Archive of Our Own ^beta

At this time of night, the training area was typically vacant.

Drift liked to take advantage of that every now and then. He was never particularly comfortable when others could see him training, the solitude combined with the serenity of the night being what helped him focus.

The training chamber's lights were dim, glare turned down to the lowest setting, only just enough to softly illuminate Drift’s bright white plating as he moved through his forms. His strikes, as always, flowed like liquid mercury—one downward slash, then pivot, swift lateral parry, spin—each movement polished to absolute perfection through many, many years of devout repetition. Not a single swing of the blade was off angle, not even by a single degree.

At least, that was how it was supposed to play out. As it always had played out. 

Yet tonight, against all odds and logic, his processor kept wandering. His blade's edge caught awkwardly against the holographic hard-light opponent's simulated armour in mid-thrust, sending a tremor of jarring feedback up his arm and catching him completely off guard, snapping him out of thoughts he had not even realized he’d been deep within.

This was the second time tonight, and it was becoming a point of great frustration, fast.

Drift disengaged with a rigid exhale through his vents. Pathetic. An amateur's mistake. His sharply-honed background processes typically compensated with flawless precision even when his mind was partially elsewhere—but not this time. His HUD had been lagging behind, as not even his subconscious was apparently spared of the effects of this specific variant of distraction.

The hard-light holograms disintegrated when Drift tapped the controls, allowing a silence to set over the training room only interrupted by the very faint, ambient hum of the Lost Light’s inner mechanisms. Everything came to a brief stand-still as he lingered there, stood upon the centre of the floor, to collect himself.

Even from a distance, he could see his slightly distorted reflection in the polished wall plating across the room; it showed his optics, the way they glowed a brighter blue than usual, maybe not so noticeable to most, but he could tell immediately.

The distraction… he knew its name, of course, as it was lodged so stubbornly within his helm, like a corrupted file. He did not want to name it—purely because it would enable the distraction to interfere with his training even further, of course, there was no other reason —but he thought it regardless, again and again. Denial had never failed him this badly before.

It was the captain. Always the captain.

What was even going on between the two of them? Drift would have perhaps begrudgingly tried to describe it, but definitely not willingly, with the hope that no one would go out of their way to ask. Avoidance was his style, and Rodimus’ respect of that was notoriously intermittent at best; thus their relationship was a confusing mess, woven carelessly of whims, yearning, and that infernal magnetic pull the two seemed to have towards each other on some days. Or every day. Another thing Drift did not want to admit.

There were, in fact, many things Drift did not want to admit.

Just as he would refuse to acknowledge in full the kiss they’d shared recently, the way it had sent him soaring to the heavens for the duration.

The way it had made him want more. So much more.

He'd allowed it to happen, just as he was now allowing it to linger in his memory. His grip upon the hilt of his sword became incrementally tighter, the strength behind his digits just short of leaving a dent within the durasteel. The kiss . No, not just any kiss, but the kiss. The very one that kept stubbornly replaying itself in his processor with alarming frequency, ever since it had happened just a few days ago, and despite all his active attempts to resist it. The one where Rodimus had grinned against his intake with that infuriating, never-dwindling confidence, like he knew he had Drift wrapped around his digit, like he could wield him as easily as he would his photon blasters—

Drift’s vents gave an audible hitch when he caught himself. He grit his fangs.

No. Enough . No more of this. He was better than this. He was a disciplined warrior . 

So maybe, to clear his processor, he needed to focus less on precision for a session and more so on the raw power behind his moves. To take his rage out on some holograms and tire himself out so that this… malaise… would not dare follow him into recharge. Desperation? No. Just a different method.

Drift vented again through his intake and reset his stance, less gracefully than usual. His feet shifting against the mat was uncharacteristically audible. The slightest tremble in his servos lingered for a moment before it was snuffed out by sheer willpower—he forced them still, forced his hydraulics to lock, forced every single errant process within his helm into an iron grip so that there could not possibly be any more wandering thoughts.

And if there were, he would channel them into his rage like they were weapons.

The training program hummed back to life with a quick tap of his digits—more aggressive this time, no elegance at all to the flick of his servo, the difficulty ratcheting up several notches beyond his usual parameters of choice. Without a single second of delay, the intricate systems behind the hard-light projectors worked tirelessly to generate a fresh wave of holographic opponents, not just one or two but half a dozen, each with distinct and highly complex combat signatures to add to the challenge. Their optics glowed maliciously, weapons drawn.

Drift did not need to waste time analyzing the simulations to know they were modelled after the likes of himself —or rather, the mech he used to be.

It was the kind of torment some would claim was reserved only for the most self-punishing, and it had taken a lot of convincing from Rodimus to get him to stop putting himself through it. They were just training holograms, sure, but that did not mean he could not get hurt. Far from it. Injury, albeit not the serious kind for someone as skilled as Drift, was still possible, even expected at this high a difficulty. As a precaution, most members of the crew were unable to access these settings without permission and supervision in the first place, but Drift had the clearance. The clearance that Rodimus had reluctantly let him keep, a trust misplaced, as it was now being misused again in the name of… something.

Absolution?

That pain would be his anchor.

As he stared down the holograms, about to activate their protocols, he could not tell if the rush of energy through his lines originated from euphoria or dread.

It did not matter, anyway, as his mission for the night was swiftly morphing away from a short and heated session of venting off steam upon some overly violent training dummies and into an unsettling plan to keep going until he simply could not anymore.

The holograms lunged with murderous intent so realistic that the less seasoned mech would have been terrified as soon as their activation sequence completed, and Drift barely had a second to react before their weapons were inches from his plating. He dodged with ease, weaving between strikes almost effortlessly— almost —yet as predicted, his usual precision was clouded by frustration and rage, and a hard-light blade grazed his side, leaving a stinging line of raw energy crackling across his armour. It would fade, but in the moment it was fresh, and it stung.

Good .

He imagined the pain, as it burned upon his plating, to be the equivalent of a cleansing fire, momentarily searing away everything else: the memory of Rodimus' lips on his intake, the way his electro-magnetic field had curled against his own like it belonged there, the way he was so convinced that he knew he was quite possibly just being played with, that it would lead to nothing, an excuse for him to forget all about it, and yet he'd liked it all the same, he'd allowed himself to hope, to want —

The hologram closest to him ended up in pixelated shreds as he tore through it.

But the rest of them still swarmed with code-perfect determination.

Another blow caught Drift in the shoulder, staggering him for a second, but he recovered very quickly, his manner practiced, flipping his swords around and cleaving through another one of the holograms in a single, brutal motion. One of its companions took its place immediately, however, forcing him into a retreat if he wanted to avoid being knocked down altogether. The combat algorithm adapted as he fought, forcing him into faster, increasingly desperate parries and swings.

This was so reckless. He had promised to never do this again all alone. In his state, it was practically a guarantee he'd end up getting seriously hurt. Skills be damned; the brutality of this simulation was meant to be faced with a group of at least three.

And yet he kept going, like he had something to prove. A highly optimistic way to put it. This was punishment, plan and simple.

His saving grace—although he would certainly not call it that out loud—was when his audials picked up the unassuming beep of the door panel.

The doors hissed open without further warning.

Instantly, Drift's combat protocols hit the brakes and screeched to a jarring halt, his sword arm freezing completely mid-swing. He killed the program with a gesture quicker than lightning, the holograms dissolving into pixels right before his optics before any of them could land another hit, plunging the training room into an abrupt, forced peace.

He did not need to turn around and look who had opened these doors just now. He did not even need to analyze the brisk, confident, self-assured steps that followed. 

Drift was already well aware that there was just one single person on this gigantic ship who would not only care enough to notice his location during this time of night, but also put in the effort to come by and check on him.

Regardless of how bad the timing was.

Rodimus.

Drift kept his back to him, struggling but determined to even out his venting before the captain would get close enough to hear how erratic it was. His palms clenched and unclenched around the hilts of his swords; anything to ground himself.

Indeed, it was pointless to even question what Rodimus’ purpose here was. It was very late, sure, but the occasional random nighttime activity was hardly unusual for the captain. Obviously, in this situation, he had tracked Drift's location and felt curious, or maybe even concerned enough about it to make his way out here. Much more importantly: the way that this immediately made Drift's spark pulse harder in his chest had the swordsmech immediately wanting to get defensive.

He should say something.

…he should not say anything.

He had to make up his mind before Rodimus would start to piece things together.

The captain leaned so casually against the doorframe, arms folded, one foot kicked up against the wall behind him in that effortless way of his that somehow never looked forced. His spoiler twitched slightly in amusement as he took a generous moment to observe the scene—the tension radiating off of Drift's frame in waves, the subtle buzz of disturbed energy still crackling where a hologram’s bladed weapon had grazed his plating, the way his vents cycled just a little too quickly to pass off as normal. He was like a livewire in the middle of the training room floor.

All of it was, of course, very telling.

But Rodimus, predictably unpredictable as ever, chose to mention none of it for now. To spare Drift the trouble, perhaps. Or maybe he was saving it for later.

Instead, he just gave a low, easy whistle, as he surveyed the dimly lit, hologram-free training room. The residual energy from the hard-light projections still lingered faintly in the air, fading quickly, like fleetinf static in circuits as the training systems cycled down.

Drift bristled when Rodimus' anticipated speech cut through the silence.

"Nice of you to leave some holograms for the rest of us. Real generous." His voice was light and teasing, but his smirk was already laced with that knowing, smug edge—the kind that said I see you, I know what this is, and we both know you're not fooling anyone.

His flavour of concern.

He did not move from the doorway. Not yet. But not because he intended to savour this.

It was because—and Rodimus had to be real about it—it would have been stupid to get too close too fast to Drift when he was wound this tight, as a mech might just find himself on the business end of a very, very sharp sword. Rodimus, in all his recklessness, still had a healthy enough sense of self-preservation to avoid that .

Regardless of that, regardless of all the persistent tension, Drift did not want to threaten or hurt him.

His exhale was a quick, tense one, as he sheathed his swords in one swift move and disengaged from his stance, leaving his battle protocols on standby. Not completely deactivated, however. The metallic hiss of the blades sliding home was well punctuated by his curt response. "I was just finishing up.”

Rodimus’ smirk didn’t waver, not quite yet, but the glow behind his optics shifted slightly to a dimmer calibration. A calculation, a hesitation. Then, after a beat of silence just a moment too long for Drift’s liking, almost prompting the swordsmech to whirl around, the captain tilted his helm and asked, voice quieter than before:

"...you alright?"

Two words. So simple. So very uncomplicated. Almost deceptively casual.

Which, of course, made it infinitely worse, because if Rodimus was bothering to go as far as to tone down his usual bravado—the way he actually sounded like he was being serious for once—then he had clearly noticed far more than what Drift was comfortable with.

This was not a conversation Drift wanted to have with the captain in the middle of the Primus-damned night.

So he did what he did best and deflected. "Fine." That was a lie, one not even told particularly well, but there had at least been an attempt. Anything to get out of giving Rodimus the satisfaction of prying about it further. Not right now. Not with this.

It was already proving difficult enough to not turn around and align his optics with those infuriatingly pretty electric blue ones. If he let that happen now, he had no idea what would come next.

He feared it—no. This was not fear. This was common sense.

Rodimus was not one to be deterred, not so easily anyway. Common knowledge, really. His feet finally carried him forward, just a few casual steps into the training room after he had pushed himself off the door frame. The way he kept his arms crossed and strolled forward almost made it look like he was on a simple, unassuming walk, and like he'd just stumbled upon the scene by accident.

Far from the truth, of course.

"So," Rodimus said, as if he were commenting on the weather, "Just finishing up, huh." A small pause, deliberate perhaps, to really let his words take effect. "Y’know, for someone who's into that aura stuff, you've got one about you right now. One that says there's something on your mind. That real angsty kind.”

His optics had a slight daring gleam to them. Whether or not he would get an answer, he had no plans to just abandon him.

But Drift was having none of it. His tension flared. "Your concern is noted.”

Rodimus raised a brow ridge, coming to a complete halt.

"And ignored?"

Drift ground his teeth together. He should have walked out right now. He should have. Rodimus, as well-meaning as he likely was, did not need to receive the brunt of Drift's tensions. Distance would always be the better choice.

...but he did not leave. He still made no move to even turn.

Rodimus’ smirk softened slightly, just enough that it was almost unnoticeable. Drift heard it in his tone, however, without even needing to witness it. The captain made a show of clicking his tongue before tilting his helm the other way, as if contemplating something. "You are aware that you train way more than necessary, right? I mean, you probably do know, but at this point, even Ultra Magnus says you're abrasive."

A second went by before he continued.

"...Wait. No, that's not it, actually. He said excessive . Which, honestly, basically has the same meaning. Right?"

The joke was effortless. A useless, casual expansion of words just to test the waters, to get a better idea of Drift's current mood. Sometimes, it was a gateway for him to really start rambling away if not stopped, and Drift was not sure if he could handle hearing too much that angelic voice .

Until it turned out that the captain had much, much worse intentions.

Rodimus shifted his stance. Just a little looser, one servo moving to rest on his hip, the other gesturing in an easy, open motion toward the training room in general. The way he was positioned now allowed Drift to see him from the corner of his optic, his HUD now highlighting Rodimus' location not too far behind him.

"But hey—fair. If you're dead set on punching—or, well, cutting through some stress, then may as well make it fun, yeah?" Rodimus then suggested, his smirk turning into a grin, his engine starting up with a small but prominent purr of excitement. It was only natural for him when faced with the prospect of challenge and adrenaline. "Duel. One-on-one. I’ll even let you pick the rules.”

Casual sparring was one of their favourite pastimes, whenever the mood for it would strike—just the two of them together, not with holograms, but with each other. Most often it was for practice, as Rodimus was surprisingly eager to learn how to fight with swords with specifically Drift instructing him and no one else, but sometimes it was also just a fun way to blow off steam when either of them needed it.

It was not quite the same this time around, however.

Because clearly Drift had a lot more steam to blow off than usual.

It would have perhaps been a smarter choice for both of them to just leave the training room altogether and do something else to cool off. Anything that did not involve weapons. Right now, the suggestion of a friendly duel may as well have been fuel to fire.

Drift knew that he should have turned him down. Despite all his rage, he was still just as responsible as Rodimus for ensuring that things would not go so recklessly south. He was better than this. He was better than letting this sickness dictate his actions.

Unfortunately for him, Rodimus' tempting invitation worked a little too well. His HUD already started calculating duel parameters, a little too eager to start it right back up. 

It was then that Drift finally took it upon himself to turn. Only halfway though, just enough that he could see Rodimus a little clearer from his periphery, optics briefly catching the way the overhead lights cast faint reflections along the captain’s bright yellow and red paint. His jaw clenched, but it was too late for him to look away again.

"...Fine." The word came out quicker than Drift had intended, as the conflict that warred inside of him was so volatile that he would never get an answer out if he did not seize it fast.

Rodimus' optics brightened instantly and his spoiler wings flared slightly behind his back. He had been starting to expect rejection, and he was most certainly thrilled with this response, seeing this as a small victory despite knowing in his spark that maybe this was not the best idea. "Frag yes! Just you wait. You’ll be floored by how well I've learned to parry." He wasted zero time striding over toward the wall-mounted weapon storage along the far side of the room, pushing aside the holographic controls with easy familiarity. The rack hissed open to reveal dozens of training blades, and Rodimus of course would seek out his favourites.

“Don't expect me to go easy on you just 'cause you're all... tense," Rodimus called over his shoulder with the hope to prevent an awkward silence from settling. His digits danced playfully over the various hilts before settling on one gleaming silver practice blade that resembled, perhaps a little too closely to be a coincidence, the style Drift favoured. He gave it an experimental twirl, sending the blunt-edged durasteel flashing under the lights. A small bit of showboating, sure, but also a fast and elegant move that proved he had been putting in the practice time.

It was one of the most difficult things Drift had ever done—to not let his optics linger upon Rodimus’ form while he picked out his blade, to not let the way his plating shifted with each motion distract him, to not let himself melt at the sight of that trademark confidence playing out so effortlessly. Even the small but noticeable flourish with which Rodimus spun the blade had his spark pulsing just a little harder, just slightly faster, sending another unwanted thrum of desire through his frame. The way he moved— had he always been that fluid? That precise? —was mesmerizing, so much more skilled than he’d been when they first sparred.

Helpless against himself, Drift thought it.

That is attractive.

…how reverently he would worship that upon an altar.

Then, with a slow, burning coil of self-loathing tightening in his chest, Drift immediately forced his gaze away, tightening his grip on his own weapon as though physical pressure alone could crush out the inconvenient thoughts.

Shame.

There was nothing noble about wanting this. There was nothing beneficial to allowing this. Not from someone who would often fail to respect his boundaries, not from someone who would flirt as carelessly as he breathed, not from the one mech who could wreck him whole-heartedly without ever even realizing he’d done it.

Not from the one mech who always seemed to care way more than he should have .The one who always seemed to be there , against all odds.

Drift had to physically will himself to keep his expression neutral when he remembered the kiss again.

Rodimus turned back toward Drift, flaring his spoiler in challenge. The toothy grin on his face was so casual, so easy , as if nothing were wrong at all. As if the last thing in the world he was thinking about was that kiss. As if there was no concern whatsoever for the thoughts that it had put in Drift’s helm.

And that… that was the worst part.

So Drift did the only thing he could do.

He hardened his expression, steadied his grip, and took up his stance.

“Don’t get cocky,” he said under his breath.

So Rodimus had found the time and motivation to practice by himself. Big deal. They’d duel, Drift would praise him for his skills and then follow it up with corrections and suggestions, it would be over swiftly and they could go their separate ways. Nothing would come of it. Nothing would ever have to come of it.

"Yeah yeah," Rodimus waved him off with his free servo, grinning even wider when he found his stance, which was a mirror to Drift's, though with admittedly less perfect footing. For now. He exhaled through his vents, quick and anticipatory, feeling that familiar thrum of energy firing through his hydraulics, already craving the burst of speed he was about to unleash. His optics glowed with uncontained excitement.

Drift’s HUD tracked every little movement of his. Impossible to ignore.

"Bet you'll still wipe the floor with me though," Rodimus then admitted, though his tone made it obvious this was not actual concern, rather just playful baiting, another way to poke at Drift while pretending to act humbled. And, it was definitely also a thinly veiled attempt to get Drift to loosen up a little. "But hey, maybe this time I'll land a hit. One. Small hit. Totally doable."

Drift, against his better judgment, felt the slightest twitch at the corner of his intake, the ghost of a smirk he immediately smothered. That comment, for whatever reason, had almost gotten to him. Almost.

Rodimus’ irresistible charm, as always.

His optics flicked briefly toward the console before he tapped the holo-terrain activation panel with a near-imperceptible flick of his wrist, the barest brush of his digits against the projected interface lighting up the room in a visible flash. A split second later, the holographic world slotted itself into reality, flaring into existence with a series of layered gridlines that formed jagged, winding terrain. Dense clusters of simulated debris scattered along the floor, giving way to tactically advantageous cover and uneven footing. It was enough to make movement trickier, but not oppressive enough so that it would seriously hinder Rodimus' speed.

It was still a thoroughly unfair advantage, as far as duels went. Drift’s far superior agility would give him the upper hand.

Which was exactly why Drift had chosen this particular terrain configuration.

"Keep up," was all he said before he pushed off the ground, his frame launched forward in the span of an instant. His speed was nearly blinding, augmented by his short but powerful bursts of acceleration, as he bounded effortlessly through the terrain. Not even directly towards his opponent. No, he’d have to catch him first.

Distantly, he heard Rodimus’ surprised sound, a laugh perhaps, clearly too caught off-guard to do anything but scramble to match his pace, though 'matching' was quite possibly a somewhat generous term.

It was looking less like a duel and more like a game.

But even on uneven terrain, the captain was a frighteningly fast learner. He hardly hesitated before he darted forward in pursuit, almost stumbling but not quite, his engine growling in light frustration as he struggled but ultimately succeeded in navigating the chaos. He adapted efficiently; Drift could hear it—Rodimus kicking off broken slabs of metal left behind by the hologram’s terrain generation, angling his frame into tight turns to compensate for his momentum, shifting his trajectory when he realized he could use the debris to speed up rather than slow down.

And then, just as suddenly, Rodimus was not even behind him anymore.

Drift scrambled to find his heat signature.

He felt it before he saw it: a silhouette flickering across his HUD at the periphery of his vision, far too close. A familiar presence, with that aura he knew all too well. Had Drift been any less disciplined, he would have braced to compensate automatically. But he only had half a second to turn before Rodimus came barreling in from the side with a yelp, sword swinging in a wide, confident arc that was—though undeniably rough around the edges—far more technically sound than anything Drift had seen from him before.

He had not been just practicing.

He had been training . And he was actually good.

Almost too good. The sharp metal skimmed past Drift’s side with an audible scrape, and though it was not enough of an impact to count as a real hit, it had still come dangerously close. Rodimus caught himself quickly, optics bright with adrenaline and pleasant surprise at his own momentum, and grinned like he had just won the space lottery.

"Frag," Rodimus breathed, barely audible over the stuttering whir of his hydraulics. "How was that, huh? You think I need to keep up still?"

The way Rodimus was looking at him: all reckless, smug pride—should have made Drift want to knock his finials off. But instead, he could feel his spark pulse violently against his chest, sending an unnecessary and utterly unwelcome thrill through his processor.

For a split second, he imagined grabbing those finials instead.

Unacceptable.

Drift's first strike was a blur of silver; a low, sweeping slash meant to knock Rodimus off-balance before he even had time to properly react. But the captain, ever the fast learner, pivoted just in time, his foot catching on a holographic rock as he parried with a jarring clang of steel. The impact reverberated through Drift's blade like a shockwave. His optics narrowed.

Rodimus recovered with a spin, his shoulder nearly scraping against a nearby holo-boulder as he countered with a diagonal slash of his own, far more controlled than Drift had ever seen from him. Practice indeed. Their blades locked for half a second, close enough that Drift could see the faint pulse of bright golden biolights along Rodimus’ neck cabling. Close enough that he could smell the faint metallic tang of his overly polished plating. Close enough that—

He jerked back, kicking a pixelated debris pile toward Rodimus’ legs. The captain yelped, stumbling sideways, but his grin never faltered even if he looked playfully offended by that move. "Primus—who taught you to fight dirty?!" he accused, vaulting over a steel crate to avoid Drift’s enthusiastic follow-up strike. "Certainly wasn’t me !"

Drift wanted to snarl an insult of some sort, but held back. He wanted to tell Rodimus every contradiction: to shut up, to stay still, to fight properly . He was not even entirely sure what that would achieve. Instead, his actions spoke for him as he pressed his attack, harder, to drive Rodimus further into the terrain, leveraging each blow so that the captain would barely have time to catch his balance before the next one swung down. His slashes became faster, more aggressive, lacking grace and predictability even more so, sparks flying with each clashing impact. Their blades met again and again. Mock-fighting, and yet the energy behind it could not have been more real.

It was too much to ask, apparently, for Rodimus to not be so full of life , so radiant in every conceivable way—his optics were glowing with sheer joy and enthusiasm over this challenge, his vents heaving with exertion in a way that only amplified how devastating he was, his laughter cutting through the simulated battlefield like blade of an entirely different kind.

Every single thing about him was aggravatingly beautiful.

And to say that it was aggravating was truly putting it lightly, because the second Drift began grappling with an emotion, Rodimus would do… this. Whatever this was. This playfight, this taunt, this utterly indulgent spar that shifted the balance in some terrifying way that Drift was simply not sure he could recalibrate. Every electrifying glance, every cocky smirk, every reflexive duck and weave of Rodimus' lithe frame brought him closer to losing what little control he had left.

In hindsight, he should never have agreed to this duel.

Everything would have been fine if he had just walked away.

He had not, and it cost him.

Their blades collided again, with force. And then, again. Rodimus gave a breathless laugh, and had many a quip up his sleeve as he ducked under the next swing, kicking off a low section of terrain to flip over Drift's shoulder. The captain must have practiced that maneuver relentlessly to pull something like this off; Drift barely had time to turn before Rodimus landed behind him with a prideful little spin, his arms already adjusting for a slashing motion, testing reflexes. A moment later, Drift twisted into a retaliatory strike—a flash of steel —and Rodimus barely blocked it, almost missing the timing, only to be forced to backpedal when the next one came in too fast.

He slowly came to the realization that he was being overwhelmed.

It would have been the perfect opportunity to let up, just for a few brief moments, to adjust pace and match Rodimus’ skill level in an effort to turn this sparring session into something resembling a fair fight. But now that Drift’s sheer frustration was fully engaged, he did not seem capable of slowing down so easily. Whether he was conscious of it or not, the intensity of his attacks had built to something perilously close to genuine fury.

And it finally caught up to them.

One particularly forceful swing, aimed right for Rodimus’ core, ended up redirected at the last minute by Rodimus’ desperate block, the clash knocking both their blades wide. Then, in the split second of recoil, Drift’s forward momentum carried through , his servo still gripping the hilt as it whipped wildly to the side—

— CRACK. An incredibly unpleasant, distressing sound, alarmingly loud in the training chamber. Not the dull thud of durasteel-on-durasteel, but rather something far more brittle.

Somehow, Drift had missed Rodimus’ attempt at a parry entirely, and his sword’s tip had instead connected square with the captain’s helm , his face , right across the edge of his left optic.

Primus have mercy.

For a moment so harrowing, so sickening, the entire room seemed to freeze into silence. Until…

Rodimus’ first sound was understandably a grunt of pain, as he staggered back a step. He reflexively clutched at his face plate with one servo and shoved the blade away, wincing hard when his digits skimmed the damage. His left optic blinked rapidly, its blue light flickering erratically before dimming completely into a cracked void. Energon, a shockingly bright pink in colour, was already dripping down his cheek in slow, methodical streaks, grim, forbidden tears that eventually reached his jaw line. Although the stab wound was not deep, it was more than vicious enough to be an immediate cause for concern.

Drift’s swords dropped to the ground with a muted clang, the tip of one of them stained pink.

His fuel pump stuttered.

He was distantly aware of the hard-light terrain dissolving all around them with haste, the simulation terminating automatically in response to an injury alert. The holograms fizzled out as the system reverted to the standard training room parameters, leaving only the two of them standing there in the abrupt, heavy, awful silence.

This… was not… happening.

Rodimus lowered his servo after a moment, jaw clenched tightly as he vented through the pain and attempted to keep steady. The energon gleamed wetly against his teeth when he forced a lopsided smile. “Ow,” he ground out, as if that was somehow the only appropriate response. There was no anger in his tone. Just that same lightheartedness as before—almost like this was nothing more than a minor inconvenience to him.

Furthest from the truth.

Nothing would change the fact that his damage was very real. That his optic was damaged by Drift’s own making.

That Drift had injured him. It was not looking good, with how it kept dripping energon.

Deep within Drift’s frame, in his very core, something primal and despairing wrenched itself apart.

Guilt.

It drowned out everything else in one suffocating tide.

The energon ran down Rodimus' faceplate in a small but steady flow, the jagged gash across his optic scarring what had once been flawless plating. His other, good optic shifted as he tried to keep it focused on Drift despite the obvious hurt-grimace that twisted his features. He swallowed thickly, cycled a somewhat shaky vent, and then gave a short, strained laugh, like he was determined to shake this off no matter what. Whatever it took to downplay it for Drift's sake.

"Okay, before you freak out," Rodimus rasped, servo still hovering near his injury as if debating whether to try and staunch the flow, "I’ve, like, definitely had worse from Whirl. So, uh. Bonus points for not taking my whole helm off?" He was trying to joke, to diffuse, to make this somehow better , but the slight tremble in his vocalizer betrayed him.

And Drift was not hearing absolutely any of it.

He stood there, frame frozen in shock, processor caught in a horrifying loop of that sound , the crack of metal splitting under his blade, of Rodimus’ optic going dark, of glowing pink energon staining the floor between them in tiny mocking little splatters. Every cut that he had made in anger, every reckless move, every distracted glance he had sent towards the captain, had all led up to this .

He had allowed this to happen.

Just like he had allowed everything else that was wrong.

Rodimus took a step forward, ignoring the way the injury must have sent fresh pulses of pain through his neural net. "Hey. Hey. Look at… no, forget looking, listen , okay? I'm fine."

Fine.

He was not fine .

With a sharp and unsteady vent, Drift backed up as if burned, before he could stop himself. His HUD was flashing warnings: minor fuel tank instability, spark pulse nearing overactivity, cooling system struggling to compensate for the rising temperature—but he barely registered any of them. The only thing clear in his mind was the overwhelming urge to get away .

To run from it all.

To pretend that this had not just happened.

To prove to himself once and for all that he was not worthy.

But, to do that right now, without even trying to help first, would be a failure he would never be able to forgive himself for.

He knew better.

"Y-you need a medic," Drift managed to force out, his voice thin, nearly a whisper. The words scratched roughly at his internal systems. He stepped toward the controls, the irrational part of his processor already considering an emergency medical override, wanting to call for Ratchet or someone else. Despite the knowledge that most medics would be in recharge right now, most likely. Not that it even mattered; they would wake up if the situation called for it.

But, without question, even racking up a few hours of travel time from the metaphorical size of it, it felt as if a deep, insurmountable chasm had formed between them, and Drift could not so much as glance at Rodimus.

Rodimus' intact optic brightened for a moment, then quickly dimmed again as another pulse of pain seemed to hit. He staggered slightly, bracing a servo against the nearest wall. "Yeah, probably," he admitted with a hoarse chuckle. "But, uh, you want to do the honours, or should I—”

Drift’s frame was already moving on autopilot before Rodimus could finish speaking, abandoning the controls altogether and instead stumbling toward the emergency medkit mounted near the exit with uncharacteristic clumsiness. Unlocked, of course, as there would have been little benefit to making it inaccessible to anyone who may have needed it. Drift's optics scanned the contents, his HUD helpfully highlighting suggested tools for facial lacerations, though the information barely registered as his structures seized up again at the sight of Rodimus' energon.

His digits twitched unsteadily around the nanite gel and soldering iron; maybe a somewhat crude choice, good for a temporary patch job at best when there were more effective options available in the medibay, but Drift was hardly thinking straight.

The routine act of retrieving first aid supplies barely required conscious thought. His frame knew the motions. Treating minor-to-moderate injuries in a timely manner was like second nature to him. He'd done it so much in the past and this was no different.

So why was this so difficult.

When he finally retrieved the tools and took a half step toward Rodimus, he kept his optics strictly on the open wound. Nowhere else. “Stop moving,” he commanded, curtly, and he started to dab at the energon before Rodimus had even managed to sit down properly on the bench by the wall.

The captain startled when Drift grabbed his chin to adjust the angle of his helm, less gently than he should have, digits pressing into undamaged plating until he was satisfied with the way he had tilted Rodimus' helm toward the light. Up close, the injury looked worse. There were scorch marks from energy backlash spiderwebbing out from the cracked optic housing, and stress fractures in the surrounding metal from the sheer force of the impact.

Drift knew that Rodimus should be angry. He had every right to be.

Rodimus' vents hitched in another light flinch when the nanite gel made contact next, the slightest muffled sound of pain slipping past his clenched teeth. That alone sent another jolt of debilitating guilt through Drift's circuitry.

"Wouldn’t have to keep flinching if you'd held still," Drift snapped, immediately hating himself over it when Rodimus' optic widened. The small soldering iron buzzed to life in his other servo, its glow reflecting in the energon still smeared across the captain's cheek.

For a whole minute, nothing but the hiss of molten metal sealing fractures in protoform filled the space between them. 

"...okay, the frag is up with you tonight?" Rodimus' voice was unsteady but firm, his uninjured optic searching Drift's face for answers he would never find in this manner. "You've been off since before I got here, and now you're— ow ! Gentle, frag, you're welding like you want to blind me for real—"

The iron slipped, leaving a blackened streak down Rodimus' cheekbone. Drift recoiled as if electrocuted.

His vents roared as his systems threatened to spike into overdrive. The soldering iron slipped from his grip altogether and clattered to the floor, still glowing with heat. His servos shook so violently he had to clench them into fists against his sides to stop the tremors, which turned out to be a futile effort. The shaking persisted.

How pathetic of him to nearly crumble like this in front of Rodimus. This was not going anywhere. He was actively making it worse.

"You require a medic ," Drift repeated, syllables clipped and over-enunciating in his attempts to stay controlled. Ratchet's designation hovered beneath his tongue unspoken, code-locked behind a sudden, suffocating fear of summoning witnesses to his failure. "This... isn't clean work. Risk of… of further complications increases by…”

He trailed off when he saw how Rodimus scowled, half in pain, half in frustration, his rather emotional reaction only making the injury sting more. That did not stop him, however. "No offense, but you're not exactly selling me on your bedside manner right now," he muttered, another weak, undeserved attempt to lighten the atmosphere, but the effort was strained. He shifted slightly where he was seated, wincing when the torn circuitry twinged in protest.

Drift could see it perfectly well. The dark streaks in Rodimus’ dimmed gaze, the subtle tightening of his intake, the way his servo kept flexing like he was not entirely sure what to do with it. He was in pain. He was suffering. Drift had not made it any better for him. He did not want to be here any more than Drift did. Probably even less.

He was the one who deserved to get away. Not Drift.

And yet, of course, he was choosing to stay.

"You’re… worrying me, Drift," Rodimus finally admitted after the silence dragged on for far too long once again, his voice edging dangerously close to something truly real.

That, horrifyingly, was the thing that nearly snapped what little excuse for composure Drift still had left.

Worrying him ? After all this? After everything that had happened?

Every last pitiful bit of self-loathing, guilt, and frustrated want that had been roiling inside of him spiked violently at that simple arrangement of words, and for one single raw moment, an ugly, ragged growl threatened to escape his vocalizer, with his fangs bared and all. He clenched his jaw so hard that the metal of his teeth nearly creaked in his attempt to prevent himself from losing it.

And then…

Nothing.

The moment passed unseized in stillness, his vocalizer seizing up entirely beneath the sheer force of his internal crisis before any of it could escape.

Rodimus was still staring at him so earnestly, waiting, with all this concern and understanding and compassion in his gaze and… and suddenly Drift could no longer bear it.

It could not have been real. He refused to believe it. He would not allow himself to do so.

His optics jerked away with force, back to the spilled medkit and the discarded soldering iron still warm on the floor, the barely-staunching energon dripping from Rodimus' chin—every small, grisly reminder of what he had done .

His silence stretched way too long, and he could feel the perceived weight of Rodimus’ scrutiny like the slow, inexorable press of a blade between armour plates.

"...don't," Drift finally managed to ground out, the single syllable brittle enough to shatter if only it had physical form, but that elusive rage was already bleeding out of him just as quickly as it had surged.

He had nothing else left to say.

In the end, Drift alerted the medics just as he’d been intending to, using that to make his shameful, undeserved escape.

He had not even apologized. Rodimus had not asked for one—he never would—nor would it have fixed anything, but he should have at least said something to show the intense remorse and shame he felt. Instead he had been cold and unhelpful and really not that different from what he swore to destroy.

The door to Drift's hab-suite was the only thing sealing him away from the rest of the world. His quarters were luxuriously spacious but sparse by choice. There was a meticulously laid out meditation mat in one corner, a small shrine adorned with crystals, his weapons stand, and the occasional small piece of decorative furniture. And his berth, of course. Minimal. Austere. Controlled . A lie he told himself daily.

He stood in the centre of the room, frame rigid, optic feeds replaying the moment relentlessly: that forced, bloodied grin meant to reassure him , of all mechs. He had vanished like a coward. No apology. No explanation.

How was he supposed to atone for this.

He sat down rigid upon the edge of his recharge berth, elbows digging into his knees, blunt tips of his servos buried in his helm as if he could physically pry the memories loose. But they played anyway, relentless and so painfully vivid. The crack of metal. Rodimus’ stifled gasp. The way his grin had faltered, blue optic dimming under jagged fractures. The energon that had spilled.

Shadows pooled around him, heavy as an anchor. He was sinking just like one.

His ventilation system hitched audibly. He lurched to his feet, pacing the cramped room like a caged mechanimal, digits digging into his forearms hard enough to nearly leave grooves in the metal. Discipline. Control. Zen . The teachings of the Circle of Light unravelled at the edges like fine thread, prayers crumbling into pixelated dust and fading into the void.

You wanted him , hissed the traitorous part of his processor, as dangerous as loose shrapnel. You wanted to pin him to that training room floor and make him feel what you feel. To claim him. To worship him. Because you’re —

“No.” The denial tore from him, ragged. He let his back slam against the wall, sliding down it until he sat crumpled on the floor, legs bent awkwardly. His helm thudded against the metal behind him. “No. No. ”

But the truth remained thick in his fuel lines, every circuit having been poisoned with it.

He had not just wanted . He had coveted . The sheer closeness of Rodimus’ frame to his own before, during and after their duel had always been a sparkbeat-quickening paradox. Both agony and ecstasy, a thorn in his side of the best kind. The captain’s every smirk, every teasing jab, every stolen glance… and that one kiss… had kindled something Drift had sworn to bury. Something that terrified him more than any battlefield, any judgement that the world might cast at him.

Love .

The word seared through him like plasma. Weakness.

He wanted to call it a weakness, anyway, but he knew the truth. He knew that he was not weak for feeling it. No. He was weak for allowing himself to ever consider, even for just a second, that maybe he deserved to feel it. And to receive it in return. 

To want more of it.

He was not. Worthy . Of thinking it. Let alone saying it.

But no amount of denial, refusal, guilt, shame would be strong enough to erase the reality of it.

His tired, distant gaze flicked slowly across his room, like he feared that his surroundings judged his presence. That the stars outside his viewport despised his existence.

What was he to do, if not eventually go running back to Rodimus again, because this magnetic pull he kept trying to will away would always just come back and stick around relentlessly? At what level would he have to forcefully abstain himself from the captain's warm forgiveness and accepting embrace to finally achieve absolution for all that he was feeling, all that he had done…?

He had hurt him, and then he had left him.

Rodimus deserved better, he deserved so much better, and yet Drift could not give him the courtesy of staying away. Not now, not ever.

Because Rodimus himself would not allow it.

The ship’s simulated pale morning light filtered through the viewport of Drift’s hab-suite, casting long, miserable, cold shadows across the floor. A very heavy, silent stillness rest upon the room like a blanket.

Nothing moved. Not even a subtle breeze would form to disturb the hanging chimes, which lacked all sound.

The silence was broken briefly when the door slid open, without any protest as it had not been locked and thus required no overrides. Rodimus stood in the threshold, silhouetted by the corridor’s dim glow. His left optic was sealed beneath a sleek black alloy patch, its edges welded seamlessly to his faceplate. A thin, still-healing scar ran from his temple to his cheekbone. The captain’s usual bravado was understandably muted, replaced by something quieter, heavier.

The momentary, soothing jingle of the chimes met his audials as air from the corridor reached it, but other than that, the hab-suite was vacant.

Drift was not there.

Rodimus had really hoped he would be, because this was going to make finding him a whole lot more difficult.

The alloy patch over Rodimus’ fractured optic hurt mildly, but he ignored it valiantly, the discomfort paling against the ache gnawing away at his spark. The empty hab-suite looked so sorrowful in its silence, the chimes now hanging lifeless again near the berth. No scuff marks on the floor. No lingering heat signatures. No note, although it was not Drift's style to leave notes. His twin swords sat undisturbed on their stand, gleaming with the kind of meticulous care that suggested their owner had not touched them in some hours.

Rodimus gave a sigh, his good optic dimming in growing distress. There had been no comms from Drift, his HUD scanned for signs of a trail but could find none, and his was beacon purposefully deactivated. Frag . He’d already checked Swerve’s, the training decks, the bridge, the workshops, and even some of the rarely-visited observation lounges. Nothing. Everyone that he had asked—Ratchet gruffly resetting his solder gun in medbay, Ultra Magnus tallying inventory logs—had only shrugged. “Haven’t seen him.”

The one time the massive size of this ship turned out to be a major detriment…

It was hardly unusual in their opinion that Drift would just disappear sometimes for a bit. To them, it was not the kind of situation that warranted concern. They barely even questioned the captain's injury, putting it down to his usual recklessness, though still they seemed much more worried about that than they did about Drift. Rodimus had to try really hard not to get mad at them for it.

Sure, he could have escalated and demanded that they take it more seriously, perhaps even got them to help him in the search, but something told him that Drift would not appreciate too many noses in his business.

He leaned against the doorframe, thumbing his personal comm unit again. //Drift? Come on. Pick up.// But there was only static. A hollow warble that indicated the recipient was unavailable. This was not even simple radio silence; this was a full systems shutdown. Drift had shut himself out entirely. None of the messages were being received.

Drift, as the Third-in-Command, was technically not allowed to keep his frequency offline like that, but Rodimus was really not pressed about the rules right now. Lectures about command etiquette were the last thing on his mind right now. He took a few careful steps into the room, running a servo along the edge of Drift’s shrine with great respect. The crystals set upon it gleamed faintly, their soft glow such a strong contrast to the tension clawing up his spine. 

His digits lingered on the smooth edge of a blue crystal, its muted pulse reminiscent of something that he did not have the words to describe. Something nostalgic, intimate. Fragile, even, but not like a weakness. It was like Drift in a way, if it were possible to capture the essence of him in something so small. He wondered if Drift had ever felt similarly about him, if he had ever looked at Rodimus and thought, even momentarily, This is precious, I want to hold this forever.

That night, before everything had seemingly started to slowly fall apart… before Drift had retreated into some dark, unknowable corner of the ship or his own mind, and Rodimus did indeed suspect that this was happening because of that specific night … Rodimus had found himself thinking that very way. And then he had acted on it, because that was what he did .

The highly pleasant memory of Drift’s intake beneath his own lingered there, nestled somewhere unspoken, tucked into the spaces between his plating: the way the swordsmech had frozen for only the briefest, most fleeting of moments before he had melted into him, his frame so uncharacteristically pliant beneath Rodimus’ servos. His field, usually so withdrawn, had a feeling of something breathless and wanting to it, something Rodimus had barely dared to believe was real, but it had indeed been real. Then, just as unexpectedly, it was gone again, locked away behind that polished mask Drift wore all too well.

It had been Rodimus who had pulled back first. Dumbfounded. Terribly giddy. Adrift. He had grinned then, just as he always would, almost expecting some rare and unguarded reaction from the usually disciplined mech, hoping to catch a glimpse of what lay beneath the countless layers of control, guilt, and self-imposed distance. It had all puzzled him for way too long and he just wanted to finally be able to witness what lay beyond it.

Instead, Drift had stiffened, then his helm bowed slightly, optics bright but there it was again: that infuriating distance within the cobalt depths, already reconstructing walls between them that had taken Rodimus so much time to chip away at. And then… nothing. The silence stretched, unbearable, until eventually, Drift merely inclined his helm and muttered something about needing to get back to training.

Cute, in a way, but in hindsight that truly had very clearly also been the not-so-humble beginnings of this whole mess. A denial of some sort, allowed to fester. But even then, Rodimus had not thought to expect this . Perhaps he should have foreseen it with better clarity. Perhaps he should have known to expect Drift to forcefully turn away from what he wanted.

Some kind of disciplined warrior thing, no doubt.

…as much as Rodimus did not want to accept that this expression of his deepest feelings may have inadvertently caused Drift this horrible agony… he had to.

For all that Rodimus never lacked confidence: in himself, in his abilities, in the sheer force of his own will, Drift still managed to wreck him in unexpected ways without even trying. It was not just attraction that had his spark in a vice—though yes, Primus, that was certainly part of it—but something so much deeper and a hell of a lot more meaningful. Something that made his spark stutter and spin like it was trying to breach his chest every time Drift so much as glanced his way.

He had just wanted to share it.

And now Drift had gone missing.

Because of him.

Being the kind of mech who could deal with just about anything, Rodimus had to admit that he was struggling with this somewhat.

He dragged a trembling servo down his face plating, digits pausing for a second at the edge of the patch that covered his wounded optic. Ratchet had told him to expect a full recovery. His optic would heal, obviously, the wound was not so deep after all. The scar would fade. But the thought of Drift out there somewhere, guilty and untethered because of him, made Rodimus feel like he had taken a devastating blow right to the spark chamber.

He straightened up. If Drift did not want to be found, if he was that determined to disappear, then Rodimus would just have to be even more determined to track him down.

So what if he was without a beacon to show him the way to him. He knew Drift. He’d already failed to prove that once, by allowing all of this to take root. Now was his chance to fix that.

The oil reservoir was not somewhere Rodimus would usually go looking for Drift—which was exactly why he found himself heading there now, his legs carrying him through the labyrinthine hallways of the Lost Light with quiet urgency. He passed few others; although the ship never truly slept, many of the crew had also yet to wake from their recharge cycles.

None of them really questioned what he was up to, but his patch did undoubtedly catch attention. Negative, positive, it did not matter. 

Rodimus paid them no mind. Normally, he would have taken the opportunity to brag, to tell the whole story, embellish it for charm and make them listen whether or not they actually wanted to, but now was not the time for that.

The reservoir was a very blunt and straightforward name for what amounted practically to a small inland lake of, well, oil, nestled deep within the lower decks where it filtered and circulated. It was one of the most peaceful places on the ship. Peaceful, and very much tucked away from wandering optics.

There was no mistake to be made: the ship, with its size, harboured many suitable locations for when one needed to be alone uninterrupted. But, the oil reservoir was the place for true, guaranteed solitude; a contradictory statement, perhaps, considering everyone would gladly name it as the first place they would think of for peace and quiet, but few actually truly went there. Like the mere thought of coming here was somehow more effective than actually putting it into practice.

Rodimus stood at the moderately sized side entrance not so far from the massive main gate for a brief moment, his venting slow as he made an effort to steady it, before he tapped the access panel. He wanted to find Drift more than anything, but if he was here, what would he even say? Make jokes based on the truth to keep the mood light? Be spark-wrenchingly honest? Demand answers? Just kiss him again and show him that everything is okay…?

The door hydraulics gave a tired whine as it slid open with no hurry whatsoever, revealing a dark cavernous chamber bathed in low, slightly blue light, the scent of slightly warmed oil curling in the air. The reservoir gleamed like liquid starlight, reflecting the real stars visible through the massive viewport on one side, its surface disturbed only by faint ripples from the circulation vents but otherwise the oil was quite still.

His gaze flicked around. Locating Drift’s white plating against the dark backdrop would hardly be a challenge, even when considering the sheer size of this chamber.

He had not yet had the time to get used to seeing with just one optic, but his HUD did all it was capable of to compensate for the temporary change in perception.

Rodimus’ spark pulsed so noticeably hard against his chest when his optic fixed upon that familiar silhouette, complete with the highly recognizable long finials. He was seated atop one of the maintenance platforms jutting over the oil, his legs hanging near-precariously over the edge, cloven feet barely skimming the dark, iridescent surface. The glow from the reservoir caught the edges of Drift’s armour in such fascinating ways—bright platinum turned mercury, red threading dark and deep like dried wounds. His frame was slumped slightly, his shoulders rounded forward, his helm bowed with exhaustion.

Rodimus walked a single step, hesitated, realized that there was really no room for hesitation, then continued onward at a pace much more cautious than the type he usually adopted. He aimed to close the distance with careful consideration, as to not cause any unnecessary alarm. He only came to a very slow, tentative halt when he finally reached his destination platform, now standing but a few steps behind Drift.

He had not been certain Drift would even say a word out loud to greet him, let alone turn around. but then the swordsmech’s field shifted so very slightly, just enough to betray his awareness of the captain’s presence. He’d likely been aware of it well before Rodimus had made it this close, but was choosing to acknowledge it only now.

His digits flexed just slightly against the platform’s edge, and Rodimus could immediately see that the perpetually lingering tension had definitely kept Drift up through most of the night, if not the entirety of it.

Rodimus kneeled down, and hovered a servo mere inches above Drift’s shoulder. He hesitated, gazing for a moment at his expression of discomfort, then let his touch land with deliberate lightness.

Say something. Anything…

“Hey. Drift.” he murmured, voice a little rough. “You’re gonna rust all your fancy gears like this.”

His words lingered briefly, spilling gently into the silent deep of the reservoir, when finally, Drift shifted. Not in any particular direction, but in his frame’s idle registering of being addressed.

He was listening.

Relief and conflict both hit Rodimus in that moment. His frame moved way too fast almost of its own volition, before it occurred to him that he needed to remain discreet and respectful about this. So he instead went to sit down next to Drift, to avoid the almost-executed alternative, which was tackling him in a mixed state of scolding and apologies. Not appropriate, given the circumstance.

As though from a very far distance, Drift’s words echoed with a prominent tone of uncertainty. “Rodimus… you shouldn't be here.”

The captain did not budge, however. He stayed put where he was sat, trying to take on a relaxed, carefree stance. “Yeah, well. You left last night before I could finish yelling at you.” His tone was light, but his sudden grin did not reach his gaze. He lifted his servo to point a digit at his left optic. “Medics got me taken care of. Told me I look dashing with a scar. Very ‘seasoned captain-core.’ And this patch makes me look kind of badass, like a space pirate, don't you think. Shame it's temporary…” He trailed off when he noticed the way Drift just kept staring into the reservoir’s reflection in trepid silence.

Rodimus had no idea how to do this. His bold decision to wing it was what had caused this; so he believed. But then again, he could surely wing it a second time to make it all better again.

The moment stretched too long, enough so that Rodimus was starting to think he might have said the wrong thing after all when finally, with painful slowness, Drift turned his helm slightly toward him. The deep sorrow in his optics was harrowing. When they landed on Rodimus’ injury, another wave of guilt tumbled through his blue depths. Then, equally as slowly, his gaze fell back to his own distorted reflection in the oil below.

Rodimus leaned forward, angling himself so his good optic could catch Drift’s expression more clearly. “Hey. Hey. You know I've had worse. Like, a lot worse. I even told you already. I meant it when I said I'm fine; I really am.” he started, making a great effort to keep the light-heartedness in his tone. “Accidents happen, and… then life goes on and all that, y’know…” He nudged Drift’s shoulder lightly with his own. “Point is, for someone so into second chances, you really need to start giving yourself one every now and then.”

Drift’s servos trembled slightly where they rested against the platform’s edge. His next words came out brittle. “I hurt you.” Not an apology. Not yet. Just a broken acknowledgement.

Rodimus’ spark twisted. “Yeah. And I’ve hurt you.” He tried to make a point. “Not like this, maybe, but…” He exhaled roughly. “Frag, Drift, there's no way you expect me to hold this against you?”

The reservoir's surface rippled faintly as Rodimus shifted closer, his knee brushing against Drift’s. The captain’s playful demeanour fell away then completely, leaving only raw sincerity in the dim blue light. His scarred faceplate softened. No smirk anymore, no deflection, not for this moment. Just two mechs sitting at the edge of everything.

"...I mean, you are right," Rodimus continued on quietly. "You hurt me. No getting around that. But, I know why." His servo flexed, like he wanted to reach out but feared breaking some unspoken rule. "You’re scared. Not of me, but of… whatever this is." He gestured loosely between them, the air charged. "The way I look at you. The way you don’t look at me unless you think I’m not paying attention."

Drift’s digits dug into the platform’s edge, until the metal beneath gave a very quiet creak. His voice had a glacial chill to it. "You don’t understand.”

Rodimus snorted, light but humorless. "Yeah? You're so convinced of that?" He leaned in, daring to let his field brush against Drift’s—warm, persistent, unguarded. "And this has made you decide that you… what. Need to keep yourself caged away forever? As if that's realistic somehow?”

Drift remained silent.

Rodimus waited for a moment, before he took it as an opportunity to continue.

“You really think I'm going to care about a broken optic when I see the scars under your plating…?”

Drift flinched at those words, helm whipping toward him, optics blazing. "This isn't about that . That's irrelevant." His vents hissed like a pressure release. "I lost it. With you. Because of—”

"Because you felt something?" Rodimus cut in. He was being wholly serious still, not even letting the smallest of smirks appear on his face. "Yeah, that happens. To both of us. You wouldn't make me, or anyone else for that matter, isolate themselves for that kind of thing."

Drift had gone silent again. The guilt and shame was rolling off of him in waves.

Rodimus’ voice dropped to a near-whisper. As much as he wanted to accept that Drift had the right to remain quiet, he would not allow himself to perpetuate this wallowing, and thus he had to state the truth. He had to make it known. He had it all figured out and Drift needed to be aware. "Drift. Drift… you don’t have to punish yourself for wanting me. Or… for me wanting you back.”

Drift's silence dragged, even now. Rodimus could sense the subtle tremor building in his frame. A sign of sheer, broken emotion fighting so hard to stay contained.

In the end, the reservoir's stillness shattered not with words, but with motion: Rodimus leaning forward, his arms lifting with determination to lock around Drift’s frame with the same reckless certainty that guided him through every chaotic event that had graced the Lost Light since their departure. No permission asked. No hesitation. His embrace was tight and affectionate, digits splayed wide against Drift’s backplate, his chin hooked over the swordsmech’s shoulder in a hold that left no room for misinterpretation. His shattered optic pressed against the curve of Drift’s neck cabling, unflinching despite the risk of further pain.

For several short but slow ventilation cycles, Drift went rigid, optics wide, his arms raised slightly like he might lash out any moment, his self-preservation warring with the surging thunderstorm in his spark. Rodimus’ field blazed into his own, scorching and indignant and aching, electric with promises that did not need to be spoken out loud:

I’m not leaving.

I see your cracks. Let me.

Your conscience is no bloodier than mine.

Drift’s snarl died unvoiced. His raised servos faltered, drifting down to hover over Rodimus’ waist, too afraid to grasp but too starved to pull away. A staticky whine emitted from his vocalizer.

Rodimus’ grip tightened. “Shut up,” he muttered into his plating, breath hitching like he’d sprinted lightyears to get here. “Just… shut up. You don’t get to call this a mistake. Not when I felt you that night. Not when you kissed me back.”

Drift’s frame was quaking at this point; though whether that was from exhaustion, rage, or the damning relief of being held, neither could say.

When Drift finally, truly surrendered, helm dropping to the nook between Rodimus’ neck and shoulder, his digits curling into the seams of the captain’s waist, Rodimus’ engine stuttered. Not in triumph. This was something softer.

Drift's spark flared so intensely he thought its light might sear through his chest. Rodimus’ embrace was a somewhat of a paradox, gentle in its demand, yet as grounding as a gravity well. The warmth of his frame bled through layers of armour and shielding, starting to chase away the persistent chill that had settled within Drift’s joints. For the first time in lifetimes, his plating felt anchored to something real.

Rodimus’ breaths were warm against his neck cables, uneven but firm. “I’m not fragile,” he then emphasized, as if he could parse Drift’s every hesitation, every silent accusation. “I think it's time you stop treating me like I’ll break if you hold me the way you want to.” His voice hitched, digits tracing a seam on Drift’s back like it was a map to something unreachable. “Please.”

That final word undid him.

Drift’s servos slid all the way around Rodimus’ waist, digits scraping his back as he pulled him closer with the desperation of a mech drowning. His face moved to settle against the curve of the captain’s throat, where his engine’s hum vibrated soft and steady. Safe. Alive. Precious.

His vents shuddered.

Rodimus relaxed against him, his spoiler fanning out in quiet victory. One servo rose to cradle the back of Drift’s helm, thumb brushing the base of a finial. “There you are,” he whispered. No smirk, no joke—just affection and awe. 

The world stopped for a little while, or at least it felt as such, Drift's systems optimizing his sensory inputs so as to not become overwhelmed. The thrum of Rodimus’ spark. The mutual pressure of their frames. That grounding warmth that shook his foundations further and further with each passing second. His own awkward yet firm grip around the other mech. He had refused to admit to himself how much he’d needed this—needed him —until right now, in this moment, when he was simply too exhausted to deny it any longer. When it felt like nothing else could mend his spark, Rodimus came through. Without even once feeling the need to say 'I told you so.'

“Rodimus,” Drift said, throatier than intended, but he pressed on. “I... I'm sorry."

The words were stilted, as though he had to physically force them from his core. But at the same time they were unfiltered, not practiced or carved, and that made them truly sincere.

Rodimus’ chuckle was a low rumble against Drift’s audial sensor, his grip tightening like he might never let go. "I forgive you. Again. For the millionth time." He leaned back just enough to catch Drift’s gaze, his remaining optic blazing with that familiar spark of stubborn affection. "But maybe, instead of saying sorry, you could try trusting me. Just... trust that I want this. You. All of it. Even the messy parts."

Drift’s finials flicked back by an inch, his expression caught between wary disbelief and fragile hope. “It’s not like that,” he said with quiet bitterness, although the protest was not a particularly convincing one. Rodimus’ proximity, his unflinching warmth, now melting his walls like fire to ice and weakened the conflict warring in his spark.

How would he even begin to tell him about the way his mind would wander…

Drift drew back slightly as well, one servo trailing from Rodimus’ waist to linger at the side of his helm. His gaze fixated on the sleek black alloy patch and the scar poking out from underneath it. His thumb traced the border of the alloy, a feather-light touch that could not possibly hurt, but when Rodimus winced slightly he stilled immediately. An old instinct had him wanting to withdraw, yet Rodimus leaned into the touch the next moment, optic fluttering shut.

"Don't," Drift started, as though that would change anything.

But Rodimus’ servo found his wrist, holding it in place. "It’s just sensitive. Doesn't mean you have to stop." He smiled faintly. “Actually, feels kinda nice. Not that self-restraint is your specialty or anything.”

Drift arched a delicate brow. “My self-control is impeccable, thanks,” he tried to respond with sarcasm to show that he was not entirely shut away; this time, his thumb continued in its exploration, tracing the edges of Rodimus’ scarring with a tenderness that left the captain’s vents hitching audibly.

Rodimus’ grin returned, as he was clearly satisfied with his success so far. “It honestly is, because it would take a lot to be able to resist the likes of me. I mean, you’re missing the real takeaway here.” He leaned further into Drift’s touch, tilting his helm for better contact. “Now I actually look like the infamous, dashing captain of a renegade starship. The patch is a necessity for that kind of thing. Makes me look super responsible, a tad intimidating and, of course, incredibly attractive. I’m thinking of keeping it on even after my optic heals.”

The smallest sound of amusement: somewhat forced perhaps but genuine in its origin—slipped free before Drift could stop it. He tried to school his expression, hiding the hint of warmth in his optics by averting his gaze. "Very responsible," he echoed dryly, his digits trailing down to brush the curve of Rodimus’ jaw. "Just don't start giving yourself strange titles. They’ll think you’re actually turning to piracy."

"Oh, come on!" Rodimus gasped, mock-outraged, leaning back dramatically for a second, but then he was right back up close again. "The crew are all bored anyway, they’d be wholly on board with the new… direction."

Drift resisted the urge to roll his optics, and promptly failed. "No. I am not letting you do that."

"As if I’d be giving you a choice. You’ll be right there with me," Rodimus fired back, his grin shifting into a different kind of confidence. He moved with purpose then, pulling Drift’s helm down so their intakes rest barely a centimeter apart. His tone went husky. "Dangerous combination."

Drift’s vents caught, his self-control teetering. "That's not—"

He was cut off by Rodimus’ lips meeting his own. Not a tease, barely a precursor—just a firm, reassuring press of warmth and genuine want that still managed to leave Drift's processor short-circuiting. The metal of their intakes fit together like a key finding its lock. It was… not perfect, but it was absolutely crucial. Insistent and so full of life that a tremor could have shaken them to pieces and Drift may not even have noticed.

Rodimus pulled back after a few frantic moments, breathless but grinning. He was beyond satisfied, but clearly also wanted more. "See. Dangerous."

Properly kissed and vulnerable, Drift could not even muster a response, let alone a playful insult. His thumb still rested near Rodimus’ jaw, the warmth there dizzying. All his guilt, all his self-reproach, they fractured so effortlessly under the radiance of that smile.

But with them gone, something new swept in. Fear. The need to protect. Forge bonds despite knowing how they can dissolve so tragically. To want, and to fear losing that which he had barely grasped. What a terrifying, inevitable existence this would be. But… one step at a time. Maybe, maybe he can allow this. One step. Then another. Walk towards the future instead of running away from the present.

"Rodimus," he began, slowly, bracing for a confession even if he had no idea what it would be exactly. "If we... If I…"

Rodimus shifted his grasp, entwining their digits. His touch was everything. "I know," he said, even just his one optic holding galaxies in its blue depths.

Drift's resolve wavered, his spark pulsing erratically between fear and hope. Rodimus’ presence was a gravitational pull, impossible to resist. The captain’s servo tightened around his, helping ground him when even now, guilt and shame would threaten to return and keep him doubting.

"Every time you run," Rodimus murmured, his voice steady, "I’ll be right there to drag you back. Even if it takes a million times. That’s what captains do for their crew. Especially for the ones they…" He trailed off, but the unspoken word— love —hovered in the surrounding air like an aura.

Drift’s optics flicked down, a fragile vulnerability breaking through his defenses. He leaned forward, closing the scant distance between them. This kiss was softer, slower, an offering of remorse and more importantly trust, tentative but unyielding. Rodimus met him with equal fervour, his free servo cradling Drift’s helm as if it were something rare and irreplaceable.

When they parted, the oil reservoir’s stillness felt less oppressive, the stars outside the viewport brighter. Drift’s forehelm rested against Rodimus’, their fields intertwined in a quiet harmony. The weight of guilt had not vanished, but it no longer suffocated him. Maybe he had been overthinking it. Maybe he could allow himself to… to…

Drift finally exhaled, after holding a vent for way too long. Their frames were pressed so close that he could feel the vibration of every word the captain was not saying out loud. The warmth between them was no longer just physical… it was gravitational, unavoidable, stitching together fractures Drift had never realized ran so frighteningly deep.

Rodimus’ thumb traced idle patterns over Drift’s knuckles. “We don’t have to name it,” he said softly, as if reading the scramble of thoughts that thrashed in Drift’s processor. “Not yet. Not ever, if you don’t want to. Just… let it be.”

Let it be.

The simplicity of the offer was both a lifeline and a surrender. Drift had to face one of many truths: he was in this far deeper than he had ever dared to admit, and in comparison, there was a lot that he had been too scared to admit recently. To let it be would be to allow himself this forgiveness, and the permission to move on. To believe himself worthy of Rodimus.

In every way.

The captain nuzzled the curve of Drift’s finial, his voice a low hum. “You’re thinking too loud again.”

“Hard not to,” Drift confessed. “I… I don’t know how to do this. I don’t feel like I should. But… I want to… try.”

Rodimus shifted at the confession, meeting Drift’s gaze. His singular optic burned with intent now, a certain determination that bordered on being as intense as a wildfire. The way he looked at him? It was hard to avoid returning that gaze, but Drift, as per his nature, tried. Keyword, 'tried'.

Conflict between what Drift wanted and what he thought actually possible had plagued him for what felt like a millennia—usually, to present nothing but utilitarian responses. Here, perhaps, there was a possibility he could deviate from that for once, a bold possibility, but one he had spent too long turning away from. Now that it was right in front of him, so close he could practically feel the static electricity between their fields, words seemed so inadequate.

But… now more than ever, words were also necessary.

His intake opened and closed, struggling to string together something coherent. So, of course, Rodimus spoke first.

"Okay." The captain said, his servo entangled with Drift’s. His tone was playful yet grounded. It always was. Drift, of course, both loved as well as failed to understand how he would always remain so carefree and bounce back so easily from everything. "So… you take me out for high-grade. We have a bit of fun, it’s all relaxed, maybe I get you to re-enact that time I single-handedly piloted the ship through a solar storm while two of the engines were malfunctioning. Then we sit real close and talk about feelings for an hour. And then you take me to berth… as is formality."

Drift's faceplates—so embarrassing—heated despite his many years of being beyond this kind of awkwardness. The pointed, knife-like ends of his finials took on a light shade of pink. That display, alongside his ever traitorous field, uncovered his thoughts before he could even properly form them. "Rodimus.”

“Drift.” Rodimus mirrored his tone, grinning.

Drift’s looked to see where their digits were entwined. "You are… as charming as ever," he muttered, keeping their servos interlocked with devotion despite their metaphorical incompatibility—Rodimus' open-hearted warmth and Drift’s guarded uncertainty. What an off-beat pairing. It gave way for so much more than just this to go horribly wrong.

But the truth would remain present. Inevitable.

Rodimus’ smile remained. "But…?" he prompted, trailing the word into the tension between them.

Drift avoided his gaze for as long as possible, but it was futile. The finality of the answer made his spark surge. "But if the… prepubescent summary of your half-thought plan is an option..."

He trailed off, hesitant.

Rodimus waited, uncharacteristically patient. Then, when Drift failed to elaborate, he squeezed the swordsmech's servo. "C'mon. No need to play coy now. Out with it."

Drift’s vocalizer almost shorted. He felt in that moment, stupidly, like a new-forged again. "I…" His grip tightened reflexively from what he was about to say. “Let us… skip the high-grade. And talking."

Rodimus' optic brightened so much that Drift was sure he could feel the heat of it. He could not decide if that was a good or a bad thing. The captain’s laughter was a siren song. Not even circuit speeders could properly prepare him for this. The captain leaned into his space again, far enough until Drift was reclined slightly against the platform's edge, Rodimus nearly straddling his thighs with a mischievous toss of his spoiler. "So, truly a mech after my own spark. Not sure why I expected anything less. We are skipping straight to the fun! Which, yes, also fulfills formalities. Drift, I love the way you—”

"How?" Drift interrupted, grasping Rodimus’ waist for stability. His voice cracked with a mix of resignation and mortification, and the heat upon his face plates was not letting up at all. "Just... frag, Rodimus. You sure are eager to jump at the opportunity."

"Yeah, but you started it." Rodimus’ grin was so wonderfully radiant. His servos came down to frame Drift’s faceplate, digits tracing his finials with a dangerous tenderness. “So… should we take this back to your berth like I said, or should a responsible captain like me get you properly worked up right here? Word of advice… lubricant and the reservoir don’t mix. I, uh… I would know, but hey, if that’s your thing—”

His teasing devolved into a yelp when Drift braced a servo against his chest and arched upward, boldly flipping their positions so that Rodimus was beneath him, his one optic wide with shock and exhilaration. The oil reservoir reflected the flicker of Drift’s biolights, so bright and steady all of a sudden, as he stared down at him.

“Bed,” Drift said, with a note of finality. He bent to brush his lips against Rodimus’, barely a ghost of a kiss. “You talk too much.”

Rodimus’ engine rumbled as he laughed, and although his surprise and shock was evident, the last thing he wanted to do right now was to stop Drift in his newfound confidence. “I would pay to see you try to make me quiet.”

He was really doing this.

Drift was not sure where this unforeseen initiative of his had come from. He had spent days scolding himself for allowing even a single thought of it to materialize in his processor but now… he was doing this.

Perhaps there was still time to go back, but Drift realized he really did not want to do that.

The journey to his hab-suite felt infinite and instantaneous all at once. Every corridor they navigated was a blur, Drift’s grip on Rodimus’ servo unwavering, his spark pulsing so loudly it nearly drowned out the captain’s smug commentary. Of which there, surprisingly, was not that much.

Drift’s processor catalogued every other sound, every hint of movement, in case they were seen. But Rodimus’ field pulsed against his with nothing but flaming anticipation, reckless and unrepentant, and thus Drift was eventually convinced to stop caring about potential witnesses.

If someone did catch a glimpse, so be it.

He had more important things on his mind.

The door sealed behind them soon enough, locking them into the familiar, sparse sanctuary where incense lingered and crystals glowed faintly.

Drift turned, helm bowed slightly, his field flickering with unspoken hesitation. But his resolve burned hotter. He reached for Rodimus with a reverence that bordered on solemnity, servos framing the captain’s helm as if it were a relic from a sacred vault. His thumbs traced the edges of the alloy patch once more, then the scar beneath, every touch a silent apology, every motion confessing what his vocalizer still struggled to voice.

Rodimus’ optic was fixed on him, his frame giving a faint, anticipatory tremble as he leaned into the contact. “Hey,” he whispered, soft in a way that was certainly rare for him. “I’m not glass, you know.”

“You deserve to be treated like it,” Drift murmured, the words a vow. This was not to say he thought Rodimus fragile. Rather, he was referring to the great care it took to keep glass intact. He stepped closer, ghosting his lips over Rodimus’ functioning optic, then his cheek, the corner of his intake. Each kiss was deliberate, unhurried—less about claiming than about mapping, memorizing. His tongue dared to flick out briefly and trace a line along Rodimus’ neck cabling just to get a taste, and the captain shuddered, his vents stuttering.

“Frag,” Rodimus breathed, digits scrabbling for purchase on Drift’s backplate to pull him closer. “I didn’t know you could—”

Drift silenced him not with his tongue, but with the brush of his thumb against Rodimus’ bottom lip. There was no urgency here, no desperation… only purpose. He had spent days scrubbing guilt from his spark, days flinching from the want that now thrummed through his lines. No more. This was his covenant.

If one were to call it sacrilege, then Drift would commit.

He guided Rodimus backward until the edge of his well-kept berth pressed into the captain’s thighs. Rodimus sank down without protest, optic locked on Drift’s face, his usual arrogance tempered by something tender, and the remnants of bafflement were still visible in his gaze. Drift followed, kneeling over him, one servo braced against the berth’s edge as the other trailed fire down the captain’s chest.

This was not quite an altar, not like the one Drift had formed in his imaginations, but it would do.

Rodimus nearly lost it already. For each touch was slow, methodical, like Drift was dissecting him for some important knowledge. The captain squirmed beneath him, spoiler splayed and frame arching as Drift committed every sensor-packed line of his chassis to memory. Kisses seared pathways along the curves of his transformation seams, reverent and riddled with intent. 

When Drift dragged his tongue wetly through one of the glowing biolights at Rodimus’ midsection, the captain finally cracked, dragged his digits through the swordsmech’s finials and pulled him up for a messy, needy kiss.

Drift let his tongue slip past the captain’s intake in an apology: for the injury, for the pain, the uncertainty. For so much more. The way their tongues brushed, the way Rodimus moaned beneath him, frame electrified and greedy, sent excited skitters through Drift’s own fuel lines. He could get addicted to this. The taste of want. The beauty in how such strong desire looked upon a mech like Rodimus. So in touch with his own needs, something Drift envied greatly.

In the heat of their closeness, his thought processes jeopardized by his current occupation, Drift broke the kiss with a nip to Rodimus’ bottom lip, letting him momentarily feel his sharpened canine. His vents were warm against the captain’s face.

“Patience,” he murmured simply, quietly.

Rodimus’ optic flared. “Fuck patience,” he growled, servo dropping to Drift’s hip. “Been patient. Want you. Now.”

Drift caught that servo before it could go any further. He pressed their forehelms together, vents grating harshly. “Rodimus, wait,” he spoke firmly, fearing that the demand would cost him everything. “I need…”

As much as Rodimus was struggling to keep still, his systems forced a hasty retreat for now. “Need…? What? Say grace? Frag, Drift, you’ve got to—”

Another kiss set him still. “I need to do this properly,” Drift growled against his intake. He braced his servos on either side of Rodimus’ helm and planted a line of possessive nips down his throat. To lay him open, show him exactly how far Drift’s devotion could stagger. “So...” Another open-mouthed kiss upon his chest, over his spark casing. “Be patient.”

Rodimus’ spoiler pressed flat against the berth, his vents heaving as he forced himself to stillness. His obedience, rare as it was, came with a growl. “Fine. For you, I’ll try. But if I combust, that’s entirely your fault.” His voice was an aroused rasp, his grip on the berth’s edge too tight. His restraint was greatly challenged by the glow of Drift’s biolights alone.

It was incredible what Drift’s touches and kisses alone were doing to him.

Drift rewarded him with a low hum of approval, the blunt tips of his digits skating down Rodimus’ abdominal plating with calculated slowness. The captain’s frame twitched in anticipation, a sharp inhale hissing through gritted teeth as Drift’s servo settled just above his interface panel—hovering, taunting, worshiping him through every small movement.

The first time Drift made a move to tentatively touch his array, Rodimus trembled but managed to keep his demands to himself. The second time, Drift was interrupted by Rodimus’ intake settling against his audial sensor, heavy with static.

“Primus, just—do something already, or I’ll—nngh. Why are you so… damn… slow…”

Drift heard it loud and clear. He liked the sound of it, encouraging him to keep it slow like he intended to.

Servos like a poet’s. Digits like an artisan’s. Intake greedy and tongue pressing close to parts of Rodimus’ frame that no code would consider holy enough for such unapologetic veneration.

Rhetorical questions came together and manifested as a low, volcanic moan from Rodimus’ vocalizer as Drift’s intake closed over another sensitive seam. His digits dug into Rodimus’ hips, applying the barest, most teasing pressure. When the captain’s interface panel desperately snapped open, both his valve ending up on display and spike pressurizing in a rush, Drift made a sound that was adjacent to a prayer.

Sacred. Exquisite.

There was so much to unspool here.

Wet from arousal, Rodimus’ valve glistened with not just lubricant, but also the promise of overcharge. But Drift denied them both, his servos skirting past the source where they both desired his touch. Each graze along rosy mesh sent the captain arching with an increasingly desperate whine, his digits scrabbling at the unyielding berth beneath as Drift worked him up with agonizing care.

In that time, the captain quickly lost the capacity to stay silent any longer. No one would hear them, anyway. Drift made certain of that. His hab-suite was as soundproof as it came.

"Drift," came as a bark. "Drift, please. Get me on your spike. Or your knife. Something. Anything. I need— mmh!"

His urgency was flattering. Drift intended to grant his wishes in due time, but he would take all the time that they were afforded. There was more than enough of that , after all.

His touches remained light and teasing.

Rodimus shook. “You’re kidding me. I’m so not built for this. Come on, Drift. Like, you’re really hot, you’re so unbearably hot , but I mean it when I say I’m going to implode very soon …”

Drift huffed, a smile tugging at his lip components despite himself. “Afraid of some competition of endurance? I thought you could take anything head on.”

The captain’s answer consisted of a challenging, overtly haughty grin and a dangerous glint in his optic. “Looking at you? Always. Huge fan of head—”

All of Rodimus’ snark evaporated in an instant when Drift lifted his spike with two digits, delivering a leisurely open-mouthed kiss to the thick base where it met his valve. His thumb pressed where it would cause the most friction, savouring every minute twitch and gasp it won him. Drift marvelled at how well Rodimus responded to each and every slow drag of his tongue that followed.

The poetry of it was scrawled between every tremble of Rodimus’ frame. Drift mouthed him with a cadence so leisurely, it bordered on cruel. Swirls of his tongue were like art. Each movement was another line in a sonnet for Rodimus’ sanity.

But of course, Rodimus was not going to be able to tolerate this for long. Drift suddenly wasted no time and took him deep into his throat, each bob of his helm pulling another staticky, dumbfounded moan from the mess of a captain beneath… a mess he had created in such short order. There in all his aching glory; so pliable, so unrefined in his need, shrouded in a haze of lust. The latter of which Drift was happy to drown himself in. This worship or… whatever it was that he wished to call it. Adoration? Maybe. Even if Rodimus could not contain himself any longer and came from this alone, Drift would be more than willing to start all over again, to take his time once more.

So, peace of spark, patience…

His current, measured, rhythmic movements gradually made Rodimus’ thighs quiver, hips instinctively stuttering upward. His servo clumsily found its way into Drift’s finials, guiding his pace.

Rodimus’ valve was an established mess already, but that would not stop Drift’s curious digits from exploring it. Two pressed inside the soft, deeply lubricated warmth while his intake worked a patient, mind-melting rhythm around Rodimus’ spike. It was a feat of dexterity only achieved by someone who had sworn long ago to master controlling a sword. His talented digits curled into the ceiling node once, then a second time, each activation sending immediate jolts of overcharge through the captain’s systems.

The sounds he made in response to that were absolutely heavenly for Drift’s audials. He could have listened to them forever.

If there was nothing else worth living for…

When Drift’s tongue pressed upon the base of his spike, and then skimmed his anterior node beneath, the captain barely had a moment to warn with a shout before he careened toward overload. White lights scorched through his HUD and several alerts clouded his processor as his frame was overcome with the precipice of it, but next thing he knew, Drift had already pulled back, his lips hovering just shy of Rodimus’ leaking tip. Denied. Primus-forsaken. The captain could do nothing but whine needily, teeth buried into his own shaking servo.

Drift ran his tongue along his own fangs once, slowly, as he savoured the taste.

“Unfair,” came the captain's admittedly pathetic accusation, absolutely turnt. Overenergized. “How am I supposed to—when you’re doing that— nnhh …“

A singular digit pressed against his swollen node, slow and rhythmic. “You,” Drift said as he rose back up, his voice slightly affected by the way he’d just used his intake, but his servos remained  steady and a certain calmness had overcome him. So in control. “Are so beautiful like this. Irreverent. All mine. "

With some effort, Rodimus managed to prop himself up on his elbows. “Barely even started and you’re already talking like… that . For. Frag’s. Sake." His mocking had not even made it past invention when Drift’s thumb started up again. “Primus,” he gasped, collapsing back again. “Frag me already.”

Between the way Rodimus’ plating flushed in an even deeper red than normal through the searing heat, the increasing urgency in his pleas, and the softness around Drift’s digits clenching repeatedly with want, Drift's own array was starting to feel truly inadequate. Pressure had been building slowly, and so when he allowed his panel to retract and his own spike pressurized unbidden, leaking pre-fluid and showing exactly how he felt about all this, the need to be sheathed in him grew faster than his attempts to maintain control.

But, if Rodimus wanted to escalate, then he would oblige. Control be damned. Tugging his soaked digits free with a squelch, Drift traced lazy patterns over the captain’s plating. “How would you have me, then?" His voice dripped with a serenity he did not feel so strongly anymore. His own frame was on the verge of overloading just from this.

Rodimus’ optic was a flare of blue. “You’re saying this just to hear me beg some more, aren’t you,” he growled. “Nh… you’re an absolute terror. Do you really need it? Fine . All right. Spike me. Now . So hard I lose all function in my other optic as well. Ravish me until I’m screaming your name. That sort of stuff. Please and th… thank you.”

A low, almost dangerously dark and incredibly titillating chuckle rumbled through Drift’s chest as he spread Rodimus’ thighs with deliberation. The captain made a very undignified noise as Drift’s spike was lined up against his valve, stretched by two digits, and teased with a gentle press of the tip. He took his sweet time positioning himself and observed the changes in Rodimus’ expression. "One would have thought that begging is beneath starship captains," he said, in a bout of playful teasing fuelled entirely by the desire to make Rodimus see stars. “But I like the way you look while doing it.”

Rodimus’ reply was severed off before it could emerge. Drift thrust forward carefully and was sheathed in tight, rippling heat that cradled his spike in incandescent splendour. An angelic cry from Rodimus was then set free, and the captain’s digits tore at the berth, his optic offlined as he tried to process the sensation.

The ragged, hitching vents, the way he clamped around Drift as a vice, it made the following momentary silence all-consuming and the fracture lines of all concepts of time and space blur.

Commencement.

Drift paused momentarily once he was sheathed down to the hilt, forehelm dipping to rest gently against Rodimus’, his control frayed but his movements more reverent than ever. A slow retreat before a powerful surge back in, his hips carving a rhythm so relentless, so stalwart, that resistance felt futile and yet he held his ground. Each thrust filled the room with obscene, wet sounds. Rodimus met each one with broken, gasping cheers, a litany of pleas and compliments and expletives that went in varying orders. Drift's pace started as something slow, methodical, but unraveled steadily under the siren call of Rodimus’ whimpers into something truly desperate.

Their joining was nothing short of divine.

Drift had entered this with the intent of reverence, but the part of him that still screamed so loud sometimes—the part which was a Decepticon through and through—urged possession. You’re mine . Let the universe know. Let your spark never burn for another .

Such sweet blasphemy, Drift revelled in the way he felt Rodimus’ clawing digits, and heard the way his name tumbled from his intake in throes of worship. He needed more. He needed— He—

He had to proceed with care.

That word was not translating very well in his processor anymore. Not like before. Yet, he would heed it to his best ability.

Drift’s intake came down hard against Rodimus’ neck, sharp fangs leaving a mark on his heated plating. “Tell me again?” he demanded, voice gravelly. His thrusts slowed a little to encourage speech.

Rodimus’ teeth were on full display as he had them grit, struggling to process the way he was filled, but that did not prevent him from rambling. “Fuck, Drift. If it makes you keep doing that, absolutely. Yes. All yours. G-give it to me. Um, please. H-holy fuck , just—nhhah… like that— ”

The captain was not often reduced to such helplessness. So he told himself, anyway. Right now, he did not exactly have the processor capacity to think about it.

Their faces were so closely snuggled together that Drift’s vents brushed his beloved partner every millisecond, turning it into a symphony of highly charged panting and breathy praise. So much praise. Everything about Rodimus was so worthy of praise .

Drift’s servos wandered all over him, settling on his lower back strut, lifting it up a little and stroking it gently to help him through the intensity of it all.

Meanwhile, his movements were as measured and rhythmic as he could possibly manage to make them, the devouring heat of Rodimus’ insides working him ravishingly. Each time he bottomed out, Rodimus made such a needy, pitiful sound that he would have found it insulting if he was not so deeply enamoured. It was acting as a catalyst for him. Each thrust, each caress, each snarl etched itself into his processor. He had never thought his capacity for want to be this absolute. He had ached for this. For this mech. For this truth. For—

Rodimus' lips met his again, addictively. His tongue forced past his lips. Already were they both completely and utterly obsessed with the way the other tasted. Rodimus’ engine was redlining at this point, sending oscillations through their combined frames. Maybe he would combust after all. As the captain’s pleasured chatter alternated between incoherent rambles and clear expressions of soul-searing need, Drift's thrusts got individually punctuated by ragged grunts, no longer as graceful as before. His own overload was on his heels, though he did not yet wish for it. He would much rather go all in, feel Rodimus’ frame crumble beneath overload first. Be the cause of it, like he had wanted to be for some time.

His digits traversed towards Rodimus’ left optic, catching it while the captain’s burning face was wrought in sheer pleasure and gently brushing the damage he’d done not even a day earlier. The reality that this damage had been somehow necessary for them to arrive here, to this moment, sank in. A lesson? Maybe. A sign, definitely. To accept that not all that is broken is beyond repair.

A light would always cast a shadow and that was just the way it was.

“Look at me,” Drift insisted as his digits encircled Rodimus’ neglected spike, sending the captain's back into another astonished arch. His thumb smeared pre-fluid over his tip, working him to the same rhythm as his thrusts. The way Rodimus’ remaining optic zeroed in on him, his voice reduced to a gutted cry, it left Drift reeling .

“S-so close…” Rodimus managed to speak coherently still, vocalizer glitching from the intensity. "Drift, please . Let me… let me come. Need to… nnngh… need to —”

"Come, then," Drift rumbled, bending down to suck gently upon the captain's lower lip. All the while he shifted his angle so that Rodimus’ node was being targeted so precisely he knew it would not take much longer. "For me. Make a mess of us."

“But—you, at the same time… Like, together— y’know—? So we can both… ? I w-want you to go with me. Please, Drift. Let me see you—”

His tense, airy pleading toppled the last of what was left of Drift’s brittle resolve. When Rodimus’ spike pulsed in his grip, the first heated arc of transfluid painting their plated chests, it pulled Drift over the threshold as well.

With ease. Because Drift allowed it.

He ground deep into Rodimus' warmth with a nearly feral growl; the hot, almost overwhelming, deliciously rhythmic clench of his valve milking his spike until his vision splintered, his HUD becoming a wavering disaster of glitches as it failed to function through the sheer overabundance of charge, his face wrought in rapture. His overload rammed through him with a force that made his frame go taut. His spinal strut bowed, his own name a sacred incantation hefted from Rodimus’ over-used vocalizer.

For a minute that felt like infinity, as they both rode it out, it was pure bliss. They saw not only stars, but galaxies.

It took a lot of restraint for Drift to not initiate a spark-merge there and then, when Rodimus trembled and writhed like that beneath him in ecstasy. Now was not the time… as much as he yearned for it in the pleasant haze of his sheer, profound love for Rodimus, an ethereal state where guilt and shame simply ceased to exist.

Reality slowly re-established itself, like a glaze.

Their combined fluids were a testimony painted across Drift’s scars and Rodimus’ unmarred plating. The once-pristine berth was now smeared with the evidence of their union, the warm and heavy scents mingling with the subsiding charge in the air. Drift’s spike depressurized first. Rodimus’ would follow only later.

He was hardly in a rush but withdrew with a quiet sense of finality, finding that he just wished to share closeness now, his optics seeking Rodimus’ expression with hesitation. What he found was something joyous, loose, satiated. Open. The emphasis of which almost physically shook him.

It left no room for Drift to be disgusted with himself even as he came down from the high. How could he be, when Rodimus looked at him with such unbridled awe.

He should have expected the shame by now to settle in and gnaw at him incessantly, but it did not. There was simply no space for it. Yes, he had allowed this, yes, he had lost himself by the end of it, but the result was immaculate.

Worth it, whole-heartedly.

Rodimus’ vents coughed as he presumably tried to catch his breath. When he spoke, it was with the kind of elation that one could only experience post-overload. “So that happened," he stated, as if coherent words still struggled to come to him. "Holy frag. Like… holy frag. You. Your mouth? You? And. Like. The rest. Y’know? Sparks on sticks. I’m melted. Melted and in desperate need of a reformat. Do you… regularly? Like… stock up on that kind of skill? Asking for a friend. Positively—hnn—positively overdosed on my part here.”

It was then that Drift finally let himself go enough to laugh. A laugh that carried gratitude and peacefulness, so foreign even to himself. For perhaps the first time since the war, since his rebirth. "Rodimus… it is alright. You may relax." He slumped down beside his partner, ignoring the mess in favour of dragging Rodimus against his chest and letting him hear the hum of his spark. "Bask. Be sated. It will let you achieve greater contentment." 

He gave Rodimus' finial a small, playful flick. He would get a chance to bend those over an altar still. Another time.

Rodimus nestled into his hold with minimal complaint, making it clear that he would not stop rambling in amazement so easily. “Yeah, yeah, contentment, I've got that. Drift, I’ve just single-handedly conquered the impossible. Getting you into berth... which, for the record, you are not allowed to apologize for,” he insisted, a warning edge to his tone. His digit traced idle patterns over Drift’s chest plating. “There's a mandatory no-regret policy for mind-blowing sex. Just in case you were to, y’know, try. Like. Well, when we do it again. Which will be soon. Because that was… that was.. well. I’m just, glad to know that you were a giver. Tremendously pleasurable. I mean the kinda stuff— hrmm.”

He quieted suddenly, a look of concern crossing his features once he took in the way Drift’s weighted frame leaned into the berth, his optics so dim with obvious exhaustion that was now settling in again like a heavy blanket. That missed night of sleep was showing, very blatantly.

Rodimus shifted despite his own sluggishness, cupping Drift’s face. His features softened. “Hey. You haven't got any recharge at all, have you. Have you…?”

Drift’s optics cycled offline in a long, slow blink before looking away with something akin to classic stubbornness. “…I’ll manage.”

“Answer: you haven’t. Got it.” Rodimus settled against him fully, noting the way Drift's frame relented into it, as if being given permission to be soft. The captain’s voice lost its teasing edge. “Tell you what. How about you borrow some of my nap-time? You know me: renowned for my ability to sneak naps. That counts as a special captain-approved perk. Right now. And, as a bonus, I'll stay with you and also nap. Even better, yeah?”

These words, like weak but persistent arms holding him back from prospective guilt, were vital. A nagging part of Drift did want to dismiss the offer, to rise and bathe and retreat into mindless focus again; because that was often the routine he fell into during active hours, as it most effectively kept at bay what he had thought to be a sickness, but Rodimus' unwavering grip on him made such a path impossible.

That insistence worked all too well every time. Drift had no energy left to fight, anyway. So he gave in. His optics fell shut and his frame shed any tension threatening to build.

The soft hum of the ship's systems provided a gentle backdrop as Drift and Rodimus lay entwined on the berth, illuminated only by the soft glow of the crystals as they had deactivated the simulated daytime lighting. Silence reigned, just for a bit. Rodimus' usual restlessness was nowhere to be seen, although he was not falling asleep right that instant either, watching Drift for a few long moments.

Drift processed the shifting concern in Rodimus’ bright field. He opened his optics again, very slightly, meeting the captain's uncharacteristically silent gaze to let him know that he was not yet asleep. He sounded so drowsy when he spoke. “Something else weighs upon your mind…”

“Nothing ever slips past you, huh.” Rodimus gave a soft vent. “It's just… this is…” his digits brushed over Drift’s side, tracing his hip plating with care. “You’re not going to force distance again, are you? I mean, I trust you. And I wouldn't let you. I’m just, not entirely certain what you're thinking. That’s all. Not a… not a big deal.”

This made Drift’s spark pulse in a flurry of the sweetest fire. By the creed of the Circle of Light, an oath was only worth the word of the mech giving it. Now, so much more than ever, he knew that he needed to promise this. “Rodimus… I would not run from this again. You have my vow.”

It was given as a pledge. Forged within the peace of a sacred reprieve.

He would hold himself to it.

But the sparkache of potential failure burned almost as strong as his resolve.

Patience , he told himself. For both their sakes.

The captain fell silent again, watchful as Drift’s optics shut again near involuntarily. For several seconds, the only movement and sound was their venting accompanied by gentle jingles of the chimes right by the berth. Then, in a burst of combined sincerity and bravery, those digits found their way to Drift’s servo. 

Rodimus’ pads danced across Drift’s sensitive palm… the patterns were deliberate, reverent, the pauses between each glyph a confession. 

-• –••–- • •- ••–

I trust you.

-• –• --• ––-••–

I love you.

Upon his otherwise relaxed face, Drift’s optic ridges lifted in a memo of mild, soft surprise. But gone would be any misgivings. A lesson he had learned from his time in Crystal City, and perhaps known in his spark well before: to let some bonds become anchors. To love and, in turn, allow himself to exist in the embrace of that love. To trust his own beating spark above the stern command of scriptures, or the haunting cadence of the dead. Not even the faith he held dear could cage him here.

Because his love, above all else, was proof of his creed.

The silent code looped again as if to say:

Whenever you are unsure, whenever guilt brings you to your knees, remember.

This.

Drift shifted his servo, answering in kind.

-••• –• • — ••–

I choose you.

…and then let it simply… feel.