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Whirl took one look at their apartment and said, “you guys need more decorations.” Tailgate laughed and grabbed Whirl’s claws, big beautiful smile apparent in the blinking of his biolights and the gleam of his visor.
“Let’s go to the bazaar, then,” Tailgate said with all his usual cheer. Cyclonus nodded his agreement to the idea.
It was strange to have Whirl with them after so many years without him, without his blunt honesty and the clack of his claws. Somewhere, deep in the heart of him, Cyclonus had missed it, missed him . Seeing him again now, walking as a free bot through the world, Cyclonus was. . .
Cyclonus was content.
It was a strange thought to have, a strange feeling overall. He didn’t feel this with his beloved - with Tailgate, he felt almost soft, despite his metal exterior (and interior). He felt like he could do anything, like he could take on a million planets, a trillion enemies, if it meant Tailgate would be safe and happy and with him.
With Whirl, it was more. . . Cyclonus didn’t know how to say it. Didn’t know how to express it.
Having Whirl at his side, flying to the bazaar was a relief, it filled a part of Cyclonus he hadn’t realized he needed filling. Seeing Whirl transform, loud, visibly powerful in a way Cyclonus couldn’t explain, it made something swirl in Cyclonus’ spark. Listening to Whirl’s dry humor accompany Tailgate’s lighthearted banter eased the tension from Cyclonus’ limbs, tension he didn’t know was there.
Spending his money on Whirl felt natural, even though it was something he hadn’t done since they were on the Lost Light, buying drink after drink at Swerve’s. Cyclonus had more money now, too. He had enough that he could buy anything Whirl’s optic landed on, anything his attention lingered on.
And it was nice. It had been a long time since Cyclonus had been allowed to simply spend on his friends.
--
Cyclonus couldn’t sleep.
Something wasn’t adding up in his processor and he couldn’t figure out what it was. Tailgate curled on top of Cyclonus’ chest plates, fast asleep.
Maybe Cyclonus couldn’t sleep because of Whirl. Even with the wall between them, Cyclonus could hear the idle rumbling of his engines, his occasional tossing and turning.
Maybe Cyclonus couldn’t sleep because of Cybertron. After so long in space, after so long with nothing but the cold cradle of the void, constant gravity and air pressure was hard to get used to.
Maybe Cyclonus couldn’t sleep because of his Lord, his Amica, both long dead and far from his reach, both of their voices shouting in the privacy of his processor, bringing up old faults and flaws.
Maybe Cyclonus couldn’t sleep because of his unease. He wasn’t sure why it was there, but he had never been one to ignore his, as Rodimus would say, gut instinct.
Cyclonus eased his beloved off his chest. Tailgate was so small compared to the size of the berth. Tiny, curled up in their blankets, tiny, hugging a pillow, tiny, against Cyclonus’ bulk. Cyclonus’ spark trembled in its casing. Tailgate was lovely, was everything Cyclonus had ever hoped for in a mech.
He pushed Cyclonus to do better, to be better, to do good in the world. To learn and grow and succeed. Without Tailgate. And Cyclonus had trouble even admitting this to himself sometimes. Without Tailgate, Cyclonus was so much less .
Lovely, lovely Tailgate, Cyclonus’ Conjunx, Cyclonus’ beloved.
It took more strength to leave their berthroom than it had to traverse outside the Dead Universe. More strength than it had taken to fight back his lord’s enemies, more strength than anything he’d ever done.
But walking around the apartment, reorganizing their trinkets and souvenirs, lingering over the ones that Meant Something (their Rodimus Stars, magnetized to the center of their mantle, their certificate recognizing them as Conjunx in the optics of the law, the picture of all of them in front of the Lost Light, the crystallized flower Tailgate had given Cyclonus last month), mumbling quiet greetings to their various plants put Cyclonus at ease.
It wasn’t until he had finished speaking to their plants that Cyclonus realized there was someone else in the room with him. He whirled around, servo raising to the handle of his sword.
“Hey,” Whirl said, “heard you get up.” Cyclonus relaxed and nodded in quiet greeting. “Didn’t know you framed your Rodimus Stars.” Cyclonus glanced over at the display.
“Would you like to add yours?” Cyclonus asked. Whirl’s optic flickered out for a second, taking his biolights with it. His version of a blink, Cyclonus remembered. It had been too long since the last time he’d startled one from his friend.
“You don’t want my Rodimus Star with yours and shorty’s,” Whirl said.
Cyclonus had forgotten how empurata muted out his emotional vocalizations, forgotten how flat he sounded. Cyclonus considered himself lucky - when Whirl did decide to add an emotional spin to his words, he subvocalized the name of the actual emotion under what he was saying. It wasn’t elegant, but nothing about Whirl was, and it put Cyclonus at ease.
Whirl was confused, and just a bit flattered.
“You live here as well,” Cyclonus said, “I,” he shifted so he wouldn’t have to look Whirl in the optic, trying to figure out what he was trying to say. “I would like to see your things on display as well.” There. That was coherent.
He opened his mouth to say more, to say - to say - he couldn’t figure out the words. To say it would feel - Whirl’s Rodimus Star, Whirl’s things, little markers of Whirl’s life and experiences, sitting next to Cyclonus’ and Tailgate’s, it would make the display case feel - feel - whole?
Cyclonus closed his mouth.
“Huh,” Whirl said. Cyclonus angled his head so he could watch his friend out of the corner of his optics. Whirl wasn’t moving, just stood still as he processed. Cyclonus was worried - this, he knew the name to. But Whirl had always been - this wasn’t unnatural behavior for him. This was ok.
Cyclonus’ thoughts didn’t normally run into each other like this. He blamed the strangeness of the day and night.
“Well,” Whirl said and strode forwards on long, awkward legs. He popped open his cockpit and walked over to the display case they kept their things in. Cyclonus moved out of his way. Whirl pulled out a ragged looking Rodimus Star from the padding inside and snapped shut his cockpit. He hesitated, the Star looking oddly delicate in his claws. Then he held it out to Cyclonus. “I’ll ruin the layout.”
Cyclonus was about to take it and pin it up himself, but he paused. Like he had said earlier, this was Whirl’s home too. Cyclonus. Cyclonus didn’t want Whirl to feel like he couldn’t put this things wherever.
“I trust you,” Cyclonus decided to go with.
And it was true, he realized. He did trust Whirl. He trusted Whirl a lot. Trusted him on the Lost Light, trusted him to tell the honest truth, trusted him to have Cyclonus’ back. Whirl glared.
“Did you not notice the claws?” Whirl said. “These big clunky empurata claws that won’t let me make tiny clocks?” Cyclonus gave Whirl his best unimpressed look. Whirl shrugged and turned to the display case. “Alrighty then. Your fault when I fuck up.” Cyclonus nodded.
Whirl, ever so carefully, slipped his claw in past the other things on that particular shelf (a bobblehead of Optimus Prime, a model of a three headed dragon that Tailgate thought was spectacular and Cyclonus thought was inaccurate, to scale replicas of Cyclonus and Tailgate that even transformed (Minimus gave out the little models Ten had created of his closest crewmates - Cyclonus hadn’t known that meant him and Tailgate as well), a couple collectable models from Cyclonus’ favorite drama) and eased his Rodimus Star up against the other two.
Whirl looked over at Cyclonus. Cyclonus looked back.
Whirl eased back his claw with an equal amount of care and precision. He shook out his claw a little bit. Cyclonus looked over at the display case.
He was right, having Whirl’s Rodimus Star alongside his and Tailgate’s felt right. It felt like it belonged there, like Whirl belonged there. Whirl had put his to the left and a little below Tailgate’s star. Cyclonus was on the other side of Tailgate’s, on equal height. Cyclonus reached in to nudge his a little down, so it was on level with Whirl’s, but still just to the right of Tailgate’s.
Trine position.
Cyclonus turned to find Whirl watching with a strange expression. (It was strange because Cyclonus’ hadn’t seen it before. Whirl’s optic at that particular size, in that particular shape, with his biolights flashing in that particular pattern, at that particular dimness. Cyclonus didn’t know what it meant.)
“I’m bad at small talk,” Whirl said suddenly, “and talking in general. And I kinda feel like anything other than something deep and intensely personal isn’t going to fly so well right now. So I’m going to go back to bed before either of us embarrass ourselves.” He turned and made for the hallway.
“Good night, Whirl,” Cyclonus said, “sweet dreams.” They both froze at that. Cyclonus hadn’t made it a habit to wish sweet dreams on people until after he and Tailgate went on their, on their honeymoon. Whirl wasn’t used to hearing it in Cyclonus’ deep rumble. Cyclonus wasn’t used to saying it to Whirl.
They decided simultaneously to pretend it was a common occurrence. Whirl dipped his head to Cyclonus and hurried out of the room. Cyclonus turned back to the display case. He closed the open doors, staring at the three Rodimus Stars.
The unease in his chest had settled.
--
Cyclonus sat on the couch in their living room, watching as his best friend and his beloved sipped at their morning energon. Tailgate sat on the counter, leaned back against the wall, visor half lit but his biolights pulsing as though he had all the energy in the world.
He thought Tailgate was beautiful like this too. Cheerful and fully awake despite the early hour, almost glowing after a quick shower. Energon cube in his servos, tapping a beat against the glass, head bobbing in time. He was lovely .
It was early enough that Cyclonus himself hadn’t really started to wake up enough to appreciate the way the morning light filtered through the curtains, left strips of light on Tailgate’s small frame. He was awake enough to turn his sensors to his beloved, awake enough to pick out the sound of his spark pulse. Cyclonus wanted to feel it pushed up against his own spark, wanted to sync up and just lay like that, connected, together and whole and one-
“You’re so sappy,” Whirl said and Cyclonus’ head jerked towards him. Cyclonus had forgotten he was there, just a little bit. He was still half asleep. “Just get up and kiss him you hunk of junk.” Cyclonus blinked, then nodded.
Tailgate laughed as Cyclonus heaved himself off the couch - it had taken him a good deal of time to get Cyclonus out of their berth and onto the couch in the first place. Cyclonus shuffled across the tile floor and kissed Tailgate with his whole spark - sloppy and slow and tasting like sleep and Tailgate’s energon.
“Good morning!” Tailgate said. Cyclonus hummed and dropped his head onto Tailgate’s shoulder, careful not to let his horns get stuck in Tailgate’s hood. Tailgate patted one of Cyclonus’ cheek holes (Cyclonus still didn’t know what to call them) and ran his servo over the side and back of Cyclonus’ helm. “You didn’t sleep well last night, did you? I felt you leave berth.”
“Uneasy,” Cyclonus muttered. Tailgate hummed and pressed his faceplates to Cyclonus’ cheeks, asking for another kiss. Cyclonus kissed him gladly.
He liked kissing Tailgate. Liked being this close to him, liked it when Tailgate shuddered and pressed closer, liked the drag of his servos over Cyclonus’ plating. Liked the warm, fuzzy feeling it gave him. Liked how it made him feel loved.
“I checked the calendar,” Tailgate said when he pulled back, “one of the buildings has a problem with their pipes. Apparently policy requires you to go check it out before you call a plumber?” Cyclonus sighed.
“Do you remember which building?” Cyclonus asked. Tailgate laughed.
“Of course the quickest way to wake you up would be work,” he said. Cyclonus smiled at him, taking in the impish delight that made itself present in his wriggling, biolights flickering. “No, I don’t remember which building. It’s on the calendar, though.”
Cyclonus pulled back and straightened so he towered over Tailgate. His beloved just smiled in his own way and stood to kiss Cyclonus’ right between the horns. Cyclonus shuddered, just a little, his frame rattling. Tailgate let his servos fall to his sides.
“I’m going to go shower,” Cyclonus said. His beloved nodded and sat back down. He grinned at Cyclonus.
“Don’t forget to have some energon before you go,” Tailgate said, “I’m gonna take Whirl out for a spin.” Whirl snorted.
“For a spin,” he echoed quietly. Tailgate nodded at him. Cyclonus kissed Tailgate again and headed for the washracks.
--
Whirl was following them.
Cyclonus pretended not to notice - it was a nice night and he didn’t want to deprive his friend of it. He kept a steady 200 meters behind Cyclonus, just far enough that he wouldn’t show up on Cyclonus’ sensors. But Cyclonus knew he was there. Whirl had made it onto his sensors just the one time.
It was enough. Cyclonus didn’t mention it to Tailgate. He was having a hard night, remembering the cold, isolating dark of those precious lost months. Cyclonus thought a nice, nighttime flight might help.
And it seemed like it was helping. Tailgate pressed up against Cyclonus’ spark, singing softly as he stared up at the stars. Cyclonus flew lazily, occasionally comm.ing officials in the various military bases they passed. He kept it out of his cockpit. He didn’t want to disturb Tailgate. He warned them about Whirl too, so they wouldn’t try and arrest him or shoot him down.
“I dunno,” Tailgate said suddenly. “I just - I think I’m just a little tired.” Tailgate had, at some point, gotten into the habit of starting conversations in the middle. Cyclonus didn’t mind.
But Cyclonus didn’t mind much when it came to Tailgate. He loved Tailgate, no matter how strange or abnormal he became.
“That’s fine,” Cyclonus murmured. Tailgates visor flickered.
“I was - I did have a dream earlier,” Tailgate said, quieter now, “I lied when I said I didn’t. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you for apologizing,” Cyclonus said, the way he and Tailgate had practiced, “and I forgive you.”
“I’ll try not to do it again,” Tailgate said.
It was one of the many things they were working on, apologizing. Because sure, Cyclonus had mellowed out since their first meeting, but sometimes he lashed out. And yeah, Tailgate didn’t get angry often, but when he did it was explosive. And neither of them had much in the way of people skills, from years of isolation and loneliness and trauma.
Apologizing was hard. So they’d sat down and made a script to follow when they couldn’t figure out what else to say, or when they were too scared, too nervous, too ashamed to get the words out of their voxboxes.
So that when Cyclonus broke Tailgate’s favorite datapad, he would know Tailgate was willing to forgive him and move on.
So that when Tailgate shattered Cyclonus’ figurines, he would know Cyclonus still adored him and was willing to work past it.
“It was about the Afterspark,” Tailgate said, “about waiting for you to come. And you never did. And I was scared and - and it hurt so bad, Cyc. It really. It really, really hurt. I thought you’d abandoned me. I didn’t know it was a dream.” Tailgate shuddered and huddled closer against Cyclonus, closer to the pulse of his spark.
“And then it went dark,” Tailgate whispered, “and all I could see was the glow of your innermost energon. And then that went dark too.”
Cyclonus’ spark ached for Tailgate, for the pain he went through, for the nightmares that still haunted him. He hated it. Hated that Tailgate had to experience it, hated that it still haunted him.
“I’m here, Tailgate,” Cyclonus said, “I’m not going to abandon you. I swear it.” Tailgate nodded and sniffled and hid his face in the cushioning of Cyclonus’ cockpit. “I swear, I will never abandon you.”
It was easy to say, like this. With Tailgate in the safety of Cyclonus’ cockpit, where Cyclonus didn’t have to look him in the face, where Cyclonus could feel his reactions. Even thought Tailgate’s spark had long since been depowered, Cyclonus still had his sensors latched firmly onto him, just so he could hear the steady pulse of his spark, just so he could feel Tailgate’s fluctuating EM Field.
--
“Maybe we should go on an adventure,” Tailgate suggested. Cyclonus and Whirl paused their match to look at him. “You know, like our honeymoon. But with Whirl. I want to show him the Gritel Nebula! And start a fight on that one organic planet!”
“I like that plan,” Whirl said as he removed a claw from Cyclonus’ mouth and waved it wildly. “Between the three of us, we could tear apart that entire planet!”
“We’re not fighting a whole planet,” Cyclonus said, “we don’t have any backup, we would lose.” He maneuvered out of Whirl’s grasp when it became apparent their sparring match wouldn’t continue.
Cyclonus missed sparring with someone he wasn’t afraid to hurt, someone he wasn’t afraid to get hurt by. And Whirl was that someone, as it turned out. Sparring him was fun and challenging. Whirl’s whole fighting style was to just hurl himself at his opponent and figure it out from there. Cyclonus, who’d been raised with rigid, structured fighting, found it - found it enlightening.
He also found it enlightening that the minute he was out of Whirl’s grip, he felt. . . different. Almost like he missed it. Strange.
“You’re no fun, Cyc,” Tailgate pouted in Cyclonus’ direction. Cyclonus ignored it and walked over to give his beloved a quick kiss.
“Yeah, you’re no fun,” Whirl said as Cyclonus made for the washracks, “come back and fight me properly!” Cyclonus turned to walk backwards, eyebrow quirked up.
“I thought you were planning the defeat of a planet,” Cyclonus said. Whirl narrowed his optic. Cyclonus’ back bumped into the washrack door. He paused, waited for Whirl’s response.
“Yeah, but you have to defeat me in honorable combat first,” Whirl said, “my processor doesn’t work if I’m not angry.” Cyclonus shook his head but returned to the sparring mat. “Weapons?”
“Weapons,” Cyclonus agreed, and pulled the Great Sword from his back.
--
“I noticed,” Tailgate said the second the door closed behind Whirl, “that you added his Rodimus Star to the cabinet.”
“It’s a display case,” Cyclonus pointed out. Tailgate crossed his arms and shifted his weight to one leg, sassy and cute and lovely. Cyclonus wilted a little under his expectant gaze. “He lives here too. The case seemed. It felt wrong? Without his Rodimus Star there too. It feels ok, now. Whole , now.” Cyclonus hesitated, optics flicking up from the floor to check to see if Tailgate had gotten it.
“You put them in Trine Formation,” Tailgate said, sass turning to - Cyclonus knew that particular flicker of his visor, that tinge to his visor. He was flattered. Somehow.
“Whirl put his there,” Cyclonus said, “I just adjusted mine.”
“Cyclonus,” Tailgate said, “do you consider me your Trine leader?” Cyclonus paused.
The answer was easy.
“Of course.”