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Qrow would never get over the feeling of Clover’s fingers against his wrist.
Their palms pressed against each other was like warm honey dissolving on your tongue; subtle in its exquisiteness, gentle and pure, and far too close to a godly gift to be given with such continuous ease.
Their fingers interlaced; curling around the other’s gently; warmly; desperately; eagerly, was a grounding thing —a special place of steadiness that had become one of the most reassuring feelings Qrow had ever felt.
But Clover’s grip pressed against his pulse; the light trail of his thumb along the inside of his wrist, through the soft smattering of hair along his forearm, was something entirely different.
The strong fingers curling around his palm was a comfort yes; it was the feeling of settling down, sinking into a welcome moment of familiar peace.
But those same fingers held his wrist not to ask him to stay —to let this become home— but rather to urge him on, pull him further; one more step towards something new and frightening, and amazing.
The way that gloved fingers tugged him forward, anchored right below his palm, so eager, confident.
The gentle strength of the grip on his wrist as Clover’s knuckles went white, holding Qrow beside him, his eyes darting around to finish assessing the situation in front of them before rushing in.
The slight waiver in his fingers and the worn grain of his gloves as he subtly reached to hold onto Qrow’s wrist, one finger pressing into the center of his palm nervously, without anyone noticing; looking for support, reassurance, trust. And Qrow’s response of closing his hand loosely around said finger, silently confirming; I’m here. This isn’t all on you. Just breathe.
The rough drag of his fingernails along the faint blue line of Qrow’s veins absentmindedly as they lay in bed, Clover reading while Qrow struggled to keep his eyes open and not be lulled to sleep quite yet by the careful pressure on tender skin.
The smooth friction and gentle roughness of calluses and as he ran his hands over Qrow’s, up and down his arms, warming them in the mornings before gently massaging any residual stiffness away.
The fuzzy scratch of nails trailing slow circles up and down his arms, warm steady hands carefully passing over old scars.
The eager pressure of his fingers tight against his pulse, as Clover pressed his lips to the heel of Qrow’s palm that cupped cheek, his eyes closed as his breath caught at the breath and stubble that trailed against the line of his jaw.
Every touch, every grip, every hand flying out to catch him and pull him back up; showing him all the promise of the world beyond his own muddled worries.
Every curl of Clover’s fingers around Qrow’s wrist was a tether tied to his pulse; not to keep him still, but to help him find which way to start walking.
Even when Clover wasn’t pulling him along, all Qrow needed to do was wrap his fingers around his wrist; feel the soft rush of his heartbeat; imagine Clover’s subtle encouragement, and the next step felt just a bit easier.
Clover’s grip on his wrist wasn’t the safe home of their fingers intertwined, but rather the promise that no matter where things led, he would be there with him. Clover would pull him up and on, remind him that as tired as his body felt, as dark as things may look ahead, he could keep going.
There was something to keep moving towards.
And in turn, Qrow only needed to twist his wrist within Clover’s grip, and hold on himself, urging Clover to pause for a moment, stop thinking of forward and focus on now.
It was that pulling into the moment that stuck with Clover long after the press of Qrow’s grip had faded from his skin.
His hand in Qrow’s, Qrow’s wrist in his, was a precious thing, of course.
It was a promise, a ring closed where fingers overlapped, holding them together with unspoken certainty; I will not leave you alone, you belong here, you deserve happiness.
But the places where Qrow’s touch left an unending warmth, were — quite honestly— everywhere.
Not in the sense of what made his heart race quickest, or woke his every nerve with anticipation.
Clover’s hands might have been the most sensitive, the place where the lightest touch could set him spinning, and just as easily where Qrow could pull him back, hold him steady, keep him firmly present in this moment and its weight.
But Qrow’s hands brought a different existence to Clover’s skin, no matter where they fell.
His palm cupped around the back of Clover’s neck, holding onto him as if he wasn’t sure which one of them might disappear if he let go.
The pull of his thumb across Clover’s cheek, a motion of focus and wonder and relief.
The graze of cool fingers over Clover’s arms; Qrow's focus elsewhere as Clover gazed up at him from his lap, but his touch just as methodical, just as cherishing.
The twist of long fingers in his hair, in his shirt, pulling against his back, as Qrow clung to him in moments where he would have once refused any help, any comfort. The careful smoothing over Clover’s face as he assured him it would all be alright.
The antsy rhythm of Qrow’s fingers on his thigh or wrist or palm as he held himself back, forcing his mind to slow, and then slowly splaying against Clover again, gentle pressure as he thanked his patient understanding.
The squeeze around Clover’s fingers as he sought comfort himself, the easy reciprocation, never needing to be voiced, of I’ve got you. You’ve got me .
The dip of his fingers against Clover’s skin, the movement of his hands to find better purchase, to keep him closer, closer — safe and warm and fierce and right there.
It was not just the care, the need, the warmth, in what Clover felt at Qrow’s touch. It was something deeper, something raw. Something less about choice, about intent, and more about presence, simple existence, and the mind-numbing sensation that lingered from a touch that did not just hold you, but heard you.
Qrow’s every touch was like being found. In every graze, every grip, every caress, every cradle, Clover could sense the gears turning behind that mesmerizing crimson. He could feel his mind turning, his eyes wandering, his fingers studying.
Every touch from this man who could watch the world from the sky, map every curve and spot every creature, was committing Clover to memory. Qrow’s hands on him were not just trust, or comfort, or support. They were transcriptions.
Qrow’s fingers trailed along every freckle, every scar, every wrinkle, and collected their existence in the safest chamber of his soul. He bound them carefully and placed them on the grandest shelf among all his spectacular stories.
But Clover was not just a story. He was real. He was a lifetime of endless discoveries.
And Qrow cataloged each one with careful devotion.
Qrow and Clover's hands were of two separate molds.
Where Qrows were slim and nimble, Clover’s were bulky and firm. Qrow's hands bore echoes of scars, remnants of reckless confrontations. Clover’s were calloused and tough but moved with a gentle precision and deliberate consideration.
Qrow’s touch was swift and sporadic but never cold; his grip practiced and balanced; his fingers deft and strong and intuitive.
Clover’s touch was steady and focused, while never losing a sense of wonder; his hold was careful but unwavering; his fingers moved methodically and with caring intent.
They were built from different lives, marred with separate wounds, worn down by parallel doubts.
But they fit together as if formed with the same purpose; pulses pressed against each other keeping pace as if fed by the same heart.
They held the other just as he needed. They reached out, whether their hands were steady with certainty or shaky with worry, and held tight to a hand that had maybe been formed —in every step towards each other— to fit perfectly in their own, or maybe not.
Fate’s plan had no place within their grip.
They held tight not in search of destiny or stories or dreams or perfection, but understanding.
Fingers overlapping, pulses pressed together, wrists pulled forward with hope, or held in place with trust.
Unspoken promises, unshakeable trust, unending understanding.
I’ve got you. You've got me.