Work Text:
The energy in the room was positivity electric, a sort of redundantly ironic metaphor when used on fuel-powered mechanical beings, but Rodimus found it hysterical, and Drift’s servo was clutched in his, fingers woven together and signing something he was pretty certain was praise and he was spinning like one of the earth dances from the movies Swerve played, and Primus, Drift was gorgeous in motion.
Of course, he was hot, high gloss paint freshly recoated and a clean layer of smooth clearcoat reflecting the multicoloured lights in the dimness of the bar, somehow still not obscuring the shapely carmine curves of his thighs or the textured bubbles of his headlights, lit only slightly, only enough to impress- the tense, layered plating of his abdominals and the smooth flat pentagonal chest plating that obscured the cabling of his collarstruts, gorgeous winglet-like shoulder pauldrons arcing up like fireworks out of him. Drift was hot, yes, but he was more than that. He was beautiful. He was art. Beneath the attractive curves and the gloss there was over calcified wiring and weldlines, no matter how carefully disguised they were- crisscrossing mix-matched metals from a dozen different solar systems, parts older and newer than eachother- all carefully maintained, smooth and new and conventionally attractive to the casual onlooker.
But Rodimus was not a casual onlooker. He was in love with the post-impressionist pseudo-baroque masterpiece that was the story Drift told without ever opening his mouth- weldlines that spoke of old wars and old wounds, metals that spoke of places visited and homes lost, calcification that called to near death experiences not spoken of, forgotten in their frequency- and a beautiful body that would not be defined by its scars. Drift was beautiful, inconsistent, irregular, but Primus, he was beautiful.
Rodimus had both his hands on Drift’s finials and their lips crushed together, desperate and obscenely afraid and filled with reverence and he wasn’t sure how he’s gotten here and he thought about pulling away, but Drift was pawing at his spoiler like he’d been waiting for this, probably impatiently, both of them lost in the throbbing of party music and another stupid off shift dance at Swerve’s.
Drift’s back was against the wall and Rodimus took advantage of the opportunity to slam both hands to either side of Drift’s head, moving his lips from Drift’s face to his neck cabling and Drift shuddered before jolting and pushing him back.
Rodimus stepped back, embarrassed and trying to look more disappointed than afraid he’d actually overstepped and hurt him, but Drift was panting and he had grabbed Rodimus’s hand again.
“Let’s go. Not here,” he said, and yanked him.
No one noticed their absence, and while Rodimus had sort of vaguely aimed for his office and hopefully his desk somehow they were outside on the ship, under the stars in the silence of the vacuum of space, still dancing like the stars themselves were songs just for them.
“[You’re beautiful,]” Rodimus signed awkwardly into Drift’s palms, still trying to waltz/tango with the magnaclamps on his feet slowing him down considerably, and Drift laughed, or looked like he laughed, at least- but space brought only silence and the twisting of his fingers.
“[Don’t flatter me.]”
“[Oh, never.]”
Rodimus spun him into a dip and paused there, wanting to pant but vents shuttered against the vacuum, optics soft and moist, unable to blink or look away. Drift kicked a leg back under his so he was standing and kissed Rodimus, slowly, softly, before pressing their cheeks together and nuzzling his face into the crook of Rodimus’s shoulder, minding his finials and snaking up his arms to hug him and Rodimus found the allure of a simple, completely sexless hug irresistible.
“[I’m glad you came back,]” he signed into the plating of Drift’s back, who shook with imagined giggling.
“[Signing like that you sound like you’re having a seizure,]” Drift signed, mimicking Rodimus’s motion and pressing into his shoulders, and Rodimus truly had to concentrate and still only caught seventy five percent of it. “[Me, too.]”