SAT 6 JUNE

Pietro is fascinated with lights, Clint learns.

He keeps clutching at Clint's arm and squeezing, or tugging him in all sorts of directions just to get a better look; it's like he's never actually been to a carnival at night before, which he later confirms. All of the game stands and food stalls are decked out, and lit up with bright multi-colored lights.

It's a lot darker now. Colder, too, and Clint's suddenly glad that he remembered to wear a jacket.

The line for cotton candy is a bit longer than expected (they would've been here sooner, if it weren't for Pietro's sudden enthusiasm for the pretty lights, not that Clint's complaining because oh, he's cute when he gets all excited like this).

He's also pretty fascinated with touching Clint.

There's nothing urgent or impatient about it. It's inquisitive, yet still tentative, like he's testing the boundaries. Texting rarely felt intimate, and although Skype calls were a little better, they've got nothing on this. On the feeling of Pietro's fingers tangled up with Clint's own, as they stand outside of the pastel pink truck that sells cotton candy on a stick.

Clint's definitely not complaining. He's never been much of a PDA man himself, but he's not opposed to it. Which is why he seeks out Pietro's hand to hold just as often, or drapes an arm over his shoulder as they browse through different stalls. It's like Pietro's making up for lost time.

"You've really never had this before?"

"Never. It's sugar, yes?"

"Oh, yeah." Clint nods. "About 99% sugar. They use food coloring and stuff in it, too. But it's mostly sugar."

And when Pietro's eyes widen (it's almost comical), Clint makes the executive decision to only buy one cotton candy stick, because all that sugar might go straight to Pietro's head. Clint laughs and bumps the outside of his shoulder against Pietro's.

"Wanna share? It'll be romantic." he offers. "Or something."

"Do they come in different flavors?"

"Only one flavor, but different colors. We can get it in blue?"

"Then I will share." Pietro smirks.

"Yeah, you better. I've been hungry since I got here." Clint says. "I skipped lunch so I could stuff my face with cotton candy."

The small queue winds down, eventually. Clint orders one stick of cotton candy to share and passes it to Pietro. He's in the middle of pulling out his wallet when Pietro slides a twenty dollar bill to the cashier and winks over at Clint.

Clint smiles and stuffs his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans wordlessly. Pietro gathers up his change, then loops an arm through Clint's and steers him away from the pastel truck. Clint's not really sure where they're going (it seems a lot like they're wandering aimlessly, for the moment) but he doesn't really care about what's next, too caught up in the moment.

"That was supposed to be my shout. I mean, you already paid for the clown thing," he says, suppressing a full-body shudder. "Let me treat you."

Pietro shrugs, then tears a strip of cotton candy off of the stick and pops it into his mouth. "You treat me very well."

"What's the verdict? Love it? Hate it?"

The answer is pretty obvious, if Pietro's sudden groan is anything to go off. He stuffs another piece of blue cotton candy into his mouth and chews away happily, smiling over at Clint while he does. He tears a piece off, then gestures for Clint to open his mouth, and when he does, Pietro insists on feeding it to him.

It's all a bit sickeningly sweet, but Clint obliges him.

Maybe it's because it's Pietro, and Clint's always had a hard time refusing him anything (the truth, his feelings, and now this). Or maybe it's because he's enjoying this little slice of domesticity more than he thought he would.

They find a spot to sit on a small hill away from the hubbub of the carnival. Clint pats down the grass first, just to make sure it isn't damp, before Pietro joins him. It's a pretty sweet view; not quite overlooking the carnival, but the lights look amazing from where they're sitting, like not so distant stars blinking in the darkness. The Ferris Wheel looks especially awesome, Clint notes.

Pietro continues to feed them both strips of cotton candy, content to sit there and stargaze.

It's quiet for what feels like a long moment, but it's not an awkward pause, more of a silent reflection. Clint picks at the blades of glass idly, feeling a prickle of something like nervousness. He quashes that down and turns to look at Pietro, resting a hand on his knee lightly.

"Don't tell me I got you hooked on cotton candy," Clint says. "You've had sugar before, right? Wanda's not gonna kill me, is she?"

"This is very good."

"Yeah, it is."

"She will not kill you." Pietro says belatedly.

"We'll see. She's pretty scary."

Pietro scoffs, then stuffs another piece of cotton candy in his mouth. "She is not so scary." he says. "You will see that, once you know her like I know her. She is protective of me, yes. We only had each other."

"You don't-I didn't mean to bring that up. Not tonight."

"Then we will talk of something else." Pietro suggests.

"Why blue?" Clint asks, then elaborates: "Your clothes. Your curtains. Lots of stuff in your room was blue. Yeah, I heard it. That sounds weird. I just mean, you seem to like it. A lot. You wanted a blue snow cone. Blue cotton candy. Why?"

Pietro's shoulders jerk upright in a weak attempt at a shrug. "Wanda says blue makes my eyes pop. They are also blue, if you haven't noticed."

"I noticed. It's-they're hard to miss."

"Careful, old man. That sounds like a compliment."

"That's 'cause it is," Clint says. "You didn't really answer my question. About why you like it so much, and not just 'cause it makes your eyes 'pop'. There's gotta be another reason."

"What is your favorite color?" Pietro asks, picking idly at the cotton candy stick. "That is if you have one. Do you?"

"Purple."

"Why that color?"

"I don't know." Clint admits, rubbing at the back of his neck, for want of something to do. "It just is."

"It just is." Pietro parrots. "I like that. Something just is, so let it be. You don't need to have an answer for everything."

"Maybe you're right."

Pietro smiles, then gives Clint's cheek a gentle pat. "I often am." he says.

He offers the cotton candy stick to Clint, even though there's not much left on it. It's been stripped away almost completely by Pietro's deft fingers, but Clint still tears a small piece off and chews; it's sweet, but not too sugary, and when Pietro leans in and kisses him suddenly, his lips taste of it.

Clint's pretty sure he's never going to get used to that.

He's a little flustered, when Pietro pulls back to look at him with those gorgeous blue eyes (and ridiculously long, dark lashes). Clint's dreamt of this, of course. Of this night, of being this close, but none of that compares to the real thing, to being able to reach out and actually touch Pietro.

Clint does it now, just because he can. He lifts a hand to Pietro's face and brushes his thumb along that sharp cheekbone.

"What was that for?" Clint asks.

"Does it have to be for something?"

"No, it doesn't. Doesn't have to be for anything." Clint says, and pauses to press his lips to Pietro's head briefly. "We should probably head back down. There's at least half a dozen toys down there with your name on 'em and it would be my genuine pleasure to win you the biggest, ugliest one."

Clint rises from the ground, dusts off his pants, then offers his hand to a rather perplexed looking Pietro, who stares at Clint for what feels like a weirdly long moment before he accepts the outstretched hand. And then he kind of refuses to let go.

There's something playful in the set of his jaw, and the quirk of his lips. It makes that long lost fluttery sensation return to Clint's chest, and that feeling only seems to intensify as Pietro steps closer into Clint's space.

"Your lips are a little blue from the candy."

"I kissed a smurf."

"With tongue?" Pietro asks, amused.

"Oh, that's rich, coming from you. The guy that inhaled a snow cone in two bites," Clint says. "Your entire mouth was blue."

"And now so is yours."

Smirking, Clint gives Pietro's arm a tug back in the direction of the carnival. "Yeah? I probably got that from you. Just can't keep your hands off me, can you? Look, you've got the rest of your life to flirt with me, and I've only got tonight to prove to you that I don't actually suck at carnival games, so get off of me."

"How could I resist such an offer?"

"You can't, so c'mon. Let's go win you some shit."

Balloon Darts goes better than expected, though Clint's not really surprised, he's always been really good at the game.

The only real difference between this game of darts and the countless others that Clint has played in seedy dive bars (and at home, he even has his own board) is that he usually doesn't have a warm, affectionate Pietro draped over him.

Still, he manages to score high enough in both rounds that he wins Pietro not just one ridiculously oversized plush toy, but two.

Which is how they end up trudging back in the direction of Clint's truck, with one of Pietro's arms wound tightly around his waist, while his free hand grips onto the orange paw of an obnoxiously large Garfield; it has a bright red fire helmet, and, for some odd reason, an eyepatch.

Clint has to admit that it's kind of cute.

But he likes the other toy better. It's one of the Little Green Men squeezy toys from Toy Story, and it's also massive. It could probably be used as a pillow, Clint says, as they navigate through the parking lot. He sinks a little further against Pietro, relishing in the feeling of an arm around his waist.

It takes a few minutes for Clint to locate his truck. To be fair, the lot wasn't this crammed when he first arrived.

Once they find the (faded) red pickup, Clint pats down his pockets for his keys. He unlocks the truck, drops the three-eyed green blob on the passenger seat, and then makes a gesture for Pietro to pass Garfield over so Clint can lock it up safely.

Pietro, however, seems reluctant to do so.

"I'm not stealing your toys, babe. They're yours." Clint says, "It's just for now, so you don't have to carry them around all night, or worry about somebody stealing them. Garfield's gonna be just fine in here, and so will the little green dude."

"It's not that." Pietro says, thickly accented.

"Okay. So what is it?"

"I don't have a ride home."

"That's all? I'll give you a lift, it's no trouble." Clint shrugs. "Is that why you're all," he says, and makes a vague gesture to Pietro's face. "Frowny?"

Pietro rolls his eyes, then shoves the fluffy orange toy at Clint's chest.

"What's his name?" Clint asks.

"He already has a name."

"Garfield? Yeah, that's original."

"Then what would you name him?" Pietro asks, eyebrows raised. "You are not so good with naming things."

Instead of dignifying that with an answer (because, rude) Clint boops Pietro on the nose with one of Garfield's paws, and they both burst out laughing. Clint turns and stretches, dropping the plushie onto the seat next to the three-eyed, football-shaped alien. He locks up the truck, pockets his keys, then turns to Pietro.

"See? Everybody's happy. You'll get 'em at the end of the night, so-actually, you still look a little frowny. C'mere. I can help with that."

Clint drapes an arm over Pietro's shoulder, and the younger man slots in right against his side. He's only just taller than Clint, by an inch or two, but the angle isn't awkward. It isn't awkward, when Pietro curls his arm around Clint's back, and his hand rests right above Clint's hip.

It's like Pietro's trying to squish them as close as he can, as close as physically possible.

"Better?" Clint asks, and Pietro nods.

There isn't much of a walk, between the parking lot and the fairground. Clint's in the middle of telling Pietro yet another story-something about a mishap during one of the shows, involving fire, this time-when he notices Pietro looking at him, in a certain way.

Kind of like the way Pietro had described earlier, when Clint was looking at him like he was going to disappear.

Then he looks away, almost shyly. Clint doesn't comment on it. He smiles, carries on with his story, and keeps an arm looped around Pietro's shoulders.

Clint can't get over how easy it feels.

He almost wants to ask what took them so long to get here, but doesn't. Maybe it was Clint being afraid. Scared of feeling the sting of heartbreak, or waking to an empty bed and an empty house all over again. The only thing that matters is Clint's here, and so is Pietro, and he can't think of a single place he'd rather be.

Pietro is pressed snug up against Clint's side, and it's cosy and warm, and nice. Clint almost hates to break away from that, but an idea comes to him:

"So," Clint asks. "How good are you with a gun?"

"But I don't want to shoot it."

"It's not a real duck." Clint explains. "It's made out of tin. The goal is to shoot as many as possible, and then-"

Pietro scoffs, and his entire face is scrunched up in that 'I'm so not into this. Like at all. And I'm not even going to act like I give a shit' way of his, like that one time Clint suggested they watch M*A*S*H reruns and Pietro wouldn't even pretend like he was enjoying himself.

"That is not a very romantic question to ask," Pietro says. It sounds like he's amused, not angry. "For our first date you ask me if I am good with a gun."

"Well, are you?"

"No, but that is not the point."

Clint watches as Pietro's mouth quirks up at the corners, it's almost like he's fighting a smile. There's something cheeky about his gaze-Clint's starting to learn that he's inherently cheeky, it's one of his personality traits-and Clint can't help but be drawn closer, closer into Pietro's space.

"I'll teach you." Clint offers.

"To shoot things? Tempting, but I think I will pass."

"Not real things. Those ducks are made of tin, and that's not even a real gun. It's a BB gun. It shoots pellets, not bullets."

"And you will show me how to do this?"

"Yeah, maybe. If you ask me real nicely."

Pietro sizes Clint up and down noticeably. He's smirking now, with both arms folded across his chest. "And if I don't ask nicely?"

"Then you can teach yourself."

"You go first." Pietro says.

"Why me?"

"I want to see what you can do."

"There's not much to it." Clint says, with a shrug. Then he steps around Pietro to reach for the BB gun.

It's slender and black, and tied to the stall so that it can't be stolen. There's enough give on the wire cord for Clint to step back and fall into a proper stance. Pietro's up in his space, suddenly. Crowded right up behind him, so close that Clint can feel the exhale of each breath on the back of his neck.

And the lightest of touches on his lower back.

Pietro's hand lingers on Clint's back, for a moment. So light it's almost not there at all. It's distracting, to say the least. Clint shifts his weight from foot to foot, and Pietro's hand disappears suddenly, but his voice remains, still close and low, and teasing.

"So this is the part where you show off," Pietro murmurs. "To impress me. Win me something good, old man."

Clint nods, and readjusts his grip on the pellet gun. There's a never-ending cycle of ducks on rotation: bright yellow, with colorful targets painted onto the middle of each. He lifts the BB gun, aims, then fires.

He hits two ducks in succession, then a third. Tink, tink, tink. The sound of pellets hitting tin echoes through Clint's ears, and makes him cast a sideways glance in Pietro's direction, a little cocky and kind of proud of himself.

Though it's no surprise that he's good with a gun, even a BB at a carnival. He was on the force, after all. And before that-a really long time before that, almost two decades ago-he and Barney would line beer bottles and tin cans up along the fence, and bet on who could knock the most down.

Clint won most of the time, except when he was having an off day. Today, however, is definitely not an off day. There's a brief pause between the fourth and fifth duck, then Clint fires at the sixth. He's not really sure what the points add up to (the scores are painted on the back of the ducks) but he's pretty sure six consecutive hits is good.

He sets the BB gun down on the counter, and looks to the attendant. "What's that get me? Gotta be good, right?"

The attendant-who has bright red hair, a lip piercing, and is wearing a pair of Groucho glasses-directs Clint towards the opposite end of the tent, where there are countless prizes strung up along the wall.

"Which one do you want?" Clint asks, leaning closer towards Pietro. The younger man looks to him, surprised, then opens his mouth as if to protest, but Clint shakes his head. "Just-whatever one you like, I'll get. So go ahead. Which one is it?"

"I like the orange fish."

"We'll take the Nemo." Clint says, pointing out the clownfish to the attendant. She unhooks the bright orange fish off of the rack and hands it over to Clint, who then moves to hand it over to Pietro, but the younger man holds both hands up in the air and refuses to take it.

"I want you to teach me."

"Why?"

"Because I want to win something."

Clint considers that, then nods. "Alright. I'll just set this little guy down right here," he says, more to himself than Pietro, and places Nemo down on he counter of the small, trading it over for the BB gun. Clint gestures for Pietro to come closer, and he does, and he's brimming with excitement.

"How do I hold it?" he asks.

Rather than tell, Clint shows him. He siddles right up behind him, kicks his feet apart just a little, and grips his elbow, gentle but firm.

He guides Pietro until his stance is good, and he's holding the BB gun properly (the first time he picked it up, he turned it sideways like he was some kind of gangster, and that had Clint in stitches). Clint steps away. There isn't much to it, beyond stance and aim.

Pietro misses the first duck, hits the second, then grazes the third.

Barely.

The next three shots are hurried, impatient.

It turns out Pietro's not a natural at this, which really seems to bug him. He slaps a couple of bills down on the counter and buys himself a second round. Clint jumps in when Pietro's four pellets down and still hasn't hit another duck.

"You're not so great at this, which is weird. It's probably the only thing you're not good at." Clint says, and slots in behind Pietro, his chest pressing against Pietro's back. "I still have to teach you how to throw a dart properly, otherwise it'll keep me up at night. You'll get the hang of this."

"I hit one." Pietro says, matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, I know. You did good for your first time."

Clint peers over Pietro's shoulder, down the barrel of the gun, and at the row of moving ducks. He moves his arm, so it's lined up right next to Pietro's. Clint's hand comes to rest atop of the younger man's. It's close. Snug, even. Just like earlier, except it's not just nice, it's necessary.

This way, he can guide Pietro's hand.

This way, he-

Pietro fires and hits the duck right in the center, knocking it straight back. He takes out another, and Clint's still pressed up against him, his body bracketing Pietro's arm. Once he's out of pellets, Pietro sets the BB gun down, and turns to Clint with a triumphant smile.

"Look at you," Clint says, and smoothes a hand down the front of Pietro's jacket. "You did good. Nice work."

"Well, I couldn't have done it without you."

"Yeah, you could've." Clint argues. "And you did."

"Perhaps, but I didn't want to. It was more-"

"You can have anything from this section." the attendant announces, indicating towards a very, well, small section of prizes.

There's not much on offer, not really, and Clint nearly feels a pang of guilt at that. He glances over the prizes: a pair of Groucho glasses, identical to the pair the stall attendant is wearing. One of those rubbery, hand-shaped slap toys that are sticky and Tony somehow always seems to have one, and not much else. Pietro's eyes are narrowed in a way that's almost critical.

"How many can he have? It's gotta be worth more than one prize, 'cause these are tiny." Clint says, and feels Pietro's hand slide into his own.

"Three items." she says.

"I will take the glasses with the nose and eyebrows."

"Groucho glasses." Clint chimes in.

"Grouch like grumpy?" Pietro asks, frowning.

"There was this guy that wore glasses just like that. I mean, exactly like that. His name was Groucho, so they named the glasses after him." Clint says. "He was the only thing that made my old man laugh."

"Oh. Was he funny like you?"

"Not exactly like me, no." Clint smirks. "I never made my old man laugh."

Pietro glances up at Clint. There's a furrow to his brow, and his lips are downturned just slightly, and that tells Clint that whatever he's said, it's pitiful. It makes Pietro's eyes linger on him. Makes his grip on Clint's hand tighten, before he looks away.

"I will take the two bracelets." he says, shifting his attention back onto the red-haired woman. "The purple one and the blue one."

The attendant hands the prizes over, and collects the Nemo from the opposite end of the tent (it was still sitting on the counter, right where Clint left it). Pietro pockets both of the bracelets without so much of a glance in Clint's direction, then passes over the Nemo, and, lastly, he puts the glasses on.

Clint's barely able to contain his laughter, as they walk away from the stall. Pietro's not even a little embarassed and Clint kind of gets why: he's really rocking the glasses, ridiculous eyebrows and all. It's weird, how he can make something like that look not half as bad as it had before.

"Just-never change." Clint says. "You look good."

"Mm? You like the nose?"

"Oh, yeah. The moustache is my favorite part."

Pietro bumps his shoulder against Clint's playfully. "Oh? And what about the eyebrows?"

"I'll learn to live with them. You and your eyebrows."

Clint's stomach hasn't hurt this much from laughing in a really long time. He's practically shaking with it, by the time Pietro pulls him away from the crowd and kind of just off to the side, next to the stand that sells Roast Corn.

And he's still wearing the glasses, which kind of undercuts the semi-serious look on his face.

"God, you're ridiculous."

Pietro's mouth quirks up at the corner. "Am I?"

"Oh, yeah. Big time." Clint says. "But I'd still kiss you, if that's what you dragged me over here for. Is it?"

"That isn't why."

"You're a little frowny again. What's up?"

"I want you to remember tonight."

"Ouch. I'm not that old, so my memory isn't that bad."

Pietro reaches for Clint's hand suddenly-not the one that's gripping Nemo by the fin, but the injured one-and lifts it up gently. Only two of the three injured fingers are buddy taped together, which Clint considers a win. Pietro, however, looks less enthused, like he's only just remembering Clint's little fall.

"I wanted to give you something." Pietro says, and produces one of the bracelets from the pocket of his leather jacket.

It's made of nylon rope and it's blue, of all colors. Pietro gingerly slips the bracelet onto Clint's hand, first going over the buddy taped fingers. He tightens it a little (the bracelet is adjustable, and actually pretty cute) then drops his hand away from Clint's.

At first, Clint doesn't really know what to say. His chest feels all strangely tight, but nice. Warm, and still tight, like that fluttery sensation of nerves, but not quite. It's something different. Something that makes Clint want to take Pietro's face between his hands and kiss him.

"But blue's your color." Clint blurts out.

"Yes, but it can also be yours. I want you to keep it."

"I-you didn't have to do this. Give me this. It's nice." he says, and traces a finger along the edge of the bracelet. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of the purple one around Pietro's own wrist, and reaches out to touch it. "We match."

Pietro nods slowly. "I have your color and you have mine."

"God, you're sweet."

And, of course, the only appropriate response to that is Pietro rolling his eyes. He does it in that way of his that's fond and affectionate. "Not always, no. But I will have to try harder for my boyfriend now, won't I?" he says, smiling.

"Oh, right." Clint nods along. "I forgot about that."

"Forgot what? That I was your boyfriend?"

Pietro looks considerably less fond now. Less pleased, too. Clint leans in closer, stretches forward to peck Pietro on the lips, before he steps back. "Not that. The other thing. About how I was supposed to be trying harder to for my boyfriend. So, come with me. I've got an idea."

"The last time you said that it involved guns."

"Not actual guns. Are you always this dramatic? Wait, don't answer that. I already know that the answer's yes. Yes, you are."

"Are we going somewhere today, old man?" Pietro asks. "Or will you just keep up this rambling?"

"Yeah, yeah. Come on, Quicksilver."

"Where are we going?"

"Feel up to conquering your fear?"

A/N: Pietro's afraid of horses, btw. Thanks for all the feedback! ❀