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Clint flips through the hangers on the rack, eyeing the suit jackets uncertainly. He has no idea what he’s supposed to be looking for, but whatever it is, he doesn’t want to find it in this store. He flipped the first few tags over to check out the prices, but they were all way too much. And that was just for the jacket. Then there was the pants and the dress shirt and the damn tie.
With a frustrated huff, he turns to his foster mom. “I really don’t need a suit, Aunt May,” he insists for the billionth and one time.
Aunt May calmly pulls a dark grey jacket from the rack and walks over to hold it up against Clint’s chest. “It’s your prom, dear. And you have a boyfriend, so that’s a guaranteed date. Of course you need a suit.”
Peter, lurking over by the table of ties, snickers into his hand. He can hardly get mad and glare at Aunt May, but Peter’s fair game.
“This one’s a maybe,” Aunt May declares. “Go pick out your shirt and tie first, though. We need to make sure the colors look good together.” Patting his cheek, she nudges him over in Peter’s direction and wanders off to look at more jackets.
Peter sidles up next to him and starts poking him in the side. “So, has Phil asked you yet?”
Clint flicks petulantly at a hideous paisley tie. “No. Which is why this is stupid. It’s just a waste of Aunt May’s money.”
Peter snorts. “Even if it’s just as an excuse to get you to dress up for once? He’s gonna ask you.”
“I’m not worth all this trouble,” Clint mutters forlornly to the ties.
“Hey, no, don’t say crap like that. You’re awesome.” Peter punches him in the arm, but the kid’s so scrawny, Clint barely feels it. “’Sides,” he continues with a smirk, “You want Aunt May to give you another lecture about making memories and living up to your potential?”
Clint can feel a blush spreading across his face. He turns away from Peter and goes to look at the neatly folded shirts instead. Peter, of course, follows right on his heels.
“So are you guys gonna get a motel room and do it after?” Peter asks.
“The hell, Petey?” Clint scoffs. “This isn’t some 90’s romcom. And no one says do it anymore.”
Peter shrugs. “Whatever. Are you?”
Clint takes up a sudden interest in the collared shirts. “Probably,” he replies after a moment, casual as can be. “It’s not like we haven’t fucked before, numbnuts.”
“Seriously!?” Peter hisses, rounding on Clint and ducking down so he can look him in the eyes to see if he’s lying.
Clint looks away, flustered and probably blushing up a storm. “Well, it was just the one time. And it was more like a lot of fooling around than really fucking,” he clarifies, bringing up a hand to scratch at his nose and try to hide his face. “But we got each other off, so it totally counts!”
Peter bounces back with a wide grin. “You guys are totally gonna do it.”
“Shut up!” Cheeks hot, Clint shoves at Peter’s shoulder and nearly knocks him over. Peter just laughs, and with a sigh, Clint wraps his arm around his neck and pulls Peter towards him, his hand reaching up to ruffle his hair in a poor imitation of a noogie.
---
A little over a week until prom, Phil still hasn’t brought up the topic. So Clint, being the mature almost-adult that he’s sure he will one day become, takes the plunge and works their lunchtime conversation around to it himself.
“Prom’s next Saturday,” he mumbles into his lumpy mashed potatoes.
“Yeah,” Phil agrees. “Kind of hard to miss all the tentacle porn posters.”
Clint snickers into his hand. “I think it was meant to be some kind of Under the Sea theme? They did go a little heavy on the tentacles, though.”
“No, that is the theme. It’s called “Octopus Garden” in the catalog,” Phil says, his smile widening despite the way he bites his lip to try and hold it back.
Clint huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. “Pull the other one.”
“Oscar the Octopus is supposedly the big showstopper,” Phil continues. “His legs are a bunch of balloons.”
“Think we can sneak in a harpoon and pose like it’s about to attack?” Clint asks with a grin.
Phil’s smile drops abruptly and his brows furrow together. “Did you want to—because I figured that wasn’t really your thing—”
Something cold settles low and heavy in his stomach, but Clint keeps his grin in place and lifts a hand to scruff at the back of his head. “Nah, the hell would I wanna do that?” he scoffs, trying to play it off. “The only ones who like prom are those girls who go then ignore their dates to dance with all their friends to crap music.”
“Right.” Phil draws the word out, his mouth turned down in a frown.
“Seriously, Phil. It was a joke.” Clint tears off a piece of his roll and tosses it at Phil. It hits him square in the forehead and bounces down into the congealing gravy of his Salisbury steak. “I’m gonna sneak into the gym to check out Oscar, though. Maybe pop a few tentacle-balloons.”
Phil rolls his eyes and flicks the bread off his tray and onto the plastic table. He redirects the conversation back to their usual banter, but Clint doesn’t fall into it with his usual ease. At least he hadn’t worn the suit Aunt May bought yet, he thinks. He should be able to return it and get her money back, no problem.
---
Clint waves off Phil’s invite to go share a milkshake after school with a stammered excuse about having to switch up his practice times at the archery range. When the bell rings at the end of the day, he hangs back in his calc class so he won’t run into Phil in the hall and be stupidly awkward and let on that he lied to Phil.
Once the hall is mostly cleared, he heads toward the back entrance near the gym just in case Phil is still in the junior parking lot. There are the usual jocks lurking around the steps, but Clint only knows a few of the guys on the soccer team with Phil, so nobody tries to stop him and make small talk.
He’s coming up on the dumpsters when he catches the distinct sound of a body being shoved against hollow metal. His footsteps stutter to a stop, and his hands ball up into tight fists at the jeering taunts that follow.
“No boyfriend to hide behind today?”
“Guy’s only gonna wait so long for you to put out before he dumps your scrawny ass.”
“Is he going to take you to prom? Got your dress all picked out? You’ll be the prettiest fag there.”
Clint doesn’t recognize any of the bullies by their voices. But there are at least three of them around the corner, and given that Clint is built more stocky than tall and beefy, they’re probably bigger than him. Clint’s faced way worse odds for things less important than helping a kid getting pushed around by assholes, though, so he shrugs his bag from his shoulder in case he needs to use it to fight the guys off and steps out from behind the dumpster.
He keeps his eyes on the bullies—only the three, Clint can handle three—and slides in front of the guy against the dumpster, keeping him safe behind his back. “Back off,” he growls.
The ringleader, a football jock judging by his jacket, steps forward and opens his mouth, his lips turned down in a sneer.
Clint breaks in before he can speak. “I’m gonna stop you before you say something that’s gonna end with my fist knocking your teeth loose, ‘cause that’d be bullying and I’d hate to be compared to you.” Clint moves up into the guy’s space, his chest out and his arms flexed with his best you-don’t-wanna-start-shit-with-me glower in place despite having to tilt his head back to meet the guy’s eyes. “Turn around and leave.”
None of them look like they’re ready to back down, and Clint shifts his weight subtly and tightens his grip on the strap of his bag. But luck is on his side as the school doors bang open and two coaches walk out, calling for the players to hit the field.
Mr. Macho scoffs as his buddies turn to head to practice and lifts his arms to shove at Clint’s chest, but while Clint’s torso sways back a bit, he doesn’t let his feet budge. With a scowl, Mr. Macho heads after the others, and Clint waits until they’re out of sight to turn around, asking, “You okay, man?”
And then he drops his bag and gapes in open confusion because huddled in the corner made by the dumpster and the back of the school is Phil, with his shoulders hunched and his arms crossed over his chest defensively.
“Phil? What—why are—?”
Phil’s eyes flick up to Clint before quickly dropping back down to the ground. “You didn’t even know it was me, did you?” he asks with an embarrassed laugh.
Clint reaches out to pull Phil to him and hold him tight, but Phil’s still hunched over like Clint was that one time he got sucker punched and ended up with a cracked rib, and Clint feels panic pool in his gut as he grabs Phil’s head to get him to look him in the eye. “Did they hurt you? Babe, what’s wrong?”
Phil pushes him off and gives him a wry half-smile. “I’m fine. You rode in like Shrek and his faithful steed before they could do anything.”
Clint’s hands itch to reach out again, but he keeps them by his sides and cracks a weak grin. “Yeah, I know I’m awesome. No need to rub it in.”
Phil tries to hold in his laugh and it comes out as a snort instead. “And so modest,” he teases. He bends down to pick up his bag at his feet and straightens back up with a frown. “I really am fine. You’re going to be late to practice if you don’t get going.”
“No—it’s—that doesn’t matter,” Clint fumbles. “Wait—are they why you don’t wanna go to prom?”
A faint blush spreads over the tops of Phil’s cheeks as he shrugs. “It’s not like you wanted to go anyway.”
Clint tries to work out how to word all the feelings that are jumbled up and stuck in his throat, but all that comes out is some kind of strangled moose cry. Phil presses his lips together, his shoulders shaking in laughter, and with a mock-glare, Clint crowds Phil back into the dumpster and kisses him.
Clint pulls back when he hears chattering voices getting closer. “Screw those jackasses,” he says. “We’re going to prom.”
Phil pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and raises his eyebrows as if to say Really?
“Really, really,” Clint assures. “I’ll even wear the dress. I bet I’d look fucking fab in some purple polyester.”
Phil smashes their mouths together again, but it does nothing to smother his happy laugh.