SAT 13 JUNE

Clint plops down onto the stairs with a drawn out groan, hands curling around his knees. He's followed by Pietro, who stumbles up the path, gravel crunching beneath his feet. Five minutes earlier, the Uber dropped them off at the mailbox. Clint's been struggling to find his keys ever since. It doesn't make any sense. Wanda sent them off, made sure Clint had his essentials: phone, wallet, keys. And, of course, his boyfriend. Still, here he sits.

In the early hours of the morning.

A little light-headed, blinking up at the star-speckled sky, with only a wallet in the back pocket of his jeans. He can feel the corners digging into his ass.

For the zillionth time, Clint pats down his pockets, only to come back empty-handed.

Pietro's having the time of his life, at least. He's trying to walk in a straight line, arms held out like the wings of a plane. That goes about as well as expected. So, not very. He staggers and nearly loses his balance, twice, before toppling over. It's all pretty ungraceful. He seems to find it amusing, laughing quietly to himself before sitting up.

"Why are we not going inside?" he asks, blinking owlishly at Clint from his spot in the gravel.

"Lost my keys."

"Oh."

"And my phone."

"Where?" Pietro frowns.

Probably in the Uber, Clint thinks. If he knew where the keys were (or his phone) then they wouldn't be lost, but that seems to escape Pietro in his booze-addled state.

"Beats me, kid. Don't know what I did with 'em."

"Does that mean we have to sleep out here?"

He wrinkles his nose in distaste. It takes a little bit more effort for Pietro to climb to his feet, much more than it did to tumble over. Soon enough, he finds his way over to the stairs, collapsing next to Clint with a small sigh.

"I don't want to sleep outside."

"What? No, we're not doing that. We won't. I'll just," Clint trails off, waving a hand vaguely. "I'll scale it. The side of the house. Find a ladder or break a window, and we're in. We'll figure it out. Hey, don't give me that look."

His eyes glisten with amusement, but his expression is all faux innocence. "What look?"

"That one. The look on your face right now."

Smirking, Pietro placatingly holds up both hands. "There is no look, old man. I think you are very drunk, and this is making you suspicious. This is just my face."

"I could so climb the house."

Pietro doesn't say a world, but he doesn't need to. That silent laughter, so poorly hidden behind his hand, says it all. Yeah, Clint knows. He remembers that one time he fell off a house. Vividly remembers. It wasn't all that long ago. His fingers twitch unpleasantly at the memory, still balled into loose fists around his knees. Clint spares a sideways glance in Pietro's direction. He's tapping away on a phone, face shrouded in dull blue light. The bruises are far more prominent, his cheekbones shadowed and gaunt.

"Be careful," Clint says. And don't fall off any buildings, he thinks. A warning that shouldn't really need to be voiced.

"Me?" Pietro asks, mildly affronted.

He doesn't even break away from the iPhone, eyes intent, fingers working fast on the keypad. It takes a moment for Clint to realize that Pietro is using his iPhone. So, it isn't lost. That's good, at least. Clint blames the alcohol for making his head all fuzzy. His thoughts are slower to form, slower to grow into something remotely coherent.

"You are the one that lost the keys, old man. Not me." he continues. "Wanda said to check your pockets again, just to be sure."

"Wanda said that."

"I text her."

"Oh."

"Sooo," he drawls. "Check them. Your pockets."

Clint nods along, more to himself than to Pietro, because great idea. It's not like he didn't already think of that. Clint pats down both pockets, fingers brushing over the soft suede fabric. A sudden realization prompts Clint to burst into a fit of hysterical laughter. In between catching his breath, he wipes at the corners of his eyes.

"Did you find them?" Pietro asks, voice a little slurred. His shoulder knocks against Clint's. "Or did you forget where the pockets are? Come here, I will check them for you. I will find them." he snakes an arm around Clint's waist.

A large hand dips into the closest pocket, curling around nothing but air. He stretches over to check Clint's other pocket, just to be certain. It's empty. Pietro huffs in mild annoyance and withdraws his hand.

"You won't find 'em." Clint says.

"Why not? And what is so funny, hm?"

"I'm wearing your jacket."

Pietro draws back with an incredulous smile. He gives Clint a once-over, lips pursed together tightly. And then he's laughing, too, so hard that he's shaking with it. "That is my jacket." he slips a hand into the pocket of his own jacket-no, not his. Clint's. "How did I get this? Why do I have it on?"

That's definitely Clint's jacket.

A vague memory comes back to Clint, of switching in the Uber. The jingle of keys as Pietro dangles them in front of his face pulls Clint back into the present, mind still a little (or, very) hazy from all of the booze.

He barely remembers climbing out of the Uber, or most of the journey home. Sure, he remembers leaving and the chorus of well wishes that followed them out to the curb. Wanda kissed him on the cheek, shoved him in the car, shoved Pietro in after him, then gave the driver the address and sent them off.

Home.

Clint's farmhouse, not a tiny shoebox apartment.

The ride to the farm was short-lived. He spent most of it staring out the window, gathering up his thoughts and drunkenly reflecting on what was mostly an incredible night. But he does remember pieces, like Pietro's hand on his thigh. The song pouring out of the radio that he quietly whistled along to. A line of trees, blurring into the darkness.

And then the whole trading jackets thing.

Clint's not sure what brought it on, but he doesn't care. His jacket looks much smaller, and somehow better, on Pietro, tight-fitting and snug. It'll probably even smell like him after, so Clint's definitely not complaining. Not even a little. He runs his eyes over Pietro appreciatively.

The keys are cold as Pietro presses them into his palm.

He doesn't pull his hand away, fingers brushing against the inside of Clint's palm, the crease of his wrist, grazing his cheekbone. A feather-light touch. Then, of course, he licks his thumb and wipes at a spot on Clint's jaw.

"Wanda's lipstick," he says. "All gone."

"Thanks." Clint manages, flustered.

Pietro kisses him.

It isn't exactly unexpected, but Clint still makes a small noise of surprise against Pietro's mouth. A hand curls around his. The bundle of metal keys digging into Clint's palm suddenly feels less cold now with that large hand wrapped around his. Pietro's lips are warm and soft, and he tastes of vodka and Bucky's cigarettes.

This kiss somehow feels like their first.

Clint's warmly reminded of glittering carnival lights and a blueberry snowcone. A hand on his jaw. Sitting on a hill, tearing pieces of cotton candy apart, trading stories and snapping pictures. The flutter of nerves in his stomach, and that tight feeling in his ribcage; thump thump thump, as if his heart might burst out of his chest. That was new.

It's still there, even now.

A breeze washes over them, bringing a little clarity with it. Clint breaks away, allows the cold air to sober him up, clear his mind. He watches as Pietro does the same, shutting his eyes against the wind. With his head tilted towards the sky, he looks peaceful. Or, maybe he's just really wasted. A bit of both, Clint thinks. Definitely both.

"To i nije tako loše." Pietro says.

Quiet and hushed, like it's not meant for Clint's ears. The words are nearly swept away with the wind, before Pietro belatedly remembers that Clint's not fluent in Sokovian, and he kindly translates. He blinks, eyes slowly opening.

"This is nice. Your home."

"Yeah? Thanks. It is."

"I wanted to tell you something." he says. And whether it's intentional or not, Clint doesn't know, but Pietro's grip on his hand tightens. "I still want to, but not tonight."

Clint sighs, his mind drawn back to thoughts of Tony and that almost-kiss. "Yeah. Me too. But whatever it is, it can wait."

There's movement beside him as Pietro shifts and drops his head onto Clint's shoulder. His eyes are heavy-lidded, fixed on a far off spot in the distance. The stars, maybe. Clint sighs. This time, for a different reason. Pietro looks like he's seconds away from falling asleep, so after a moment, after Clint feels like he's soaked enough of it in, he kisses Pietro's temple and moves to stand.

"C'mon. Let's get you to bed."

Pietro lifts his head, bits of hair swept across his face. A couple strands poke up in odd directions. "I thought you would never ask."

In his current state, Clint needs to rely on Pietro to do everything. Walk. Navigate his way from the stairs to the front door. An arm winds tight around his middle, and honestly, it's the only thing keeping him upright. Pietro's still wobbly and pretty off balance. Eventually, after only a small delay, they make it. Clint laughs, because moving in unison with Pietro is like competing in a three-legged race while seriously wasted. There's no coordination to it whatsoever.

"You will show me around tomorrow, yes?" Pietro asks.

Clint jams the key in the lock and twists.

Wrong key.

"Yeah, sure. There's not much to see," he says. "But yeah, I'll take you around. Whatever you wanna do."

Clint's pretty sure that he's going to regret that in the morning, but he doesn't linger on it. The keys stick, twice, and Clint nearly trips over the Puma gym bag that Pietro left out in the hall, and none of it is even close to perfect, but this is home and Pietro's here so Clint doesn't mind. Even if he did almost break his neck on Pietro's stupid bag, only for the younger man to catch him at the very last minute, a vice-like grip on his forearm to keep him from falling over and dying. He could've died, and when he says as much, Pietro simply waves him off.

"You thirsty? Want anything?"

"Bed."

"Bed." Clint agrees, nodding.

The hallway is pitchblack, so he flicks a light on.

Lucky's snoring. Apart from that, all is quiet and calm, a striking contrast to the laser lights and thundering bass inside Stark's clubhouse. Pietro leaves Clint's side, with a faint smile on his lips. He doesn't stray far, taking only a step or two through into the living room, which is right off the hallway. It isn't much to look at, not of a night, but Pietro seems to enjoy himself.

With his mind still fuzzy from all the booze, it takes Clint twice as much time and effort to climb up the staircase. Pietro's behind him, a bag in one hand, humming quietly to himself. It strikes a chord of familiarity with Clint, but he can't place it, so he pushes forward. He leads the way up the stairs and down the hall, stopping by the guest bedroom

Pietro arches an eyebrow at him.

"This isn't your room."

"Yeah. I mean, no. No, it isn't."

"Then why did we stop?"

"I didn't wanna assume that we'd, y'know, be sleeping in the same bed. Together. That we'd sleep together." Clint winces. He's very aware of his ramblings.

Pietro considers that. He wrinkles his nose, then reaches for Clint's hand. "Mm. Let's go to bed."

"O-kay. Bed."

"Yours, not this one. I don't want to sleep alone."

A soft orange glow fills Clint's bedroom. The lamp by the bed is the only source of light, apart from the moonlight creeping in through the curtains. Clint pulls them across. He shucks off Pietro's jacket and kicks off both shoes. Most of the night is lost to him; even now, he's too tipsy to feel self-conscious about his house, unfinished and a little messy, and not completely furnished. It's a work in progress. Stacks of boxes, full of Laura's stuff, and junk that Clint needs to either unpack or throw out. He'll get to it all eventually. Someday.

He collapses onto the bed, doesn't realize he's holding his breath until the mattress dips beside him. So, this is real, he thinks. Pietro's still in his boots and ripped jeans, and Clint's leather jacket. He doesn't look comfortable, but he settles in all the same, eyelids already closed, and mouth slanted in a faint smile.

In this light, with the curtains pulled shut and the room mostly encased in darkness, Clint can hardly make out Pietro's features, only the rise and fall of his chest as his breathing slowly evens out and he starts to drift off. Clint carefully stretches for the lamp and switches it off, the bed only jostling slightly.

Clint falls asleep in minutes, fully clothed, starfished on the covers. Seconds before he blacks out, he swears he hears Pietro say something. It's so quiet that he's almost certain he's dreaming.

But he says it back, just in case.

"Yeah, yeah. Love you, brat."

Aspirin.

That's his first thought as he comes to. He wakes, alone, and-well, that's not entirely true, since Lucky's sitting on the bed. His paws are crossed over in a way that makes Clint feel like he's in for a lecture about sneaking out and breaking curfew. Slowly, he sits up. Lucky tilts his head to the side, considering Clint.

His ears flap with the movement.

"What is it, buddy?"

A high-pitched whine fills the air.

Lucky cries, again, probably out of sympathy. Then he's gone, bolting out of the bedroom.

To where, Clint can only guess. Something tells him that hybernating through this hangover won't be possible. He glances around, slowly gathering his bearings. Empty. A pile of clothes, scattered haphazardly on the floor. Socks and shirts turned inside out. Two pairs of boots, instead of just one. There's an aspirin pill and glass of water on the bedside stand, and the very sight of it makes Clint's heart sing.

Clint reaches for the pill, but freezes when he notices a piece of paper wedged under the corner of the glass and that barely legible scrawl that he recognizes from all of Pietro's drawings and his "Top Secret" messages on Snapchat. Beads of condensation dribble down the side of the glass, leaving droplet-sized stains on the paper, smudging the blue ink in places.

old man

go downstairs when you read this

:)

- piet

The note is signed with a heart.

Somehow, he ended up under the covers, so Clint throws them back and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. He swallows the pill down with a large gulp of water. The bed is empty, but Pietro's side still feels warm when Clint flattens his palm against the pale bedsheets.

With the curtains thrown open, soft morning light spills in through the window, painting delicte shadows across the floorboards.

A sudden vibration startles Clint.

He jumps up and away from the bed, climbing to his feet. Crouching down by the pile of clothes, he rifles through a pair of jeans, unzips the pockets on a leather jacket, until he finds his iPhone. Pietro went to bed fully dressed, just like Clint did. But unlike Clint, who is still in the clothes he wore to Stark's party, Pietro's outfit is discarded on the floor.

All of it. Every last article of clothing.

Clint sits cross-legged on the floor and skims over the list of notifications. The lockscreen is blowing up with text messages, old and new, with one dated all the way back to 3:48AM.

Most of the texts are from Bucky, and, weirdly enough, a few are from Rocket. Clint decides to read those much later, because just like everything Rocket says in real life, the texts are long-winded. And elaborate. He's able to gather that much from a quick glance. Two are from Steve; he's obnoxiously cheery, congratulating Clint on finding someone like Pietro, and he even invites them to brunch. Clint winces.

It's not really his thing, but he supposes The Brunch text was inevitable. He hasn't been in a steady relationship for a really long time, and whenever he has been in one, Steve's insisted on a double-date. Most of the time, Clint lied his way out of it. But this is Pietro, and he's already told Clint several times how much he loves brunch.

[11:42AM]:

Thx. Not today man. Mayb

An alert pops up in the middle of Clint's reply. 10% of battery remaining. He hits dismiss and sends off the text, once finished.

[11:44AM]:

Thx. Not today man. Maybe later...some of us r nursing hangovers. not doing so gd

When his phone beeps again, signalling that the battery has now dropped even lower, Clint plugs it into a nearby wall. He winces at the stiffness in his neck. A part of him is glad that Pietro isn't around, to witness him grumbling and complaining about his sore back, to hear his joints pop and click, and shift with each movement.

Clint stumbles down the hall and into the bathroom. It's not excessively hot today, but he's warm, so he peels his clothes off layer by layer, until he's stripped down to his boxer shorts. The t-shirt he wore to Stark's party reeks of alcohol and ends up in the hamper, along with his jeans and socks. He splashes his face with cold water, slips back into the bedroom to change into a plain V-neck, and is almost halfway down the stairs when he smells-

Smoke.

Yeah, that's definitely smoke. The kind caused by a fire. Clint rushes down the stairs and darts through the living room. Naturally, he slams his knee into a wooden table that he hasn't walked into, like ever. Not once. Of course, today has to be the day that he cripples himself on it, and ends up limping into the kitchen.

That's where he finds Pietro, casually buttering a slice of blackened toast. In an apron. With a huge, stupid grin on his face. Clint sighs. He's going to go prematurely gray, because of this kid.

A kid that just happens to be wearing Clint's bright red apron, with the words: KISS THE COOK printed across the front of it in large, bold letters. Impossible to miss, and even more impossible to ignore. Clint steps further into the kitchen, sniffing. The air still smells faintly of smoke. Clint sniffs, again. It doesn't seem like anything is on fire.

Not in this room, at least.

That thought doesn't bring Clint much comfort.

"What?" Pietro asks, a hand on his hip. In the other hand, he's now holding a spatula.

Clint's not sure how he missed that before. It's from a set of utensils that he's never even used. A spatula.

For toast.

"Why can I smell smoke?"

"The toast is burnt." Pietro says, a touch sheepish. "But you like eggs, yes? Scrambled? Go on, sit."

"Oh, well, at least there's no fire. Pretty sure I just broke my knee," Clint says, limping towards the kitchen table. He drags out a chair and collapses into it. Okay, so his knee isn't broken, but it hurts. A lot. "Whatever. It's fine."

Pietro pulls a face, and yep, he's definitely pouting in a way that Clint's pretty sure is supposed to be mocking.

"Is somebody grump-"

"Not grumpy." Clint holds up a hand. "I'm not. I just need some coffee, and for my head to stop doing that thing it's doing. Y'know, with the nails. In the blender."

"Here," he says. "Drink this."

"Coffee?" Clint asks (actually, it's more of a squawk). "Oh, I knew there was a reason I liked you. This is it."

"No, it isn't."

"It might be."

A cup of steaming coffee is set down on the placemat in front of Clint. With only a little hesitation, Clint picks up the mug and brings it to his lips. The heat radiating from the sides of the cup alone is enough to warm him up.

Pietro goes back to the saucepan on the oven.

Clint considers the pros and cons of swallowing the cup of hot coffee all at once. But it will only end in tragedy, so he talks himself out of it. Once the caffeine kicks in, he becomes more of a person and less of a zombie.

"I got a question." Clint says, over the rim of his mug.

"Okay."

"You're makin' breakfast."

The apron is knotted tightly at his back, and underneath it, he's wearing clothes. A fresh change of clothes. So, he woke, showered. Probably. Clint's just guessing, because he looks good. There are no flecks of glitter on his skin, or pieces of confetti in his hair, whereas Clint still has traces of the party all over him; the stench of alcohol and cigarettes, the taste of an ashtray in his mouth. Gross.

"Is that the question?" Pietro asks, throwing an amused look over his shoulder. "Well, yes, I am making breakfast. I thought this would be very obvious, no?"

"No, that's not it. That's not the question?"

"Was that?"

"How are you so, well, you. After that much booze. You're up, makin' breakfast and coffee." Clint pauses, takes a sip of his drink. It's delicious and creamy, a mix of sugar and milk and rich coffee beans. "Blows my mind. I'm not even a real person 'til I've had my coffee."

With a slight pinch between his brows, Pietro considers that. Then he laughs. "What can I say? I'm happy."

Pietro dishes the scrambled eggs out onto two seperate plates. It's a large serving, piled up onto two slices of buttered toast. Burnt toast, but Clint doesn't mind. He's still trying to process this, that Pietro is in his kitchen, wearing his apron, making him breakfast. Pietro sets a plate down in front of him, then a glass of orange juice. It still blows Clint's mind that he's so productive and lively, this early. Not that it's super early, actually, but it feels more like it's 7AM, not midday.

"There wasn't much in the fridge," Pietro says. "Or in the cupboards. But I did what I could, so eat, ljubavi. Before it goes cold."

"Yes, sir."

"How did you sleep? I didn't want to wake you."

"Fine, I think. Don't really remember."

It's all so domestic: sitting down for a meal, squeezed in at the kitchen table, knees brushing, drinking coffee and juice, and eating a hot breakfast. Somehow, it's exactly what he's been longing for.

"You look good in my apron." Clint says, picking up the cutlery that was neatly set out on the placemat.

He spears a piece of egg with his fork and pops it into his mouth. Silky and smooth, with hints of salt, pepper, and chives. Clint doesn't know where Pietro even got the chives from, but he doesn't ask. Maybe from the garden, not that Clint tends to it all that regularly. The toast is cold and burnt (the more appropriate word, he thinks, is charred) but still good. Clint chomps down on it eagerly, drinking swigs of juice once his coffee is all gone. Pietro offers to refill his cup, but Clint waves him off.

Firstly, because he's a guest.

Secondly, because Clint's almost thirty-five, not dead. He grabs the coffee jug and makes his way back over to the table. Out of habit, he nearly drinks straight from the jug, but then remembers that he has company. So, he fills his mug up to the rim like a civilized person would do, then carefully sets the jug aside.

"I look good in everything." comes Pietro's belated reply.

"Don't I know it."

Pietro smirks, his knee knocking against Clint's playfully under the table. It's replaced a second later by his hand, curling around Clint's kneecap. He squeezes, once, but doesn't pull his hand away immediately.

"Sorry about your knee, old man."

"It's fine."

"Your bones are so fragile," he says. "I had no idea. Next time, I will help you down the stairs."

Clint's laughter comes out as just a snort of amusement, at first. It isn't very dignified. "I didn't fall down the stairs, asshole. I broke my knee, running into a table, running to you. I thought my house was on fire."

"And you broke your knee?"

"Maybe."

"Something tells me you will be fine."

"It's funny," Clint smiles over the rim of his mug at Pietro, who looks sleepy and happy in the warm yellow light in Clint's kitchen. "I've got that same feeling. Apart from the broken knee, of course."

"Of course."

After breakfast, Clint goes for a shower. He's reluctant to leave. Breakfast was—sweet. Like a dream, but better, of course. Way better. Clint smiles to himself. Day one, and it's already domestic bliss; until Pietro shoves him out of the kitchen. Clint needs to shower, apparently, because Pietro wants to go for a walk around the farm. The very second Clint opens his mouth, not even to protest, but to agree that yeah, a shower sounds like a good idea, Pietro starts with the whole "but you promised. Last night, you said that you would show me around. You said we could do whatever I wanted. This is what I want."

Clint leaves.

But he might linger, just a little.

He catches glimpses of Pietro from the living room, then pauses by the stairs to steal a final look at the younger man, elbows-deep in soapy water, pale green gloves on and a bright red apron, smiling to himself.

Upstairs, he closes the bathroom door and strips off, but not before flicking the water tap on. Hot. Clouds of steam start fogging up the glass shower screen. He's in and out quickly enough, stepping under the spray of warm water, rinsing shampoo through his hair, a berry-scented gel all over his body.

It's not his, so it must belong to Pietro.

A dark green towel dangles off the hook next to Clint's, and it takes a moment for him to realize that it's Pietro's, that Pietro slept in his bed and used his shower, made himself at home. He cooked breakfast and put on Clint's apron as if he lives here, too, and isn't just staying for the weekend.

Clint smiles and swipes his own towel off the nearby row of hooks, wrapping it loosely around his waist.

He brushes his teeth, gargles a minty fresh mouthwash, skips the cologne, then heads for the bedroom, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind. The house is quieter, but it feels different, somehow, in a way that Clint can't quite put into words.

After 0.5 seconds of surveying the array of clothes in the walk-in, Clint sighs. He has nothing to wear, which isn't usually that big of a deal. Usually. Plaid and denim are a timeless combination, in Clint's opinion. Sure, there are grease and paint stains on most of his shirts, but it's not as if he wears them out all that often, except for the odd job every now and again.

Okay, he thinks. Maybe all those times Natasha critiqued his wardrobe, she had a point.

The current selection leaves a lot to be desired.

It consists mostly of plaid, and wire hangers that don't actually have any clothes hanging from them. Clint sighs and flicks through a couple different shirts. He manages to pick out a pair of jeans that Pietro will still probably call his Old Man Jeans, just because he's a little shit like that.

Clint, so swept up in his thoughts (in picking out a stupid pair of jeans, and an equally stupid shirt, to impress his stupid boyfriend) doesn't even notice that he isn't alone. Pietro makes a point of clearing his throat, startling Clint enough that he jumps. It's an adjustment, to suddenly go from living alone to not, even if it is just for a few days.

Even when he wasn't living alone, it still felt like it was just him. He and Laura slept in separate rooms, towards the end. Ate meals at different times, skirted around the edges of all uncomfortable conversations, dodged each other in the hallway. This is new, but the good kind. Clint wants to adjust to it.

Pietro's casually leaning up against the doorframe to the walk-in, arms folded across his chest.

"Jesus, kid. How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough to know that those jeans," Pietro begins, nose wrinkling. "Won't go with anything in this closet."

"Ouch."

With an overexaggerated wince of pain, Clint places a hand over his heart. Pietro brushes him off with a sharp eye roll. There's a fondness there, tugging up the corners of his mouth. He pushes himself off the doorframe and steps into the walk-in. It's a little snug. Clint studies one of the nearest shirts: plaid. Green and blue. He rubs the dark fabric between his fingers and pulls on the loose threads, until Pietro comes back into his orbit.

The younger man stretches around him and picks out a plain blue baseball shirt. He eyes it off for a second, then passes it over to Clint.

"I like this one."

"You like it?"

"Yes. It goes with your eyes."

"It does? Well, I guess I better wear it."

He agrees to wear the t-shirt, if only to get Pietro out of the walk-in. The space is crammed enough already, and Clint's still pretty naked underneath that towel, last time he checked. Pietro moves around the bedroom, his gaze curious, but he doesn't touch anything. Maybe it's a fear of prying, or of intruding where he's not wanted, which simply isn't true. He is wanted here. Clint pulls the shirt down over his head, view temporarily obstructed. When he next looks, Pietro is over by the desk, eyes skimming over the cluttered mess covering the wooden surface; scraps of paper and old photographs and a vase of dead flowers.

The glint of a silver picture frame catches Clint's eye. It must catch Pietro's attention, too, because he's drawn to it. He gingerly picks up the picture and runs his fingers along the edges, before gently setting it down again, a fond look on his face.

"Is this you? On the left?"

"Yeah."

"I could tell," Pietro says proudly. "From the eyes. I knew it was you. And the smile is the same. I knew it."

"Yeah? Good for you, babe."

Pietro throws a glance over his shoulder at Clint, who is now fully dressed. The t-shirt feels soft and light against his skin, not as heavy as a thicker layer of plaid and an undershirt would have been. Without even crossing the distance between them, Clint knows every single detail of the photo that Pietro is looking at. He hasn't moved the pictures in months. Years, even, for some of them. He tries to not stare too obviously, and instead fidgets with the hem of his shirt, then the sleeves; he'd roll them up to the elbows, if it weren't already a 3/4 cut.

The jeans are a little faded and worn, covered in flecks of dried paint from all of Clint's unfinished projects, which makes them perfect for an afternoon walk through the woods. At least he isn't wearing plaid. This way, Pietro can't make any bad jokes about lumberjacks.

"Who is this with you?" Pietro asks.

"That's me and my brother." Clint says, combing a hand back through his still damp hair. "We'd just signed up. To the Circus, not army." no, that came later in life for Barney. Much later.

"You look—"

He trails off.

"Different?" Clint asks. He drapes the fluffy white towel around his neck, then joins Pietro, coming to stand off to his right. "Young? I was."

"I was going to say happy."

"Oh."

There were plenty of happy times. Clint steps closer and picks the frame up off the desk, running the tips of his fingers along the edges of it reverently. It's a good shot; arms wrapped around shoulders. Wide, toothy grins, and dirty clothes. Dressed in suspenders, of all things. Two kids, trying to make the best out of a bad couple years. It had been Barney's birthday, Clint thinks, or maybe it was his own. The memory is faded and difficult to latch onto.

Clint clears his throat, setting the photo back down onto the desk. "I was. We were."

"I would like to hear about it. All of it." Pietro says, one of his hands reaching for Clint's. He squeezes, once, then loops their fingers together. Together. "Someday."

A mile out from the house, it rains.

The ground turns soggy and wet beneath Clint's boots. Lucky, of course, is ecstatic. Pietro is less pleased. After all, he's wearing his nice shoes (why he wore them for an afternoon trek through the woods, Clint doesn't know). A pair of Adidas high tops. Loved, impeccably white and pristine, apart from a few scratches and marks.

Until now.

Flecks of mud are splattered across the shoes, much to Pietro's horror. He tries, and fails, to stay on the drier bits of land as they head back towards the house, but the rainfall only grows heavier. Clint unhooks Lucky off his leash and follows the dog home.

It rains and it's beautiful, the sky still immensely blue and dotted with clouds. A sunshower.

"Clint," Pietro begins. "My shoes."

"That's a real tragedy."

"Clint."

"You want me to carry you back, don't you? I'm not doing it." he says. Then, unable to stop himself, adds: "My back just isn't what it used to be, kid."

Pietro doesn't make fun of him, at least. Well, only a little. He goes on and on for a good ten minutes, listing all the reasons why Clint should carry him back: because it's chivalrous. Romantic. Selfless. Gracious.

A slew of Old Man jokes follow shortly after.

Half a mile out, Pietro slips and tumbles over. He lands on an awkward angle and nearly brings Clint down with him, since the two were very much attached, fingers tightly woven together. Pietro presses a hand against his ankle and winces. It could be from the fall, the fact that he is now covered in mud, or because his pretty shoes are ruined.

Maybe it's all three.

At first, Clint's skeptical, convinced that this is some sort of ploy. A way for Pietro to ensure that he'll be carried home. But in those first few moments, his expression is too pained, too genuine and hurt, to be an act.

Clint's by his side in a heartbeat.

"Lemme get a look. So, all the bones are still inside your body. I think that's a good sign, right? That's good news." Clint says. More to himself, really, as he crouches in the mud next to Pietro and gingerly rolls up his pant leg, just enough to get a better look. "Oh. This is so much worse than I thought. Way worse."

"How bad is it?"

"Might have to amputate."

"Ass."

Clint winds an arm around Pietro's waist. "I think it's just a minor sprain. Maybe. I'll be able to get a better look at home. C'mon, let's get you on your feet."

"I don't think I can stand."

"But you can still hop, right?"

On the count of three, Clint hauls Pietro up, up, eliciting a small groan of pain from the younger man. He's a mess; a smear of mud across his cheek, silver hair damp from the rain and curling around his temples, mud and leaves sticking to him all over. Pietro tests out the ankle, which was never a good idea, really. He yelps and immediately recoils, leaning against Clint's side.

"I got you." Clint says, carefully navigating the first step.

It isn't a very brisk walk, but eventually, after only a small amount of struggle and light-hearted bickering, the farm comes into view. Pietro seems reluctant about sagging completely against Clint's side, stubborn and determined that he can still walk on his own.

Clint untangles himself from Pietro's side, bends a little at the knees, and hopes that he'll take the hint.

He doesn't.

"You wanted to be carried. So, climb on."

"I thought you said-"

"Hop on."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. Quickly, before I change my mind."

Pietro jumps on and okay, so he's actually much heavier than he looks. Thankfully, there isn't much distance left between them and the house, only lots and lots of mud. The rain eases up, enough that Clint feels less like a deer on ice. He carries Pietro all the way to the porch stairs, then helps him inside, an arm tightly curled around his waist for support. Lucky's already inside, his muddy paw prints tracked all throughout the kitchen. Clint pulls out a chair for Pietro, then starts rifling around the cupboards for a cloth to wrap around the ice bag.

He sits on the floor in front of Pietro and rolls up his pant leg again, carefully removing his mud-speckled high tops before icing the injured ankle. A mild sprain, most likely. The ankle feels tender, Pietro tells him. And stiff, but the pain isn't unbearable. Clint sits for fifteen minutes and holds the ice bag to Pietro's ankle.

Then he runs a bath.

Not for himself, no, he'll shower afterwards. The bath is for Pietro, the water warm and bubble-filled. Pietro strips off, leaving his dirty clothes in a pile on the floor. Clint nearly excuses himself, wanting to give Pietro privacy. But when he turns to leave, Pietro insists that he stay, so he does. He catches a brief glimpse of Pietro's torso as he lowers himself into the tub, already half submerged in the bubbles. A glimpse of fading bruises and grazes; a reminder that, given time, bad things can heal and fade.

Clint sits with his back against the tub, after that.

"You could've just asked me to carry you back. This all seems a little elaborate." Clint says, and he can hear the smile in Pietro's voice, he doesn't need to turn around to picture what it looks like. Cold water trickles down the back of his neck as Pietro flicks it at him.

"I did ask."

"You're heavier than you look. I guess it's all the muscle."

"And you are much slower."

"I'm not the one they call Quicksilver."

"Clearly."

Clint scoffs, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder at Pietro; his eyes are shut, his head tipped back, wet hair sticking to his face in streaks. He's surrounded by soft, white bubbles. A faint, peaceful smile lingers on his lips. Of course, the moment slips away when Pietro sends a small wave in Clint's direction—splashing him not once, not twice, but three times. Three.

"That's real mature." Clint says, but he's smirking, mouth tugging up at the corner. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

His eyes are open, now, and gleaming with amusement. Clint's dripping, his shirt far beyond damp and clinging to him. Pietro leans over to kiss him, still grinning, and Clint loses himself in it, a hand gripping the side of the tub. Water spills over the side and onto the floor, onto Clint, but he doesn't mind.

The rest of the afternoon is spent indoors, safely out of the rain. Pietro dozes with his head in Clint's lap. His hair is still damp as Clint reverently runs his fingers through it, and his foot is elevated, hanging off the end of the couch. It's all a bit surreal, like a dream, but his dreams never felt this good. After his catnap, Pietro rolls over onto his back and smiles up at Clint sleepily, then stifles a yawn behind the back of his hand.

A guilty look sweeps across his face.

"I ruined the walk."

"By falling over?"

"Yes."

"Oh, c'mon. Don't be silly. I hate walking, so you did me a big favor." Clint says. "This is better. But if you want, we'll go again in a day or two."

"We will?"

"Yeah, of course. There's still time."

Pietro stretches up to cup Clint's jaw and kisses him, a hand lingering on his jaw, even when he pulls away. "A day or two?" he asks. "You want me to stay here for that long? I thought you might have plans.

"I do." Clint nods. "With you, dummy. I'm all yours."

"For the next two days, at least."

"Exactly."

"What about your friends?"

Clint rubs at his temples, then drops a hand to Pietro's hair again, softly carding through the pale curls. "What about them?"

"Don't you have plans with them? Birthday plans?"

"You're my friend." Clint says. "I have plans with you."

A coy little smile tugs on Pietro's lips. He rolls back over onto his side and settles in for a movie of Clint's choice, because they both still have pretty bad nightmares after Snowpiercer. Clint scrolls through the Netflix menu and skips over a dozen movies, tempted to throw Hellboy I or II on. Eventually, he selects one of Pietro's favorites. The movie also happens to be a favorite of Clint's, too.

Dinner is pizza, obviously. Pizza and a couple bottles of beer. Pietro gives Lucky a slice, then another, which only strengthens their bond. Lucky is smitten, his tail wagging excitedly whenever Pietro feeds him pizza and pats him and scratches that sweet spot behind his ear. Once it's obvious that neither of them are going to make it to the end of Legally Blonde, Clint closes Netflix and settles in more comfortably on the couch.

He puts on a music channel called Nothing But Classics and falls asleep with Pietro in his arms, to the sound of Lucky snoring lightly and the heavy downpour of rain, to a classic that Pietro is definitely too young to know, but Clint knows all too well.

and can you teach me how to dance real slow / well I know that you're in love with him, 'cause I saw you dancing in the gym

A/N: soooooorry. I'll be a bit more speedy with the updates from now on. I hope 2017 is kind to you all ❤

Translation:

To i nije tako loše: This is not so bad.