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“He’s touched by the Matrix,” Wing had whispered. “Can you feel it? He wears it, yes, but… it cleaves to him.”
Drift could. The golden-scarlet mech, the chosen Prime who walked among them looking for a knight, the Matrix hung about his neck– he practically shone.
“I’m sending you,” his mentor had said. “There are many knights here, but this Prime needs you, Drift.”
“Please,” Drift had said then, desperate. “I’m not ready. I can’t leave here. If I leave– I might lose everything I’ve learned–”
“No, Drift. He needs you.”
Had Rodimus needed him?
Back then, Drift didn’t know. But after being his Knight for merely a month, he knew that he needed Rodimus. Probably more than he should, and Dai Atlas might have chastised him for clinging to his ward so. But Rodimus was fire and beauty, and while Wing had been a grounding point Rodimus made him float up into the golden-hazed beyond and laughed as they spiraled out of control together.
Three days after he had joined the Prime, Rodimus had called him into his chamber. Drift, nervous, had been stiff and overly formal. Rodimus had smiled brightly and showed him a secret chamber where he kept energon candies, with strict instructions to get them to him whenever he was forced to sit in a long meeting of any kind.
Four days after, Rodimus had come into Drift’s chambers and given him a sharpening stone, almost shy, explaining that he had gotten it before coming to the Circle of Light as a gift for whatever Knight came with him. After Drift had taken it and expressed his thanks, Rodimus lingered. Drift, determined to protect his Prime from every danger, including embarrassment, sat down with him and showed him how he sharpened his short swords. Rodimus taught him a song he had sung, back when he was only an acolyte.
Six days after, and Drift was finally called upon to give Rodimus his candies during a long meeting. Their fingers tangled together underneath the table as the handoff went flawlessly, and the bright lights of the boardroom glinted off of Rodimus’ plating and reflected into Drift’s eyes. Rodimus sat up straight, the picture of attentiveness, as he slotted the energon sticks into a wrist line. He pushed one into Drift’s hand, and Drift, unwilling to admit that he had no such way of consuming the candy without putting it to his mouth, held onto it for the entire meeting until it became sticky and melted.
Seven days, and Rodimus was teaching him more songs. Drift, his voice tentative and rough compared to Rodimus’ clear tones, somehow felt no shame as he sang hymns to Primus and looked only at his Prime.
Twelve days after Drift had joined, Rodimus was knocking faintly at his hab’s door, too late at night for it to be simply a friendly meeting. Drift was awake before the last knock had faded, and opening the door before a second’s pause could pass after it. Rodimus, his Matrix-blue optics faded with exhaustion, looked up at him and asked, quietly, if he could sleep with him. Nightmares, Drift learned, plagued even Primus’ chosen. He could no more refuse Rodimus his request than he could push away his own nightmares, visceral memories of exploding guns and blood on his hands.
So Rodimus slept with him, every night after that, clinging to his Knight as if he could push away the terrors. Drift couldn’t, but he could comfort his Prime when he awoke crying, could stroke his back and rub his spoiler until whatever demons Rodimus fought retreated, for now.
After a month, Rodimus showed him the Matrix.
“Does it talk to you?” he asked, curiously, as Drift reverently touched the surface of the object, looked into its bottomless blue. “It talked to me, after you came. It said that you were a good Knight.”
“It did?” Drift asked, looking down at it again. “Me?”
He wasn’t good. But for Rodimus, he could try.
“The Matrix picked me,” Rodimus said. “But it picked you, too. Even if Wing hadn’t sent you, I would’ve asked.”
“You’re a Prime,” Drift said. “I’m not even a Knight.” Rodimus knew what his past was. Dai Atlas had insisted on telling him, so that he would know who was traveling with him.
“You’re my Knight.”
Drift looked down. Rodimus caught his chin and tilted his head back up, gently. The Matrix shone between them.
“You could be more,” Rodimus whispered. “Please… I… you could be more than just… my Knight.”
Rodimus, gold and light and fire and flames– Rodimus, the true Prime, the chosen Prime. Rodimus wanted him. Drift looked into his Prime’s eyes and read him, saw the loneliness behind the Matrix-blue shine, the twitching, delicate systems of glass and fiber.
Rodimus let go of him, almost shamefully, and turned to clasp his hands together in his lap. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” Drift said, suddenly determined. No, his Prime, his Rodimus would have no cause for humiliation or doubt in his presence. Not when Drift could protect him.
He caught Rodimus in his arms, gently stopping the mech from leaving. As Rodimus stared up at him, he traced the lines of his Prime’s face with a thumb, cradling his helm with a hand. Their faces grew closer, and Rodimus’ aura, always so vibrant, exploded in pink waves of confused delight as their noses brushed.
“Tell me yes, Prime,” Drift whispered.
Rodimus gasped, his hands coming up to grasp at Drift’s pauldrons, eyes wide and startlingly blue. “Please,” he said instead.
The Matrix between them pulsed against Drift’s chest, syncing with his spark, as he leaned in the rest of the way. His lips touched Rodimus’, chaste and soft and gentle; and Rodimus leaned forward, pressing their mouths together firmly in a desperate kiss.
“Don’t leave,” Rodimus said, quietly, when they broke away.
“I won’t,” Drift said, and kissed him again, to seal it.