcoat. It cinches too neatly around his body. He snorts on instinct, fingers tracing the shape of the buttons, matching the shape of his necklace. Then, he slips on woolen socks, then new, dark grey slacks, fumbling with the black button against stiff, warm material in the darkness- his dress shirt is rumpled as he tucks it in clumsily, cursing under his breath, for he has never been good at making himself look neat and tidy, but brothers he tries.
Eventually, his slacks are on, belt adjusted, shoes tied. He totters back up to the mirror. He wants to sob.
This isn’t him. This isn’t Qrow Branwen, the person he’s always been. The man staring back at him looks soft, small, weak- damp hair falling into bloodshot eyes, quivering lips, hands shaking as they grip onto dark, pressed slacks, shoulders hunched and unable to fill out the dress shirt. He looks simultaneously too dressed, and too naked all at once- he reaches for his blazer.
These aren’t the clothes Summer picked out for him. He can feel the care put into these new clothes, too, but it is not the care he wants, which he longs to protect.
…he wants his best friend back. She is gone.
He bites his lip again, looking into the mirror. He feels so small in these new clothes. Or maybe, this is all he has ever really been.
His fingers reach for the buttons of his vest, ready to tear it off, when a low voice murmurs, “Hey, how’s the fit?”
Qrow spins on his heel, eyes wide in shock, frantically searching for Harbinger before realizing bitterly that his weapon has been given away for upgrades. He is vulnerable and exposed and-
He winces as the lights flick on, and that same amicable voice calls, “Sorry, did I interrupt? Your door was a little bit open, so I figured it was alright.”
Once his eyes have adjusted, Qrow feels heat spread across his cheeks as he finally recognizes Clover Ebi standing in his doorway. The tall man looks mildly amused, pleasant as ever with his arms folded across his chest, bare arms not betraying any reaction to the cold whatsoever. With the fluorescent bulb finally switched on, the colours upon Clover are jarring in comparison to the shadowy blues and greys he had been staring at in his own reflection; the red and blues upon his uniform pop, his hair shining smooth and warm brown under the yellowish light; but it is his eyes which sparkle the most, the green so vibrant that Qrow can scarcely believe they are real.
Maybe his eyes are so bright because he still knows what it is to feel hope. Maybe not.
But Clover invites himself in without a word, and Qrow has to instinctively back up, for he does not know this man; he has met him once, and simply telling him that Clover is an ally is not enough to curry favour, no matter how much faith James has put in the younger. Clover’s smile carries a confidence which threatens to shatter Qrow. He used to feel that confidence, too.
Not anymore. Not since Oz-
Rather than making small talk, however, Clover pauses, an appreciative look on his face. His lips quirk into a smile which grows wider by the minute as he examines Qrow from head to toe; Qrow can only blush, for he has seen this look a hundred times before, but he cannot remember the last time it was a man’s eyes trailing down his figure.
Clover is stronger, more built, more muscular than he is. Qrow feels too small. He wants to hide- he wants his blazer-
Clover steps around him, walking to the mess of clothes upon the bed. Embarrassed, Qrow tries to stop him, but his emotions have long-since clogged any words which could escape his throat, so all he can do is gape open-mouthed at the other man as he rifles through Qrow’s old clothes.
Then, strangely enough, Clover lifts up something from the bed- Qrow’s cape. With a grin, he marches over to Qrow and tucks it over his shoulders, underneath the vest and threading it through. The touch is so sudden and so intimate that Qrow freezes up; when was the last time someone had forcefully done this to him?
He does not need to think on it. Her ghost still hovers over his blazer, after all.
Clover finishes clipping the cape to Qrow’s vest and grins, all self-satisfaction and pride. “Take a look,” he insists.
Grimacing, Qrow turns to look in the mirror. He swallows thickly at his reflection; it is every bit as grey and discoloured and pathetic as it had been in the darkness.
Yet, Clover reaches over and grabs the edge of his cape, holding it up. Suddenly, all Qrow can see is the vast sea of red, the colour brightening up the crimson of his eyes. Green eyes glitter from behind him as Clover says, “Don’t lose this- it suits you, I think.” And there is a heat in his eyes, his words- a curiosity and a light and a desire that strikes Qrow at his very core- that colours his words, that makes them seem just as vibrant as his uniform. That makes Qrow feel like maybe he looks alright. Like maybe Qrow looks whole, too.
Clover reaches out, clasping his shoulder. “I’m going to the mess hall. Would you like to join? Dinner should be ready now.”
But I- I can’t-
As he tries to formulate a response, Clover’s fingers straighten out Qrow’s lapel. His touch is nimbler than his frame would suggest. He presses the collar flat, tugging the bottom of Qrow’s vest down to smooth out wrinkles, brushing off lint from one shoulder, all with a gentle, inviting smile.
Qrow glances over to his bed. The blazer sits there, and he still longs for it.
Glancing over his shoulder back at the mirror, though, for a moment, he looks well-dressed. Put together. Neat and clean and ready to face the world.
“…yeah, okay. Food sounds good,” he breathes.
And Clover’s face explodes into a brilliant smile, and Qrow feels a little less naked without his blazer. He can learn to live without it, perhaps.
Dinner is fun. There is banter, there is light-hearted teasing. There are questions and answers and curiosities quenched and intrigue sparked. Clover is different from anyone Qrow has ever met, but he finds that he does not mind this change. It helps him feel as if his inadequacies are no longer on display.
It will take time, but just as he realizes later that the flask does not cross his mind during his light-hearted dinner with Clover Ebi, he realizes he may one day not long to hide behind Summer’s memory. Grey does not mean tainted. He is not broken.
And until he can learn to accept that, he finds that in these new, warm, darker clothes, Clover smiles at him as if there was never anything wrong with him at all.
-fin-