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Phil leans over the small corner table so he can get a good whiff of his pumpkin spice latte, impatient for it too cool off enough so that he can safely take a sip. The chime of bells heralds another customer entering the coffee shop, and Phil looks up. He smiles as Clint grins and flicks a salute his way before heading over to the counter to order his own coffee.
Phil twists around in his seat so that he has an unobstructed sightline to his boyfriend. Clint is in the habit of leaning against the counter while he waits for his drink, trading snark-filled barbs with the sassy barista, and the shift in his posture pulls the loose fit of his jeans taut across his ass, which always makes for a good view.
But today Phil is brought up short by the not at all usual sweats Clint is sporting, the purple fabric stretching enticingly along Clint’s thighs, and the glittering pink letters emblazoned on the back that proclaim Clint’s ass JUICY.
Phil is still trying to decide if he's more confused or turned on by the time Clint walks up to the table and slides into the chair across from him. “What’s that look for?” Clint asks with a quirked eyebrow.
Phil's not proud to admit that he honest to God gapes for a few good seconds. “What—why are you—?” he mutters, his eyes raking down Clint’s body, obstructed as it is by the table.
“Hm? Oh, laundry day,” Clint says, waving a hand dismissively before dropping it down on top of Phil’s to squeeze his fingers.
The familiar touch has the kind of grounding effect that Phil isn’t willing to look too much into yet given the relative newness of their relationship. Grinning, he teases, “Ah, I see. You wait to break out the JUICY pants when everyone else would be reduced to booty shorts.”
Clint pauses in the act of blowing away the steam rising from his coffee to stick his tongue out at Phil. “They’re Darcy’s, numb nuts. She left ‘em in my room, so you know, finders keepers.”
Phil feels a sudden spike of jealousy deep in his gut and does his best to smile through it. “Do girls often leave their pants behind in your dorm room?”
Clint looks up from his coffee cup and rolls his eyes. Raising his hand up to grasp the back of Phil’s neck, he drags him forward until he's close enough to plant a firm kiss on his lips. Leaning back, he grins mischievously, “When they’re stupid enough to challenge me to strip darts? Then yes, yes they do.”
Phil’s answering laugh is perhaps a tad breathless, reeling as he is from the brief intimate contact, but if Clint didn’t notice then he certainly isn’t going to draw his attention to that fact.
---
Phil makes a point of dressing in layers the next time Clint invites him to his dorm to watch a movie. It's pleasantly cool outside and swelteringly hot indoors seeing as the radiators are too ancient to respond to temperature adjustments, so Phil doesn’t even need to make up an excuse for stripping off his hoodie and henley once inside, leaving him in a thin t-shirt. He shoves his henley under the crumpled sheets at the foot of Clint’s bed while Clint flips through his collection of DVDs. By the time he leaves for his own room, his body is so flushed from being pressed tight against Clint’s all night that Phil doesn’t even bother slipping his hoodie back on when he heads out, instead tying it around his waist.
Sneaking a pair of his jeans in amongst Clint’s messy drawer of them would be simple enough but far too obvious when Clint does spot them in there. But then Clint’s next laundry day finds him in one of Tony’s AC/DC shirts and low slung cargos that are even baggier than Clint’s usual brand of pants, so they must’ve been Bruce’s at some point. Envy mixes unpleasantly with a simmering rage in his stomach, and Phil smiles coolly while he plots.
Phil shows up at Clint’s dorm early for their next study date with a mostly empty backpack. He times it so that Clint’s just gotten back from the gym and is heading down the hall for the showers when Phil gets there. Phil spends his limited time alone in Clint’s room wisely and leaves with his bag now full to bursting.
---
Two weeks later, Clint shows up at the coffee shop in snug jeans and a tight henley with the sleeves pushed up to expose his forearms, and Phil is torn between the smug accomplishment of victory and the warm contentment of seeing Clint in his clothes. He elects to let them coexist without detriment.
Clint leans against the counter while he waits for Kate to fix his coffee, and Phil admires the ripple of muscles he can clearly make out under the gray fabric of his shirt. The jeans, already tapered close down Clint’s legs, practically mold around the curve of his ass. Phil hums in appreciation.
Clint ambles over to his table, coffee in hand and an exasperated look on his face. “Seriously, babe?” he asks as he flops down into his chair.
Phil tilts his head inquiringly. “Since when do you frown on me ogling you from afar?”
Clint shakes his head. “Ogle all you want. In fact, I encourage you to bump it up to ogling while up close and personal. But if you’re really all gung-ho for getting me into your clothes, you could stop making it so fucking impossible to swipe your team hoodie.”
Befuddled, Phil blinks down at the hoodie he’s wearing, the university’s name superimposed over a clipart soccer ball. “My hoodie?” When he looks back up, Clint’s gaze is fixed on his coffee cup, rolling it between his hands.
“Your name’s on the back,” Clint mumbles, shrugging awkwardly.
Phil, struck silent by the implications, can only sit and stare as a blush spreads high on Clint’s cheeks. Clint ducks his head down, and the waves of embarrassment rolling off of him drive Phil to lurch forward in his seat and peel his hoodie off. Holding it over the table in offering, he babbles, “I’m yours. It! It’s yours!”
Clint pulls the hoodie from his hands slowly, his teeth chewing on his bottom lip as the corners of his mouth twitch upward. “Pretty sure wearing your name around makes me yours,” Clint admits quietly.
“That too,” Phil agrees, grabbing his coffee cup and taking a shallow sip to hide his grin.