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There is something soothing about making chocolates.
Timing, temperature, everything requires perfection. Everything requires precision. Everything requires patience. Clover likes to think of himself not as perfect, albeit perfectible, but at least as precise and patient.
Slowly, meticulously stirring the thermometer through the gleaming, molten rich brown substance to make sure the desired temperature has been reached everywhere - that feels as natural as breathing to him, as natural as inhaling the deliciously fragrant fumes of cocoa wafting through the kitchen. Delicately pouring the mixture into the regularly shaped little molds, careful to form an evenly thin layer devoid of bubbles - that feels as instinctive to him as letting his heart beat, as pouring his heart into his work, into each of the tiny chocolate and candy cane hearts he crafts for the holiday season.
Once the molds are covered in chocolate, the wait can commence, and Clover’s patience can be tested. The chocolate must harden before the ganache can be added in, and it does not take long for Clover to check how those mixtures are settling in the fridge. He and Marrow prepared them in the morning, and the young apprentice has been gaining skill and confidence by the day, and there is not much more Clover can do to improve on it other than let it rest for a couple more hours.
Everyone else is independently busy at their own tasks, as they should be - after all, Ironwood runs his chocolate shop and tea house in apple pie order. He is sorting out new deliveries from his manager’s office, while Harriet is greeting customers behind the counter and advising their seasonal chocolate purchases, picking each confectionery from glistening rows of chocolates perfectly aligned by type. Vine manages the tea house section, appreciatively humming the tea leaves from their pastel-shaded boxes before placing them into their dedicated little strainers. Meanwhile, Elm and Marrow are carving a chocolate sculpture for the store front, a realistic elephant head as tall as her bust, as Clover cannot help but admire their tools etching detailed rough textures onto each inch of the statue’s surface.
Always eager to help out, Clover sets out to do the dishes, scrubbing the chocolate off the pans, off everything, even his fingernails. When the pungent smell of soap and cleanliness subsides, a small smile stretches his lips at the scent of cloves, cinnamon, and oranges filling the shop and kitchen at this time of year, blending with the omnipresent odour of cocoa that clings to Clover’s skin, to his hair, to his thoughts.
Alongside chocolates, other sweet delicacies have been on his mind lately. Particularly, the edgy yet somehow adorable miniature cookies and cakes of a certain Harbinger The Baker, whose videos are usually posted around this time of the day.
Even before watching today’s upload, Clover already anticipates the sound of that gravelly, snarky tone detailing each step of the baking process, and remembers how that voice used to make self-deprecating jokes in the early morning when the sunlight came in, before the stores opened. Clover already anticipates the sight of those long, thin, agile digits that wield the knife with surgical precision to cut out pieces of fondant, that press each ornament into place atop a cake with utter delicacy and tenderness, and cannot help but remember the feel of those calloused fingers when they used to map his skin, roam his face and his body…
“Anything interesting you’re daydreaming about, Ebi?” Ironwood asks as he passes, many bags of sizable chocolate slabs loaded up between his arms.
Clover smiles sheepishly, ready to deny that he’d ever been thinking about stalking his ex’s social media updates while at work before his boss, who fortunately grins back distractedly, clearly in a good mood due to the seasonal spirit.
“Uh… looking at how our competitors sell themselves on social media?” Clover shrugs, vaguely gesturing to the page on his phone before James’s slightly puzzled eyes.
“These little bird-shaped biscuits are well-executed,” the store manager comments after a while. “The fine piping details around the wings are especially good. Care to send me the link so I could order some for my niece? I’m sure Penny would love them.”
“Sure thing, Jim. You know what? I might order some of those macarons for my family.”
“A very wise choice, I reckon.”
That evening, Clover stares a long while at the comment box at the bottom of the form before placing his order.
Dear Harbinger,
Holiday greetings! It is such a delight to see your photos and videos throughout the years. Though I’m not sure how well you remember me, I’ve remained a big fan of yours even after all this time. Your baking tutorials always bring a smile to my face, so to express my gratitude I’m sending a box of chocolates to the address of your shop as listed on your page. The box is an assortment from Atlas Chocolates, where I now work, at the corner between 7th and 169th in Mantle. So don’t be surprised or suspicious if you receive such a package in the coming few days!
Your not-so-secret admirer,
Clover Ebi
Crafting the perfect chocolate sphere to enclose Harriet’s little rabbit cake is a meticulous task. Extracting two identical hemispheres from their just as identical molds, Clover melts off the edges on a hot plaque before placing the confectionary in the centre and pressing the halves together, hoping the molten chocolate will keep them from falling apart.
It is a delicate balance. If the hemispheres are too thick, they won’t melt when Vine pours jasmine tea atop to reveal the cake, one of the tea house’s signatures and a definite wow factor for whoever ordered it. If the hemispheres are too thin, they’ll shatter upon attempting to solder them together.
Which is exactly what happens here.
Repressing a frustrated groan, Clover tosses the chocolate shards aside in a bowl where they can be melted and reused later. Already, he extracts another pair of perfectly smooth shells from their molds, keeping his jittering hands as steady as possible as he attempts again.
His fingers struggle a bit at perfectly matching the halves. Except that it feels wrong underhand. It even sounds wrong when the shells collide...
“Argh,” Clover mutters, trembling digits forcefully prying the contraption back open to discard the hemispheres into the melting pile.
“What’s wrong, lucky plant?” Elm calls out from her post, dropping dried fruit and matching nuts onto chocolate mendiants like impressionistic fragments of texture and taste. “That sphere looked fine...”
“Too thick. It won’t melt.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know.”
“Can I eat it?”
“Sure, I guess.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re nervous,” she teases, her mouth full of thick, crispy chocolate. “Or in love… or both. You’re not this shaky usually.”
“Are you confusing love symptoms with Parkinson’s, Elm?” Vine sighs while sorting out tea boxes and carefully labeling them.
“Is this about the cookies guy?” Marrow perks up from facing the fridge. “James told me. I watch that guy’s channel, he does some really cute corgi cookies.”
“Oh? Clover’s got a crush on a baker?” Elm snickers, taking another boisterous bite of Clover’s broken spheres.
“Not just any baker, this was the guy from Beacon Bakery...” the apprentice starts.
“Summer Rose’s place?” Harriet comments, rapidly twirling her spatula.
“Yeah, before she...” Vine begins.
“Beacon? That’s in Vale, right? Wasn’t that where our dear Clovie studied?” Elm notices suddenly. “Is it possible that...”
Clover tries to block out the gossip. He tries to pour another set of chocolate shells. He tries to quench the silicon molds with cold water in hopes that the half spheres can quickly come out intact. He tries… and all that comes back to mind is that he hasn’t heard anything back since he ordered those vanilla and raspberry macarons.
He is pathetic. He is an idiot. Letting his emotions get in the way of his work, as always, just like a rookie, just like an idiot. He has thank his luck when the hemispheres pop out unscathed, when his nervous hands manage to assemble them without any major hitch. He has to thank his luck when he hears a chorus of astounded “ooooh” from the tea room, as the sharp, exotic fragrance of jasmine tea liberates the roundness of melting 70% dark chocolate and hearty chocolate fondant within.
As it turns out, he has to thank his luck a few more times the next couple of days.
Because no news from Harbinger arrive the next day.
Or the next.
“Is that… pistachio?” Clover raises an eyebrow, causing Harriet to self-consciously lick the smallest remnant of pale green icing at the corner of her lip, on her way out from her ending shift while Clover’s has just started.
“Yup! Your boyfriend sent in a bunch of éclairs,” she waves as a way of explanation.
“My… who? I don’t have a -”
“She means Harbinger,” Vine clarifies, taking a careful bite out of a tiny lemon tart hardly larger than a coin. “He sent in a whole box of petits fours with a note thanking you for the chocolates and remarking that it’s too early for seasonal greetings, and adds that you should know anything seasonal is just for commercial and capitalistic reasons anyway.”
“Sounds a lot like him,” Clover mutters as he feels the heat ascend to his cheeks.
“It is very thoughtful of him,” Ironwood intervenes, peering down his paperwork while pensively chewing on a chocolate and mint confectionery. “And absolutely delicious.”
“Everything tastes great to you, Jim,” Clover reminds him teasingly.
“Yes. You have great taste in men,” James replies without missing a beat.
“Again, he’s not my...”
“Either way,” the manager interrupts, “if he ever sets foot in here he’ll be welcomed as a member of the family. Now go enjoy some cakes before your shift starts. I’ve kept some of your favourite flavours aside just for you.”
“Thanks, boss.”
In Ironwood’s office, Clover is infinitely glad to find a raspberry éclair that feels like a dash of summer and colour and sunlight upon his tongue, melted into perky acidity before he can even chew it. And a tea-infused cream puff with snowy powdered sugar on top that’s too sinfully cute to eat, but too sinfully delicious not to.
“Are you sure?” Clover grumbles, his hands sticky, sour, and sweet with candied lemon peels he’s been dipping into dark chocolate.
“Yes,” Vine repeats placidly. “Ironwood insists this special customer should be offered a free sample from our newest holiday special chocolates alongside their tea. And you’re the best equipped here to pick a selection and go explain to our customer what each chocolate is.”
“But you’ve done that before...” the brunette frowns in slight confusion, “we all trust you with doing that.”
“This is a very special customer,” the paler man insists.
“I’m in the middle of something, Marrow should be able to deal with this.”
Clover wipes his sugar-coated fingers against his apron, casting a glance in the direction of the apprentice who can definitely be trusted for such a task, after months of hard work under Clover’s guidance.
“Uh… I’m sorry Clover, but it might not be the best time for me to meet customers,” Marrow whimpers, “they may get the wrong impression, ‘cause I got a c- a co- achoo!”
“Oh, you should rest and recover then,” Clover worries, finally resigned to wash his hands and go serve clients in the tea room carrying a tray, a tea pot and a matching teapot atop. “What tea did the special customer choose?”
Clover should have worried upon hearing assam as the answer. Instead, he concerned himself with picking matcha Christmas tree chocolates and soft strawberry truffles to balance out the strong, malty tea.
He should have worried when he stepped outside into the salon decorated with blinking seasonal lights like so many winking fairies, weren’t he so distracted with making sure the chocolates were perfectly, tastefully arranged on the modern, minimalistic white plate. He should have known at the sight of a dusty dark coat, of unkempt silver-streaked charcoal hair, of pale features with adorably blossoming colour around a too cold nose, around too cold, chiselled cheekbones, of lengthy, deft fingers twirling a silver spoon around while crimson eyes examine its peculiar shine...
He should have known, had he not been focusing on carrying boiling water through a crowded room and all that.
If he had known, if he had been prepared, maybe he wouldn’t have dropped said boiling water on his tray in utter shock, fancy art nouveau teapot and teacup clattering to the floor with a deafening crash.
“That was one of our nicest tea pots...” Vine bemoans while sorting out the broken porcelain pieces.
“I think I almost fainted,” Clover confesses, looking down at his clammy hands. “At least Qrow with his crazy reflexes somehow dived in and saved the plate of chocolates before it could fall and break too.”
It is a good thing no strawberry truffles were dropped in the process - Qrow would have blamed himself endlessly should any of these delicacies he’d always adored go to waste. At least he got his priorities straight, even though nothing else of him may share said straightness.
“Who?” Vine asks, arching a confused brow.
“Harbinger.”
“Oh, Qrow Branwen you mean.”
Even the name sounds somehow foreign when rolling off Vine’s tongue, from another time, from another universe, and nothing makes sense, none of this can be real, Clover’s head is spinning and his thoughts are spiralling...
“Clover, how are you feeling? Let’s get you to a seat,” James declares, all but dragging his employee to the nearest chair.
“You could’ve warned me?” the brunette manages to stutter, a furious blush tainting his cheeks.
At loss for words and excuses, Ironwood pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily.
“I suppose you’re right, with the benefit of hindsight,” he says. “I guess the least I could do is go apologise on behalf of my staff to Branwen and the rest of the clients for the mess.”
“You know,” Marrow comments as he enters the kitchen with an empty tray. “Harbinger is still there, finishing the tea we served him. He says the truffles are delicious.”
Clover is terrified. Clover is terrified to go back out there, after the mess he’s done. But he also knows he should thank his luck that Qrow is even still there, and he knows he should seize his chance before it’s too late, before Qrow vanishes from his life again.
“Seeing how overpriced tea always is in tea houses,” Qrow shrugs, “I thought I’d stick around and make sure I drank all the hot water you guys gave me to get my money’s worth.”
Clover lets out a brief chuckle.
There are joyful echoes around them about the tea room, hushed voices, cups and spoons clattering amongst chocolate sculptures and ornate pine trees sprinkled with iridescent white. It all resembles a winter wonderland, yet there is a tension between them that clashes with the idyllic atmosphere, and Clover isn’t sure what to say.
“Thanks for coming,” he says, an ever affable smile gracing his lips. “I didn’t know you were around here these days.”
“Your work mates sent me some more samples and photos of your creations, Ironwood even got me some train tickets so I could come visit. I figured I’d pass by just so that they stop pestering me.”
“I hope you’re enjoying the tea and chocolates, at least.”
“I could never get enough of your strawberry truffles.”
A silence, an awkward silence. Clover would have filled the void with idle conversation about all that happened in recent years, but he doesn’t want to spew out boring information about his life, nor does he want to ask what Qrow has been through. The Beacon years, what happened to Summer, all of that. Clover already knows, he even sent a condolences card with pretty flowers on it...
“You received the card I sent you, right?”
“Yeah.”
“... And you liked it?”
“I haven’t opened it. I just saw your address at the back of the envelope, written in your cute little handwriting, so I know it was you.”
“Oh, but then...”
“But then what? Tons of people sent me cards, people who hadn’t seen me in years, people who had no idea what happened and what I’ve been going through. Did you expect me to open all of them, look at the pretty flowers or whatever, and read a bunch of generic pep talk?”
“I… no, I didn’t. I was just worried for you.”
A silence, a brief silence.
“Well, this has been fun, lucky charm. Catch up some other time, Cloves.”
Qrow swiftly pays at the till that James manages, and then, just like that, he’s gone away again like a feather in the wind.
Things started slowly between Clover and Qrow - but they ended fast.
Not because there was that tension that finally crackled like a storm breaks out, like a soufflé that explodes in the oven, or a chocolate sculpture that collapses when overloaded.
But because they agreed on it, one morning, when the gentle sunlight poured vertical lines of honey through the blinds.
Because no matter how talented Qrow was, no matter how remarked his creations were on social media, their relationship was distracting Clover from his career, from reaping the fruit of his hard work, from moving where he wanted and getting the apprenticeship he desired, that would propel him to the meteoritic rise he’d been working toward, patiently and meticulously molding and carving his skills to the point of nearing perfection through the years.
Because no matter how kind and patient Clover was, Qrow knew he was hampering his progress, his career, his life. The melancholy that hangs over Qrow’s life, the clouds that curdle his soul… no one should have to be dragged through that with him. No one needs that. No one deserves that. Especially not Clover, his Clover, the Clover he shouldn’t have, the one he can never have. Not his Clover, in all his sunny perfection and his gloriously perfectible imperfection.
Qrow should go through this alone. Perhaps with some help from a bottle he got in the cellars of the patisserie they were working for, with a sip or two taken between preparing the cake batters, but still, alone.
Throughout time, Clover’s mind changed as his luck changed, but his luck never smiled back at him in the same way, and Qrow could never smile in the same way as before.
Then, came Ozpin and the Beacon days, a whirlwind through Qrow’s life. Then came the accident, the scandal, unleashing the clouds within Qrow’s mind into a wrathful tempest like those that only come in the last days of summer.
Then, there was rehab, then, there was the Harbinger account on social media, revived and getting updated every couple of weeks at first just so that Qrow felt like he wasn’t completely useless and could meet a deadline, no matter how arbitrary. Soon, updates came every week, and then, every day.
Clover had tried to reach out - but their luck had never given him the chance, until now.
In Mantle, the weather is fickle.
It’s hard to tell which way the breezes will blow next, from the north or the south, bringing rain clouds or clear skies, belated autumn leaves still desperately clinging to their branches, or early whispers of the next spring.
It’s hard to tell what the wind will bring to the doorstep next, so when a dusty old crow ends up in front of Atlas Chocolates a few mornings later, as if stranded from the latest storm, it is not exactly expected.
He passes by every other evening, ordering a tea and usually being offered some or other chocolate treat by Ironwood or his staff. There is a hanging uncertainty as to how long he’ll stay around here, how long before migrating instincts cause his wings to stretch again, ready to take flight.
There are still clouds that curdle his soul, and even stealing glances from afar, it’s hard for Clover to watch. But his lips do stretch into a thin smile whenever he’s offered more strawberry truffles, or caramels sprinkled with sea salt, or jasmine tea infused pralines. Whenever he grins, whenever sunlight filters through his wary vermillion eyes, it brings more warmth to Clover’s heart than a thousand blossoming springs.
Why Qrow keeps coming back, though, no one really knows. Maybe it is because of the same chaotic, relentless energy that has kept him from giving up, even after all these years. Maybe it is because of all he’s been through, all that’s telling him luck will turn, for luck always turns, and he should seize his chance while he still can.
Whether that’s the case or not, it takes a while for him to finally seize his chance.
“I’m sorry for the other day,” he says, meeting Clover’s gaze for fleeting seconds.
“Nah, I’m sorry.”
Clover understands why they haven’t done this before. It hurts their egos, it hurts their souls, like fragile chocolate shells that can’t be mended once they’re shattered, that can only be molten, molded, and assembled again, and that burns, and that takes time.
“I shouldn’t have lashed out at you,” Qrow clarifies.
“No, you shouldn’t have. Would you like something with your tea?”
“I found your card. The flowers were just as corny as I predicted.”
“At least they weren’t corn flowers.”
“Always the smartass, lucky charm. Anyway, the message wasn’t even some holier-than-thou pep talk thing.”
“It was a recipe for strawberry truffles.”
“Yeah.”
“I just thought it’d be nice to get you to focus on something positive, with all that’s going on… but only if you wanted to.”
“Too bad it was the white chocolate one.”
“Strawberry truffles are usually made with white chocolate due to the strawberry’s acidity being balanced with the -”
“Sweetness of the strawberries. I know, Cloves.”
“Only I wasn’t so good at working with white chocolate at the time we were still living together, since it has to be held at a lower melting point. And we didn’t own that much white chocolate around the place, since we were poor and apprentices and all of that...”
“And because I hated white chocolate.”
“Yeah, Qrow. That you did… but did you change your mind?”
“I had to get used to working with it. I have young nieces now, and kids love that crap.”
So they talk about white chocolate, they talk about kids, they talk about anything. Clover mentions the echoes of juvenile voices that sometimes haunts the background of Qrow’s videos and how much happier he has seemed since those background sounds burst into existence.
Clover talks about his work in different chocolate shops, about the giant chocolate statue competitions, about meeting Ironwood, about how to infuse the ganache with assam tea, about his dreams and plans for the future, about adopting kittens for his goddaughter, about the struggles of wearing sleeves that inevitably get dipped into chocolate, about everything.
Qrow talks about teaching Ruby how to make yoghurt cakes, about braiding Yang’s hair, about how to gain views on social media platforms and use that to get free cakes, about the annoyance of having self-appointed influencers ask for free cake, about bringing home free cake leftovers from the edges of the desserts he sculpts, about the flour that’s always everywhere in his apartment, in his hair, in his dreams.
Qrow always stays until he’s done drinking all the water given to him with the tea - and Clover makes sure his teapot is always adequately filled. Fortunately, he doesn’t drop the boiling water ever again. Maybe that means that luck is on their side.
Maybe it means the winds can wait before the weathervanes turn, and wayward birds must migrate in the heart of winter.
Things ended fast between them, but they started slow.
There were those touches when they worked at the same patisserie - sometimes accidental, reaching over for chocolate sprinkles, for the sink, for the nice cardboard boxes marked with the store’s logo. Sometimes intentional, like wiping the flour off each other’s faces before going in the front to serve the customers, or making each other taste scraps of chocolate or candy, nervous fingers lingering soft lips perhaps a tad insistently.
There were those comments, flirtatious winks, blushing cheeks. There were stolen, accidental, drunken kisses, or kisses on a dare, so many they can hardly remember when they kissed the first time in earnest.
They were there to catch each other whenever one fell, and that was enough, and that meant everything.
“Has that always been there?” Clover looks up nervously at the mistletoe above the store’s door just as Qrow steps in, rubbing together his cold, pale palms while warming them with a shaky breath the smells of tea and strawberries.
“Yeah, your colleagues put it there since the first time I came in here.”
“I never noticed.”
“You were so nervous.”
“Yeah… but you noticed.”
Yet, you did nothing, Clover’s eyes say, though his lips do not move.
I wasn’t ready, and I wanted this one to count, red eyes respond, though Qrow’s lips only slightly smile.
“You’re just in time,” Clover explains. “I was supposed to close… two minutes ago.”
“Still overworking yourself, lucky plant?”
“Yeah, you could say so. That, and waiting for an old friend, hoping he’d show up.”
There is a perfection about making chocolates, there is a perfection about Clover’s job, but he does not always have to be perfect, and his personal life, his personal loves do not always get in the way. Instead, they inspire and empower his dreams of perfection, his hopes of perfectible imperfection. That’s easy to say, but it has taken a while to accept.
“Any luck with that?” Qrow teases back, looking around and over his shoulder. “I can’t see any old friend around here...”
“Where I’m from,” Clover says, “it’s bad luck not to kiss under the mistletoe.”
“I’m bad luck anyway,” Qrow counters without missing a beat.
“It’s okay. It’s all okay with me.”
“I know.”
And it really is okay. It is not perfect, but it is okay. It is not perfectible, perhaps not even fixable, but it is okay. Clover can hold Qrow just like that, warming the baker’s frozen fingertips with his warm palms, and that is okay. Things may not get better, just as things may not get worse, who knows what the wind will bring - but that’s fine too, as long as they are not alone.
“Run out of pick-up lines, lucky charm? You’re awfully quiet all the sudden.”
“I was thinking… no more excuses. Can I kiss you?”
“I dunno, can you?”
“Wh-what do y...”
Before Clover can formulate anything coherent, slightly chapped lips are on his, and they taste of rich Indian tea and summery strawberries just as he imagined, and they are just as strong, just as soft as he remembered, except infinitely more confident, more brave, more steady, more tender. Every other kiss comes back to memory - and yet this is a first time, yet this is a new page. This tastes like a recipe in a book where all the crossed out mess-ups and damages of the past still haunt the transparency of the paper, but still this is a new page and they can start anew.
“Hmm. I thought so,” Qrow comments, smirking as he breaks the kiss under the fated plant.
“Huh?”
“You made the truffles. And then you tasted them. The ones with strawberries and dark chocolate.”
“Manjari 64%,” Clover smiles back, his heart pounding as if about to break free and take flight.
“You nerd. I really hope you saved some for me.”
“I made a whole box. Hold on, I left it at the back,” the brunette heads to the back of the store, around the counter.
“Then lead the way, lucky charm,” Qrow says, holding his lover’s hand that smells and likely tastes like chocolate.