2.5% Cu

So. I have this now languishing Gandor Family claim on roads_diverged And one of my pieces for it is "Point Man" (for the Cosplay - Military theme) where Keith is attending West Point. I have always wanted to revisit that universe. I have also always wanted to write breathplay between Keith and Archer because hello, my smirky competent bastard weakness, let me show you it. AND NOW I CAN thanks to kink_bingo!

Warnings: Well...breathplay. In a rivalry context. There may also be a wall (or possibly the ground) involved. And some scratching. And insults. I am shameless in my rivalry kink.

~2,800 words


It's close enough to curfew that he should be heading back to the dorms. The library, thanks to some logic Keith thinks is intentionally designed to see how...creatively cadets apply the stealth techniques learned in certain classes, closes five minutes before curfew. Even at a sprint on a well-lit, non-icy night, Keith can't make it back to his room on time. And it's not a well-lit, non-icy night. He'd nearly slipped on some particularly stubborn patches of ice coming to the library, and now that the sun was down, and the temperature with it...well, he should have left the library ten minutes ago. Just to be safe.

But he can't afford to be safe right now. Archer's pulled ahead of him at midterms, and all right, nobody -- not his father, not Berga, not Luck -- will be disappointed in him if he graduates second in his class. Nobody except him. He's held the top spot for the past three years.

No way he's going to let that bastard beat him.

So he stays at the library longer than he should, because reading through Civil War battle strategies and making meticulous notes takes longer than it should. He's more comfortable reading English than speaking it -- at least he reads without an accent -- but he's never been a quick reader. Not like Luck.

Luck, who's in his first year at West Point and under Archer's chain of command. Keith shakes his head. No. He's getting distracted. Luck can look out for himself. And Archer's a competitive bastard, but he's an honest competitive bastard. Whatever his grudge with Keith, he won't take it out on Luck, and he won't use his authority over Luck to gain the upper hand in their class standing.

Archer, after all, wants to win the top spot on his own merits. Not Keith throwing a test to protect his baby brother. At least, Keith hopes that's the case. Because he's not sure he'd back down to spare Luck some torment. Gandors look out for their own, but not like that.

The library lights blink twice. Five minutes until closing. Keith sighs and finishes his sentence. He hasn't gotten far enough, but it will have to do. He's pretty sure he has enough to meet the minimum page count, and he's more eloquent on paper than he is in person. Because he doesn't write with an accent, either.

(If anything, he writes like Archer, his language elaborate and formal. But Keith doesn't like admitting that because he knows Archer -- and probably his instructors who come from the same background, old money and good breeding -- would just say he's compensating for being immigrant trash. And that it doesn't matter how pretty he sounds on paper, he's still trash, and nothing will ever change that. Keith knows they're wrong, knows that he, at least, understands the meaning of hard work and loyalty and what it means to be a soldier -- a man -- but he doesn't like thinking about those things.)

The librarian behind the desk gives him a startled look, like he's surprised a student's still in the library. Keith doesn't say anything as he hurries out. It's bitterly cold outside, and there's enough of a wind to make his eyes water. Keith's careful on the steps. The dusting of snow crunches under his boots, and yes, the icy patches are worse. He won't make it back to the dorms before curfew.

Well, he already knew that. And it's not like he's never snuck in. The tricks his father's friends had taught him serve him better than the so-called stealth techniques taught in class. No man of "good moral character" should know how to pick locks, so the classroom techniques may help one avoid the after-curfew patrols (unlikely, since they're made by the instructors of said classes), but they don't help one actually get back into a locked dormitory. Who wants to throw pebbles at a friend's window in the hope he'll sneak down and unlock the door?

There's a crunching sound behind him. It's not quite curfew yet, but it's close enough. Keith feels his shoulders tighten, and his pulse does jump a bit. He's not afraid, not exactly, but he's ready to fight, run, hold his ground...whatever the situation demands.

"Gandor," Archer says, stepping closer so Keith can actually see him now instead of recognize him by voice alone. Archer is eerily pale in the low light, but it's fitting for him. Keith remembers one of his talks with Jefferson, the blond's comment, "He's got ice water in his veins, that one," and yes. Archer looks entirely at home out here in the cold. He's not even shivering. And that, of course, makes Keith very aware of the fact he's fighting his own urge to shiver.

Keith straightens up. He and Archer are exactly the same height, and he will not willingly put himself in a position where Archer can look down on him.

Archer smirks at that. "It seems we both lingered a little too long at the library." He looks up as if using the thin sliver of the moon and the stars as a clock. "It's curfew."

"Yes." It's close enough, anyway.

"Well, then," Archer's tone is almost comradely, but Keith knows better than to believe it, "how do you propose we get back to our rooms without getting caught?" He falls into step beside Keith.

Keith shrugs. He doesn't want to pick the back door's lock now, not with Archer watching. And he doesn't trust Archer to stand watch. So, maybe he will be throwing pebbles at the window tonight. Jefferson will let him in, and it would be the choice Archer would expect from him. But that would mean involving Jefferson, and...Gandors look out for themselves and well as their own.

There's only the sound of their boots on the snow for a while. Keith does note, with a little too much pleasure, that Archer's just as careful with his footing. Bastard may seem at home in the cold, but he's just as vulnerable to a patch of ice as everyone else. Nature's not quite so deferential to thinks like breeding and diction.

"No ideas? I expected more of you."

Keith doesn't rise to the bait. He catches Archer's sidelong glance and the widening of his smirk.

"But I suppose there is only so much a piece of immigrant trash can do. Memorization seems the extent of your skills. Critical thought, forward thinking, strategy...those are all things that require --"

It's very easy to "accidentally" slip. It's also very easy to stumble sideways, right into Archer in the middle of a step, at the point where he's most off balance. It's not quite as easy to catch his footing as Archer goes down, but Keith manages without appearing too ungraceful. Archer goes down hard, Keith notices with a little too much pleasure, and on his tailbone.

He doesn't drop his books, which is surprising, but probably saved him a broken wrist. Because the way he landed, if he had tried to catch himself...well, Keith would probably feel a little guilty if he'd actually hurt Archer. Archer's a bastard, and Keith doesn't really like him, but if pressed, he would admit he likes Archer as a rival. At least he keeps Keith motivated.

"My apologies." He offers Archer a hand. "It seems walking is also something that requires good breeding."

Archer ignores his hand. "It seems so," he says coolly, dusting the snow from his pants. "Though you are not usually so clumsy."

Keith shrugs. "If it were intentional, the timing would demonstrate a certain amount of...strategy on my part."

He smiles at Archer's scowl. "So how do you propose we get back to our rooms without getting caught?"

They're getting close to the dorms now. The buildings are dark against the sky, the only light coming from the pair of lamps framing each entrance. He and Archer veer off the path to approach from the back at the same time.

There's a patrol coming. He and Archer hunker down in the bushes, and Keith doesn't like their positioning. Archer's behind him, his breath warm on the back of Keith's neck, and Keith's nerves are screaming that Archer's going to attack and he should run now before Archer gets a hand on him.

But all Archer does is breathe. And after about a minute of that, Keith's nerves are screaming something else. Something Keith decides to ignore. No, not just ignore, mentally rewrite into a desire to flee.

The patrol passes. They wait until the sound of the pair's footsteps fade. Then Archer shifts and rises up into a crouch, balancing himself with one hand on Keith's shoulder. His knees bump against Keith's back, and he manages to get a rather painful jab to Keith's kidney in -- entirely accidental, of course.

He squeezes Keith's shoulder, then lets go and stands. "It's clear."

Keith only trusts him because they'd both be caught otherwise.

They make it to the breezeway and their dorm's back door. Keith sets his bag down and peeks around the corner. The patrol really is going, and he's snuck out enough times to know that the next patrol won't come by for another hour. Unless he's stupid and makes enough noise to carry. The way the wind's blowing tonight, sound will carry clearly towards the patrol.

Archer's at his side. Keith's paying too much attention to their surroundings and not enough to Archer, because he's surprised when Archer grabs him. He's slammed against the wall hard enough that he can't help his grunt, and Archer's got one hand around his throat, the other on his right wrist, and he's got a thigh between Keith's legs so he's pinned rather effectively.

"You asked how I propose we get back to our rooms without getting caught?" Archer's breath is feather-light over Keith's cheeks, and Keith's not sure he can mentally rewrite all the conflicting reasons for his thudding pulse, the tremor at the base of his spine (that is both icy cold and brand iron hot at the same time, and he really wishes it would decide, because both sensations at the same time are doing funny things to the rest of his nerves), and his urge to fight.

He claws at Archer's throat. He wants to choke the bastard. But first he wants to make him bleed.

Archer leans in closer. "I propose," he squeezes Keith's throat, "that you pick the lock."

It's hard to breathe now. Keith's nails are blunt, but his fingers are strong, and he finally manages to dig in deep enough, even though Archer's increasing the pressure on his throat, and he's starting to see dots of red. So he can't trust his eyes, but he can trust his other senses. Like the tackiness on his fingers. Blood. Not much. But he's left a mark. And Archer is grimacing a bit.

"That's it?" Archer sneers, and he reaches up to bat Keith's hand away. "Pitiful. You really are trash."

He's losing, but he's not done. And Archer's shifted a bit to deal with Keith's ineffective attack. And his right hand is free now.

It takes most of his remaining strength, but he's got enough left for a good punch. It's square in Archer's stomach, and the bastard isn't expecting it. The "gak" he lets out is quite undignified for a man of such breeding, and he doesn't let up on Keith's throat, but he crumples just enough that Keith -- and oh, it's hard because now the edges of his vision are black and he needs air -- can push him away.

They both lose their footing. Archer lands hard enough that Keith feels the wind knocked from him. And he's dazed enough that he loses his grip on Keith's throat. Keith takes a shaky, burning breath, and that's all he has time for before Archer starts to recover. He almost bucks Keith off him.

Keith tries to ignore how lewdly he's straddling Archer. His own cock is starting to harden -- reflex, he tries to tell himself, his body confusing his desire to fight with actual desire -- and Archer's squirming beneath him to get the right purchase to throw him is...very nice friction. For both of them, Keith realizes with...well, not quite horror and not quite pleasure, either.

At least Archer can't call him on it. Glass houses and stones and however that saying goes.

Archer gets a hand on his hip. Then -- and now Keith is horrified -- he reaches between them and squeezes Keith's cock through his pants. And Keith fights the startled, strangled sound he makes, but it still slips out, and there's no denying it's a pleased sound.

It gives Archer the opening he needs to finally force Keith off him. They scuffle. And then Archer's the one straddling Keith. And he's just as hard as Keith, but he's not the one who made that sound. He gets both hands around Keith's throat, his thumbs pressing against Keith's windpipe so he coughs, eyes watering.

He gets a hand under Archer's chin, tries to push him away. His fingers are fanned out over Archer's lips, and Keith's now too aware of how...warm they are.

"You're a disgusting pervert." Archer...he licks the fingers.

Keith can't make a sound because he doesn't have any air. And then Archer...he's biting Keith's middle finger. Not hard. It's like...well the last time Keith was home, Berga had taken him out to one of the strip clubs they still weren't supposed to go to even though they were both old enough. And in the back room, one of the girls had...well, she used less teeth, and it was his cock in her mouth, but it sent the same snapping pleasure down his spine.

No. No fucking way Archer is getting that reaction from him. He lets his arm go limp, so his finger slip from Archer's mouth, and he's only dimly aware of the impact the back of his hand makes with the walkway, of how cold the bricks are.

"Is this what you do with Jefferson at night? Pansies. Neither of you are fit to be soldiers." Archer leans over him. He's panting, and Keith's sure he's convinced himself it's from exhaustion, not...perversion.

Archer's breath fans over his face, and Keith's struggling for breath, so he's painfully aware Archer can breathe while he can't. And he wants that breath. He reaches for Archer again, and...it's difficult to read the bastard's expression. His vision is blurry. Patchy. And his fingers are trembling on the back of Archer's neck, and he doesn't have the strength to force Archer's head closer.

But Archer indulges him. All he can see is Archer's face, flushed now, and his eyes are wide. Wanting. But Keith has nothing he can use. The flush will fade. His pupils will contract down to normal. His cock will soften. And he hasn't made any of those sounds he can't deny. So this moment...it's not real.

Archer's lip brush against his. "You're not even fit to be a man."

He can't speak. His chest is burning, and all he can hear is the hammering of his pulse. And his anger makes it worse. He claws at the back of Archer's neck, but it feels weak, even to him.

Archer eases up on this throat. Keith's gasping for air, so for a heartbeat he doesn't realize that...that Archer's breathing into him. And Archer's breath, it's warm, actually kinder on his lungs that the cold night air would be, as raw as they are right now. And...

And it's too much. His nerves are raw, too. He's writhing under Archer and it's all he can do to keep from coming because Archer is wrong. He won't let Archer have this.

Keith feels rather than hears Archer's whimper. A whimper so much like the sound he had made. And that...he loses it. He's coming, fingers digging into Archer's neck, and there's blood in his mouth. He's not sure if it's his or Archer's and it doesn't really matter because the way Archer's shuddering puts them on equal footing. Whatever this is, they both want it.

Archer draws back. There's a smear of blood on his lip. He wipes it away and rises unsteadily to his feet. There's...evidence of his weakness staining his groin, but Keith's no better off.

"Pick the lock." Archer turns his back to Keith.

Keith reaches into his pocket and pulls out the set of lock picks that will mean his expulsion if he's caught with them. His hands are steady as he picks the lock. He'll have to hide the picks away for a while. Archer won't turn him in tonight, but he is enough of a bastard to place an anonymous tip with school authorities. Especially now.