Chapter 6
The roar of the crowd still rings in Clint’s ears long after the performance ends. Even hours later, when he’s back behind the tents, sweat cooling on his skin and adrenaline simmering just beneath the surface, he can still hear it — the applause, the gasps, the energy of a thousand pairs of eyes locked onto him.
And he loves it.
He loves standing in the center of the ring, bow in hand, the spotlight casting long shadows. Loves the way anticipation coils in the air just before he lets an arrow fly, the brief hush before it strikes true. He’s even earned the circus some money; Duquesne says Clint will get his share eventually, once he’s a few years into running the gig. But more than that — more than the cheers, more than the exhilaration of nailing every shot — he loves the work that gets him there.
The hours spent drilling the same shot over and over until his muscles memorize the motion. The quiet, early mornings where he stands in front of a worn-out target, adjusting his stance under Chisholm’s watchful eye. The evenings spent sparring with Duquesne, learning how to control his footing, how to predict an opponent’s next move before they even think to make it.
And now, beyond all that, he’s picking up something else.
“Non, non — tu ne dois pas trop bouger ton poignet.”
Clint huffs, adjusting his grip on the small dagger Duquesne handed him. “Yeah, yeah, don’t move my wrist too much. I got it.”
“Then stop moving it too much,” Duquesne counters, exasperated, before switching to English. “Precision comes not just from strength, but from control. Do not rush.”
Clint exhales sharply but nods, focusing as he throws the dagger again. It spins through the air, embedding itself in the target, just slightly off-center. Not perfect. But better.
Duquesne makes a satisfied noise. “Better.”
A smirk tugs at Clint’s lips. “You’re just saying that ‘cause I actually listened.”
“For once, yes,” Duquesne muses before switching back to French. “Now, again.”
It started with simple phrases, words Duquesne muttered under his breath during training. Clint had picked up on them, repeating them back with teasing mimicry at first — until, without really thinking about it, he started understanding them. Now, Duquesne corrects his form and his grammar in the same breath, and Clint absorbs both with the same sharp-eyed focus.
The circus is becoming more than just a place to survive. It’s a place to grow.
And he’s not just learning from Duquesne.
Saul, the strongman, is built like a fortress, arms thick with muscle, hands that could snap a man in two. But he’s got a sharp eye and a quiet patience that makes him easy to be around.
Clint first notices how people talk to Saul — not just to him, but for him. They shout or over-enunciate, assuming he can’t understand. But Saul just reads their lips, responding before they can even finish fumbling their words.
Clint watches. Pays attention.
“You watch people’s mouths a lot,” Saul signs to him one day, fingers moving fluidly through the air. At Clint’s confused tilt of the head, he verbalizes it. His voice is soft, unthawed due to its scarce usage.
Clint shrugs. “Easier to figure out what they’re saying that way.”
Saul nods, appraising. “You’d be good at reading lips. Signing, too,” He spells out the letters A, S, and L; luckily, Clint’s picked up some of the alphabet during his stay at the circus.
Clint raises a brow. “You offering to teach me?”
Saul smirks. “If you can keep up.”
And so he does.
Days blur into weeks, and Clint’s picking up words — not just in French, but in ASL. Simple things at first. Hello. Good. Bad. Again. Faster. But then more complex ones. Practice. Strong. You’re doing it wrong — that one comes up a lot.
It clicks in a way he doesn’t expect. Maybe because he’s always been better at watching than listening. Maybe because language — whether it’s French, ASL, or the unspoken communication between fighters in a ring — is just another skill, another weapon to wield.
He throws himself into it, just like everything else.
But for all the things he’s learning, for all the ways he’s carving out a place for himself here, one thing still gnaws at him.
Barney.
They barely talk anymore. Not like before, when it was just the two of them against the world. Now, Barney spends his time elsewhere, running errands for the crew, avoiding Clint like looking at him too long might set something off.
The memory of their last fight — of Barney’s fist colliding with his jaw — lingers like a bruise. They haven’t talked about it. Haven’t apologized. Haven’t even acknowledged it happened.
And maybe that’s worse than the fight itself.
Clint tightens his grip on the bow, nocking an arrow. The target blurs ahead of him, but his mind is elsewhere. On the distance stretching between him and his brother. On the silence that neither of them seem willing to break.
He exhales.
And lets the arrow fly.
Clint is wiping the last of the sweat off his face with his shirt when he pushes open the flap to the sleeping tent, only to stop dead in his tracks.
Barney is crouched near Clint’s cot, his hand hovering over Clint’s pile of belongings. The dim lantern light casts sharp shadows over his face, making the furrow of his brow and the tight set of his jaw look even deeper. But Clint barely notices any of that. His eyes are locked on the object in Barney’s hand.
His bow.
Or — what’s left of it.
A splintered limb dangles from Barney’s grip, barely clinging to the frayed string. A sickening crack rings in Clint’s ears, though he doesn’t know if it’s just his imagination or the real sound of the bow snapping in two. His breath sticks in his throat, his heart pounding too fast.
“What—” His voice catches, then steadies with a sharp edge. “What the hell did you do?”
Barney flinches, just barely, before he squares his shoulders and rises to his feet. “It was already breaking,” He mutters. “Probably would’ve snapped the next time you fired an arrow.”
Clint strides forward before he even realizes it, yanking the broken bow from Barney’s hands. His fingers run over the jagged edge where the wood used to be whole. “Bullshit.”
Barney scoffs. “Oh, come on, Franny, it’s just a stupid bow.”
Clint’s fingers tighten. His knuckles go white. “No, it’s not.” His voice is low, steady in a way that makes Barney’s mouth pull into a sneer.
“No?” Barney tilts his head, stepping closer, his presence looming. “Then what is it, huh? Just another thing you love so damn much about this place? Another piece of this little life you’re building without me?”
Clint’s head jerks up. “What?”
“You heard me.” Barney’s voice is tight, shaking in a way that’s different from anger — like he’s trying to hold something back.
Clint’s breath comes sharp and fast, his fingers still gripping the ruined bow. “You’re the one pulling away, Barney. I keep trying — I keep trying to bring you in, but you don’t want any of it!”
Barney barks out a short, humorless laugh. “Because this was never supposed to be the plan! It was supposed to be us, just us.”
Clint’s stomach twists. He knows Barney means it, knows he’s telling the truth, but there’s something else underneath his words, something heavier that he won’t say out loud. Clint takes a step closer. “Then why won’t you just—”
Barney shakes his head, his jaw clenching. His fists tighten at his sides like he’s about to say something else, something real, but at the last second, he stops himself. He exhales sharply, turning away.
“Forget it.”
“No,” Clint snaps, grabbing his shoulder. “Say it.”
Barney shoves him back. “I said forget it, Franny.”
And then Clint is moving before he can stop himself, his frustration boiling over. He lunges, shoving Barney hard enough to send him stumbling back into a cot.
Barney snarls, regaining his footing. “You wanna go, then? Fine.”
Clint barely has time to throw the bow aside before Barney swings. The first punch clips Clint’s cheekbone, knocking him off balance, but he recovers quick, months of training with Duquesne night and day kicking in. He swings back, catching Barney in the ribs.
It’s not a graceful fight. It’s raw and clumsy, two brothers who know each other too well, who know where to hit and where it’ll hurt the most. Barney is stronger, but Clint is faster. Barney gets a good hook in, knocking Clint back, but Clint recovers, bracing himself.
Then Barney lands a solid punch — square in Clint’s jaw.
Pain explodes through Clint’s skull, the taste of copper blooming in his mouth. He stumbles back, vision swimming for a second before he catches himself. His breath heaves in and out, his hands still curled into fists, but Barney doesn’t go in for another hit.
He almost dares Barney to hit him again. Hell, he’s been getting hit with Barney’s words for longer now, he might as well become Barney’s personal punching bag. But he doesn’t, and Barney doesn’t go for another swing, either. He can’t explain the blooming disappointment that takes root within him.
Barney just stands there, chest rising and falling, his face twisted in something unreadable. He looks at Clint like he wants to say something — like he almost does — but instead, he just shakes his head.
And then he turns and walks away.
Clint stands there, his jaw throbbing, his hands shaking. His eyes drop to the broken bow lying on the floor between them. The last piece of something he thought he could hold onto.
He doesn’t look up when Barney disappears into the night.