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Patch is always so beautiful, he finds.
The cozy island tucked off the western shores of Sanus greet him year after year with breathtaking emerald canopies extending as far as the eye can see, glimmering as each leaf dances in the sea breeze. Light always strikes off shimmering cliff sides, minerals glinting in the sun; he knows that come nightfall, cliff faces shall use the moon and the stars to become almost like natural lighthouses for the tiny sailing communities that lurk around the coastal region.
A twinge of shame causes him to visibly wince, eliciting a curious look from passersby. He does not explain himself; there is no need to, for they shall feel the effects of his arrival upon their lands very soon. He has come to take away this beauty yet again, after all.
As he walks, he keeps his eyes focused straight ahead, shoulders hunched and hands tucked into his pockets. He must keep himself contained, for his time crossing northern Anima and Sanus has not been enough to rob him of the dregs of his magic; it shall filter out here, as it always does. However, he does not want to allow stray touches to pull more power out than necessary. He shall ensure that his Aura is emptied into this land slowly, for it is too beautiful to tarnish all at once, and he wants to enjoy it before it wilts in his presence, before the snow falls in his wake.
This is the only place where he ever allows himself such luxury, and he shall not give it up now. Each year only gives him a few months of happiness, and he shall relish in it, even though the journey hurts his heart.
He is old friends with this guilt; it shall not faze him now.
He enters the usual shops as he passes through the port into the northernmost town of Patch’s coastline. Every year, he walks in, buys his gifts, and packs them away into his bag; there shall one day be a year when he no longer knows what to buy, and the thought terrifies him, but for now he knows that stuffed toys and shiny ribbons and little trinkets shall do the trick. He knows he shall bring smiles with him if he comes bearing these tiny offerings to the little ones, and the mere thought of seeing their lovely faces light up at the sight of new treats and treasures fills him with such uncharacteristic warmth that he does not hesitate to spend his little money in one go, all in preparation for these tiny moments of joy.
Yet, despite his yearly routine bringing him exactly where he needs to go year after year, he does not fear being seen, although he is the cause of much of this island’s- much of the world’s- strife, year after year. After all, no one recognizes him except the guardsman standing atop the top of the winding path outside of town, and that man never treats the strange, godly creature on his yearly visit as anything but an old, familiar face.
It probably helps that the guardsmen is partially blind. He does not realize that the world withers away behind every slow, measured step taken by this visitor, does not see the way the wind picks up, skies clouding in his wake.
The spirit of winter has no choice but to set forth upon his yearly rounds, however. So, his wandering brings him here, to the final destination for the season: to Patch.
The journey is slow. If he was keener, he could easily transform into a corvid and fly the same way he usually does across Anima’s northern regions, bringing snow and ice thundering from the skies with every beat of his wings soaring through the air. That would be such a waste in Patch, however, so he walks slowly, enjoying the few moments he can of the beauty of summer; he longs to grasp onto it for just a moment longer. Over many moons, he has learned that if he walks slowly enough, the world is late to catch up, and he is always able to watch the shifting of the leaves from green to gold with his nieces.
Nieces. Who would’ve ever thought?
When his sister had born a child with a human, he had thought her to be an absolute fool. Now, with the spirit of flames gone, he is more thankful than ever for the little family she has left behind and allowed to flourish.
It is lovely, having a place to belong, even if for but a little while.
His path carries him across familiar walkways. He knows every single cottage he passes by, waving amicably to rural residents who recognize his lowered gait, the small gifts he carries in the bag slung over his shoulder. They know he shall linger here for the next few months, always cutting wood for the older folk who live alone, always bringing baked goods with his nieces; they know he is clumsy and quiet, but his breath is chilled like the ice and snow which always seems to accompany his arrival and his smiles are just as cold. They know that he shall greet his nieces with a smile and open arms, watching the final leaves fall to the ground together before spending a few blissful months playing in the snow, but that warmth shall never extend to them. So, they keep their distance.
As he walks along well-beaten cobblestone and packed dirt roads, he finds that something is a little different this year. There is a new path cut off the main walking way; curiously, he looks over, spotting a small cottage. It is fresh, young; the smell of fresh resin and detergent hang in the air from the wash which has been hung up to dry, the pile of freshly-chopped wood stacked neatly against one wall. There is little by way of decoration, but the small home seems cozy enough.
He puts his curiosity away. There is no point lingering for too long, not when he has to maintain his pace in order to allow the winter to set in evenly in this northern region. He must keep going.
The cottage is ignored.
“Welcome back, Uncle Qwow!”
He holds his arms open for his little Ruby. “Heya, kiddo,” he murmurs, scooping her up, holding her close.
“Uncle Qrow!” Yang screeches, blonde hair streaming behind her, just as wild and untamed as her mother’s had been.
On cue, the final leaf falls, and the snow begins to collect above. This is his fate.
Ruby and Yang’s smiles are so bright, however, that he doesn’t even notice the drop in temperature which he himself has caused.
The snow is beautiful.
He knows this- knows that the little brunette and slightly-bigger blonde laying in his arms, across his lap, sprawled out cozy under blankets with their faces pressed against his chest and tucked into the crook of his arm, adore the snow- but the guilt remains. The sight of greenery is still the most befitting for Patch.
Taiyang never blames him. His best friend in this mortal plane always just bakes cookies and secretly gives him hugs, sharing warmth, giving him what he does not know how to ask for with anyone else- intimacy, the sensation of knowing that someone will always be there. Qrow loves these quiet moments, when the girls are asleep in his arms and when Taiyang squeezes his shoulder or gives him a loving hug, for they are a family, he says.
Qrow loves that word. Family. He knows Taiyang clings to it just as much as he. Burying Ruby’s mother after Qrow’s sister had abandoned him as well has left Taiyang a little hollow. Qrow wishes he could warm up the other man’s heart the way Taiyang needed, but Qrow does not understand how to imitate the warmth of mortals.
He tries, though. He presses kisses to the girls’ hair. The action makes tears well up in his eyes unbidden; they are so much bigger than they used to be. One day, they shall not fit in his lap like this. When will he come back to Patch, only to find that he does not recognize the young women standing before him?
…he does not want to know.
His heartache and reluctance to leave is no secret in the rural community of Patch. Many of the other residents have seen him plant a kiss upon his nieces’ cheeks before embracing his brother-in-law-turned-best friend. Many have seen him cling onto the girls’ father, for he can never bear to part from the other, just as his best friend can never let him go, despite the wintry chill emanating from his bones. “Family,” Taiyang always whispers.
Qrow clings to it with all his heart. He shall cling to it for almost half a year, until his powers recover to bursting and the cycle begins again- until he is allowed to return to the ones he loves within this realm. He always leaves despite his heartbreak, for he needs to. As much as frozen, ruddy noses and cheeks are adorable, his little nieces deserve to flourish in the sunlight, not in the snow. To do that, he must leave, whether he wants to or not.
The other residents are sweet- no one ever consoles him as he walks back north, back along well-beaten pathways with his shoulders trembling and head hung low. They allow him to move on cleanly, giving him no reason to linger behind, allowing green shoots to blossom starting from the southernmost cottage in Patch all the way up the island.
This year, however, things are a little different. Things are never different in Patch- perhaps that is why Qrow pauses, taking in the sight of the small cottage he had noticed upon his arrival to Patch a few months earlier. It looks far different than he remembers when covered in snow, although the white trim which decorates each angle and plane of the building begins to melt now that Qrow’s presence is leaving the island.
What catches his eye, however, is the tall, built figure, rosy cheeks and broad shoulders and muscular arms and chest exposed in a sleeveless shirt, who stands in the yard, chopping wood with all the ease in the world- wearing that meager getup even when surrounded by snow.
Qrow blinks. Pauses. What is wrong with him?
Even from across the clearing, he can see drooping emerald eyes lighting up as they catch sight of him. “Hey there!” the man calls in a smooth, calm tenor. “May I help you?”
Mutely, Qrow shakes his head, stepping back. The man’s boots and pants do not look made to withstand the chill; is he alright?
Without hesitation, the man begins to walk towards him, a certain pride to his open posture that makes Qrow’s hunched figure recoil. It is too much. Qrow’s eyes are still red-rimmed from saying goodbye to his nieces; he does not want an interaction so intimate.
So, he flees. There is not much distance left between him and the shoreline, so he moves behind a tree and transforms, feelings his bones lighten and body compress thanks to the magic which he has been gifted, allowing him to pierce through the canopy and take to the skies in the form of a corvid.
He does not look back. The trembling of the air, the thrumming of electricity crackling as storms brew above, are enough to prove that there is no point looking back. Green shall return to these islands once again, now that he is departing.
Those eyes were just as green as Patch’s coastline each year upon his arrival. He tries not to dwell on that fact.
Patch is always so beautiful. Although he has done this time and time again, the guilt never abates, for although the beginning of fall brings with it the loveliest, fieriest shades of crimson and tangerine and ochre, he always knows that soon, there shall be no more colour within these forests once his powers permeate the land and winter sets in.
The guardsman at the top of the path smiles at him, as usual. “Visitin’ the nieces, sir?”
He nods. “Of course.”
“The little’un started losing her teeth. They came into town last week. Get ready for a fun lil’ smile.”
Qrow’s heart clenches. He does not show his teeth as he smiles in return. “Sure… yeah. Thanks.”
He tries to keep his heart calm, his powers in reign, as he begins his slow march to the southernmost cottage. He does not want winter to arrive a moment before it is necessary. He wants to see their smiles when he shows them just how lovely the grand maples turning from green to crimson can be within these woods.
And if Ruby is losing her front teeth, then all the better that moment shall be.
They’re growing up.
It is with these thoughts that he almost misses seeing the waving figure who attempts to catch his attention as he passes by one of the many paths leading to small cottages along the main island. The motion does catch his eye, however, and he spots the same new cottage he had seen the year before, along with its owner.
He swallows dryly. Without the snow, this younger man seems far more equipped for the weather, sleeveless shirt betraying muscle evidenced by the massive pile of firewood tucked underneath a newly-built cover; there are more decorations around the cottage, with a path properly landscaped leading up to the door. It no longer looks fresh, green- it looks lived in, secure. He is no longer new to the area, it seems.
Qrow steps away as the other man approaches him. This other man is certainly new in other respects; after all, the rest of the island knows that something is wrong with Qrow- that he would only be at peace when he was reunited with his best friend, with his nieces.
He hesitates though, seeing the man continue to walk towards him with unwarranted friendliness. However, he can also feel the air chilling around him the longer he stands still; before either of them can blink, he feels a light touch land upon his forehead.
Snow is falling.
He glances over to the distance; the clouds have not yet covered the southern parts of the island. He still has time to watch the first snow with his family if he hurries, even if it brings winter to the south just a little sooner.
The stranger seems to have other plans. He beckons Qrow, a welcoming smile on his face as he calls, “I remember you- you were around last year, right? Come on in!”
He knows he must leave.
And yet, for some inexplicable reason, he finds himself obeying those kind, open words, his feet taking him despite himself into the waiting door of this stranger’s cottage. “I’m Clover,” the man murmurs with a smile, gesturing to a low table near the entryway. Qrow places his bag of gifts there with trepidation, stepping through cautiously, unsure of exactly what has brought him here.
“…Qrow,” he replies, glancing around. The interior is just as simple and quaint as the exterior, all clean and neatly-maintained living spaces polished to a shine. And yet, there is a stiffness to the air- not a speck of dust exposed in the light filtering through the open windows. “Do you… even live here?”
Clover frowns at him, perplexed, before he begins to laugh. “I’m former military from Atlas,” he explains wryly, beckoning Qrow to follow him further. He leads the other man to his dining table, and after Qrow has taken a seat thanks to his traitorous feet, Clover brings him over a cup of something that spells spicy and warm and comforting. Nostalgic.
Qrow takes a sip. Apple cider. It’s delicious, he realizes faintly- the heat from the liquid seeps through his skin down into his core, cinnamon and clove and nutmeg dancing upon his tongue, warming him up from the inside out. “You were all ready to go for the colder months, huh,” he murmurs.
Clover nods, grinning. Qrow takes a moment to truly look at the other man, examining his features; a sharp widow’s peak of brown, gelled-back hair, thick brows, those kind, curious green eyes, a strong nose and thin mouth all rest in a stern, sharp-jawed face, tan skin almost glowing despite the dim lighting within the cottage. The thick muscles in the man’s neck shift with every minute movement, only highlighting further just how out-of-place he was in the current environment; “The locals always seem to know when winter’s going to arrive- in town last week, I heard some people mentioning the turn in season.”
Qrow snorts despite himself. “Spoken like a true Atlesian,” he murmurs, setting the glass down halfway-full-
Halfway empty. It grows cold in his touch.
His stomach churns. The snowflakes drifting down outside the window have begun to accumulate, clashing heavily with greenery that shall be the colours of autumn soon enough. They rest upon the windowsill, a white frosting outlining dainty portals to the outside world, adding such a sweet, elegant addition to this lovely little home-
Qrow stands up abruptly. “I need to go.”
He doesn’t turn back, even when Clover calls after him, confused. He owes the other man no explanation.
It is only halfway through his journey back home does he realize that he forgot to thank the other man for the cider. He regrets that, for even as he reaches the familiar cottage he has longed to see all year, his core is still warm.
His days are spent with his nieces. Ruby proudly wakes him up one morning by dropping a tooth onto his pillow. He yells so loudly in shock at the sight of the baby tooth, still not realizing the excitement this growth causes for the girl, that she begins to weep from shock. He holds her until she stops crying, and when she does, he tells her how proud of her he is. Her gap-filled smile is the sweetest thing he has ever seen.
Yang drops one of her molars onto his pillow a few days later. At least she doesn’t jump on him to show it off, unlike her younger sister; in thanks, he ruffles her hair and tussles with her and proudly calls her a ‘young lady’, much to her glee. Why he is the tooth fairy, he doesn’t know.
Taiyang is jealous.
His journey back home at the end of the season is uninterrupted by passersby, leaving him just as somber as ever, for he does not know how to say goodbye to the three beings he loves more than anything in the world. After all, their time on this earth is so fleeting; his time shall linger on. Losing any second with them in his eyes seems like a millennia in their lives, and the thought of how much his nieces will have changed by the next year makes him dizzy.
At least Taiyang does not change fundamentally. That is one undeniable solace. He shall always appear in the doorway, ready with jokes and greetings and warm hugs, along with those awful cargo pants which seem to have more pockets every year. The jokes they can share because of those godforsaken pants will warm up Qrow’s heart forever.
Clover’s cottage is sounder than ever. Qrow’s eyes idly take in the new details; a creeping ivy plant which is growing on a trellis laid against the northern side of the house, a pathetic attempt of a vegetable patch still barren of fruit and vegetables even at the end of the main harvesting season, a small table and chair set in the shade which house a book and a bottle of water.
The man is different too- more self-assured, more secure. Some of his muscle has waned, but he looks lighter, freer, than Qrow had last seen him. It is as if the burdens which had been weighing upon his shoulders has finally lifted, leaving green eyes to sparkle peacefully even in the shade.
Qrow tears his eyes away from the younger when he notices the flush creeping onto the man’s cheeks underneath Qrow’s stare. He means nothing of it- he is sure of that.
And yet, he finds himself pausing as Clover sees him, making his way over with a sense of urgency and excited anticipation in his light jog. “Qrow! You’re back to Patch, hm?”
Qrow hums noncommittally, feeling the temperature drop with his every breath. “I… yeah. It was time.”
Clover nods, completely unaware of Qrow’s internal turmoil. “I get why you come here,” he laughs brightly, running his fingers through his hair. It is not gelled back, no pomade forcing it out of his eyes, leaving dun brown strands silky with a slight curl at the ends. It falls across the bridge of his nose as he adds, “I’m glad I moved out here- growing up in Atlas, it’s hard to really know what plants are until you’re somewhere like this.”
Qrow notices these details, but says nothing of them. Instead, he murmurs, “You moved out here because…?”
“I needed a break.” His gaze falls, a hint of weariness pulling at the lines around his mouth, the furrow in his brow threatening to intensify. “You tend to forget just how peaceful it is not to fight when that’s all you know. I… needed to remember.”
He winces, for the weightiness of those words strikes him like an axe. He cannot imagine the life of a soldier. Humans are built to fight, and those conflicts are something he stays sorely away from.
Clover shrugs, his unease slipping away like a cloak falling to the floor, leaving him genuine, exposed. “Now,” he adds with a wry chuckle, “if only I knew how to actually garden properly.” He jabs his thumb in mock exasperation at his pathetic little plot of tilled soil. “I’ve gotten a few sprouts, but nothing else- but you stay with the Xiao Longs, right? Taiyang’s garden is amazing; do you all have any tips-“
Qrow is already halfway down the path, moving with a purpose. One look at the patch of tiny sprouts was proof enough for him that it was time to leave, for his presence has been enough to cause them to wilt. Guilt stings him, the open wound in his heart only growing deeper. He hopes Clover does not blame himself for his dead crop; meeting Qrow is never exactly a lucky thing.
Ruby has lost her lisp. He misses being called ‘Uncle Qwow’. She still loves him, though- and he, her.
Yang has hit early puberty and is hormonal and confused and angry, and she reminds him so much of his sister when she is upset that he cannot face her frustration with anything but laughter, as terrible as he feels about it. She still kisses his cheek goodnight, though, although now she’s taken to complaining about his stubble rather than giggling about being ticklish.
They are growing. He wishes he could say the same. Even though they still say that they love wearing sweaters, so having him around is a perfect reason to do so, he believes beyond a doubt that his family belongs in the sunshine- belongs to live without him. Living an extended lifespan is a form of immortality, perhaps; but he wishes didn’t have to live with the knowledge that one day, he shall bury these little girls along with their father, leaving naught but winter’s kiss upon their graves.
For now, however, he needs to learn to get egg and flour out of his hair. Taiyang has decided to teach them to bake. It’s a disaster, and he would not have it any other way.
There is a letter waiting for him in his residence in Argus (the place he normally spends his summers, for they are long-accustomed to the wintry chill his life brings to their icy shores) upon his arrival that summer. Taiyang announces happily that spring came back early that year; the daffodils they planted together bloomed beautifully. A photo is enclosed of those flowers and the girls, and Qrow frames it, placing it in his home, a reminder of the tiny joys which allow him to keep track of the endless months alone.
It is easier to keep track of the days when he knows there shall be someone waiting for him at the end of it all.
However, the thought of the shock the land has likely suffered due to his quick departure brings him heartache. He did not want to leave so quickly, and yet, the thought of having to walk by Clover’s home and suffer another conversation with him when the other man has no idea what he is had terrified him too much.
The sight of those tiny green shoots wilting away as Qrow’s frost entered the earth still haunts him. It does not sting; it is simply a reminder of why he does not associate much with the residents of Patch, outside of his little family. He is happy to help them and happy to accompany the girls, but he does not need anything else tying him down there.
His first steps upon the northernmost dock in all of Patch are routine, normal. He greets the beautiful coastline gratefully, heart singing as he finally takes in a breath, relishing in the sights and sounds of home.
His steps take him to his familiar haunts; gifts for the girls, gifts for Taiyang. He spots a new bakery; they sell packaged, preserved tea cakes. He buys them without hesitation- one box of tiny treats to start, and an extra for if the girls prove they are better at brushing their teeth this year.
However, his routine is completely thrown off-kilter when he sees a tall, strong-shouldered figure standing at the top of the path leading up to the main island level; the familiar man’s visage sends pangs of fear rushing through his heart, for he has been planning on deviating from the path to avoid Clover’s home- the younger shouldn’t be here-
And yet, here he stands, talking brightly to the guardsman who keeps track of newcomers into the rural area.
“Yer back! Welcome,” the elderly man calls, a cheery smile on his face as he waves, recognizing Qrow’s gait from a mile away despite his poor vision.
Qrow bites his lip, pressing onwards, keeping his eyes fixated upon the guard. It is easier to nod at the elderly man than to focus upon how Clover’s face seems to light up in surprise and an odd contentment upon seeing Qrow.
“Welcome back,” Clover murmurs, holding out his hand when Qrow is near enough. “I heard you were coming back while I was in town today, so I thought you could use some company on the way home.”
“You thought wrong,” Qrow growls, walking past him. “I’m fine, thanks.”
Clover does not miss a beat, expression amicable, curious. “The journey isn’t exactly a short one- it should take at least a few days, right?”
“And your house is within the first few hours. Go.”
Clover tucks his hands into his pocket after readjusting the bag slung across his back, easily keeping abreast with Qrow despite his clear rejection. “Alright. Since we’re heading the same way, let’s walk till then, okay?”
Qrow rolls his eyes, his unease growing as he remembers wilting sprouts, drying earth, freezing ivy. A part of him longs to stand his ground, or maybe to run away, to find a nook in which he can transform into a corvid and simply fly off, but he knows that the land would suffer if he stole away the summertime so quickly. He needs to give it rest after the suffering he potentially caused at the end of the last winter season.
With that in mind, he simply hunches over and begins to walk. The younger man’s home shall come sooner rather than later. He shall be free of this discomfort soon enough.
Clover seems more than happy to enjoy the silence, his steps falling in line with Qrow’s effortlessly. Qrow hates how easily the Atlesian man matches his gait, yet still somehow manages to maintain his honest, earnest aura without a second thought. His shoulders are set back, his chest puffed out, his steps strong and assured.
He bears no guilt. Qrow is envious.
It is almost an hour into their slow journey, the temperature creeping downwards with every step, that Clover finally speak. “You always seem a little pale,” he murmurs. “Are you alright?”
Qrow shrugs, picking up his pace. He does not want to be around this man- he does not know how to face him. “I’m fine,” he mutters in response.
Clover jogs after him, confusion clear as day upon his face. “Qrow, did I- did I do something wrong-“
That’s it.
Spinning on his heel, Qrow glares at the younger, too tired and too uncomfortable to pretend any longer. “What do I have to get you to back off, kid?”
“’Kid’? I’m hardly-“
“Compared to me,” he growls, “you’re nothing.”
Rather than looking even remotely offended, Clover’s eyes merely widen, his voice dropping to a hushed whisper, hesitant and unsure- and hopeful. “I was right, wasn’t I?” he breathes to himself, suffering some revelation which Qrow cannot begin to divine.
Qrow rolls his eyes, storming off ahead. He knows he should not let this creature under his skin; and yet, he cannot help but feel hyperaware as he feels Clover’s footsteps shake the path under his feet, the man racing after Qrow with far more fervour than expected. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snarls.
“You bring the winter, don’t you?”
Qrow pauses. Freezes. His entire body cools down, muscles growing sluggish as anxiety takes over, causing his magic to surge within him. It fires off through every single nerve and vein, shimmering across his body in a red haze before sinking into the earth, accelerating the freezing process. By the time he realizes it, it is too late; the trees around them have begun to freeze, green poplar leaves fading into brilliant colours for just a moment until they wither away, dropping to the ground unceremoniously.
Clover notices. Qrow wishes he didn’t.
“I knew something was different about you,” Clover breathes, eyes wide in awe and wonder as he stalls mid-step, taking in this new information with such apparent joy that Qrow’s mouth goes dry, palms growing clammy. The other continues, “You ran away so quickly last time, I couldn’t ask, but- but it was you, right? You were the one who caused all of that to happen in my garden?”
Why his tongue is so thick in his throat, blocking any attempt of forging a believable lie, Qrow does not know. “I…” He sighs, running his fingers through his hair, forcing it out of his eyes. Despite Clover’s apparent intrigue, guilt looms over Qrow’s head like the storm clouds that have begun to brew, bubbling cumulonimbus billowing up, the anvil clouds spreading across the sky, blocking out the last few, latent stars that lingered in the dawn.
The skies have recognized his arrival, it seems.
Therefore, it is time to go. He is not a toy to be gawked, not a display to entertain young men who do not understand the danger which he brings. He is here for one reason, and one reason alone- green eyes are not a part of those plans.
…even if he wants them to be.
…does he want them to be?
I just-
He picks up his pace, ignoring the startled cry from smooth tenor resonating through the trees behind him.
To his surprise, he has no time to even catch his breath before a strong hand clamps around his bicep, halting him in his tracks. “Qrow, wait- I need to show you something,” Clover insists, voice pleading, almost pathetic.
He does not want to agree, but the moment he meets Clover’s gaze, he understands that there is something lying underneath the surface; something longing and quiet, something that he has been biting back for too long, as if he has been holding in a breath he so desperately needs to exhale.
Qrow frowns. “…you were waiting for me, weren’t you.”
Clover’s smile falters. “Every day. Please come- just for a while.”
He is letting himself be vulnerable, open to Qrow’s judgement. So, Qrow complies, finally relaxing, boneless as he allows Clover to take his hand and guide him back to Clover’s home.
Clover’s hand fits well within his. It is so different from Ruby or Yang’s touch; their callused palms match, interlocking with each other with ease.
Clover’s home has become a veritable part of the community, Qrow realizes. There is a quaintness about it, a sense of nostalgia and familiarity that the sight of rustic wooden walls and homely decorations evokes which reminds him Taiyang’s home. Qrow feels comfortable as he steps onto the path leading to Clover’s home, strangely enough.
Then, his eyes fall upon the vegetable garden. There are naught but sprouts in the ground; immediately, Qrow recoils, pulling back, no longer willing to play along with Clover’s game. It always hurts to see things die around him. He is sick of it.
Clover does not release him. “Just- just wait. I promise.”
Qrow’s lips curl back into a sneer, ready to spit and hiss, for if this man does not let go instantly, he shall simply turn into a crow and fly off, his privacy be damned-
But the sprouts do not wither. As the air grows chilly, earth freezing below their feet, these plants instead seem to grow; vines spreading across the ground, stalks rising into the air as if time has fast-forwarded thanks to Qrow’s extended presence, his proximity. Flowers blossom, wintry white and pale gold, pink petals blooming and withering, only to leave behind fruit and leaves and seeds which grow, grow, grow-
Qrow is awestruck. He is stunned. The world tilts off its axis, his body trembling, confusion wracking him from head to toe.
The hand within his squeezes gently, grabbing his attention once more. Clover murmurs quietly, “I… I sort of figured it out last year- everything wilted once the temperature dropped. That only happened when you visited.” The winter spirit’s immediate distress must have shown upon his face, for Clover immediately backtracks, a quick smile alighting his lips. “It’s okay! I should’ve figured out that I wouldn’t be the best right away at growing summer vegetables here. It was just an experiment.”
“What- what do you mean…?”
Clover grins, all wry humour. “I’m from Atlas, remember? A little cold has never bothered me.”
For some reason, those words resonate with Qrow, sinking down into his heart. He has heard the sentiment behind these words time and time again- whenever Ruby’s eyes light up at the sign of first snowfall- whenever Yang incites a snowball fight, leaving them giggling and breathless- whenever Taiyang hands him a cup of tea or cocoa, never when he asks for it, but always when he needs it.
Clover is unlike the rest of Patch. He is happy with the wintertime. He feels safe in it.
Qrow wants to weep.
Clover places a hand on the small of his back, guiding him inside. “I just looked up what is hardier in winter- it took a little doing, but I managed to get a decent amount of things that could potentially grow in the snow.” His eyes relax, soften. “I’m glad it worked.”
He hates how much his lip quivers. It just- the idea of having someone think of him like this aside from his little family-
He has forgotten what it feels like. It has been far too many lifetimes since he has felt this way.
Clover sits him down at the table. The entire cottage smells like warm bread, the heat trapped within carrying the scent of yeasted dough and delicious stew that has been simmering for just long enough. Clover does not hesitate to enter his small kitchen and begin pulling out food for the two of them.
Qrow should stop him; he sees hands working deftly to cut up bread, to pour stew into bowls, to bring glasses of water over to the winter spirit. His tongue is too thick in his throat to speak, his heart too confused to voice the words which linger on his mind; he does not know what to say, either, for there is a lightness in Clover’s face that Qrow has never seen in another outside of his fleeting family. “Why… why are you doing this?” he breathes as Clover brings over their sudden meal.
His amicable grin has grown to encompass full, true joy. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he admits. “I… You left quite an impression. I asked around, but no one’s ever been able to give me a proper as to who- or what- you are, but…” The way his eyes crease, the simple happiness radiating off of him so pure that Qrow almost has to squint from the brilliance, is inexplicable. “I’ve always wanted to meet you. Properly.”
Qrow looks at the center of the table, then off to the side. There is a small canning jar- or the shards of one- which are left upon the countertop, glass pieces swept up into a little pile. He does not know how to face the man who is so openly displaying his curiosity and intrigue- and, if Qrow is being honest, sheer, undeniable attraction, if the quirk of his lips and the way green roves over Qrow’s features is anything to go by- so Qrow instead allows his eyes to focus upon that, his own interest filling the dead air. “You tryin’ to can?”
The blush which tints Clover’s cheeks is rosy, de-aging him by years, the colour so vibrant it clashes with the chill that has begun to set in the air around Qrow. The younger man admits clumsily, “There were some fresh fruits at the market that I tried to can recently, since I knew they’d probably be out of season by the time…”
The unspoken words linger in the air. By the time you arrived.
“Why?” Qrow asks, climbing to his feet. “You- why do you care so much-“
The answer he receives is probably the most infuriating one he could have ever received. “I… I don’t know,” Clover responds, embarrassment fading away into a nostalgic smile. “It’s been years, but… I’ve just never been able to forget you, I guess.”
Every part of him screams that he should leave; he should not allow for this infatuation to continue, for this man has no idea just how cold life shall be with Qrow in his life-
Instead, he quips, “Even my nieces can preserve summer fruits- they make jams each summer-“
Clover’s eyes light up. “Those girls- Taiyang’s daughters are your nieces?”
Qrow winces. The story is complicated, silly- he does not wish to explain. And yet, Clover waits for him to continue with such hope in his eyes that all he can say is, “You really want to know?”
“If you wouldn’t mind.”
“…okay.”
So, that night, Qrow does something he has never done during his journeys back to his little family in Patch; he stays. He does not intend to stay for longer than that meal, but as Clover ladles more delicious soup into his bowl and refills his glass and smiles so devotedly at him, Qrow finds himself sinking further back into his chair, growing comfortable.
“Your nieces wouldn’t mind a few more days of summer, would they?” Clover murmurs as night begins to fall, reaching out to wrap his hand over Qrow’s.
Qrow tries to pull away in respond, but Clover’s grip is firm. Gooseflesh does not rise upon his skin. He really is Atlesian, Qrow thinks, looking at the earnest affection in awaiting, patient green; the cold does not bother him, still sitting at the table with muscled arms exposed, unaffected by Qrow’s presence.
“They’re expecting me,” Qrow whispers. He stops trying to pull away.
“How’s the soup?”
“…delicious.” It is not a lie; the meal- and companionship- which Clover has provided is warm, hearty. Homely. Comfortable.
“I have enough for two people- for a few days, even,” Clover says slowly.
“I cause decay.”
“No,” Clover smiles, shaking his head, his wonderment still in plain view. “You bring change. Not everything dies in winter, right?” As Qrow looks out of the window, spotting the wintry ivy climbing upon the trellis and the vines of squash and winter strawberries which flourish in his nearness upon the ground, Clover adds, “Besides, I was growing a little sick of summer, anyways. You can take the man out of Atlas, but you can’t take the snow out of the Atlesian.”
Qrow finishes his soup quietly, then asks, “…do you have any apple cider?”
Green eyes crease into crescent moons, absolutely infatuated. “Always.”
Qrow smiles almost shyly. Their plan is set. His nieces always looked better in the summer, anyways; they could do well with a few more days of it. This man, however, looks at home in the winter. Qrow wants to relish in it, even if he knows he shouldn’t, but the warmth he feels here is a little different than how he feels with Taiyang and his girls, and there’s something so sweet about it. He doesn’t understand it.
The cider is delicious. He drinks till it is halfway empty- halfway full. By then, he realizes that while he does not understand Clover, he wants to.
The winter months are fleeting. He shall enjoy being warm for just a little while. Then, Patch can be beautiful again, and perhaps Clover can learn to grow summer vegetables, too. Perhaps Qrow can see the fruits of his labour next year, in this tiny little cottage. That would be lovely.
-fin-