Clint was standing about 30 feet from his target, bow drawn and ready to fire with precision accuracy. He closed one eye, leveled up, and...
Suddenly, he was moving, quicker than sound and his body was being pressed against a thin fabric that shielded pale skin. He let out a squeak; the world was going by in a blur of colors that blended into a watercolor of space.
Then he realized he was being carried.
"Put me down!" he yelled, angry as the boy carrying him laughed.
"Am I going too fast, old man?" Pietro slowed and sat him down, giggling like a 4 year old the whole time.
"I was in the middle of target practice!" he barked, frowning, but his insides were churning at the mere thought that he had been THAT close to Pietro.
Dear lord, why did he just think that.
"You love it when I pick you up. And you adore when I show off."
"Do not."
"Do too!"
Clint huffed and began walking off as the image shifted. He had a weight in his hands. It was adorned in blue, with a splash of wintery silver at the top.
No.
Not this again.
He was choking suddenly, waterfalls falling down his cheeks as he fought to breathe and keep going. Gunshots, explosions, they were all silent under the deafening roar of his heartbeat. Everything was hyper-intensified; the light, the colors, the world. It all hurt.
But nothing hurt more than his chest, aching with the weight his arms were carrying.
"Can't you get up and show off how fast you can run, you idiot?" he whispered, and even that blew his ears out. Dust rained from the sky, and he was falling, falling, falling. His breath caught in his lungs as he felt himself smash into a black wall, and his inside deteriorated.
Pietro was gone.
Therefore, so was his world.
Clint sat up, panting and out of breath, sweat pouring from his chin and onto his shirt. Pietro jerked awake beside him, confused, shaking his hair out as he yawned. "You okay?" he muttered, sleep evident in his voice. "I heard you scream."
"I didn't scream," he muttered, annoyed. "What time is it?"
"I don't know, probably about 6," Pietro replied. "Do you have plans or something? Why did you scream?"
"Will you drop that?"
"Not until you tell me why."
"It's none of your business," Clint sighed as he got up and began walking across the rafters, walking quickly as to resist the urge to bury his face into the other's collarbone and get a hold of his breathing. Pietro stood as well, but he didn't follow, standing as still as possible, suddenly immobile. Clint looked back. "Are you gonna get down or what?"
"Maybe we can stay up here a little longer, yes?" the speedster gulped, glancing over the side of the railing and stepping away from it.
"Why? We have dinner soon," Clint frowned, walking forward effortlessly, unphased by whatever Pietro was. "Come on. It's only a couple hops."
"No, you do not understand. I am not hungry. I'll stay up here a little longer."
"Oh," Clint smirked, a deep chuckle building at the back of his throat. "I get it."
"What?"
"You're scared of heights," he said. "You weren't thinking earlier, when you took me up here, but now you can see how high up we are, and you're too scared to get down."
