"Have I already said you look amazing?" Clint sputtered out as he drove down the busy New York streets. Pietro smiled and glanced at himself in the side mirror. If he was perfectly honest with himself, Clint wasn't lying. He didn't look half bad at all.
"Yes, you have. Thank you," he replied, watching the city lights pass by. They sparkled in his eyes, gleaming off of them and setting them ablaze with fire.
Every time Pietro turned to Clint, the archer had a hard time focusing on the road and not his face.
They pulled up to the ball, a valet taking the car as they walked up the stairs. Pietro felt a sudden tug on his hand when he noticed Clint had stopped walking.
Something was wrong. He could sense it. Every hair on the back of his neck was standing up, the night was too cold and his hand was too sweaty in Pietro's. It took him a minute to realize the other was trying to snap him out of his freeze. He was standing as frigid as a pole in the middle of the steps, brown eyes scanning the problem area.
"What's wrong?" Pietro signed, remembering the basic sign language he had picked up from watching Clint and Natasha talk. The other just shook his head and began climbing again, but it was clear he was still on edge, his walk too stiff and his aura too tense.
They walked inside, and Clint was immediately at home. A lot of people believed that he was a solitary being, one of quiet and comfort, of small spaces and silent nights. Although all true, he also loved big events. It was a place where he could be invisible, a mergence with the crowd and a shadow hidden amongst the masses. Here, he had no pressure of being the only person who never missed. Here, he was just another person.
Here, he was just Clint Barton.
Pietro relaxed too, noting that Clint had dropped his guard a tad. He was visibly at ease, and that made him the same. If Clint was happy, he was happy.
"Biscuits, gentlemen?" A waiter passed and offered them snacks and a glass of champagne each. They accepted, nibbling and standing by a tall pole that stretched from the ceiling to the floor, intricate carvings shooting their way through the marble. Clint leaned against it, sipping his drink and feeling the bubbles tickle his nose.
"This is..." he started, thinking of how to finish. "Good. This is good."
"I agree," the other stated, watching as couples drifted about the room in elegant gowns and fancy suits. "It's awfully nice, being here with yo-" He turned back to face Clint, but he was gone.
Pietro frowned, blinking a couple times to make sure he was really gone. Where had he vanished to so fast? He searched the crowd, wine and cutlery shimmering against the pale cream light of the chandeliers.
Clint had, quite simply, disappeared.
Pietro ran around the place, looking for his boyfriend, before he finally spotted him standing by a potted plant as he poured a cup of champagne into it. He ran over, snatching the glass and spinning to face the other.
"What are you doing?" Pietro questioned, not necessarily angry, but definitely concerned.
"Nothing. Don't worry about it," Clint gave him that ever so charming smile and Pietro's fears almost instantly melted away. "Want to dance?"
"Uh," was all the runner could utter before he was swept off his feet and spun to the dance floor. He was soon wrapped in a tango with Clint, his feet gliding across the wooden floor. It was wonderful, the light shining off of his brown eyes, his face the picture of charisma. It felt as though Pietro was being swept away by gentle ocean waves, and Clint was the force that kept him afloat.
