“Macca, wait, wait.”

Robbie scrambles to steady his grip on the fabric seats of the campervan as Steve pulls on the legs of his leathers. They’re both laughing, Steve barely free from his leathers himself, trying to get Robbie out of his.

As Steve pulls, Robbie’s legs finally come loose, and with a final effort - Steve loses his balance in spectacular fashion and topples over backwards, lanky legs flailing.

Robbie laughs even harder.

“It’s not funny,” Steve protests, pouting, tossing Robbie’s leathers off to the side (probably to be left there until someone inevitably trips over them.) “I hit my head.”

“Aww, does it need kissing better?”

Steve smacks Robbie’s shoulder as he climbs back up onto the seat, rolling his eyes at Robbie’s overdramatic wail of pain. “Why am I friends with you?”

“No-one else was gonna risk themselves for your fucking awful driving.”

“You take that back.”

Robbie, still full of race adrenaline, looking at his friend - his best friend - who he loves, with golden hair still messy from his helmet, stuck with sweat to the familiar lines and curves of his face.

“Make me.”

Instantly, he second-guesses. Wonders if that turmoil is obvious, is readable to Steve. How Steve might react- a slideshow of worst-case scenarios. Years of thinking only after acting catching up with him.

But seems he overestimated Steve’s tendency to act like a labrador fucking retriever, because the other man moves to try and wrestle Robbie onto his back, grin returning. In an instant, it becomes so natural again.

“Take it back!” Steve says through their laughter. Robbie fights back, atmosphere playful, but Steve has always been the bigger, taller one.

“I won’t-” Robbie starts to say, and Steve has caught one of his wrists in his hand, “I’m right, you know it.”

“Nothing wrong with my driving-”

“I’m still scarred from where I hit that wall.”(Like, literally scarred - the brickwork tore through his leathers, and the scrape underneath needed fucking stitches.)

“That was the island, it don’t count,” Steve argues, “and it was your fault anyway.” Robbie paws his other hand in the direction of Steve’s face in mock outrage, and Steve catches that one too, holding them both down.

They’ve stopped laughing, breaths coming heavy. Robbie swallows. Outside, the noise, the life, of the paddock continues - engines and mechanics and the constant chatter. But on the fabric seats of the motorhome with Steve’s body heat above him, pinning him down, time seems to almost stand still.

He’s vaguely aware of the fact Steve’s fucking straddling him, and it’s probably best he’s only vaguely aware of it, because Robbie is so close to losing his mind it’s not even funny. Steve’s body moves, hips shifting, as he leans down, bringing their faces closer.

Steve is so close, and Robbie wants, fucking wants.

He’s so busy fantasising about kissing Steve that he actually doesn’t notice Steve leaning in until their lips touch.

Robbie probably over-romanticised this moment in his mind, because Steve tastes of Red Bull, the cheap sparkling wine they give out on the podium, and not much that’s uniquely him. Robbie kisses back the best he can, though the kiss is still gentle, but- Steve’s still holding him down, whether he’s aware of it or not (and Robbie will really have to examine why that makes him feel what he’s feeling at some point.)

And it’s brief. Steve pulls away, cheeks flushed, the skin beneath his freckles painted pink. They stay like that for a moment, paused, staring at each other, before Steve releases his hold on Robbie’s wrists. As he sits up, Robbie moves with him.

His face is still so close to Steve’s, their lips ghosting over each other; a quirk of a smile forming on Robbie’s. Up against the warm, soft skin of Steve’s cheek, he drags his lips across the angle of his cheekbone and asks, barely there, for more.

When Steve kisses him again, deeper, Robbie’s hand cups the back of his neck, trying to hold himself down against the sheer fucking joy that feels like it’s going to pull him off the planet. Sunlight curls brush against Robbie’s forehead, barely tickling.

Where this first kiss was experimental in its lightness, almost nervous, this one this- what Robbie thinks Steve is really capable of. It’s all-consuming, Steve’s dry lips against his (because the man is awful at remembering to put any lip balm on), and it’s all Robbie can do to keep up, to not collapse.

They briefly break apart again, Robbie’s nose bumping into Steve’s as their heads move, his name escaping Steve’s lips in a breathy, reverent tone. This time, it’s Robbie that brings them back together, barely having caught his breath back. If Steve feels equally overwhelmed, he certainly isn’t stopping to say so.

Then, shit, Steve’s teeth graze his lip, and Robbie’s glad the intensity of the kiss swallows up the small noise of his response. One of Steve’s arms is a comforting weight around his waist. Christ, Robbie can barely think through it- his hands catch at the curls at the top of Steve’s neck and he’s caught off guard by the resulting force, by the sheer surprise that Macca could put more into the kiss.

But when Steve bites Robbie’s bottom lip - okay, more of just a nip, he won’t take any criticism for his habit of exaggerating things, he’s aware of it, thank you - no amount of muffling can hide the fact he fucking moans, like some first-time teenager. He’d be mortified, if he weren’t so wound up - but at the same time, it’s embarrassing in itself how wound up this has got him.

Steve pulls away, not rushed but quite clearly surprised, before processing the look on Robbie’s face and the way his dilated pupils only leave a sliver of green catching in the light - putting the pieces together. Then he starts laughing.

Sure it’s- a sudden shift in the mood, but the sound is infectious. Soon Robbie’s laughing too; an escaping snort from him setting them off even more. It’s what they needed; a break in the syrup-thick tension. A reminder. That this is Steve, Macca, his best mate, who he loves, loves, who loves him back.

As their giggles die down once more, Robbie extracts himself from under Steve - by shoving him off his lap. For the second time in under an hour, Steve hits his head on the wall of the motorhome. He doesn’t complain, though. Too busy shooting Robbie an absolutely shit-eating grin (never a good sign).

“If I’d known you were into that, I-”

“Don’t even start.”

Steve gives an amused huff, long legs tangled with Robbie’s as he leans against the other end of the seat. Outside, someone is revving their machine. Steve closes his eyes, tilting his head back. The half-finished can of Red Bull is still on the counter.

“Fuck, I’m tired,” Steve mumbles, like nothing just happened, like Robbie can’t tear his eyes away from the pale column of his neck.

"You're tired?" Robbie counters, crossing his arms. "I was the one throwing m'self about trying to get past the fucking Nevilles. Your shitty driving didn't help."

"Oh my god, Robbie, shut up about my driving," Steve laughs, cracking his eyes open at a stroppy Robbie before closing them again.

They stay like that for a while, in a comfortable silence. They'll talk about it later, figure out… what it means. For now, Robbie watches the even rise and fall of Steve's chest.

Just when he thinks the other man is falling asleep-

"Hey, Macca?"

Steve hums a light response.