Keeping Luke from Drowning

Luke's hand – right there on his jaw line, thumb stroking across his lips with a thoughtful sort of a sweep – shakes. A kiss follows after the brush of the thumb, but it's no stronger than the hand.

Gentle. Luke's fighting to be gentle, the behavior that got thrashed into him with the strap, never harder than after he'd hurt Bo. A bump rising up under blonde hair meant red welts on Luke's backside and legs, and somehow, this was meant to teach him how to control his temper. Damn it all, Jesse was one of the wisest men he ever met, and Bo loved him more than the sun that warmed the earth, but he never really understood the logic behind what he did when it came to Luke.

Whipped into Luke's body and soul: never supposed to hurt anyone smaller, weaker, already injured or sick. But Bo's not a single one of those things. That shaking hand that cups his cheek has forgotten that eventually those stumbling little legs surpassed Luke's in length, that his shoulders grew broad enough to bear weight. Nervous fingers worrying over marks they'll leave behind, but Bo's skin is not fragile, won't break if Luke touches it with the whole of his hand instead of restricting himself to lightly sweeping fingertips.

A shove against Luke's shoulder, he starts there. Doesn't give up against the strength and resistance in those tight muscles, just keeps on pushing. Knee up, quick movement, and they roll. Boxes slide and thump as they get banged into, but there's no real damage done, nothing crashes, clangs or shatters. Catching one wrist as Luke's looking around to see what they hit, he pins that arm against the floorboard. Uses his other hand to tap the floor three times and, "I win!" he pants out.

Struggle underneath him, the unfairness of the game protested and fought against in the way Luke pushes up on him, that free hand of his shoving at Bo's shoulder. Bo fights against it with all of his strength, then suddenly gives. The momentum of the resulting roll is greater than Luke expects, allowing him to push for a full three-sixty and wind up on top again. More boxes get nudged toward the corners of the room, but that's just as well – they need to get out of the way of two wrestling Duke boys.

"That's two," he announces when he comes up with the upper hand again. Technically it's nothing of the sort, Luke's not pinned by any means, but that body under his doesn't bother with arguments. There it is, finally, the full strength of Luke flipping him over. Powerful, corded muscles of his back stand out under where Bo's fingers cling onto him, hard, round shoulders above him, sweat glowing in the firelight. Reminds Bo of sunburned afternoons of shirtless farm work.

He pulls Luke to him then, kissing in equal pressure to the hands holding his shoulders down onto the floor beneath them. Reckless want and need there, because twice already since the time Bo asked, since they shucked their jeans, he's figured Luke to be ready, and twice it's somehow come down to a struggle to be gentle and careful. Two things Duke boys are not, and two things sex should never be. Fingers of one hand explore the length of Luke's back, over the curve of muscle to nestle in the hollow down low, then finally lower, until they're kneading there at that perfect curve of a backside. Meanwhile his right hand's up over his head, where he spotted the bottle of oil during their last tumble. The kiss, though, that's the most important thing to hold onto through it all.

Plastic, spinning, skidding away from his fingers, and there's a laugh right there into his lips. Of course there is, and he should have expected it, because even when kisses are powerful enough to make Bo's head whirl with vertigo, Luke never closes his eyes. The man can make out and watch Bo flail around after a runaway bottle at the same time, and that's just wrong.

Wrestling again, hand off Luke's backside and shoving against his shoulder. An attempt to roll them one more time, effort to get to that forgetful place where caution doesn't exist and vision isn't necessary. Luke fights him back, seems to like the position they've found, and that's good to know. They'll come back here.

First, though, he shoves and nudges and wiggles, and if they don't exactly roll, there's enough of a slip and slide, a laugh and a bumped elbow, floor-burn on Luke's knees.

"You're making this," Luke puffs into his ear, "much harder than it has to be."

Look who's talking.

But he doesn't say that, just uses his neck muscles to pull up off the floor, lets his lips find Luke's. He feels that same hand that was shaking earlier come into his hair, holding his head up with all its strength. Then, finally, when he doesn't have to fight against the resistance of Luke above him or gravity below, he manages to grab the bottle of mineral oil. A little laugh of victory, then Luke's wrestling him down again.

The bottle, it turns out, is the prize that the grappling man above him wants. And although it was intended to be a gift, he's not so sure he's ready to give it up. Seems like letting Luke control too much of any given situation is like shoving a stick of lit dynamite up the barrel of a squirrel gun – never know whether it'll explode too early and in all the wrong places.

Long arms are his friend, he manages to keep what Luke wants just beyond his grip. Mostly, but there is, as Rosco used to say, a flaw in his slaw. Sweaty, both of them are slick with moisture, and the tighter he grips at the bottle, the more it wants to slip away from him. And that right there would be a disaster – having to find their way back to this place that he's worked so dang hard to get them to.

"Lukas," he tries, but he's breathless, giggling. "I get to," Luke's climbing him like a tree, and it's working pretty damned well. "I want to," there's a feel, a reverence that has happened each time that Luke's hand, covered in oil, has wrapped itself around him. Not like anything else they do, neither better nor worse, just special in its own right. Bo reckons it's nothing Luke can do to himself. "I," have no chance of winning this struggle now, too much breath has been given over to the effort to talk, "want—Luke, wait."

Movement stops then, Luke's hands leave off grabbing at his arm to push against the floor, and he's sitting up. Straddled across Bo's torso, eyebrow cocked, and he's waiting. Toe-tappingly waiting for the brilliance of Bo, so he can tear the words down to their bear bones, look into the structure, and point out all the flaws and dangers.

But discussions, particularly those held with one Luke Duke, are a waste of time and breath, neither of which he figures he has a lot to spare. So he just takes advantage of the waiting game Luke's playing and opens the bottle. Or tries anyway, but it's one of those dang child-friendly things, where arrows need to be lined up, or maybe a palm needs to be shoved down against the top, and it's nothing that can be done easily while he's flat on his back, pressed there by the hot weight of an exceedingly patient cousin.

"You done now?" Luke asks him, but he doesn't wait for the answer, just snatches the bottle out of Bo's sweaty fingers.

"Luke," he complains, but it's too late now.

"I'll give it back," get muttered back at him, same words he would've used when they were kids and he'd swiped Bo's toy away, but with a totally different sound to them – distracted, maybe. Bastard makes getting the cap off look easy, then dips out the smallest bit of oil, rubbing it between his thumb and his fingers – and thinking.

See now, maybe this is why he ought to get the oil spreading rights, at least this first time. Seems to him that Luke got to decide exactly how much slick stuff they used when it was his ass on the line.

He's about to make a case for himself, defend his rights, when Luke slides off of him. "Relax, Bo," he says, handing the bottle to him, followed by the cap. Clean hand on his face then, thumb against cheekbone. Trust me in the gesture, as if that had ever been the issue. Bo screws the cap lightly onto the bottle, and holds the whole mess out to the side.

A kiss then, and his free hand finds Luke's shoulder, sliding down his arm to the elbow, following the movement. Feels the way it slides ever lower, even as Luke's sprawling out beside him. Hand on his thigh, thumb stroking, tickling, forcing him to move that leg out of the line of assault. Knee up, seems like a good idea, until suddenly it's obvious that it was exactly what Luke wanted from him. Better access, and now there are fingers there pressing against him. Inside – one of them is anyway – and his body has to figure out how to accommodate the new sensation. Not bad, just strange, but it's all right because it's Luke. It's Luke's hand slipping into his hair, Luke lips on his, Luke's short little breaths exhaling onto his cheek, Luke's arm he's rubbing his hand up then back down as some kind of encouragement. Luke's middle finger joining the index, and he has to break the kiss at that, gasp in some extra air.

"All right?" he gets asked, close into his ear, fingers stilling inside him.

Nothing to do but let go of that arm, bring his hand up to Luke's neck and pull him to where he wants. Kissing them both to that forgetful place where nothing matters but want and need, until that hand slips out of him and away so he can roll onto his side, one leg over both of Luke's and grinding together there.

His right hand's still got the oil in it, seems like an obstacle, seems like something he needs to get out of their way.

"Luke," he whispers when he reckons his cousin's brain is about as far from here as it can get. There's a nod there, sweat-wet hair brushing against his face. It's time. Bo rolls onto his back, bracing himself on his elbows while Luke gets to his knees there between Bo's legs. Ample amount of oil gets poured into Bo's hand. Fire there in his gut, could be the effort to hold himself up with only stomach muscles, could be what they're about to do. Slippery hand closes around Luke, spreading the oil while he watches those blue eyes droop. Still open, still focused on him, but Luke's about as ready as he'll ever get.

When they've done this the other way, it's been with the aid of pillows. But Luke is strong, Bo can feel it there under his hand, which comes to rest on that muscle-hard shoulder after he's capped the oil and laid back again. Feels it flex as Luke leans forward for one more kiss, feels it tense when his legs get lifted. Tickling, teasing kiss there against the inside of his thigh, and then Luke's pressed against him.

Second thoughts – all the second, third and fourth thoughts he's had since that night that the idea first got introduced in nervous little whispers – come back to him now. About pain, and whether a body was even meant to do this, how it's nothing like he's ever done before, nothing he's ever wanted and—

Luke hesitates there, bearing Bo's weight across his upper arms, no longer kissing, just watching. Assessing, more like, worrying. Calculating relative sizes, planning his next move and considering all the ways in which it could go wrong.

His hand tightens on Luke's shoulder, a reminder of the fact that he's not a little boy anymore, that his arms are long enough to reach and his hands strong enough to squeeze. Convinces them both that he's ready for this with that single gesture.

Pressure then, and yes, pain, but he holds onto Luke through it, same as he ever has when something hurt him, and that makes it bearable. Recognizes the moment when there's no more movement, knows that hesitation there, and how hard it is to maintain. Waiting for some sign that it's all right to do what Luke's body wants so badly to do.

Bo kneads at Luke's shoulder, showing him the pace he wants this to take. Feels the response, closes his eyes and lets it happen. Movement, and it takes a few tries before they find the right angle, before that hand on Luke's shoulder goes from grasping to encouraging. From there it's all sensation, no thought, which is how it comes to pass that he has no idea how Luke has freed one hand to wrap around him and stroke.

Too much then, colors behind his eyelids (and this is what his cousin misses by never closing them, one hell of a spectacular light show), sound of his own gasps, echoed by Luke's, feel of a wave crashing down over him—

He's almost too far gone to notice how Luke thrusts an extra two or three times before letting out a cry that sounds an awful lot like his name. Close then, Luke's laying there on his chest, breathing heavily in his ear, holding onto him like a he's a life preserver.

And somewhere out of all the static in his brain and body, and single thought emerges. Today, at least, he kept Luke from drowning.