Chapter Text
Looking for a roommate in West Sagewood apartment. 12-mo lease starting ASAP. 2 bed 1 bath: A/C, balcony, and in-unit washer/dryer. Smokers OK, pets OK but not preferred, must be OK with dry living.
On the day they agree to meet at the cafe five blocks from Qrow’s building, it rains, brief and furious and completely unforecasted. Not that Qrow bothers with the forecast, but when rain is predicted, people tend to say things like, “Did you hear it’s supposed to storm?” and “I hope so, the grass could sure use it.” But no one said anything like that, and so his potential roommate’s first impression of Qrow is akin to that of a bedraggled sewer rat.
Qrow’s first impression of Clover Ebi is that he possesses absolutely no concept of personal space. Springing from the table, he hovers at Qrow’s elbow, gesturing in offer to help Qrow peel back his second-skin leather jacket. When Qrow waves him off, he returns with napkins to blot uselessly at Qrow’s sodden messenger bag. Qrow’s annoyance spikes to a snarl behind his teeth.
Clover, as wholesome and handsome as his profile picture suggested, raises his hands in surrender. He’s younger than Qrow expected and notably very dry. A damp umbrella hangs from the back of his chair.
“Sorry,” he says, his chuckle abashed and friendly. “Just trying to help.”
“Well,” Qrow snaps, “stop.” His coat splatters with a heavy slap as he throws it down on an unoccupied table.
Clover’s profile also said he’s from Atlas, which serves the same purpose to Qrow as the red dawn to sailors. Even before the rain squashed his mood, he was ready to hate Clover on principle alone. Unfortunately, Clover’s also the only one who responded to Qrow’s post. He's out of time to be picky.
“I’m demonstrating my value,” Clover says. He relaxes back into his chair, and even though Qrow is the one left standing, he feels small in Clover’s over-familiarity. “I’m helpful with dishes, too. Taking out the trash. Stuff like that.”
“Yeah, that’s bare minimum for the position,” Qrow bites back.
“Ah,” Clover says, as if catching him in a technicality. “So I'm still in the running. Does it give me an edge over the competition if I tell you I have a really comfortable sectional wasting away in a storage unit?”
Qrow twists his frustration into the soggy bottom of his t-shirt. Water dribbles onto the tile, and the waiter shoots Qrow a glare that’s more tired than disapproving. Among the kitschy bean-themed decor and fake plants, people are staring at him, with his raised voice and his socks soaked through to his pruning toes and his arms pimpling because some genius turned on the A/C in March, and he needs a—
Qrow takes a hissing breath in through his teeth. He tames his glower into a frown and slouches wetly into the chair across from Clover, who holds out the napkins. Qrow considers them, then pushes his sopping hair off his forehead and takes the olive branch.
“So, why are you looking for a roommate?” Clover asks when Qrow is drier. He charmed the waiter into getting Qrow a macchiato, from which Qrow dubiously sips. “From the pictures, it seems like you’ve been there for a while.”
Qrow decides not to take this as a jab at the dirty clothes he forgot to remove before snapping photos of his apartment. “The criminals who call themselves my landlords raised rent. Again. I split it, or I have to find a different place.”
“It’s right in my budget,” Clover says.
It doesn’t need to be said out loud; Qrow can hear money whispered between the vowels of his accent. Legacy family, probably. One of those old-money types who infested the parties James used to drag Qrow to. This one’s far from home, though. Atlesians don’t travel—much less settle—this far south without a reason, which interests Qrow.
“I’ll pay by the first, every month.” Clover lays a hand over his heart. “Scout’s honor.”
“‘Course you were,” Qrow mutters. It’s easy to picture, down to the patches. He eyes Clover up and down, from his chestnut quiff—the kind of neat that speaks of military habit—to his shoes, white despite the mud outside. “What d’you do for work?”
“I’m between careers,” Clover says without shame or worry. “But I have a reliable source of income in the meantime and someone who’s putting out feelers for me.”
Of course the kid has connections and passive income. Brown-nosing and juggling their bank accounts are as close as people like him get to having hobbies.
“Why d’you want the place?”
“I’ve been staying with a friend, and she snores,” says Clover. “Like a chainsaw, it’s insane. Through the walls and everything. I haven’t slept a full night since I moved.”
“Why Vale?” Qrow pushes. “The weather only sucks here for, like, four months instead of all of them.”
Qrow doesn’t expect a real answer, but he hopes whatever stiff, PR-friendly version Clover provides will hint at a scandal or something juicy he can bother James with. Instead, Clover goes quiet, and the amiable spark behind his eyes dims. The cafe buzzes around their table. Qrow’s straw makes small bubbles as he whips it through his coffee with the sudden uneasy feeling that he’s about to be told off and left with exactly zero options for a roommate.
“I had a buddy who talked about retiring here,” says Clover. He looks out the window. “He said you got the best of the whole world in Vale. Summers hot enough to rival Vacuo, rain to match the Mistrali and Menagerie monsoon seasons, and winters to remind you of home. When they—when I got discharged—” Here, Clover takes a steadying breath and unconsciously rubs his thumb over his sternum. “I just needed something different, I suppose.”
Eyes on Clover's fingers, Qrow says, “Huh.”
Once, he and Raven chased something different. They burned down their old lives and salted the earth for it. In those two words, Qrow knows Clover will not return to Atlas.
“No pets, right?” Qrow says. “I get itchy with cats.”
But in a deeper, truer part of himself, he knows it doesn't matter, because his mind is already made up about his new roommate. He’s always been soft on strays.
In thirty-six years, many of them miserable, Qrow’s done plenty of difficult things. Leaving the family and his mother behind. Getting sober. Finding full-time employment that doesn’t make him want to munch a bullet with breakfast.
Falling for his new roommate is not one of those difficult things. In fact, it’s probably the easiest thing Qrow’s ever done. He doesn't even have to try. Because beneath the Atlas entitlement, past the bad jokes and the puffed-up chest, Qrow quickly finds the truth about Clover Ebi: he is remarkably easy to love. Qrow can’t help it, because no one can. Elderly people whose dogs Clover stops to pet on the street. Grocery store cashiers ringing up his items, enraptured by his small talk. Drivers who stop their cars so Clover can jaywalk. Even Qrow’s best friend isn't safe.
After ditching his tired loveseat at the dumpster to make room for Clover’s superior sofa, he and Tai return to the apartment drenched in the thin sweat of early summer. They catch Clover between personal training appointments, and introductions lead to chatting over Clover’s offered cans of diet soda. This leads to Clover asking after Ruby and Yang, which leads to Clover cooing appropriately over pictures and laughing his warm, wedding-bell laugh at Tai's accompanying stories.
As Tai launches into an animated tale of Ruby’s DIY haircut, Clover catches Qrow watching and smiles, fond, like he, too, has known Tai for years instead of fourty-odd minutes. Something in Qrow’s stomach rolls over.
“If I was ten years younger and not happily married,” Tai says after Clover leaves for the gym. He shakes his head in disbelief, or wonder. “There’s kinda something about him, isn’t there?”
That’s how it goes: people meet Clover, and they walk away charmed. It’s infuriating. A dupe. A con job. Qrow’s hard-won street smarts should allow him to sidestep it, but by their seventh month together, the point of no return is a rapidly diminishing image in his rearview mirror.
“I should just kick him out,” Qrow moans on the eighth night he crashes at the cabin to get some space from Clover. He picks unenthusiastically at one of Summer’s cookies and rolls a chocolate chip between his fingers.
“You’re making this stupidly complicated,” Raven says.
She works Yang’s hair without watching the neat braid forming in her fingers’ wake. His sister seems to be the only person immune to the Clover Effect, which makes her the ideal sounding board for his woes. Raven does not enjoy holding the title of Qrow’s sounding board.
“Let the lease run out,” she says. “You can mope your way through a few more months, then you’re free.”
“Don’t wanna move again,” Qrow says. “Signal’s, like, five minutes away. I don’t even have to speed.”
“Then tell him not to resign and find someone new.”
“What if I get someone worse? It’s not like he’s a bad roommate. The world’s filled with weirdos.”
“Then nut up,” Raven says, her enunciation sharp and her eyebrow twitching, “or get off the pot.”
“Don’t think that’s how that goes,” Qrow says. “Also, don’t think you’re supposed to say that in front of kids.”
Yang rolls her eyes. “I know what ‘nut up’ means, Uncle Qrow. You’re not looking.” She taps the toy motorcycle on the ground in insistence. “Watch my power slide, it’s gonna be like they do in Infinite Overkill.”
“Sorry, firecracker. Eyes glued.”
“You know what I mean,” Raven says when Qrow finishes making explosion noises and Yang’s giggles subside. “Do something about it”—she twists the hair tie and lets it snap audibly—“or get over him. If you keep sleeping here, I’m going to start charging you rent, too.”
Raven knows damn well—just as well as Qrow himself—he won’t do a thing about it. This isn’t some random Qrow’s flirting with from across the bar, six shots deep. Even if his living situation wasn’t on the line, Clover’s too important. Whatever curse Qrow carries, he wants it far away from his roommate, his friend. Sure as a storm on his birthday, it will spread and infect the begrudged bits of good Qrow’s lucked into: coffee, always ready in the morning, and getting his ass kicked at cribbage on the weekends.
Which left getting over Clover.
When Qrow posted his ad, he set his expectations low: someone who would reliably pay their share, could stomach a bit of mess, and wouldn't take coexistence as an invitation for constant socialization. He'll be the first to admit he never expected to find himself here, sitting on the closed toilet with an Atlas army brat kneeling before him, soft-eyed and studying the damage Qrow’s done.
“This is super duper," says Qrow, “unnecessary.”
“It kind of is.” Clover unzips the first aid kit. “Necessary, I mean. You’re hurt.”
Qrow rolls his eyes and draws back. “And, believe it or not, I'll survive my gaping wounds without you playing doctor.”
Clover catches Qrow’s wrist before he can get far. “C’mon, I don’t mind,” he says easily. “I’ve got a vested interest in keeping gore off our couch.”
It didn’t even cross Qrow’s mind. He opens his mouth to argue, but Clover’s grip slides from his wrist to his hand, tangling around his fingers to keep them separated. Clover takes his inability to respond as a go-ahead, and his attention focuses downward, which is fantastic news for Qrow, whose thoughts have been pathetically scrambled by the image of their almost-held hands. You are such a loser, Qrow reminds himself.
“The fridge situation isn’t this dire, by the way.” Clover balances the bandage box on Qrow’s knee and moves to his next finger. “Your General Tso’s is still in the freezer. Self-cannibalization should be a last resort.”
“Respect my dietary needs,” Qrow says. “I don’t judge your sludge-shakes.”
Clover clucks his tongue because Qrow knows they’re banana-spinach creatine shakes, and Qrow very much does judge them. Scathingly, and every time, though that's mostly because their blender sucks and Clover always forgets to empty the drain trap, earning Qrow a handful of slimy, half-blended spinach strings when he does the dishes.
“My shakes have nutritional value.” Clover smoothes a bandage over Qrow’s jagged cuticle. “That’s more than you can say for your nails.”
“There’s protein in there, probably. You love that shit.”
It’s a nasty habit Qrow prefers to leave in his youth. Exam season at Beacon tasted of cigarettes and bloody keratin. The rings help, but the problem was that when Qrow sat down to grade essays on Vale’s sixteenth century monarchy, he wasn’t wearing his rings. He wasn’t concentrating on Vale’s sixteenth century monarchy, either.
One russet-brown curl falls into Clover’s eyes. Qrow resists the urge to push it back into place.
“So,” Clover says with the shit-eating grin that’s never far from his lips. “Are you gonna tell me what’s eating you?”
Qrow means to kick Clover in the knee, but the signal goes astray, and instead his mouth blurts the truth: “Got a date. Tomorrow.”
Clover’s dimples flash as he glances up. Qrow always feels a bit like future roadkill, caught and stunned in headlights when Clover smiles at him. He retains the wherewithal to catch Clover's half-second pause and flattens his fluttering delusion with reason: Clover’s just shocked someone agreed to be seen with him in public.
“That's fantastic,” Clover says. Coming from anyone else, it would sound condescending, but he means it entirely, Qrow’s sure. That's the problem. “How do you know them?”
“Friend of a friend.”
What happened was that Raven reached her limit, lifted the moratorium on meddling in Qrow's love life, and told Tai to “do literally anything.” It’s only in the past week that Qrow’s become desperate enough to take him up on any of his offers.
For all Qrow’s complaining to Raven, the situation is solving itself. The deadline to resign their lease fast approaches, and Clover is dragging his feet to commit to another year. He's genially evasive when Qrow prods him about it, and after the third non-answer, Qrow accepted the writing on the wall. He's already redrafted the ad; the only thing left is to kick this stupid crush to the curb.
Clover switches to Qrow's other mangled hand, his thumb dragging across Qrow’s knuckles as he applies the antibacterial ointment. The closeness makes Qrow ponder the survivability of the three-story drop off their balcony.
“Are they nice?” Clover asks.
“Dunno.” An itch crawls across Qrow's freshly covered nailbeds. He curls his fingers against his leg. “It’s a blind date sort of…thing. Only thing I know is she’s a librarian, so I’m sorta screwed from the starting gun.”
Clover frowns. “Why do you say that?”
Qrow waves his free hand, dismissive. “Branw-ism,” which is their given name for the figures of speech Qrow's mother left behind in his vocabulary.
“No, I mean, why do you think you're screwed?”
Qrow blinks at him, then gives a brusque laugh. “I’m—y’know, I'm kind of a mess,” he says. “Think it’s safe to assume she’s out of my league.”
“I think you’re making some sweeping judgments about librarians.” Clover seals the final bandage over Qrow’s pointer finger. “Not to mention selling yourself short.” He gets to his feet and tucks the first aid kit back in the mirror cupboard. “I think anyone with half a brain can see you're a catch.”
Hot, Qrow's heard plenty of times before. A good lay, too, and both are true. Not a catch. He is not a catch, he's a poor sucker caught too shallow when the tide retreated, gasping away in the puddles until the inevitable arrives.
“I dunno about that.”
“I do,” Clover says simply. Before Qrow can fully process that, he adds, “But, hey, if you're worried—” He fishes something out of his athletic shorts and slides it across the counter.
Qrow's seen him fiddling with the pin before in his pocket and under tables. It rests with a reassuring weight in Qrow’s palm.
“A lucky charm.” He turns it over, fingers numb behind the bandages as he traces the silver edges of the shamrock and upside-down horseshoe. “Really? What are you, eight?”
His heart trips when Clover winks. “Not stupid if it works,” he says.
Clover runs his hands under the faucet and refolds the towel over the wall hanger. He pauses, turning halfway back toward Qrow with his lips parted. Then, he tap-taps his knuckle against the counter and seems to think better of whatever he was about to say. He shows that dazzling grin over his shoulder, left-most incisor flashing crookedly in a way Qrow’s always found comforting among the rest of his perfect-straight teeth.
“Good luck tomorrow, Qrow,” Clover says and retreats out the door.
No one alive could torture it out of him, but since getting sober, a not-insignificant part of Qrow lives for the ritual of grooming. It’s both intimately methodical and satisfies his need for tangible improvement, like tuning his bike.
He queues something upbeat and more optimistic than he feels to the speaker. Keeping his harmonies quiet enough that Clover won't comment, he loses himself in the process of scrubbing and washing and rinsing. The bathroom seethes with steam as he burns away the first layer of skin to be born anew.
It’s much easier to keep his beard tight with steady hands, razor gliding smoothly across his throat, chin, and jaw. Spiced aftershave bites his nose like smelling salts, pulling the world into focus as he sculpts product through his hair. He plugs in plain silver earrings and smudges eyeliner on his lash line in a way that once made Summer call him a “sexed-up skeleton.”
There’s no point in wearing something overly stuffy. Even if Qrow manages to trick someone into liking him, he doesn’t want her to walk away thinking he’s someone he isn’t. His favorite trousers fray at the hems and have bald spots where two belt loops should be, but they’re well worn-in and great on his ass. He tucks his father’s cross beneath the collar of his maroon dress shirt, where it settles its comforting weight against his sternum.
With a final calculating look and conclusive good enough shrug at his reflection, Qrow leaves his room. He closes one of his trailing laces in the jamb and has to re-open and close the door to the apartment's common space.
If Clover’s bedroom reflects its owner—tidy and Atlas-practical but welcoming—as does Qrow’s—disorganized, liable to put a sharp object in trespassers—then the open area that serves as their shared kitching-dining-living room is a mirror of them both.
Qrow doesn’t own decor so much as he owns things that other people give him and he keeps; Clover doesn’t own decor so much as he owns things he’s sentimental about. There’s Qrow’s antique record player, rescued from a garage sale by Tai and fixed up with Raven’s help. On the same shelf sits Clover's first-place regional ice fishing trophy and his father's backgammon set, which they break out when Qrow's sick of losing to everything else. A spindly spider plant, Summer’s housewarming present, browns in a chipped pot near the balcony door, unwilling to give up the ghost. Above it hangs one of several smeary watercolor paintings sent by Clover’s retired mother, the latest of her hobbies and one she is not remotely successful at. Qrow’s nieces’ art projects are pinned to the fridge alongside a magnetic, framed photo of Clover’s ops squad, carefree and arms loose around each other.
With a pang, Qrow considers how empty the apartment will feel when Clover moves out.
He sinks onto the sectional to do up his scuffed boots. Despite having lived together for almost a year, he still thinks of it as Clover’s couch. It really is comfortable. Clover was lucky enough to get it on extreme sale, as he readily tells almost everyone who sits on it.
The kitchen timer goes off. A pan rattles as Clover slides a meal-prepped chicken burrito out of the oven. He wolf-whistles on the way to grab sour cream and salsa.
“Lookin’ good, loverboy,” he calls, stretching the “O”s on looking good.
“Like I return my books on time?”
“Absolutely not,” Clover says appreciably.
Heat settles in the tips of Qrow’s ears. He pulls his laces tight enough to pinch and scoops his keys out of the bowl, where his ring winds up about a third of the time. He tries not to look at Clover, who naturally chooses that moment to lick the metal spoon clean, smearing sour cream across his lower lip. Sour cream is disgusting. It’s the hottest thing Qrow’s ever seen.
“Mm,” Clover says around the spoon. “Hang on.”
In one smooth step, he closes the distance between them, hand at warm rest on Qrow’s shoulder so he can guide Qrow to turn. His tongue flicks out, swiping the smudge away, crooked tooth visible between his quirked lips.
Qrow’s vision tilts fifteen degrees as Clover tucks two fingers down the collar of his shirt, brushing against his vertebrae. He stiffens against the shiver tickling his spine. The second stomach that wants for Clover rears its starved head and feasts on the scrap of contact.
“Tag,” Clover explains.
“Cool, smart,” Qrow says, which is a completely normal thing for him to say. His feet move, walking him backwards toward the door. “I’m gonna—see you.”
Metal clinks against Clover’s teeth as he pops the spoon back in his mouth. “You have my pin?”
“Need all the luck I can get,” Qrow says, slinging his coat over his shoulder. “So, yeah.”
Clover’s eyes fix on Qrow’s fingers, and only then does Qrow realize he’s unconsciously touched the breast pocket of his button-up. With pressure, the metal is cool through the cotton, directly over his heart. Qrow drops his hand and ducks out the door, face warm.
Clover calls after him, “Have fun!”