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It may just be the worst Sunday afternoon of Finney Blake’s life to date; because he’s barely even out of the gas station driveway when his car lets out the most pathetic noise he’s heard in a long, long time—engine wheezing, whirring and clanking to a sudden stop, car rolling forward idly as the mechanics under the hood decidedly crash, burn and die.
Fuck, he thinks. He could scream. Or cry; or maybe even both, if he’s feeling extra dramatic (he thinks he might be). The car splutters and heaves again, and it feels like the cruelest possible form of reminder when it does, like this is just the universe sending him a routine check in—don’t get too comfortable, the world hates you and everything is out to get you. It leaves him staring at cracked concrete and a flickering neon sign in the golden late-afternoon sunlight; and Finney lets out a sharp, defeated exhale when he lets his head fall down against the peeling vinyl of the steering wheel, like he can somehow physically hold the car back together; maybe even mentally will it to hold on until he’s home, just three more blocks and—
Finney sits there for a moment, staring at the dash like it might change its mind and start glowing again if he just thinks hard enough about it. The silence after the stutter is deafening. Not even the faint hum of the fan remains. The air sits hot and still around him, a slow suffocating blanket that smells faintly of stale fries and sun-baked leather.
He twists the key again. Nothing. The sound of his own breath feels too loud in the quiet.
Who is he kidding? The car is a piece of shit; it has been for a while, and Finney thinks it must be some kind of scathing divine penance that it’s finally choked right when he needs it to work, because Robin has been telling him for months now that it’s barely drivable; let alone even being close to roadworthy. Finney is usually more than inclined to dismiss Robin’s concerns with an eye-roll and a wave of his hand—you worry so much, relax, he distinctly recalls saying maybe a week ago—but in this moment he thinks he will never, ever, ever disregard Robin ever again.
In fact, Finney decides he’ll start following Robin’s word like it’s gospel—because the August heat is disgusting and sticky without the engine working to fuel the car’s air-conditioning, and the seatbelt is digging uncomfortably into his ribs; briefly sticky with sweat where he can feel it depositing onto the barely-leather-anymore upholstery of the car. It’s unbearable, it’s humiliating and it’s so horribly frustrating that Finney does not let his usual stubborn pride overpower his first instinct.
So that’s where he caves; maybe it’s in the heat, or how quickly the sun threatens to dip fully below the horizon, or perhaps even the tension headache that he can already feel the ache of pooling in his temple. Finney stands in the payphone booth, inhales a breath that’s half-gasoline, half-pure-and-utter-despair, and dials in an ever-familiar number, holding the phone to his ear like it’s an honest-to-God lifeline. The call button buzzes beneath his fingertips; and the phone trills once, twice, three—
“Hey Finn,” Robin’s voice comes as a lazy drawl through the speaker—one that sounds sated and quiet and content. There’s an air of something inherently industrial crackling in the background; the sound of metal on metal and the buzz of whirring engines. “What’s happenin’?”
“The car,” Finney’s words falter slightly—he rests his forehead against the scratched interior of the phone box, watches the way his breath mists up the glass as though those two movements collectively might erase just how humiliating it is to ask for help like this.
It doesn’t work. Finney holds the phone tighter. “It just stopped, like, completely. I can’t make it start, Rob, I don’t know what the fuck’s goin’ on but—”
A soft chuckle drifts from the other end of the line; slow and warm, syrupy and sweet in a way that makes Finney want to punch the shit out of him, but also makes something tighten and swirl low in his chest. Robin is infuriating and he’s also really hot, and Finney swears to God that in moments like these ones? He fucking hates Robin Arellano.
“Robin, it’s not funny,” he tries again—tries for stern—but the way his voice wavers has it sounding closer to a whine. Finney grips the phone a little harder, fingertips curling around the black plastic until it creaks faintly in his hand; thumb pressing into the edge hard enough to make his skin ache.
“I’m not laughin’ at you,” Robin responds; but it takes less than a second, just another beat of silence before the static is broken by a muffled snort across the line. Finney has half a mind to take the phone and slam it back down into the receiver.
He huffs instead; knowing that realistically, Robin is his one and only hope right now. It doesn’t stop him from snapping back, though. “You’re being an asshole.”
There’s a beat of silence before Robin snorts again, but his voice softens slightly. “Okay, quit freakin’ out on me. Don’t touch anything, I’ll come and take a look at ‘er.”
“I’m—” Finney straightens up, heat flushing through his chest and a protest alive on the tip of his tongue. “Forget it. I’ll just—figure it out myself.”
“Yeah?” Robin drawls; and it’s so clear he’s not taking him seriously, and Finney could scream. “You gonna get out and pop the hood, tough guy?”
“I could,” Finney says automatically, even though he definitely can’t.
Robin hums. It’s unconvincing. “You could.”
That laugh follows again—real this time, bright and unrestrained. Finney closes his eyes, half mortified, half something else he can’t name.
“You’re such a dickhead,” he mutters; but it’s exactly as defeated as he feels, sweating underneath the mid-August sun.
“Maybe,” Robin agrees. “But I’m a dickhead who knows how to fix your car.”
Finney exhales through his nose, slumping further into the phone box. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”
There’s a beat—quiet except for the faint sound of a light breeze through Robin’s end of the line, the hum of the world still moving while Finney’s stuck in this stupid, silent parking lot.
Robin’s voice softens, just barely. “I’ll be there in ten.”
Finney huffs. “You don’t have to—”
“Yeah, I do.”
The line goes dead.
Finney stares down at the phone in his hand, and lets his head fall once more against the box. The sun presses in through the glass, heavy and golden, and he swears the heat’s starting to eat him alive.
He sits back in the car for a while after the call ends, the silence swelling so thick he can hear the faint ticking of the cooling engine. It’s scathingly hot inside—and Finney resorts to swinging the driver’s side door wide open and slumping pathetically in the seat; long legs stretched out into the shade that the body of the car casts down onto cracked concrete. The gas station lot around him hums in that lazy, sun-struck way things do when it’s too hot for anyone to bother rushing. A single fuel pump chugs somewhere behind him. Cicadas scream from the scrub lining the road. The smell of petrol and asphalt presses close, sticky and sour.
The minutes stretch. He watches the heat dance above the road, the silver mirage of distant cars.
When the low hum of a car engine rolls through the parking lot, Finney’s shoulders finally drop a little. He doesn’t register the tension coursing through his body until he hears that familiar old sound—steady, confident, alive—cut through the thick, humming quiet of the late afternoon, and his jaw instinctively loosens.
Robin’s car—an old, sun-bleached sedan that has definitely seen better decades—pulls in fast enough to kick up a small gust of dust and heat. The headlights flick once before going dark, and the whole thing offers a tired little shudder as the engine dies. The silence afterward makes the air feel heavier somehow.
Robin pushes the door open with his shoulder, sliding out like he’s done this a thousand times. It’s that air of confidence that makes Finney’s head spin sometimes, caught off guard by the way Robin always looks maddeningly at ease. And it only seems to be exacerbated in the heat—grey t-shirt already smudged with oil, dark jeans cuffed at the ankles, hair pushed out of his face back with that same faded bandana that's more grease-stained than red now, after hours spent underneath cars. A few loose strands stick to his temple, curling in the humidity. There’s a dark streak along the curve of his jaw—grease, maybe—that he doesn’t seem to notice.
Robin shuts the door, wanders around the front of his own car where it’s parked beside Finney’s and leans against the passenger side door with a knowing grin.
“Hey, sunshine,” he says, and it makes Finney narrow his eyes and grit his teeth despite the ever-familiar nickname. “You look like you’re melting.”
“Yeah, no thanks to you,” Finney shoots back; exasperation clear in his tone. He’s hot, and sweaty and panicking just a little; Robin’s teasing doesn’t make this any easier.
Robin smirks, raising an unconvinced eyebrow. “I got here in under ten minutes.”
“Could’ve been nine.”
“Ungrateful.”
Finney doesn’t rise to it. He just steps aside as Robin approaches, dragging his hand briefly through tangled and heat-messy curls. The back of Finney’s neck feels prickly, like the heat’s settling under his skin; without a guise to leave any time soon.
Robin stops in front of the car, squinting at it. He glances back up at Finney, with a look of expectancy in his eyes that tells Finney he means business. “Alright, what’s she doin’?”
“Nothing,” Finney says. “That’s why I called you.”
It’s dry, sarcastic as ever; and would project confidence in a way Finney definitely does not feel if his voice didn’t crack and waver mid sentence. Finney resigns himself instead to leaning awkwardly against the fender, pretending to look interested in the car’s inner workings, and pretending his heart isn't doing something completely fucking stupid in his chest. Robin’s presence just does that to him; and it’s as frustrating as it is enticing.
Robin hums thoughtfully, crouching down to peer under the front. He doesn’t fumble with the latch at all like Finney knows he would have if he’d tried it himself; instead pops it open like it’s second nature with nimble fingers and an infuriating air of confidence about the whole ordeal. The hood lifts with a stiff groan, and a puff of hot air rolls out, thick with oil and dust.
Robin whistles low. “God, 's fuckin' hot in here.” He leans in, hands braced on the frame of the engine. “Okay, start it for me.”
Finney slides back into the driver’s seat and twists the key; does what he’s told without protest. He can’t see Robin from here—the car’s front windscreen obscuring where he’s leaning over the car, and Finney secretly thanks the Lord above for the obstruction; because even just the way Robin braced his hands on the frame had sent a rush of heat completely unrelated to the sun through Finney’s veins. The engine grinds, sputters, and goes quiet again.
“Alright,” Robin calls, straightening up, “that’s enough. She’s flooded.”
“Flooded?” Finney echoes. There’s an almost endearingly blank look in his eyes as he folds his arms across his chest, reassuming his position leaning against the fender of the left side of the car.
“Yeah,” Robin says, wiping his hands on a rag from his back pocket. “You probably flooded the carb when you tried to start it again after it died. Happens when you get too eager. You just need to let her breathe a second.”
Finney stares at him. “So… it’s not, like, broken?”
Robin grins, raising a subtle eyebrow at Finney. “Nah, she’s fine. Just cranky. Like you.”
Finney rolls his eyes; confused demeanour fading back into his feigned irritation. “You’re such a dick.”
Finney stands there as Robin leans back into the engine of the car, pretending to understand, but his attention keeps slipping. The sun glints off the sweat on Robin’s neck, tracing the curve of muscle beneath his open collar. His forearms are streaked with grease and sunlight where it filters past the propped-up hood of the car. It’s stupid—objectively stupid, Finney thinks—that someone can make fixing a dead engine look like that.
Robin bends over slightly to fit underneath the hood; head ducked, a strip of dark hair falling loose from where it’s pushed out of his face with a faded red bandana. The fabric is frayed and sun-bleached, but it still stands out like a flare in the night sky against the messy tumble of his hair—thick, dark waves that catch the light in uneven streaks of copper. A few damp strands cling to the curve of his neck, sticking there with sweat and grease. His t-shirt—grey and entirely too thin in Finney’s educated opinion—is smeared with oil and dust as the visible remnants of his shift at the local mechanic’s garage, stretching tight across his shoulders and loose around his waist.
Finney should not be looking at him like that—not when they’re in public and the fact that Robin is his boyfriend is supposed to be a secret; a secret that could easily shatter to pieces based solely on the intensity in Finney’s gaze right now. But the heat, the sunlight, the way Robin’s muscles shift every time he leans closer to the engine—it all blurs together until it’s impossible not to notice.
Robin’s hands are decidedly the worst part. They’re everything Finney can't stop seeing; the way his knuckles flex when he grips a wrench; the way his fingers trace over metal parts like they belong there. Streaks of black oil pattern his skin—across the base of his thumb, along the side of his palm—and when he wipes the sweat from his face with the back of his wrist, he leaves a dark smudge across his cheekbone like a trail of evidence at a crime scene.
Finney tries, to his credit, to focus on anything else. He catalogues the smell of gasoline and asphalt, the sticky sweetness of oil heating under the sun, the faint tang of Robin’s deodorant—sharp, clean, something citrusy. It doesn’t help. Every breath he takes seems to just fill him with more of that low, burning heat; that isn’t just stemming from the sun’s assault on them both.
Robin murmurs something to himself under his breath—low, a curse, a mutter—as he leans further in. Finney doesn’t catch the words, but the sound of his voice, half-laughing, half-focused, sends a tug of pure, unbridled want sparking through chest. Robin reaches in, adjusts something, then straightens slightly so his gaze can encompass the entire engine’s workings. His shirt lifts with the movement—just enough to expose the skin at his lower back, the ridge of his spine catching light, a flash of tan that makes Finney’s brain short out for half a second; he forces himself to look away, quick—pretending to kick at a pebble by his shoe, while his jaw visibly tightens.
It’s ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.
This is Robin, Finney tells himself. The same Robin who used to throw rocks at mailboxes for kicks, who Finney had known since he was eleven years old, who pulled Finney out of a fight on more than one occasion and teased him (lightly) about it for weeks. The same Robin who called him “tough guy” and "sunshine" and flicked his ear when he got too serious. His boyfriend, sure—but they had been best friends for a long time before that. Finney knows how to act around Robin without losing his mind; in fact, he would consider himself to be practiced in it now.
But this— this version of Robin—the one that smells like oil and sun and works with his hands—feels like something else entirely.
Robin lets out a satisfied noise a moment later, steps back, and wipes his hands on a rag tucked into his back pocket. “You just flooded it, dumbass,” he says lightly. “Turned the key too many times without enough air. Easy fix.”
He taps the side of the hood, fingertips drumming lightly against scathingly hot metal. “Go ahead. Try it now.”
Finney slides into the driver’s seat; the movement coming as a welcome relief from having to watch Robin continue to bend over that fucking engine. His heart’s still doing that stupid fast thing, when his fingertips turn the key. The car splutters once, then catches with a low, steady rumble that almost feels akin to the buzzing that sits in the bottom of Finney’s chest.
Robin’s grin spreads slow and wide, smug and bright. All at the same time; all these hints of expression that make Finney feel like he's on the verge of losing his mind entirely. “See? Told you.”
Robin steps back from the car, the sunlight catching on the sheen of sweat across his collarbone. His shirt sticks to the line of his back in uneven patches, creased and darkened from the heat and the work. He wipes his palms on a rag he pulls from his pocket, leaving faint black streaks that smudge rather than clean.
It’s an intoxicating sight.
Finney exhales, tension bleeding out of him all at once. He turns the key so that the car falls idle again, before sliding back out into the hot, hot air. He should be relieved—he is, deep down—but watching Robin like this, so casually sure of himself, makes something coil tight in his stomach that has nothing to do with stress. The universe is just continually testing him today, he decides.
“Yeah, okay,” Finney mutters, slightly begrudgingly underneath the glare of the sun. “You were right.”
Robin tilts his head, that grin still flickering at the corners of his mouth. He’s annoyingly self-assured about most things; so of course this isn’t any different. “Say it again. Louder this time.”
Finney shoots him a look; and if looks could kill Robin would be unresponsive on the spot before his heart can beat another time, he swears. “Don’t push it.”
Robin laughs, tossing the rag onto the hood. The sound is easy and full, like the air around him bends to make room for it, because of course, of fucking course, that’s just the kind of influence that Robin Arellano seems to have on everything. Including Finney Blake. Especially Finney Blake. “Fine, fine. I’ll take that as close enough.”
Finney leans against the side of the car, arm resting along the open door. It gives him something to focus on that isn’t Robin standing in front of him, looking unfairly gorgeous. The faint smell of engine grease and summer heat clings to Robin; Finney swears he can almost taste it in the air—metallic, warm, heavy. Robin’s hair has slipped slightly loose from the bandana, dark strands falling in uneven waves around his face, and he brushes them back absently with the back of his wrist. It leaves a streak of oil in their place; a trail that Finney latches onto, a trail that he wants to drag his fingertips across and catalogue in his mind for later.
Finney can’t stop staring at it. At him.
“You’re staring,” Robin says eventually, leaning casually against the side door of his own car, one hip cocked. The tilt of his head—the half-smile tugging at his lips—makes Finney’s stomach twist in a way that only happens when it’s late at night and he’s thinking about Robin in ways he probably shouldn’t.
“I’m not—” Finney says quickly, though his voice absolutely gives him away. He shoves his hands in his pockets, fingers pressing against each other like it might steady him. “I’m just…looking.”
Robin’s grin widens, slow and deliberate. “Uh-huh. Just looking, yeah?” He leans slightly closer—steps off the metal frame of the car and into Finney’s space—just enough for Finney to feel the warmth radiating from his body, the faint smell of engine grease and sweat mingling with summer air. “You’ve been ‘just looking’ since I got here.”
Finney groans under his breath, cheeks flushing slightly, tinting with a light pink. “I—stop it,” he says, trying and failing to sound casual; giving up halfway through in favour of the way his chest tightens and heat prickles across his neck.
Robin laughs softly, brushing a smudge of oil off his forearm with his fingertips. “Sure,” he says, voice teasing.
Finney’s hands twitch in his pockets, and he shifts closer without thinking. He says the first thing that comes to mind. “You’ve got a—oil, you’ve got oil on your face,” he murmurs, holding up his fingers, as if to gesture generally at where it sits. His words slip out faster than he intends. Fuck. “Here, wait—lemme get it.”
Robin tilts his head, giving him access—he goes so easily that it drives Finney kind of insane, makes him wonder what else Robin would let him do without question—and Finney’s hands hover a second too long before brushing against the side of Robin’s jaw. The grease smears faintly under his fingertips, and heat flares through him, hot and sharp. Robin’s breath hitches, small, almost imperceptible, and Finney freezes on the spot, aware of how close they are, how small the space between them feels when it’s suddenly charged.
“Careful,” Robin murmurs softly, scanning the parking lot. It makes Finney’s chest ache—this constant awareness that Robin seems to have; that he seems to feel the need for, around Finney. It doesn’t linger long though, not like it usually does. His eyes survey, flicker back to Finney, mischief swimming in the corners. “Don’t get carried away.”
“I’m not—” Finney tries, but the words trail off. Robin leans just slightly into him, forehead brushing his, and the closeness makes Finney’s chest tighten impossibly.
Their lips meet—soft at first, tentative, almost testing, before slipping into something warmer, slower, more deliberate. Finney’s knees feel weak—threatening to buckle underneath him as his chest tightens. Robin presses him into the side of his car, and Finney finds himself caught between the urge to pull back and the need to press into the closeness. Robin’s hand travels slowly, achingly slowly, to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in soft curls, pulling him just enough to deepen the kiss without force, and Finney responds like it’s instinct—his hands sliding along the curve of Robin’s waist, gripping the fabric of his shirt lightly.
When they finally part, just enough to gasp in a few desperate breaths, Robin’s forehead rests briefly against Finney’s, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “See?” he murmurs. “Not so bad.”
Finney exhales sharply, heat creeping up his neck and cheeks. “You—” he mutters, shoving at Robin lightly, though his hands linger, fingers brushing over the side of Robin’s torso as if unable to let go completely. He could scream, he swears he could; even as the heat in his chest mellows into something warm instead, something grounded and precious and theirs alone.
Robin’s grin widens, slow and effortless, like it doesn’t take as much thought as Finney gives to it. “Relax. You liked it,” he says, voice teasing but low, calm enough that it makes Finney’s stomach twist.
“I—For fucks sake Robin, stop it,” Finney shoots back again, though his rapidly fluttering pulse deceives his feigned irritability, hammering visibly in his throat.
His hands still rest lightly on Robin’s hips despite his halfhearted protest, warmth and tension pressing them together. The faint smell of oil, sweat, and sun-warmed skin lingers in the space between them, sharp and intoxicating and enough to make Finney’s head spin just slightly. Robin’s grin softens like he can read Finney effortlessly, almost imperceptible now
“You’re impossible,” Finney mutters, voice low, words hitting the space against Robin’s shoulder.
“You wouldn’t have it any other way,” Robin remarks, still scanning the lot but letting the words hang close, intimate, grounding. Finney tries to scowl again, but a stifled laugh breaks through it; and he grins instead while shaking his head lightly.
He closes his eyes, lets himself sink into the moment, into the warmth, the smell, the slow, steady press of Robin against him. For a few long, suspended seconds, the world outside—harsh sunlight, empty asphalt, distant cars—ceases to exist. There is only heat, only closeness, only the quiet, lingering weight of Robin there beside him.
And that is more than enough.