Clint and Steve
The party was in full swing and Clint was feeling kind of... blurry. Maybe that wasn't the best word for it, but it was the one Clint reached for first, because it sounded more serious than "tingly" and less serious than "highly aroused." The trouble was that neither of these terms were particular inaccurate, and, for the life of him, Clint couldn't figure out why.
It was not drunkenness. Clint was very familiar with the feeling of drunkenness, especially in the past couple of months, when he'd been indulging in twice his usual alcohol intake. This was... better. Lighter. Buzzier. It made him appreciate the shapes of the bodies around him more, and that was... nice. It gave him something to focus on other than how awful everything was and for that, at the very least, he was grateful.
And speaking of pleasantly shaped bodies, it was hard not to notice Steve. He'd caught a few glimpses of his "outfit" from across the room, but he hadn't gotten close enough to actually approach. Until now. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Clint knew that it was probably safer for both of them if he continued to keep his distance, but he ignored the instinct and approached him anyway, swinging an arm around his shoulder and using the momentum to turn him away from a cluster of be-feathered women who were bearing down on him.
"Your stylists have a mean sense of humor, huh?" Clint muttered, maybe a little too close to Steve's ear. "Don't ever let them dress you in nothing but ribbons. Things don't end well."