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Clint was on the front porch with a copy of Animal Farm in his lap when a familiar voice said, “Orwell, huh? Have you gotten to the part with Squealer yet?”
“I’m barely past page ten,” Clint sighed without looking up, but he automatically dropped his feet to make room on the porch swing. Phil sat down beside him, his knee nudged up against Clint’s thigh.
“It’s a decent read,” Phil said, “but if Mr. Gatwell asks about Cold War themes on the test, you better have your shit together.”
Clint rolled his eyes. “Pigs and Communism? Seriously? I miss reading Shakespeare.”
“Somewhere Gatwell’s crying with joy and doesn’t know why.” Phil laughed in the quiet, easy way he had. Clint finally glanced over, and found Phil watching him with a giddy look in his eyes.
“What?” Clint asked. “Did the Prom Committee finally start leaving you the fuck alone about being a co-chair?”
Phil smiled sheepishly, ducked his head as he rubbed at his neck. He was so rarely shy around Clint that it threw him for a moment.
Then he looked up at Clint from under his lashes and said softly, “So, uh, remember Harvard?”
“No, I have no idea what that is, since you’ve never, ever mentioned it a billion and a half times,” Clint drawled while his heart immediately flew into his throat.
Phil’s smile widened. “I got in. My acceptance packet came in the mail today.”
And there it was, the moment Clint had been dreading for the last year or so. Of course Phil would get into Harvard; he was the valedictorian, student body president, honor society treasurer—it would’ve been a damn miracle if he hadn’t gotten in. Clint turned the worn book over in his hands, thinking of the two years of high school he had left, and how Phil was just going to be...gone.
“That’s awesome, dude,” he replied with a forced grin. “Congrats.” He wanted to reach out and hug Phil, but hesitated, scared of being too obvious, too awkward.
Phil made it all a moot point as he tackled Clint in a bear hug that nearly sent them tumbling off the swing. “Fuck, I can’t believe it’s really happening,” he murmured into Clint’s hair, his hands splayed wide over Clint’s back.
Clint gave in for the moment and tucked his face into the warm curve of Phil’s neck. Neither can I, he thought, but he whispered out loud, “You deserve it all.”
~~
Clint didn’t remember the exact moment he’d fallen in love with Phil Coulson. Maybe it’d happened the day Clint came home with his (third) foster family and there was a skinny guy standing in the driveway of the house next door, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans as he’d watched Clint climb out of the Wilsons' minivan. When Clint met his eyes, the guy had simply smiled and waved.
The Wilsons turned out to be a good foster family, the best one Clint had ever had. They were older, with grown children who had lives of their own. James Wilson read lots of books, and Marcia Wilson liked to knit while she watched reruns of CSI. They liked Clint, even though he was thirteen and already had an arrest to his name.
But the best thing about the Wilsons was that they lived next door to the Coulsons. Phil was the oldest of three, and two years older than Clint. He didn’t seem to care that Clint was a scrawny, angry kid who just wanted to be left alone, seriously, fuck.
Phil had ignored him and thrown a basketball at Clint that first night when Clint was huddled on the front porch, smoking and trying not to let Marcia catch him.
“That stuff’ll kill you,” Phil had said. He’d been taller than Clint, a little broader in the shoulders. He had very blue eyes that made him look like he was always on the verge of smirking.
“Thanks, Einstein,” Clint had muttered back around his cigarette, and he’d kicked the basketball back at Phil.
“You don’t wanna play?”
“No.”
“C’mon, I’m bored. I’m not very good, anyway, you’ll probably beat me.”
Clint had shrugged. He’d flicked ash into the rose bushes lining the porch, then felt guilty and stubbed the cigarette out before he’d smoked half of it.
“What’s your name, anyway?” Phil had asked. He’d started absently dribbling the ball on the walk in front of Clint. He didn’t seem like he was all that bad at it.
“Clint,” he’d said, even though he’d initially told himself he wouldn’t say.
“I’m Phil.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Really?”
“Marcia told me. She loves you guys.”
Phil had grinned. “Yeah, she’s pretty cool. You’re lucky you get to live with them.”
Clint had felt his jaw tighten. “You don’t know—”
“Did James show you his model trains yet? They’re awesome, he’s been working on them for, like, twenty years or something. You should ask him about it.” Phil had suddenly held the ball with one hand and spun it on his finger. Clint had blinked.
Then Phil had thrown the ball to him again, this time adding, “Best two out of three. I’ll let you shoot first, how ‘bout it?”
Clint had wanted to tell him to fuck off. Instead, he’d played basketball in the Coulson’s driveway until the sun went down. When he’d awkwardly shrugged one shoulder and said, “I gotta go, not supposed to out past dark,” Phil had replied, “Sure. See you tomorrow?”
It had been a genuine question. Clint had not been used to someone being genuinely eager to be in his company.
“Okay,” he’d finally said. It had made Phil smile at him, and Clint remembered thinking again that Phil had very pretty eyes.
Maybe that had been the moment. Clint honestly didn’t know. What he did know now was that he was sixteen and Phil was the closest thing Clint had to a best friend. Obviously Clint couldn’t even handle that, since he’d gone and fallen in love with him like a fucking idiot. You weren’t even supposed to be in love at sixteen, right? He had his whole life ahead of him for that crap.
But who even knew what Clint’s life had in store? He was just an orphan foster kid who’d tried to steal a car when he was twelve. Phil was a star of the senior class who was going to Harvard and would probably go on to be a lawyer or a politician or someone who’d matter in the world.
Clint had six months left with Phil before graduation. He might as well make the most of it.
~~
He did his best not to get into trouble, but sometimes—sometimes Clint had to let loose. But he’d learned not to take it out on a car or a window or anything; mostly, he hid out at his friend Natasha’s house under the pretense of studying late, when in actuality her parents were Russian and always had lots of booze lying around. They were also business people who traveled constantly, which meant Nat always had the best parties during the week.
Clint had a sneaking suspicion James and Marcia thought he was dating Nat. He didn’t bother correcting them. She was super smart, a cheerleader, and was in student council; he’d gotten to be friends with her in ninth grade when she’d saved his ass from a couple of douchebag seniors threatening to beat Clint up. They’d sat in detention together for a week, Clint with a black eye and Nat with a split lip.
She’d just smirked and said, “Self-defense training. My dad wants me to be able to take care of myself.”
Clint could do a hell of a lot worse.
A week after Phil announced he’d be heading off to Harvard, Clint was in her basement pretending to watch DVR’d episodes of The Vampire Diaries, a tumbler of vodka in one hand, the half-empty bottle at his elbow. Nat sat beside him on the couch, watching him with a sad expression as she refilled her own glass.
“You should really tell him,” she said.
He huffed. “Why? Like it’ll matter.” She was the only one who knew about his thing with Phil, and that was only because he’d been drunk and had just watched Phil head off to prom with Pepper Potts.
“It might. You never know.”
“Sure, yeah. I can see the sympathetic head pat now. Jesus, Nat, he’s the fucking valedictorian.”
“So?”
“So, I’m not. I’m just—just—” He took a drink and glowered at the TV. He was more than a little drunk.
Nat shook her head and reached out her hand, scrubbing her fingers through Clint’s hair. “He adores you, c’mon. Remember that talent show last year? God, I thought he’d yell himself hoarse cheering for you.”
Clint ducked away from her hand, blushing. “That was all his idea, anyway.” Phil knew Clint liked to sing, had caught him mumbling along with his iPod enough that he’d talked Clint into entering the school talent show to raise money for the new soccer field. Clint had sung “Don’t Stop Believing” and had placed second overall; Phil had gone with him and the Wilsons to a celebratory dinner that night, and Clint couldn’t stop grinning like a moron, especially when Phil slung his arm around Clint’s shoulders and gave him a quick hug, saying, “Knew you had it in you.”
Nat sat up on her knees and pointed her glass at him. “Look, you need to start thinking ahead here. What are you going to do next year, just keep moping around?”
“I don’t know,” Clint mumbled at the TV.
“Bullshit. Either man up or get over it.”
“‘Man up’? Aren’t you the same chick who’s been bitching since Christmas that Bucky Barnes will never love her?”
She pursed her lips. “That’s different. I know for a fact Bucky’s not into me.”
“Uh, hi, what universe are you in that makes you think Phil’s into me?”
“Oh my god, it’s so obvious,” Nat moaned, and she dropped her head onto Clint’s shoulder. She got a lot more handsy when she was drunk.
“He’s got a girlfriend,” Clint said quietly.
Nat rolled her eyes. “No, they broke up months ago, remember? Last I heard, Pepper was dating some college guy.”
“They still hang out.”
“Okay, so, what, you want me to tell you to give up on him? Is that what this is?”
Clint rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes. “No, I just...I just wanna not feel this way, y’know? It’s so fucking stupid, and it’s not like I can even do anything about it, ‘cause Phil’s...Phil, y’know?” He flailed his hand in the air for greater effect.
Nat sighed, then slowly curled up against Clint’s side, her head tucked neatly against his arm and the back of the couch.
“I wanna not be in love with Bucky fucking Barnes,” she whispered. “I wanna not be in love, period. But life sucks sometimes, and we deal with it.”
He took another drink, heart thumping heavily. A small smile tugged at his mouth as he kissed the top of her head. “That’s really deep. You’re fucking trashed, aren’t you?”
“Shut the hell up,” Nat said as she burrowed her face into the material of Clint’s shirt.
Twenty minutes later, she was passed out. Clint wasn’t quite there yet, but he knew he’d get his ass reamed if he didn’t make it home by eleven (James wasn’t terribly strict about curfew, but Marcia had a way of making Clint feel like shit when he made her worry). He left Nat curled up under a blanket on the couch and started the eight-block walk home.
It was fairly warm for early February, but Clint still shivered in the cold, wishing he’d remembered his gloves. He wasn’t driving yet, probably wouldn’t until he was at least eighteen—not that it really mattered much, since Phil usually drove him around whenever he needed to—
Clint tipped his head back and swore up at the night sky, puffs of silver air swirling against his cheeks.
When he got home, all the lights were out; James and Marcia had obviously gone to bed early. On the kitchen counter was a note: Clint, there is ham for sandwiches in the fridge if you’re hungry. - M
He wasn’t all that hungry, but he stood with the refrigerator door open anyway, staring at its contents as he swayed slightly on his feet. He was glad the Wilsons were asleep; he never liked to be drunk in front of them, even though James had told him once that as long as Clint was “safe” about it, he wouldn’t say anything. Once Clint had gotten tipsy with Phil at the Coulsons’ family barbeque, and James had laughed and said, “Well, at least I know you’re in good hands.”
Thinking of Phil made Clint sigh and lay his forehead against the freezer door. There had been a deep ache in his chest for the last week, like Phil was already gone. Clint had seen him earlier that day at school, but it felt as if it’d been a thousand years.
“Fucking pathetic,” Clint mumbled, shutting the fridge. If he were a little more sober, he’d grab the bag of Doritos he knew Marcia kept in the pantry and go hide in his room until he passed out. But Clint was pretty well wasted and he knew it; he could always tell his level of drunkenness by how badly he needed to see Phil.
Good and wasted equaled climbing into Phil’s first floor bedroom window and crawling into bed with him. Sadly, Clint had done this more than a few times in the past, and Phil always humored him.
Someday Phil would probably start locking his window, but tonight it was unlocked as usual. Clint hadn’t even bothered to put on his coat, and he shivered as he tried to clamber through the window as quietly as possible. He bumped into Phil’s desk with his knee and swore, loudly.
The lump on the bed, buried under a fluff navy comforter, snuffled. “Barton?” Clint heard Phil’s deep, sleep-slurred voice say, “what the fuck?”
Clint hated how Phil’s voice sounded after he’d just woken up; it made Clint want things he could never have. “Sorry, sorry, I was—uh. Shit. Sorry. Can I just—?”
“Jesus, what time is it?” In the dim light from the street lamps outside, Clint saw him throw back the blankets and scoot toward the wall, making room in the bed.
“I don’t know, almost midnight?”
“You sound drunk. You were at Natasha’s, weren’t you.” It didn’t sound like a question.
“Sorry,” Clint said again as he kicked off his sneakers and burrowed under the comforter, tucking his cold hands against his chest. He caught a glimpse of bare skin, knew Phil was just in his boxers.
Phil huffed. “Is that all you do at her house? Just drink all the time?” Clint felt their legs bump against each other, Phil’s knee pushing gently against his. He sounded pissed, which didn’t make much sense.
“I don’t just drink over there. We talk and stuff. She’s cool.” Clint nuzzled his cheek against Phil’s spare pillow that smelled like him. “Kinda like how you and Pepper talk,” he added without thinking, his brain too fuzzy to correct himself.
Phil didn’t say anything, and soon Clint started to think he’d fallen back asleep. Then he felt two fingers tap softly against his chest, and Phil said, “Pepper and I don’t really talk anymore. She wasn’t interested in staying friends after we broke up.”
Clint frowned into the pillow. “Well, fuck her. Everyone deserves to be your friend, whether they’re in love with you or not.” He winced, thankful that the dark hid his stupid blush.
“I don’t think she was ever in love with me, to be honest,” Phil said with a quiet laugh that made Clint’s heart hurt.
“But—you loved her, right?”
The fingertips against his chest fell away as Phil sighed. “I don’t know. I thought I was? But it’s like—it’s hard to really tell if you’re in love, or just really respect someone, admire them. I think I had the two confused.”
Maybe that’s what this is, Clint thought. Maybe I’m not in love, I just respect the hell out of him.
He was mulling this over when Phil said, “Anyway, it’s for the best. She’s going to Stanford, it’s not like we’d be close or anything.”
“Distance doesn’t matter,” Clint said, because he wanted it to be true. He wanted to believe Phil would leave, go thousands of miles away, and still think about Clint, still text him after seeing a good movie or call him on his birthday. He had to believe it, because the alternative made him want to scream.
He’d had almost four good years made up of great foster parents and a best friend he’d do anything for. He wasn’t ready to give that up.
He felt Phil shift against him, until they were nearly chest to chest. “I mean, it kinda does,” Phil said in a whisper. “Opposite ends of the country is hard on a relationship. From what I’ve heard, anyway.”
Clint was drunk enough and heartsick enough to let himself blurt out, “I’ll come visit you.”
Phil laughed. “Duh, of course you will. I’ll pay for your bus ticket myself if I have to. I think you’d love Boston.” He knocked the back of his hand against Clint’s.
And for the first time in days, Clint grinned. He passed out with his fingers pressed to Phil’s, thinking how he’d love anywhere as long as Phil was there.
~~
After that night, Clint pretended that everything was as it should be, like it was creeping slowly toward the end of just another school year and nothing was going to change.
The only problem was that Phil was getting a little...weird. Not in a bad way, but in the way people get when they realize they need to start letting go of someone.
At least, that was the way Clint saw it. He couldn’t figure out any other reason for Phil to be irritated when Clint came back from an evening at Nat’s house (always sober—he didn’t want to risk embarrassing himself again by crawling into Phil’s bed), or to get an almost confused look on his face when he’d find Clint mowing the Wilsons' backyard on a Saturday afternoon.
The yard was huge and uneven, and Clint was only half done when he glanced over his shoulder and saw Phil standing at the edge of the patio.
“Hey!” Clint yelled over the roar of the mower. He waved to Phil, added, “Just a sec, lemme—” and shut the thing off, grabbing his discarded t-shirt from where he’d slung it over the mower handle. It was unfairly hot for early April, and Clint was already sweating like a pig. He swiped his shirt over his face with both hands, scrubbed it over his wet hair as he jogged back to Phil.
“What’s up?” he asked.
Phil shrugged, frowning slightly as Clint balled up the shirt and tossed it onto the picnic table. “Marcia’s making you hit the lawn early this year.”
Clint shrugged and stretched his arms over his head. “I guess. It’s rained a bunch, though, so the grass is growing like hell. I don’t mind. It’s nice to be outside again, y’know?”
“Yeah.” Phil’s eyes sort of skimmed over Clint’s bare shoulders, and then he looked away, squinting up at the sky. “When you’re done, you wanna play some ball?”
“Shit, I can’t. I told Nat I’d go with her to her cousin’s birthday party this afternoon. He’s like seven or something, she doesn’t want to be stuck alone with little kids the whole time.”
Phil rubbed at his neck. “Okay. Maybe we can watch a movie tonight?”
“Totally. You owe me a Transformers rewatch.”
“Jesus, I take it back. You’re not allowed to watch anything with me.”
“Whatever, you like it, don’t front. And who was it that saw Clash of the Titans twice in 3D?”
Phil grinned and shoved Clint. “Fuck you, I like mythology.”
“Yeah, that’s why,” Clint drawled as he shoved back, laughing as Phil blushed. No one knew Phil’s horrible taste in movies like Clint did; it was only rivaled by his equally terrible taste in reality TV.
“Fine, we can watching fucking Transformers, you little shit. Just text me when you’re done with Nat’s thing.”
“Will there be ice cream?” Clint asked, batting his eyelashes.
Phil rolled his eyes. “You bring the ice cream.”
“But your mom always gets the best kinds.”
“I’ll see what I can do. You ate the rest of that Cherry Garcia she bought for you.”
“I plead the fifth.”
“God, you’re such a spoiled brat, why do I put up with you?” Phil smirked and reached out to rumpled Clint’s sweat-damp hair.
Clint felt light and happy and warm in the spring sunshine, and he didn’t think twice about grabbing Phil’s wrist. Momentum caused Phil to lean closer, until Clint had Phil’s arm pressed up against his chest, thumb against his pulse. “You love me, c’mon, admit it,” he laughed.
A weird second passed between them where Phil blinked at Clint with a startled expression. He didn’t have to look down at Clint anymore; in the last year Clint had grown a good five inches, and he wasn’t really the skinny little kid who’d come home with the Wilsons' three and a half years ago. Clint could look Phil straight in the eyes, and he liked to think he was just as broad in the shoulders as Phil now, if not a little more—although the fact that Clint worked out in the school weight room just to make that a reality was something he’d take to the grave.
It didn’t explain why Phil looked...lost for a moment as he glanced down at Clint’s dirty, grass-stained hand closed around his wrist. Slowly, he pulled out of Clint’s grip and said, “I should let you get back to work before Marcia yells at me.”
Clint felt as if he’d said something wrong. Or maybe Phil was over letting Clint be so affectionate with him.
“Okay. See you tonight?” he asked awkwardly, rubbing his hands on his cargo shorts and making them more filthy.
Phil nodded, but he wouldn’t meet Clint’s eyes. “Definitely. Have fun with Nat.” He turned and jogged back to his house.
Clint went back to mowing, the light contentedness all but faded completely; he was reminded once again that no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, things were definitely changing.
~~
When Clint was twelve years old, his brother Barney talked him into stealing a car. Their foster parents at the time didn’t really care either way if the two of them ran off for days at a time, and eventually Barney had wanted to make some money. Clint remembered the night Barney had set his sights on an older model Jaguar, and how he’d shoved a crowbar into Clint’s hands and told him to get to work while Barney played lookout.
Clint had never broken into a car before; up until that point, he’d only picked locks. He hadn’t known the first thing to do, which had led to him busting the driver’s side window within ten minutes. The shattering glass had set off an alarm, and the two of them had taken off, Clint’s heart in his throat.
The cops had caught up with Clint three blocks away. Barney, however, was nowhere to be found.
That night had been the last time Clint had seen his brother. A month later he’d gotten transferred to the Wilsons, and Clint hadn’t asked whether or not Barney would be coming with him.
James and Marcia never asked Clint about Barney; he thought maybe that was on purpose. They also never asked about his parents, although it wasn’t like Clint could tell them a lot. He remembered being nine and the policeman telling him about the car accident, and the funeral that had consisted of Clint’s uncles making excuses about why he and Barney couldn’t come live with them. He didn’t miss his dad, or his drinking binges, but sometimes he missed his mom so much it hurt.
Most of the time, Clint didn’t think about his real family at all. He didn’t consider James and Marcia his mom and dad, but they were as close to something permanent in his life as he was going to get anytime soon.
~~
It wasn’t that Clint had never expected to see Barney again. He’d just never thought he’d see him outside a diner at ten o’clock on a Wednesday night.
His study group for Biology had just split up for the night; they basically used their “study sessions” to eat mountains of onion rings and talk about baseball and the latest Call of Duty. The project wasn’t due for another two weeks, so Clint wasn’t worried. They had Bruce Banner in their group, after all, and Bruce was a genius at that stuff.
“Later, Barton!” Steve Rogers called as he climbed into his dilapidated truck. “You sure you don’t want a ride home?”
“N’aw, I’m good. It’s just a fifteen minute walk, anyway.” Clint liked Steve a lot; he was an orphan, too, only instead of getting shuffled into the foster care system, he had a grandma to take care of him. They didn’t talk about their backgrounds much, but they had a silent admiration for one another. “We still on to watch the game on Saturday?”
“Absolutely!” Steve gave him a thumbs up before turning out of the parking lot. It felt good to have friends outside of Phil; well, maybe not good, but more like progress. Clint was proving to himself that he could survive without Phil around.
He was giving himself a virtual pat on the back when someone behind him drawled, “You’ve gotten tall.”
Clint almost tripped on the sidewalk, he startled so badly. He turned and came face to face with his brother, who didn’t look all that different from the last time Clint had seen him. He was taller, too, and there was a glint of something unsettling in his eyes that Clint didn’t like.
“I guess,” Clint replied with a weak laugh as he ran a hand through his hair. “Haven’t really measured myself lately.”
“Those rich foster parents must be treating you good, all these expensive clothes and shit.” Barney flicked his finger over the collar of Clint’s plaid button-down.
“They’re not rich. I just, uh, kinda outgrew my old stuff.” He still blushed; Marcia took him shopping every few months, told him he could pick out whatever he wanted within reason. Clint never took advantage of the generosity, never went into the really pricey places. But now, with Barney looking at him with smirking judgement, Clint felt like an asshole. Barney’s shirt was frayed at the edges, and his jeans were worn through the knees, dirty. He probably hadn’t had new clothes in years.
Barney huffed out a laugh, then yanked Clint into a rough hug. Clint stumbled a bit before putting his arms around him, heart thumping heavily. “Glad they’re takin’ care of you,” Barney mumbled into his hair. “Sorry it took me so long to get here.”
“‘s okay,” Clint mumbled, because he didn’t know what else to say. Was he supposed to ask if Barney was staying? Should he invite him back home? He couldn’t even imagine the look on the Wilsons' faces when Clint walked in the door with his felon brother at his side like nothing had ever happened.
“You’re what, a sophomore now?”
Clint nodded as Barney released him and took a step back. “I like my school.”
Barney smirked again like Clint had said something cute. “Yeah, well, high school’s overrated. I’ve got a better offer for you, anyway.”
His heart jerked. “I’m not dropping out, Barney.”
His brother waved a hand. “Whatever, you can take the GED later if you’re so worried about it. Dude, I got a guy waiting for us in Reno, okay. He’s got a job that’ll have at least a hundred grand payout—per person.”
Clint swallowed. “Reno...Nevada?” He’d never been outside Iowa, ever. Nevada might as well have been the surface of the fucking moon.
“They don’t have seasons there, it’s always, like, eighty degrees or some shit, that’s what living in the desert gets you. We can get a condo with a pool and a hot tub and have palm trees at Christmas.”
Clint liked having seasons; palm trees at Christmas sounded downright bizarre. He didn’t want to ask, but asked anyway, “What’s the job?”
“I dunno, something with an old rich bastard having too many cars. We lift a couple, get ‘em to my friend, and bam, we’re set for life.”
“You want me to steal cars again?” Clint hissed. He gave in to the urge to shove Barney. “What the actual fuck, d’you think I’m insane? After what happened last time?”
Barney rolled his eyes. “We were kids then, we didn’t know what the fuck we were doing. I’ve got experience now, bro, and from what I’ve heard, the security on these things is peanuts, we’ll be—”
Clint shoved him again, harder this time. “No,” he growled. “I have a life, now.”
“What, with your fake family? Jesus, Clint, you’re just gonna get passed along in another few months, anyway. That’s how the system works.”
“The Wilsons are different.” But it was a fear that lived in the back of his head constantly. James and Marcia hadn’t adopted him; there was nothing saying they couldn’t let him go to another family. Clint was sixteen; he had another two years before he’d be independent.
Barney snorted. “Sure they are. They buy you fancy shit and let you live in their fancy house, all so they can feel good about themselves. They’re not your family, kiddo, I am. I’m your blood, I’m the only one who can look out for you.”
So where were you the last three years? “You don’t know anything. I have friends here, I—”
“You can make new friends when you’re rich and living in your new pad in Nevada. Hell, I’ll buy you some friends, maybe even some who’ll suck your dick.”
Clint winced. “Fuck, Barney.”
“Have you even gotten laid yet? I bet you haven’t. I bet those squeaky-clean foster ‘rents of yours tell you all about love and waiting for the right person.”
“Shut the fuck up.” He was blushing again, furious at himself for letting Barney get to him. He wasn’t about to tell Barney he was still a virgin—not because of the Wilsons, but because Clint really was waiting for the right person like some pathetic kid in a Disney movie.
“Don’t you get it? You don’t have to live like this! You don’t have to have people telling you what to do all the time.”
“I’m happy here!” Clint yelled, a weird tightness in his throat. “Not that you’d know, since you fucking left me.”
“I thought you were right behind me!”
“Bullshit, you didn’t even look.”
“I came back, didn’t I?”
“To talk me into another job. Jesus Christ, I can’t—” Clint stopped, glanced up at the sky as he struggled for words.
Barney folded his arms across his chest. “It’s a girl, isn’t it? That what this is about? You’ve got a girlfriend?”
Clint laughed. If only it were that simple. “Not quite.” True, Nat would kick his ass if she thought Clint was even considering Barney’s offer, but it wasn’t her he was thinking about.
“Look.” Barney lowered his voice into a softer, coaxing tone; Clint remembered it from when they were kids. He’d always used that tone when he’d try to talk Clint into something he didn’t want to do. “I could’ve gone on to Reno without you, y’know. I could’ve taken all that money for myself and never looked back. But I’m here, I’m asking you to come with me. Okay, so I took three years to come back, sue me. I had a lot of shit going on. All that matters is that I’m here now, and I’m your older brother. I’m the only family you got, and that counts for something. Fuck, it counts for everything.” He took another step closer and laid both hands on Clint’s shoulders.
Clint shook his head, unable to back away, even though he wanted to. “Barn...”
“Tell you what. I got a couple more people in town I want to see before I take off. I’ll give you until tomorrow night to think it over, how’s that sound?” He smiled at Clint, gave his shoulder a squeeze, and for a moment Clint remembered the brother he’d idolized as a child, the brother who could do no wrong.
He knew he should tell Barney to move on, forget about him. Instead, Clint closed his eyes and whispered, “Okay.”
He felt a cool hand quickly pat his cheek. “Smart kid. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
When Clint finally opened his eyes, Barney was gone.
~~
He wasn’t expecting the lights to be out when he came home. There was a note on the kitchen counter saying that Marcia and James had gone to a friend’s house for drinks and would be back later; Marcia had signed it with a little heart at the end of her initial.
Clint’s hands were nearly shaking with too much emotion as he took a can of pop from the fridge and went out onto the patio without turning any lights on. Clint sat on top of the picnic table and looked out into the night sky. He thought about what it would be like to simply leave and not be tied to anything or anyone, but after awhile he started to feel dangerously close to tears. He wanted a cigarette, even though he’d quit smoking over a year ago.
He wondered what Phil would say about all this, if he’d chew Clint out for thinking about it, or tell him they’d work something out, he didn’t need Barney, anyway. It hit Clint rather suddenly that he needed to hear Phil tell him everything would be okay, that he wasn’t making a mistake by telling off the only family he had left.
Clint’s thoughts were interrupted by laughter coming from the Coulsons’ house next door. The door leading out onto the deck opened, and he saw Pepper Potts come outside, laughing and tugging Phil behind her.
“I think your dad might be a little drunk,” Pepper said as she leaned back against the deck railing. She let go of Phil’s hand, but Clint noticed he stayed very close to her.
“He always gets like that after one glass of wine. My dad: the lightest of the lightweights.”
“It’s adorable, actually. And hey, please tell them thanks again for inviting me over for dinner. They really didn’t need to.”
Phil shrugged with a sheepish grin. “They miss you being around,” he replied quietly. “And, y’know, so do I.”
Pepper sighed and laid a hand on Phil’s cheek. “I miss them, too. I’m...I’m sorry I’ve been giving you radio silence lately; with graduation coming up and Stanford and everything, I’ve been losing my mind.”
“I know the feeling.” He gave her such a sweet, gentle smile, Clint had to look away, his hand clenched against his knee.
“Please don’t take it personally, Phil. You know you mean the world to me—I consider you one of my best friends, you know that, right? And I’m so sorry if I hurt your feelings over the last few months.”
Phil shook his head. “C’mon, Pep, here’s nothing to apologize for.” Then he put his arms around her and hugged her close. Pepper sighed and laid her head on his shoulder as her eyes fluttered closed.
Clint had Phil’s words running through his head—She wasn’t interested in staying friends after we broke up—and he wanted yell up at them, tell Pepper to fuck off, she didn’t deserve to be Phil’s friend, or his girlfriend, or anything. But more than that, he wanted to punch something; there would never be a time when Phil would hug him like he was something precious, something he loved with all his heart.
“Hey, you two, get back in here for dessert!” he heard Phil’s dad, Kevin, yell from inside the house. Pepper laughed, and while Clint couldn’t see, he knew Phil was blushing.
“Most important part of the night,” Phil drawled as he let go of her. He swept his arm out, giving an exaggerated bow.
“Dessert is always important in the Coulson house,” Pepper said, which made Phil laugh and follow her back into the dining room.
Clint stayed outside on the picnic table long after they’d disappeared, knees curled up against his chest. Maybe Barney was right; maybe all Clint needed was family, his real family. Phil wouldn’t even remember him a year from now, anyway, and Clint was only torturing himself by hanging around waiting for something that would never happen.
“What are you expecting?” he muttered up at the stars. “That he’ll suddenly realize he’s been in love with you right before he leaves for fucking Harvard?”
He pictured the next two years: Phil would come home on holiday breaks, a big man on campus, with new friends and experiences that had nothing to do with Clint, who would still be in high school, still be the same. Phil would be polite about it, of course, but he’d start to make excuses why he couldn’t hang out with Clint anymore. Eventually he’d bring home a new girlfriend or boyfriend, and Clint would just be an afterthought, someone Phil would think of at the last minute as he’d leave the house and see Clint sitting on the front porch.
Eventually Clint wouldn’t matter anymore. He’d just be the foster kid Phil knew in high school, the one who liked to sing Journey and watched bad movies in Phil’s room. And that was if the Wilsons even chose to keep Clint for another two years; if Clint moved, it’d be even easier for Phil to forget him.
Clint thought about Nevada and easy money and Barney telling him, I’m the only family you got, and that counts for something.
He went upstairs to his room and started to pack.
~~
Packing was harder than Clint thought it would be; he couldn’t seem to get everything he wanted into one small duffel bag.
There was also the fact that everything he wanted to take with him linked back to the Wilsons or Phil: ticket stubs from the Cardinals game last summer with the Coulsons, when Phil had caught a fly ball and promptly handed it over to Clint; the purple scarf Marcia had knit him for his fourteenth birthday after covertly figuring out his favorite color; the burned copies of every single one of Phil’s White Stripes albums; the archery set James had bought for him as a Christmas gift.
And of course, there were the photos. Clint had lost count of how many pictures he’d kept hidden around his room of him and Phil, or sometimes even just Phil. His favorite was the one Marcia had taken of Phil on the evening of prom last year; she’d insisted Phil come over after he’d gotten fully dressed in his tux, and Clint had been stupidly happy that Pepper hadn’t arrived yet. The picture was of Phil standing in front of the staircase, making a fake-serious pout as he made a finger gun with both hands, pointing at something just out of sight; he’d been pointing at Clint, all because Clint had said Phil looked like James Bond.
In spite of his ridiculous pose, Phil was breathtakingly gorgeous in the photo, the broad lines of his shoulders on display along with his beautiful hands. His eyes looked especially blue, and there was a faint sunburn over the bridge of his nose from having stayed out in the sun the previous day playing basketball with Clint.
Clint rubbed his thumb over the edge of the photo. Would he be able to look at this once he got to Reno, knowing he would never see Phil again?
“Fuck it,” he whispered, folding the photo in half and sticking it in his wallet. He wasn’t that strong.
He knelt in the center of the room, surveying the neat piles he’d made in his attempt to sort out the things that would be coming with him, when he heard a familiar voice say, “What are you doing?”
Clint looked over his shoulder and found Phil standing in the doorway, frowning down at him. “I was...just...”
“You’re packing,” Phil said softly. “Are you going somewhere?”
Clint swallowed as he got to his feet. “I thought Pepper was at your house.”
“She left about ten minutes ago. Don’t change the subject.” Phil took a careful step into the room, a pinch above his eyes.
“I’m, uh. Sorting. Stuff.”
“Why is your duffel out?”
Fuck, he hadn’t expected this. Clint ducked his head. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Clint. Are you running away?”
He looked back up, eyes going wide. “Why would you say that?”
“Because it looks like you’re prepping for a long trip, and you haven’t said anything about James and Marcia going on vacation.” Phil hugged his arms to his chest, and his expression was one of devastating hurt. Clint didn’t even think it was possible for him to make Phil look like that. “Where are you running to?” he added in a whisper as he came closer.
Clint couldn’t hold Phil’s gaze any longer. He dropped down onto the edge of his bed and rubbed both hands over his face. If Barney were here, he’d tell Clint to lie, but Clint couldn’t lie to Phil.
“I saw Barney today,” he said into his cupped hands.
The bed dipped beside him, and Clint felt Phil’s knee bump against his. “Jesus,” Phil murmured. “How long’s it been since you’ve seen him?”
“Three, four years? He came back for me.” Clint lowered his hands, took a deep breath as he abruptly stood up and began pacing the room.
“Came back for you? What the hell does that mean?”
“He has a job, okay?” Clint blurted out. “Barney’s taking me to Reno for a job. We’re gonna make a ton of money and rent a condo and have a hot tub.” Saying it out loud didn’t make it seem like a better idea, but Clint wasn’t going to back down now.
He didn’t know what he expected Phil to say, but he definitely didn’t expect dead silence followed by Phil saying in a small voice, “So...you were just going to leave in the middle of the night? Without saying goodbye to anyone?”
“I don’t know!” Clint yelled, flailing his hands around. “I don’t fucking know, I didn’t think you’d show up like this, I just wanted to get my shit and—and—”
“And leave before you thought too hard about it. Before someone stopped you.”
“Look, what do you care? You’re gonna be gone in a few months anyway, it’s not like, like you’ll be around to notice I’m gone or anything!” The words flew out of Clint’s mouth before he could stop them, and he realized with a start that he was panting, his heart pounding in his throat.
If Clint had thought Phil had looked hurt before, it was nothing compared to the way his face sort of crumpled for a moment as if Clint had physically struck him. “Is that what you really think? That I could just forget about you like that?” he asked, and Clint hated how vulnerable he sounded.
“You don’t need to remember me,” Clint shot back, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. He felt like he was drowning somehow. “You have Harvard.”
“So I’m just supposed to be best friends with fucking Harvard now?” Phil said, only the tone of his voice abruptly changed, going sharp and angry as he got up from the bed and stalked toward Clint.
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I fucking don’t, Clint. I don’t understand why me going to college means you get to disappear without a trace and I never get to see you again. What about James and Marcia? Doesn’t anyone matter to you?”
“My family matters to me,” Clint said, trying to think of what Barney would say. He tipped his chin up, squared his shoulders, did everything he could not to let Phil see how ripped up he was inside.
Phil shook his head. “That’s your brother talking. You’ve told me enough about him, okay, I know what he put you through. Family doesn’t make their little brother steal a car, and they definitely don’t run and leave them behind.”
“You don’t know what it was like with the other foster parents. Barney was all I had, he helped me survive. He’s all I’ve got left.”
“Listen to yourself! You don’t owe him anything! You have a life here, you live with two people who care deeply about you, and you’ve got—you’ve got me.” Phil ducked his head. “And what about Natasha?”
“What about her?”
“You’re just going to leave your girlfriend without saying anything?”
Clint blinked. “She’s—Nat’s not my girlfriend. She never was.”
Phil’s head jerked up. “But—I thought—”
“Whatever, I’m not telling her. Not now, anyway. I dunno, I’ll call her when I get to Reno.”
That, somehow, earned him a hard shove. Clint stumbled back into his closet door, his back hitting the handle.
“Would you’ve called me if I hadn’t decided to come over here?” Phil demanded. They were nearly nose to nose now.
Clint closed his eyes and said, “I don’t know.” But he knew the truth; he never would’ve called Phil. It would’ve been too painful.
“You know they’ll go looking for you,” Phil said. “James and Marcia, they’ll go crazy trying to find you.”
Clint shrugged. “I’ll be one less thing for them to worry about. I’d just get transferred to another family soon, anyway.”
“How can you—fuck, Clint, Marcia once told my mom she hoped she and James could adopt you someday, but the red tape was holding them up. They fucking love you, okay, I thought you knew that. Barney’s family, but he’s using you. He doesn’t care about you.”
There was a roaring in Clint’s ears. “I’m not a kid anymore, Phil.”
“God, you think I don’t know that?” An odd blush flared across Phil’s cheeks.
“I don’t need you to lecture me, I can take care of myself. I’ve spent years doing it.”
“I know you can, that’s one of the things I—” He shoved a hand through his hair, his jaw clenched tight. “I also thought you knew how much your friendship means to me.”
“You have other friends. You have Pepper,” Clint said.
Phil replied softly, “You’re not Pepper,” and Clint shivered, wishing he weren’t so damn pathetic.
He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. “I know how this’ll work out, okay. I’m not dumb, I don’t expect you to be a college guy and still...care. About your old friends. Or about your stupid next door neighbor who watches Transformers too much. You want to act like you’ll still need me around, but you won’t, Phil. You won’t. And I get that.”
This close, Phil’s eyes looked very, very blue. Clint thought back to that first day they’d met and how, even then, he’d thought Phil Coulson’s eyes were the prettiest things ever.
I’ve been in love with you ever since, he thought. If only he could just turn it off, like a switch. If only life didn’t suck sometimes, like Nat said.
He watched, breath growing shallow, as those same beautiful blue eyes blinked slowly and flicked down to Clint’s mouth for a second. Then Phil said, “I don’t think you’re stupid. But if you think I’m going to stop needing you just because I happen to be thousands of miles of away, I might have to reconsider.”
Clint licked his lips, and oddly enough, Phil’s eyes tracked that as well. “But you said so yourself—distance matters.”
“I said that about long distance relationships. We’re not that.”
Clint winced. “I just meant—”
“I also told you that I’d put your ass on a bus to Boston myself if I had to.”
“You seriously want me out there with you at Harvard when there’ll be a million cooler people who’ll want you, who’ll have more in common with you than some orphan who stole cars when he was a kid?”
“There’ll be a million people there, but none of them will know I laugh at dog food commercials or that I’m a mean bastard when you first wake me up, or how much I really hate clear pop. None of them will know how to make me laugh when I’ve had a shitty day, or want to watch a marathon of Pawn Stars with me. How could I not want you out there, Clint? No one even comes close to being you.” Phil’s voice grew louder and louder, like he was angry, but Clint startled when he felt a hand grab his arm and shake him slightly.
“I thought you and Natasha—I don’t know what I thought, but that night you climbed into my bed drunk I realized that—that I was so fucking jealous of her. Maybe I’d been jealous for a while, I don’t know, but...”
Clint couldn’t breathe. “You...were jealous? Of Nat? Why?”
Phil didn’t let go of his arm, but his hand relaxed and slid down to circle Clint’s wrist. “I guess I just...deep down...I sort of always thought I’d—that I’d—” He grimaced and bit his lip. “It’s so fucking stupid, but I always thought I’d be your first kiss.” The last few words were barely above a whisper.
Funny how Clint had spent so many sleepless nights fantasizing about this very moment, knowing it would never happen. He almost reached down and pinched his arm, just to make sure everything was still real. The air in his room was suddenly too stuffy, and his skin felt too warm as he tried to figure out something to say to Phil that wasn’t oh God, please don’t be a figment of my imagination.
“Nat and I never kissed,” he finally replied.
Phil honestly looked shocked. “...Never?”
“No. I told you, she was never my girlfriend. She’s been in love with Bucky Barnes for, like, ever.”
“Did you...ever want to kiss her?”
Heat roared into Clint’s cheeks. “Not really. I’m—she’s known for a long time that I’m into someone else.”
That familiar pinch formed over Phil’s eyes. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, but like. He’s super fucking smart and got into Harvard, so I’ve, uh. Never really told him.” Clint didn’t think his heart could beat any faster without killing him. Fuck, he couldn’t take it back now. At least he knew if things fell apart after this, he always had Reno.
Clint leaned against the closet door, holding his breath as his hands shook, watching as Phil narrowed his eyes. He looked at Clint as if he’d never seen him before.
Please say something, Clint thought frantically, until he couldn’t take anymore of Phil’s wordless stare. He shut his eyes and said in rush, “Forget I ever said that, I didn’t mean it, seriously, let’s just move on and—”
Soft, warm hands cupped his cheeks, and then Clint was being kissed slow and sweet, just a bare pressure against his lips. Clint gasped and inadvertently parted his mouth, and he felt a tentative lick over his teeth.
It was a simple kiss, but Clint was shaking by the time Phil broke away and rested his forehead against Clint’s. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while now,” he whispered, both hands still cradling Clint’s jaw.
“I’ve wanted you to do that since the day I met you,” Clint said before he could stop himself.
Phil huffed out a laugh, leaning back to meet Clint’s eyes. “Seriously?”
“Well, sort of. Maybe I just wanted you to kiss me so you’d shut up about my smoking.”
“That sounds more like it,” Phil murmured as he brushed his thumb over the corner of Clint’s mouth. When he went back in for another try, Clint was ready for him.
He kept waiting for things to turn awkward, for his teeth to knock into Phil’s or for him to somehow turn his head the wrong way and mash their noses together. But as far as first kisses went, it couldn’t have been more perfect; Clint didn’t really know what to do with his hands, but eventually his left came to rest at Phil’s hip, which made Phil sigh and pressed closer, slant his mouth just so over Clint’s. He tasted like chocolate, and Clint wondered fleetingly if it was Phil’s favorite ice cream from dinner.
The thought led to Clint thinking of Phil’s family, and that led to thoughts of him being in Reno, alone and surrounded by palm trees. He tightened his hand against Phil’s side, his other sliding up Phil’s chest to grip his shirt and hold on.
The tone of the kiss changed abruptly. As if reading his thoughts, Phil gasped against Clint’s mouth, “Please don’t leave. Stay here. Stay for me.”
Clint whimpered and surged up to bite at Phil’s lips, needing to be closer, needing that connection. What had been soft and gentle turned messy and frantic, and soon Clint found himself caged against the closet door by Phil’s arms, their bodies lined up from chest to hip and oh fuck.
“Phil,” Clint groaned, shuddering as he felt a knee wedge between his legs. He wanted to be embarrassed for going so hard so quickly, but he couldn’t help himself, or the way he bucked against Phil’s leg almost unconsciously.
Phil was nuzzling over Clint’s neck, growling low in his throat when Clint arched into him. He scraped his teeth lightly over Clint’s flushed skin. “Promise me, Clint. God, promise me you won’t run away.” His voice broke on Clint’s name, and that in itself was almost too much.
“I c-can’t,” Clint gasped. His mind was such a blur of heat and want he was barely aware of how his hands had started pawing at Phil’s shirt, looking for skin.
Phil growled louder. “What do you mean, you can’t?”
“I mean, I—I can’t leave you.”
The tension immediately bled out of Phil’s body as he melted against Clint, kissing up his jaw to catch his mouth in another harsh, rough kiss. Clint could feel his lips begin to burn.
“When are the Wilsons getting back?” Phil panted.
Clint blinked at him hazily, all the blood from his brain now pulsing hard in his dick. “They said they were, uh, at a friend’s house for drinks. I have no idea.”
Phil pushed off the wall and left Clint slumped against the closet door. He went straight for the door to Clint’s room, which he shut and locked with a soft click.
“Don’t wanna take any chances,” he said with a sheepish grin. His cheeks were bright pink and his lips looked very wet.
Clint had to pressed a hand to the front of his jeans to keep from coming. “Um,” he replied, because it was all he could say in the face of possibly getting off with Phil. His duffel bag, the sorted piles of belongings—none of it mattered right now. Everything narrowed down to Phil watching him with dark eyes.
“You okay with this?” Phil asked, and Clint almost laughed, because seriously.
“Yeah.”
“You’re sure?”
“Jesus, Coulson, d’you interrogate Pepper like this?”
Phil gave a little smirk and whispered, “I wasn’t really in love with her, remember?”
It took a second for his meaning to sink in, and when it did, Clint’s knees almost gave out. He bit his lip, hissed, “Fuck,” under his breath, and launched himself at Phil, sending them both stumbling hard into the bedroom door.
“Wait, wait,” Phil gasped in between biting kisses as Clint yanked at his shirt.
“No, want you naked, c’mon.” Clint tried his hand at Phil’s growl. It seemed to work; Phil shivered and moaned before tangling his hands in Clint’s hair, holding him steady as he licked deep into Clint’s mouth.
“At least get on the bed,” Phil huffed, and it would’ve been funny, only Clint’s brain was trying to process Phil saying the words get on the bed out loud to him. He didn’t want to feel that same loss of Phil’s body heat, so Clint hooked his fingers into Phil’s belt loops and pulled him forward as Clint stumbled back until the back of his legs hit the mattress. Phil broke out of the kiss with messy smack and reached back with one hand to tug his shirt over his head.
Clint went utterly speechless at the sight of Phil standing shirtless and waiting for him. Not that he’d never seen Phil half-naked before, but this wasn’t a game of hoops in the Coulsons’ driveway. Phil was all lean, perfect muscle with a faint dusting of dark hair across his chest tapering down into the waistband of his shorts. Clint didn’t know where to look first.
“Your turn,” he heard Phil say, and the next thing Clint knew, Phil’s hands were attacking the buttons of his shirt, quick and efficient. Clint could only splay his hands low over Phil’s chest and hold his breath; he was so goddamn hard he was dizzy with it. He gasped when Phil finished with the last button and shoved his hands inside Clint’s shirt, pushing it down his arms to catch at his elbows. And then Clint was being tumbled down onto his bed, legs sprawled as Phil followed him down with intensity in his eyes.
“Christ,” Phil murmured, bracing one arm over Clint’s body as he leaned down to mouth at the muscles of Clint’s stomach. “It’s like I woke up one morning and you’d suddenly gotten hot. I don’t even know when that happened.”
“I’m—what?” Clint was past the point of coherent thought, let alone Phil telling him he was hot. He bit the inside of his lip and arched his body, one hand petting through Phil’s hair. He wasn’t going to come in his jeans, he wasn’t, not like this.
Phil, on the other hand, seemed perfectly fine with making Clint come in his jeans, if the way he flicked the top three buttons open and slowly rubbed the heel of his hand over Clint’s hard-on meant anything. Clint jerked against the bed and made an embarrassing whimpering sound.
“Sshh, I’ve got you,” Phil said, sliding up Clint’s body and kissing him almost sweetly. One hand cupped the back of his head while the other gently traced the outline of Clint’s cock. “Thought you would’ve at least done this with someone by now,” he added with a soft nip to Clint’s mouth.
Clint shut his eyes and moaned. He reached down blindly to press his hand over Phil’s. “Never let anyone touch me like this,” he breathed. “Because I wanted it to be you.”
“God, I—” Phil’s voice broke, and he buried his face against Clint’s shoulder, the pressure of his hand suddenly increasing. Though it was muffled, Clint thought he heard, “And you were just gonna leave without saying goodbye?”
“I’m sorry, fuck, I’m so fucking sorry, I didn’t know what else to do, I just—” His words were lost in another moan as Phil cupped and squeezed him relentlessly; he could feel the tell-tale shimmer of heat pooling in his stomach. “Fuck, stop, I’m gonna come, Phil—”
“I’ve got you, I’ll take care of you,” Phil said against Clint’s mouth, and that was all Clint needed to fly apart and come and come, hips spasming against Phil’s hand. He shivered, yelling until he was hoarse; he’d never been completely wrecked by an orgasm before, and experience or not, Clint had had a lot of orgasms in his life. But nothing compared to being kissed through the aftershocks with Phil’s hand cradling his head like Clint would break if he let go.
Clint was vaguely aware of clinging to Phil’s shoulders hard enough for his nails to dig into the skin, and when the overwhelming rush began to fade he smoothed his fingers over the bruises and panted, “Want you to come.”
Phil ducked his head, laughing breathlessly. “Um.”
Clint’s eyes went wide. He reached down, palmed the front of Phil’s shorts, which were damp. “Oh shit, did you really—”
“Shut up.” Phil kissed him again, a slow drag of his mouth over Clint’s, and oh hey, that was the kiss of someone in post-orgasmic bliss. “D’you even know what you sound like when you come?” he added softly.
Clint grinned all big and sloppy. He didn’t care that his jeans were a mess—he’d just made Phil Coulson come in his pants. “I’m guessing you liked it.”
“You could say that.”
“Luckily, unlike some people, I have a change of shorts.”
“What a coincidence, I know where to find a change of shorts, too. Third drawer down, on the right.”
“Fuck you, I’m not letting you steal my underwear. I didn’t even get to make you come.”
“You did, actually,” Phil said, nudging the tips of their noses together as he draped his arm across Clint’s chest.
He couldn’t keep up the banter after that. Clint swallowed hard and whispered, “I would’ve called you. Maybe not right away, but...I know I would have. At some point.”
Phil sighed. “Don’t let Barney treat you like you’re stupid. Just because he’s family doesn’t mean you get to ignore everyone else in the world who loves you.” He curled up against Clint, rested his chin on Clint’s chest and looked up at him with gorgeous blue eyes.
Clint traced a finger down Phil’s jaw. “Long-distance relationships don’t work.”
“We’re not a relationship.”
He sat up slightly, frowning. “But—”
Phil shook his head and pushed Clint gently back down onto the bed. “We’re us. You and me. We’re...more than that.” He gave Clint a lopsided smile, his mussed hair falling over his forehead.
Clint hooked an arm around Phil’s neck and kissed him, thinking maybe, honestly, things would be okay.
~~
Barney took the news that Clint was staying in Iowa better than Clint had expected.
“I knew it—it is a girl, isn’t it? You always were the romantic-type.”
Clint shrugged. “Not a girl, just...my best friend.”
“And they’re worth throwing away a once in a lifetime opportunity?”
“They’re worth trusting, Barn. Which is more than I can say about you.”
He blinked at that, then burst out laughing. “Well, aren’t you just a little shit,” Barney said, wrestling Clint around the shoulders into an awkward hug. “Fine, be that way. I’ll send you a postcard from Reno.”
“Sure.” Clint knew he’d never get anything. He might never even see Barney again after this.
“Stay out of trouble, kid.” He gave Clint one last tap on the shoulder, then walked away. Clint stood on sidewalk, shoulders hunched as he watched Barney turn the corner and disappear from sight.
In his pocket, Clint’s phone buzzed with a text. It was from Phil: How’d it go?
Clint took a deep breath and typed back, He’s gone. I’m still here.
He soon got back in reply, As it should be.
[epilogue]
Clint had decided between Ohio and Maryland that he hated taking the bus. Little kids screamed, old guys smelled, and teenage girls kept taking the seat next to him to flirt and talk about The Hunger Games. Clint had read the books, thanks, but he wasn’t about to discuss Katniss’s finer points with some ditz from Baltimore.
As he crossed the New York state line, Phil called him. He’d called him at every state, and Clint had pretended to be annoyed while biting back a stupid grin.
“Are you sure Boston even exists?” Clint moaned, banging his head lightly against the bus window.
“Where do you think I’ve been for the past six months?”
“I dunno, Miami? That’s actually a cool place to be, you know. It’s eighty degrees there right now. I wouldn’t even need a goddamn coat.”
“Right, sorry I forgot to get into schools in Southern Florida.”
“Apology accepted.” Clint slumped down further into his seat. “Marcia sent snickerdoodles for you. Said I was supposed to make sure you were eating right.”
He could hear Phil beaming on the other end of the line. “And how many are actually left?”
“Hey, screw you.”
“So, three?”
“A dozen. I’m not an asshole.” Clint wanted the next three hours to be over so badly he ached. He hadn’t seen Phil since Christmas, and that seemed like a million years ago instead of just two months. On Christmas Eve, Phil had presented Clint with a set of bus tickets and a whispered, “You promised, right?” Clint had proceeded to drag him upstairs to his room and kiss Phil breathless—among other things.
“Look, it’s just a few more hours,” Phil said in that weird, soothing way he had of reading Clint’s thoughts. “And when you get here, there’ll be a surprise waiting.”
It better be you naked, Clint thought with a tired smirk. “It’s gonna be almost midnight. I’ve been on a bus for twenty-three hours.”
“So take a nap. You’re going to want to stay up for this, trust me.” Phil sound almost giddy.
“Fine. I’ll nap for you.”
“Don’t sleep too much, don’t want you ending up in Maine.”
Clint doubted he’d even doze off. “Whatever, go mess with your surprise.” He hung up, grinning at his phone as he settled back against the seat and closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, the driver was calling out Harvard Square. Clint lurched out of his seat and bounded to the front of the bus, wide awake. The station was coming into view, and standing on the platform with his hands in the pockets of his jeans and bundled up in a black wool coat, was Phil.
For a crazy second, Clint felt like he was thirteen all over again, climbing out of the Wilsons’ minivan to find a tall, skinny guy with pretty blue eyes watching him from the house next door, like he’d been waiting for Clint to show up. And now, all these years later, Phil was still waiting for him.
The bus doors swooshed open, and Clint launched himself off the steps and straight at Phil, flinging both arms around him. He didn’t have his coat on, and the New England winter wind bit at his skin, but Clint didn’t care. He burrowed against Phil, breathed him in, and Phil held him just as tightly.
“Hey, hey,” Phil whispered when Clint sniffled against his shoulder with suspiciously damp eyes. “Thought you’d be happy to see me.”
“Shut up,” Clint mumbled, and kissed him.
They stayed like that until Clint started shivering. “C’mon, go get your bag before the bus leaves, you sap,” Phil drawled, although Clint noticed his own eyes were very bright. He reached down and threaded his fingers through Clint’s, giving his hand a squeeze.
“So what’s the big surprise?” Clint asked once he’d retrieved his coat and slung his duffel over his shoulder.
Phil waggled his eyebrows as he lead him toward the train station. “There’s a pint of Cherry Garcia waiting in my fridge for you. Oh, and uh—” He smiled sheepishly and rubbed at his neck. “—my suitemates are sort of throwing a party for you.”
Clint blinked. “For me? They don’t even know who the fuck I am!”
Phil’s cheeks grew very pink. “No, they do. I’ve been talking about you so much since the school year started, they figured they—and I quote—’might as well throw a decent shindig to welcome Coulson’s boyfriend to Harvard.’ In reality, they just like an excuse to party. They’re from California.”
“You...you talk about me?” Clint whispered.
“Stop looking so shocked.” But Phil had that familiar shy, earnest look about him that never failed to wrap around Clint’s heart and melt it a little more. “What the fuck else was I supposed to talk about with a couple of gay surfers from San Diego?”
Clint was running on about five hours of sleep. There was a distinct possibility he was slightly delirious. “I love you,” he said.
Phil stopped abruptly. He opened his mouth, shut it, then opened it again to laugh. He took Clint’s face in his hands and kissed him softly on the mouth. “I know,” he said quietly. “I just like hearing you say it out loud.”
“You could say it back, y’know.” Clint never thought he’d ever feel this blissfully happy. His hands were freezing and he was almost dead on his feet, but it was all perfect.
“I don’t need to. I got you ice cream and a keg. If that’s not true love, I don’t know what is.”
“So fucking romantic,” Clint mumbled, nipping possessively at Phil’s mouth and not caring who saw.
Phil’s voice dropped into the low, rumbling tone that made Clint’s mouth water. “Hey, I’m the best damn boyfriend around.”
Clint couldn’t argue with sound logic like that. After all, his boyfriend was a Harvard man.
end.