'your lips are really warm' (driftrod)

04 December 2018

All in all, evidence suggests this won’t be a permanent stay, so Rodimus flares stubbornly bright and makes the damn most of it. No time to grovel and grieve with bullets knocking down their doors. He tries to write his sorrys in the way he watches Drift’s back.

There’s a miracle and another and Drift stays despite it all. Or maybe he’s just as marooned as the rest of them, but either way Rodimus gets to see his gleaming whites and reds. And that, that, is a gift in itself, shoots hope through Rodimus’ frame right up his spinal strut. He doesn’t want to push it, though. They’re closed up in this space that’s all made out of dead memories and ruined craters and if Rodimus is – if he’s Rodimus, that’s going to be the end of it, for sure. Drift smiles at him but Rodimus knows, you know? It’s conditional. Grow up, Rodimus.

Anyway, he stares at Drift whenever he thinks he can get away with it just because soaking him in helps Rodimus’ spark stay in one glowing piece. They had this talk one time but it was in the middle of a fight that Rodimus wasn’t entirely certain they would survive and it was rushed and uncomfortable so it doesn’t much count. He stares at Drift and the way he looks different but he’s the same, his swords are the same, his great sword hums with that old energy. Even just that steadies him.

Measured distance. Yeah. Get too close and the tension will snap sharp. Whatever he can do to keep this barely-mended thing of theirs together, even if it means keeping a sort of radius around Drift, like not approaching something holy, giving him all the space he could possibly want –

Drift turns with his smile open and easy and he says, “Hey, Rodimus, do you want to go racing?”

And Rodimus is up on his feet saying, “are you kidding, Drift, I always want to race” and he’s grinning and taking them out to the open fields of this empty planet so they can drop into their alt modes and toss dirt up behind their wheels when they careen through the flower patches.

He realizes suddenly that he hasn’t driven for fun in – just – it’s been a long time. He used to do this with Drift a lot, even through the ship, the halls of the Lost Light forming a makeshift track with sharp turns that Drift was always able to handle way better than Rodimus could, but things have gotten away from him (far away from him). He hasn’t tasted open air streaming over his windshield and spoiler in even longer. It’s like he just forgets to be stressed and tense and taut, it strips off him like old paint, it peels away in the wind. Drift pulls ahead of him just by half and leads him veering around the flowers, careful never to touch one with more than the gentle clouds of their exhaust, his tires skidding over the ground. There’s a sound following after him, repetitive and bubbling.

When Rodimus pushes himself up to Drift’s side he realizes it’s laughter. He hasn’t heard Drift laugh in…

He takes a turn too hard and he’s distracted and he tumbles over on two wheels and nearly smashes into Drift before he falls out into robot mode and barrels into him, Drift going down into his root mode too, the two of them somersaulting all knotted and tangled and laughing because it’s funny, it’s hilarious, even if they’re scuffing Drift’s clean clean plating. They end up with Drift on top of Rodimus, head dropped down so it’s resting on Rodimus’ chest because he’s still caught up in giggling.

Oh god, Rodimus realizes, his spark a melting warm pool in his chest, oh god I missed him. Missed him the way his tires missed the dirt. Rodimus takes in the sight of his smile and his laugh up close like this for as long as he can.

“I really needed that,” Drift says. “Ratchet’s wonderful, don’t get me wrong, but he can’t exactly… well, don’t let him know I told you this – he’s so slow.” Drift picks his head up, grinning.

Rodimus means to say something witty and fun and cute in response. Instead he opens his mouth and he says, “I missed you so much,” his voice crackling and rough. The words feel like they’ve been dragged out of him.

Drift’s smile goes smaller, but cleaner. Fond and familiar. A little bit worried, like it is all too often. He leans down again, but his forehead doesn’t touch down to Rodimus’ chest. Drift kisses him and Rodimus thinks his spark sputters.

“Your lips are really warm,” Drift says in a hush after. “I almost forgot about that.”

“The – the rest of me is pretty warm, too,” Rodimus mumbles helplessly, and he gets treated to that laugh again.