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Clint's never been much for team sports or watching sports or really participating in sports outside of archery, but when he transfers to yet another school after a summer of being shipped around to temporary foster homes, he finds himself lingering after school. These days he pretends to do homework while he sits on the bleachers at the end of the football field, surreptitiously watching the goalie throughout soccer practice.
Clint hasn't really made any friends here, but he hasn't pissed anyone off either, so things could be worse. Phil Coulson, though—the cute goalie—smiles at him whenever they pass in the halls, and before practice starts, he always looks over the stands until he spots Clint and waves. Yesterday, Clint finally worked up the nerve to wave back, but the coach whistled just then and Phil was already turning to jog to the huddle when Clint managed to raise his arm, so he missed it.
Clint's determined that he's going to manage to wave and smile at Phil today. He's debating sticking around after practice, lurking near the locker room, to see if Phil wants to go get a milkshake. He's got plenty of excuses lined up to convince Phil: he needs some math tutoring, and Ms. Carter recommended Phil; his foster mom's worried that he's not meeting people, so he was wondering if Phil wouldn't mind if he told her he'd made a friend; he doesn't know his way around town and that new movie is coming out this weekend, and he'll pay if Phil'll show him where the theater is.
Okay, so it could use some work, but Clint's new to this whole socializing thing. He hunkers down with the bleacher seat digging awkwardly into his back and tries to read up on WWII and actually retain something today. They're practicing corner kick situations, though, and Phil's running back and forth in front of the goal, blocking shots left and right.
The muscles in Phil's legs bunch and flex as his shorts ride up his thighs, and Clint loses his train of thought on the events leading up to the outbreak of the war while his fingers curl into fists as he imagines running his hands over that tanned skin. A whistle sounds and the players pause briefly before moving back to some kind of starting positions on the coach's orders. Phil turns to the bleachers and catches sight of Clint.
Clint raises his arm to wave before he can chicken out again, but he stops with it halfway up as a shot of panic runs straight down to sit like a heavy stone in his stomach because Phil just caught him staring like a horny dog about to hump his leg, and that kind of dude-on-dude interest is usually frowned upon if not brutally beaten out of a kid. Clint hunches his shoulders, pulling his arm back, except then Phil flicks his wrist in a salute, and a smirk stretches across his face, crinkling his eyes.
Clint's history book clatters off his lap and through the slat in the bleachers, but Clint can't be bothered to care that his teacher's going to give him a nasty look for bending all the pages. Clint's blushing so hard he can feel the heat radiating from his cheeks. Without conscious thought, he raises his hand again to wave back, and Phil's smirk grows.
As soon as Phil's back is to him, his attention returning to practice, Clint slides down into the space between the seats, hiding his face between his knees. He'll never be able to talk to Phil now.
He waits for the coach to call the team over to talk to them, then Clint slips down to pick up his history book. He shoves it into his backpack and beats a quick retreat from the field. The whole walk home he keeps stopping to cover his face with his hands and wail in frustration. He can't believe he embarrassed himself like that. But then, maybe that smirk meant Phil’s interested? More likely it just meant Phil noticed Clint's interest and is going to use it against him. The soccer guys were probably all laughing over the dorky new gay kid by now.
Clint just hopes they won't try to jump him on the way to school tomorrow. He kicks at a stray rock on the sidewalk. Yeah, well, if they try anything, he'll give as good as he gets. Screw those jerks. And screw Phil. (Ah crap, don't think about screwing Phil.)
He stalks inside the house, slamming the door behind him. Aunt May calls out to ask what’s wrong, and Clint mumbles an apology on his way past the living room before taking the stairs three at a time and going to hide in his room.
---
The next day, Clint makes sure Peter leaves before him so that if he does get caught up in something out back at the dumpsters, at least he won't drag the kid down with him. He spots Phil leaning against his car at the edge of the juniors' parking lot and pulls up short. Phil glances over and pushes off the car, walking over to Clint with a faint smile.
"Morning, Clint," he says, stopping just in front of Clint, close enough that the tips of their shoes almost touch.
Clint can't do much more than gape since he didn't think anyone here knew his name other than the teachers with their roll lists, much less Phil Coulson.
"You left early yesterday," Phil continues.
Clint knows a blush is working its way across his cheeks again, and he desperately tries to get it under control 'cause Phil's right there and can definitely see it.
Phil's little smile flickers away for a moment, and Clint nearly jerks forward to poke Phil's belly to see if it'll bring the smile back.
Phil grins then and knocks his shoe against Clint's. "There's no practice today."
Clint's hand drifts up to pull at the dangling strap of his backpack, unsure if he's meant to respond or if Phil's just telling him so he won't end up out at the bleachers and actually have to do his homework, though he hopes he hasn't been that obvious. But Phil's standing here talking to him, so that's pretty much just wishful thinking.
"There's a diner a few blocks from here," Phil says. "A lot of us go there after school to grab a snack and study. I was thinking we could go together today. If you wanted."
Clint swallows nervously and shoves his hands into his pockets, but then that makes him look nervous, so he takes them back out. Clint clears his throat and chokes out, "Like--"
Before he can get any further, Phil jumps in, "Like a date."
The corner of Clint's mouth starts to twitch upwards, and he bites his lip to reign in the smile 'cause he knows what he looks like when he grins all dopey-like, and it's more ridiculous than cute. His words get caught in his throat, so he simply nods his head eagerly. Phil smiles brightly and moves to stand next to him as the first bell sounds.
They walk through the lot side-by-side, and Phil's hand brushes against Clint's every few steps. When they reach the stairs, Clint takes a deep breath before swinging his hand out to tangle their pinkies together. Phil laughs lowly and bumps into his shoulder, squeezing Clint's finger lightly. Clint, feeling as light as a leaf on the wind, opens his mouth and finally mutters, "Hi, Phil."