#yknow. when ur brain enters dumbass mode because u realize u love someone

[scintillating-galaxias]

the inherent homoeroticism of the training room floor

some driftrod kissing in the middle of sword fighting practice, just ‘cause

(read it here on ao3!)

-

Today, they’re practicing sword versus no-sword combat. Rodimus feels it’s obsolete because sword should win every time. He tells Drift as much; Drift just smirks at him, and proceeds to hand him his aft in three seconds flat.

Now they circle each other, Rodimus with a casualty Ultra Magnus would deem sloppy, but he called disarming, and Drift with well-practiced poise. Optics alert, legs perfectly spaced, servos curled, ready to catch anything Rodimus may throw at him.

Catch… Hm. Now that was an idea.

Rodimus grins and throws the sword to the side, leaving Drift with just barely a second to look confused before Rodimus is launching himself at him. Drift shouts and tries to sidestep out of the way, but Rodimus snags him by the arm at the last second, and they both go tumbling across the floor in a complete mess of limbs and curses. When Rodimus feels them losing momentum, he waits until the last second to heave his whole mass one last time. When they finally come to a stop, Rodimus is atop Drift with one servo splayed on the ground just next to his head, and his forearm pressed down against the softer cables of his throat.

He’s missed this so much.

“I dunno about you,” Rodimus says with a smug cocking of his helm, “but this feels like winning to me.”

Drift rolls his optics. “If you can win a sword fight without using a sword… Sure. But you really shouldn’t do that again. I’m serious, Rodimus,” he said firmly when Rodimus cocked a smug smile at him. “You’re lucky I didn’t have any weapon to try to block you with. I could have really hurt you if I did. If I had a sword, you would able to stop yourself from flying into it. If I had a gun, I could have shot you. Your future opponents won’t be so kind.”

“Worked on you, didn’t it?” Rodimus grinned. “That means it’s guaranteed to work on anyone else.”

“I feel like that may be an abuse of logic.”

“How about this then? I think it means I’m just that good.”

“How would you know?”

“Ouch. Lose a life.”

“You’ve used that line before.”

“Originality is a sham, Drift.”

That gets a quiet chuckle out of Drift, which makes Rodimus huff a laugh that gets a little caught somewhere in his intake and comes out as a bizarre snrk sound.

Drift sputters. “What was that?”

“I don’t know! I didn’t even know I could make that noise!” Rodimus exclaims.

“Can you do it again?”

“I dunno, wait, wait, hold on—Primus it was like, I think… Nope, that’s not it. I got my intake to close up a bit near the back of my glossa? I can’t do it now—”

“Like this—?”

Drift replicates the noise perfectly, but he seems to realize partway through it how absolutely ridiculous it is to be pinned on the ground by his best friend while making stupid noises at him because he bursts out into laughter. That sets them both off, and then they can’t quite seem to stop. It’s like the fact that they can still giggle themselves strutless despite everything this universe has each done to them is in and of itself hilarious.

“This is dumb,” Rodimus wheezes.

“I know, I know,” Drift gasps out, glowing drops of fluid glimmering in the corners of his optics. Rodimus really likes Drift’s laugh. He really likes Drift’s laugh. It’s a rarity, and so soft most of the time, like he isn’t quite sure he’s doing it right, and it brings a probably weird amount of joy to Rodimus to be graced with hearing it.

Their helms are just inches apart when they finally collect themselves, their attempt at calming down broken up by bouts of snickering. A sweet, light joy bubbles through Rodimus that has him grinning uncertainly at Drift as their optics meet. They’ve been close before, but never like this. Never where Rodimus’ exhaust pipes bracket Drift’s helm. Never where Drift’s servo hovers hesitantly over Rodimus’ abdominal plating. Never where they can each feel the press of a question with every unsteady in-and-exvent.

I could kiss him. He could. And it should alarm Rodimus how much he suddenly wants to kiss Drift just a touch more. But what actually alarms him is how little alarm he feels. And then he realizes that he absolutely shouldn’t be considering this at all. He thinks, I should move, and he does not. I need to move, he tries again, and still, he does not. Neither does Drift. The moment to brush aside the awkwardness comes and goes once, and then twice. It shifts into something else entirely when Drift’s optics flash as Rodimus’ gaze slips downward.

“I wan—”

“Can you—”

They stop at the same time, then try speaking at the same time. And they laugh again, more a rush of warm air through their vents that mingles and disperses as a single breath across their faceplates than an actual laugh.

“You first,” Drift says quickly.

Rodimus swipes his glossa along his bottom lip. He’s almost painfully aware of the soft, slight trembling of Drift’s chassis beneath his servos, every slight shift in his frame when he tilts his helm at Rodimus.

“I was gonna say.” He stops. He couldn’t really be thinking of actually saying it, was he? Should he? Every ounce of logic in him says no, absolutely not, what the Pit are you thinking, do you want to ruin everything again? but a keen spark behind Drift’s optics says yes. “I was gonna say,” he tries again with too much honesty rasping his voice, “I think I wanna kiss you.”

Drift’s lips part further, probably definitely to ask just what kind of rust had spread to Rodimus’ processor, or to demand him to get the hell off of him. Either way, it really shouldn’t make Rodimus want to kiss him more.

But then nothing comes out. Drift just stares at Rodimus with this—this completely dumbfounded look, like he needs to replay his audio feeds to confirm, and then re-confirm the nonsense Rodimus had just spewed at him. Why isn’t he saying anything? Drift always knew what to say. Primus, Rodimus must have royally fragged it if he’s struck Drift speechless. He should apologize. Or laugh and go, Kidding! Unless Drift actually said yes, in which case, he totally wasn’t, and scrap, he actually really, really wants to kiss Drift right now.

“What about you?” he blurts, because he is an idiot who just told his best friend he wants to kiss him. With a sharp intake, Rodimus moves to scramble off of Drift, but a strong servo shoots out and holds him firm. Rodimus stares at Drift, spoilers twitching, in-vents coming pressed and quick, optics roving wildly for any sign to tell him that this is another irreparable mistake. A tension in Drift’s neck struts, an uncomfortable flick of his audial fins, a stiffness to his jaw. But there’s nothing, nothing but fondness and reassurance and a smile warm with understanding.

Drift tightens his grip.

“Actually,” he says softly, “I was going to ask if you would kiss me.”

Oh.

“Oh,” Rodimus says dumbly. “I—Hahhh, no! I mean—” he backtracks clumsily when Drift’s eager face falls, and that spark in his optics had been hope, Rodimus simply hadn’t realized it for what it was until it was gone. God, shit, was this actually happening? “I mean, yes! Yes, I—Scrap, I wanna, and I was gonna, kiss you, but uh, I didn’t wanna do it if you didn’t want me to, ’cause that’s a scrap thing to do, but I still kinda really want to? No, slaggit, I do, I do want to—”

Drift’s smile, which had steadily returned and grew as Rodimus rambled, quirks in a fondly annoyed way. Rodimus stammers to a stop when Drift suddenly hauls him in until their faces, their lips, are just a breath apart.

“I want you to, too,” he says simply.

“Frag,” Rodimus whispers. “Seriously?”

“Have you ever known me to joke?”

“Okay, that is the biggest load of scrap I’ve ever heard. Remind me again who it was that—”

“Rodimus,” Drift says, and oh, didn’t that teasing lilt to Rodimus’ name sound like a, please?

“Frag,” Rodimus says again, and they finally crash together. Right away, Drift sighs, his mouth opening just the slightest, but Rodimus doesn’t try to push it. He’s too enthralled by how Drift’s lips are so smooth and cool beneath his. They’re addictively soft, and he can’t help tilting his helm a little bit to sink closer into that comfort. That small action sends a flare of hot yes-good-this-is-right through his whole frame, and he groans as it rushes over him. Drift hums in return and finally cups his servos to Rodimus’ sides, and it feels… The right word can’t quite make it through the giddy buzz scrambling his thoughts. All Rodimus knows is that if the frighteningly powerful bolt of more that shoots through him is when Drift presses closer actually means anything, it must be something synonymous with pretty damn amazing.

They eventually somehow manage to sit up without breaking the kiss. Rodimus is hyper-aware of every instance of where they touch, the scrape of their armor, the heat it brings, the prickle it leaves. Drift does something with this mouth that Rodimus can’t pinpoint, but it fires off a thrill that goes straight to his spark and leaves him hastily shooing away the warnings for his cooling fans to flick on. It’s a kiss he berates himself—admittedly a damn good one, but nothing should be getting him this excited. Maybe it’s just a symptom of kissing Drift specifically.

Rodimus shifts his legs to instead be on either side of Drift’s hips, effectively straddling him. He can arrange their chest plates better this way so he can make their kiss deeper. Really, it’s innocent! Mostly! But the second the thought occurs of what were to happen if he were to move down a few inches, if he were to slide their closed arrays over each other, he realizes how easy it is to turn this into something he’d never forgive himself for if he ruined it.

Reluctantly, Rodimus moves away with a faintly wet noise. He doesn’t go far; his lips still graze Drift’s with every quiet in and exvent. He isn’t sure how to proceed from this sparking stillness that’s settled between them. Given how Drift tilts his forehead forward to lean on Rodimus’ cheek and simply sighs, he doesn’t know, either. Part of Rodimus wants to back away and ask what in the Pit they’re doing. The other half is dangerously attracted to the faint sheen on Drift’s lip and wants to tackle him into the floor again.

He does neither because Drift ends up beating him to the punch anyway.

“Alright?” he murmurs, his optics a hooded, glimmering blue.

Rodimus can’t help it: he laughs again. “Alright?” he rasps incredulously. “I am—so-hoh alright right now. I’ve literally never been more alright in my whole functioning. Uh.” A blush decides right now is the appropriate time to show up. “A-and what about you? You alright?”

Drift grins. He’s got a beautiful smile. It’s so big and bright, and he somehow does it with his whole frame like it can’t be contained just within his face. His audial fins flick up and twitch a little bit, his optics shine, his chest piece swells a little bit. It’s incredible, and Rodimus is a little stunned at how late he is to realize how much he loves it, how much he loves—

“I’ve never been better.”

Rodimus sighs and ducks his head into the junction between Drift’s neck and shoulder. “What about us?” he murmurs. “Are we alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, we are.”

“...I can’t believe we did that on the training room floor.”

“I know.”

“Wanna do it again?”

“God, yes.”