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“Dude, what the fuck are you doing?”
It’s Friday, and for once Archer and Luke aren’t out trying to get laid— Thirsty Thursday kicked their asses, and it’s all they can do to keep the buzz going while they sprawl out on the couch, the TV droning incessantly before them. Archer’s already half-asleep from the booze and the steady rhythm of Luke’s breathing, or was, at least, until.
“What?”
“Why are you touching my hair?”
Luke freezes, then chuckles, looking down at his hand, which until moments ago had indeed been stroking its way through Sterling’s hair absentmindedly. “Shit, sorry, man. I didn’t even realize.” He moves to pull back, unbothered as ever— but Archer reaches up, catching his wrist. “I mean, it’s a little queer, but.” He hesitates for a moment, less, continues, “You don’t have to stop."
“Yeah?” Luke asks, voice husky, and— and Archer knows that tone, that look in his eye, but he must be imagining things. He’s probably just had too much to drink, so he takes another and moves Luke’s hand back to his head, acquiescing. “Yeah. Feels nice.”
They stay like that for a while, Luke’s fingers combing steadily through Archer’s hair. The silence between them isn’t awkward in and of itself, per se, though there’s an uncharacteristic tension in the air that has Archer drinking like the bottom of his glass holds the secrets to the universe, or at least the answer to whatever the hell is going on here.
Then Luke’s hand strays lower, stroking over the back of Archer’s neck. Archer goes stock still with the glass halfway to his mouth but can’t bring himself to pull away, because damn it, it still feels good.
“Damn,” Luke says, shifting to set his drink down, though his other hand never strays from Archer’s skin. “You’re so tense.” There’s a pause, then: “D’you want me to give you a massage?”
Archer’s response sticks in his throat, torn somewhere between fuck yes, keep doing that and what the actual fuck. Luke seems to sense his hesitation, hastily adding, “I’m just saying, I’m awesome at them. You remember Rachel, that chick from last year?” (Archer doesn’t, but it doesn’t matter.) “She said my hands were like magic, man. C’mon, it’ll help you relax.”
Archer only ever relies on two things to help him relax (booze and sex— so, so obviously), but something about Luke’s tone, the insistence of his touch and the way his skin tingles beneath Luke’s fingers makes Archer sit up, squaring his shoulders. He tips his head from side to side as though stretching out his neck, trying to keep his response, demeanor casual. “Alright, man. Why not.”
Luke grins. He’s up and around the back of the couch before Archer quite knows what’s happened, hands warm and firm on Archer’s shoulders, the back of his neck. His touch is pretty damn near magical, Archer has to admit— finds himself digging his fingers into the arm of the couch, thinking danger zone, this is the opposite of relaxing, thinking why am I getting hard, I’m not getting hard, shut up, think of something else, anything else— Mother, Woodhouse, losing that lacrosse game, shut up—
And then Luke’s hands are stroking down his chest, along his stomach, and Archer’s not even sure when his shirt came unbuttoned, Luke’s fingers like fire across his skin. Still he doesn’t pull away, because he’s frozen, or insane, or maybe, fuck, maybe he wants this, wants the heat of Luke’s hand ghosting over his crotch, too close for comfort, (not close enough?), and finally, finally he makes himself move, fingers tight around Luke’s wrist once more, holding him there, demanding, “What the fuck? Are you— is this—” He stops, collects himself, disorientingly conscious of Luke’s breath on the back of his neck. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m getting an extremely gay vibe.”
“Jesus, dude, I’m not gay—”
Well, that’s a relief, Archer hardly has time to think, but, then…? “I—”
“—for other men!”
Archer’s head is spinning, and for once he doesn’t think it’s the beer, or the bourbon, but Luke is still talking, and— shit.
“I can’t really explain it. I mean, you know me, I’ve banged more hot chicks than I’ve had hot dinners, but.” Lucas stops, sighs. “There’s just something about you.”
“That makes you gay for me?”
Why is he still clinging to Luke’s wrist like a lifeline instead of pushing him the fuck away?
“Well, I don’t really like that word…”
“Well, sorry, I didn’t invent English!”
“It’s more like...a singular same-sex attraction.” And, shit, Archer gets that— hell, he’s looked in a mirror, I’d do me, but—
Luke has wrested his arm from Archer’s grip and is kneeling in front of him with an expression that can be described as nothing short of desperate; Archer’s mind, heart is racing, and he can’t stop looking at Luke’s lips, why can’t he stop looking at Luke’s lips—
—and he’s leaning in to kiss Luke before he can stop himself, doesn’t even realize what he’s doing until his fingers tangle in Luke’s hair, lips parting against his, wanting, inviting, and fuck making rational choices— it’s all Archer can do to remember how to breathe.
(Right, breathing, and he pulls back just enough to do exactly that; tries to clear his mind with a gasp that doesn’t help one bit as Luke murmurs against his lips, “I knew you’d come around,” kissing Archer again to shut him up before he can even begin to formulate a response.)
Luke fumbles at the zip of Archer’s pants as they kiss, somehow managing to get them undone in no time at all (because of course he’s as awesome at this as he is at everything else, because he’s Lucas goddamn Troy)—
—and, shit, what are they doing?
Archer pulls back like he’s been burned and Luke’s hands still and Archer wants, doesn’t want, doesn’t know what he wants. He’s at a loss, unsure where to even begin, but Luke places his fingers on Archer’s chin, holding him steady until he has nowhere else to look. “Hey. Listen,” and what else can Archer do?
“No one ever has to know,” Luke says and Archer nods, helpless, lets Luke kiss him senseless as he lifts his hips just enough for Luke to get his pants down. His lips curve into that mischievous grin Archer knows all too well, hands on his thighs, and then his mouth is sinking down around Archer’s cock, warm and wet and christ, so, so much better than any girl he’s ever had.
Archer tries to keep his hands at his sides, dug into the couch cushions; tries not to look at the head bobbing in his lap, though his success is short-lived. His cock hits the back of Luke’s throat and Archer curses, fingers tangling in his hair, awestruck as he gazes down at Luke. He wants to ask where he learned to do that, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to know. Instead he focuses on the rhythm of Luke’s mouth, on trying not to come too soon, on not thinking too much— a surprisingly difficult task, though Luke’s tongue curling beneath the head of his dick as wet heat envelops the rest of his length is blessedly, gloriously distracting.
Luke’s lips are shining when he pulls off minutes later and Archer can barely restrain himself. He wants to kiss him, wants to taste himself in Luke’s mouth, and he doesn’t know what to do with that; gazes at him hungrily, fingers still curled in his hair, only just resisting the urge to pull Luke back down between his legs when he begins to speak, voice wrecked.
“I don’t want you to come like this,” Luke tells Archer, fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, stroking up once and then dipping lower, sliding deliberately across his perineum. Archer’s hips lift off the couch once more with a whimper he’ll later deny, and at this point he doesn’t care how he comes as long as he does, and soon, but he can still feel Luke’s breath on his bare skin as Luke tells him how much better it can be, how good he can make Archer feel, and—
“Whoa, wait.”
Luke pauses, his hand stilling between Archer’s legs; Archer takes a shaky breath, steels himself, tries to remember how to speak.
He doesn’t know why it matters, but he has to ask. “I thought this was your first time with…” He can’t quite get the words out, and Luke finishes for him, “…with a guy?” Archer nods, and Luke’s fingers slip down to his entrance, teasing over, against him as his free hand comes up to wrap around Archer’s dick.
“Not my first time,” Luke clarifies. “But only because I wanted to make sure I knew what I was doing when I got you to say yes.”
“You planned this?” Archer demands, but it’s hard to be pissed when Luke’s hands are moving so sweetly, so relentlessly against him; even harder (phrasing) when Luke’s leaning in, murmuring, “I wanted to make it good for you,” because how can Archer say no to that?
Then Luke is taking Archer’s hand and leading him to the bedroom and this is so far past just getting off, just feeling good— this is him pushing Archer down on the bed, climbing over him to kiss him deeply, Luke’s clothed dick hard against Archer’s bare skin and still Archer is clutching at his arms, trying to get that much closer, desperate for everything Luke’s promised in a way he could never begin to explain, let alone bear to admit.
At least until they’re naked and Luke’s got two fingers buried in Archer’s ass, lube making the slide easier but no less intense, and Archer’s about six seconds from giving up. Sterling Archer has never given up on anything in his life, thank you very much, at least not without a frankly ridiculous amount of protest, but this, well. This is a lot. “Luke, fuck, I—”
And then Luke twists his wrist, presses deeper and Archer forgets his objections, forgets everything but Luke’s touch as he drops his head down and tries to catch his breath, rocking back against his fingers. It’s all he can do not to beg for more, but the noises he’s making are nothing short of obscene and he can practically hear the smirk in Luke’s voice as he murmurs, “You look so good like this,” fingers dragging torturously over Archer’s prostate with each thrust. He pauses just long enough to lean in, the tip of his cock leaving a streak of pre-come across Archer’s hip; Archer shudders with something that he tells himself is disgust, though it feels a hell of a lot closer to desire.
“You want more?” Luke asks, his teeth grazing the shell of Archer’s ear, the curve of his neck. “You want my cock?” and Archer turns his head (needing to see Luke’s eyes, wanting no such thing); he’s greeted by his lips instead, and by the time they break apart, Archer doesn’t know who the hell he is anymore, doesn’t know anything but the taste of Luke’s tongue in his mouth and a hollow sort of hunger that echoes in his gut. “Yes,” he manages, the word turning to a sob as Luke pulls his fingers out (too slow, not slow enough), pressing a kiss to the small of Archer’s back as he reaches for the lube once more.
It hurts like hell, but now that Archer knows, well— he’s never shied away from a bit of pain with his pleasure. He clutches at the sheets, reaches back to wrap a hand around Luke’s hip as he pushes in, and it’s worth every bit of discomfort for the moan that vibrates through Luke, through Archer, when he’s fully inside. “You feel—” and he pulls back to punctuate his words with a pointed thrust, “You feel just as good as I knew you would.”
“Jesus, Luke,” Archer begins; stops as another thrust sends sparks through him, a moan escaping his lips. “How long have you wanted this?”
“Since the day we met,” Lucas tells him, and that’s— Archer doesn’t say it, doesn’t even think it, shuts his eyes, breathes, presses back to meet his next thrust and savors the broken moan that trembles down to the tips of Luke’s fingers as they leave bruises along Archer’s hips.
Archer thinks he should probably be ashamed of how quickly he finds himself on the edge, but he knows Luke’s no better off— and with Luke’s cock filling him, hand on his dick, Archer can barely breathe, let alone stave off an orgasm that feels like it’s been months in the making. Luke is relentless, and the words spilling from his lips (everything he still wants to do to Archer, how incredible he feels, how much he’s wanted this) certainly don’t hurt. Archer knows he’s brilliant in bed, but he’s not immune to the praise, and when Luke’s hand falls away from Archer’s cock to grip his hips once again (thrusts stuttering, fingers tightening), his telltale groan is almost enough to make up for the loss of his touch. Archer reaches between his own legs as Luke stills, spills into him, breathing ragged, the heat of his body (around, inside Archer) overwhelming. It’s a matter of moments before Archer follows suit, making a mess of the sheets beneath him and a wrecked noise that sounds suspiciously like Luke’s name.
It’s only after Luke’s pulled out and collapsed beside him, breathless and boneless, that Archer manages to look him in the eye— and then only for a moment, though he tries, tries so hard to hold his gaze.
“Just to be clear…”
Luke looks at Archer.
Archer, who can feel Luke’s come trickling down his thighs.
He looks away.
He can’t help it— doesn’t know what the hell is wrong with him— knows exactly.
“This is never happening again.”
“Oh, shit, do that again,” Archer moans, fingers curling in the sheets.
Grinning, Luke obliges.
So “never again” turns into a weekend spent in bed, and by the time Monday rolls around, Archer isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to walk properly again. (He swings his feet over the edge of the bed to solid ground and winces, smirks, feels Luke’s hand tracing the curve of his spine and decidedly does not let himself think worth it.)
And that’s not the end of it, because of course it isn’t. It happens again, and again, and it’s awesome; Archer’s never been with someone who wants sex as much, as often as he does, and casual as it is, it’s never weird. They’d spent nearly every waking moment together before, and now, well. Now they’ve got basically no reason to ever be apart.
(Plus, Luke can do this thing with his tongue that he’s promised to teach Archer— if only Archer could stop getting distracted every time Luke demonstrates…)
Except…it does get weird. Archer thought he was over it, the snide comments about how inseparable they are, about how there must be something else going on between them, but now that there is something else, he’s constantly tugging at the top of his tactleneck to hide the hickeys, brushing off their early nights as private training sessions, as too much homework, as anything but the truth.
“Uh-huh,” Lana says, the third night in a row Archer declines to join the group at the bar, citing a headache (which, okay, even he’ll admit it’s a lame excuse). “I haven’t seen you pick up anyone in weeks. How have you gone this long without exploding? Unless…” She appraises him carefully, and it’s only a moment before her expression begins to shift, torn somewhere between disgust and pure, unadulterated delight. “…oh my god, you’re totally sleeping with Troy.”
She’s being sarcastic. Right? Right? Archer can’t tell, and he fumbles through about six versions of “God, Lana, you’re such an idiot,” before brushing past her and her stupid amused face.
He doesn't stop moving until he's back at his apartment, pouring out a drink that doesn't stop at two fingers, the burn in his throat not quite distracting enough to drown out the echo of Lana’s voice. I haven't seen you pick up anyone in weeks, and christ, when did he become this person?
That’s when he realizes— okay, admits— to himself— it has to stop.
Easier said than done, especially with Luke pinning him to the wall, lips on his neck. It's enough to make Archer wonder if they can save this talk until after they get off, but the friction of their hips sends an electric thrill down his spine, makes him shiver, shudder, wakes him up. He flips them so Luke’s back is to the wall instead, holding him in place with his hands, his hips, ignoring the way his self-control wavers at the latter. “Luke. Stop.”
“We knew we couldn’t keep this up forever,” Archer says when Luke finally goes still, fixing him with an expectant gaze. “If anybody finds out…”
“What? No one can stop us from being agents. And it’s not like they're gonna kick our asses, either. Between the two of us, we can take anyone who wants to try.”
He’s not wrong, but.
Archer switches tactics.
“Doesn’t matter. We can’t keep it up because I’m not gay.”
Luke laughs. Actually laughs. “Uh, paging Dr. Alfred Kinsey. You’re at least a three.”
“Fuck that, I’m a ten,” Archer responds without thinking— then stops, considers. “…oh. Wait.” He tries to come up with a response, something clever and biting— and settles for the simplest option instead. “Fuck you.”
Luke leans forward as best he can, breath ghosting over Archer’s lips as he murmurs, “You know, that can be arranged.” He’s grinning like the cat that caught the canary and Archer hates this, hates Luke, hates himself, surges forward to capture his lips in a bruising kiss that leaves them both panting. He pulls back just long enough to tell Luke, “This is the last time,” kisses him again because if he lets him speak it’ll be the end of everything; short-lived discipline, barely-contained self control be damned, he sinks to his knees with a silent vow to make Luke forget how to speak instead.
May as well make the last time count, he thinks.
(Thinks again, later— an ache in his jaw, bruises in places he didn't realize he'd been touched and a hunger in the pit of his stomach that's still not quite sated— may never be, for that matter, but he forces himself out of Luke’s bed before the sun is up, grabbing a bottle of whiskey from the nightstand on the way out.
It's empty by the time he gets to class.)
It’s not the last time, but it’s close. Archer distracts himself with Lana, with Cheryl, with countless townies and hookers; he gets better at resisting, or at least resisting being alone with Luke. It’s not a perfect system, but it’s all he’s got.
They’re still best friends, or at least they try to be, but nothing’s ever quite the same. They still get up to the same stupid shit as before, but Archer sees it now: the hunger in Luke’s gaze that has nothing to do with the girls they’re with, the way even the most innocent touches linger a moment too long, and it’s not just Luke, either. Archer catches himself staring more than once; looks away, but not always quickly enough, insisting the flush in his cheeks is from the booze (because there is always, always booze, because Archer can't remember the last time he made it through the day sober, and that’s just one more thing he refuses to examine too closely).
There’s also the time he’s got Lana on her knees, the wrong “L” on his tongue as she swallows around his cock. Archer bites his lip hard enough to draw blood to keep Luke’s name from slipping out, nearly choking on it when he comes.
He absolutely does not call Luke that night, hand between his legs; grateful when Luke says nothing at all about his breathless tone, talks him through it, bids him good night and hangs up like this is normal— and maybe it is, now.
(They’re a mess; then again, they never claimed to be anything but.)
Then comes graduation, Sterling (for once) genuinely happy for someone who, god forbid, is better than him at something. There’s enough champagne coursing through his veins that he’s almost feeling bold enough to reach over, grope Luke beneath the table, because he knows it’d drive him crazy, because what better way to reward his restraint than by giving in to the exact thing he’s been holding back from?
Until he’s got his glass raised in a toast, cheering Luke on—
—Luke, who’s going to work for ODIN, and the glass in Archer’s hand threatens to shatter.
(It’s his fault, he knows, inevitable from the first time he let Luke’s fingers dig into his shoulders, the last time Archer laced a hand through his hair and let Luke kiss him like he needed it to breathe, telling him all along that this would be over before it began, that this was never anything at all.)
His fault, but. Archer’s always had a talent for avoiding what he doesn’t want to think about, and between the countless distractions inherent with being the best damn secret agent in the world, he hardly has time to think (about what Luke’s absence means for the team, for him, for the him he can’t let himself be)—
And…that’s it.
Years pass.
Not a word, and Archer— doesn’t forget, exactly, but doesn’t dwell; deletes Luke’s number from his phone, learns to suppress the thrill (of anticipation, anxiety) each time they catch wind of a ODIN agent (on their tail, beating them to the punch, stealing the glory and the cash out from under ISIS)—
—and then Lucas motherfucking Troy appears on Malory’s agenda.
Item seven.
“He’s dead,” and, well.
That’s the beginning of another mess altogether.
(Classic Luke.)