Chapter Text
There were many things that benefited both the warrior from the weak and the timid from the stubborn. One of these things were that if Tailgate wanted anything from Cyclonus he needed to directly ask; this forced Tailgate to come out of his shell more around others, and was honestly making his life a lot easier. Except when he wanted something like this.
Purely selfish. Mostly selfish. Slightly selfish but he was a mech too, damn it, and maybe not all mechs are created equal but all sparks are, and Primus damn it did his spark want this.
Tailgate entirely lacked any sort of denta, lips, pliable metal, a glossa or anything that could even remotely allow him to initiate a kiss from Cyclonus in which Cyclonus would be able to return to him. If he'd tried -and he unfortunately had- it would seem -and was- very very strange and embarrassing. All he'd managed to do is clank their faces together in an attempt to goad a kiss from Cyclonus's lips against his faceplate, and now he sat there next to him in their special spot by the largest window into space on the Lost Light mending what was left of his pride and dignity. Cyclonus had no remote idea what Tailgate was trying to accomplish and simply chastised him for not asking for whatever it was in the first place. No matter what it was, simply asking for it would have been a lot less embarrassing than Tailgate's alternative.
It sure didn't feel like it with the dumbstruck expression Cyclonus gave him when he did stammer out a request for a kiss. Tailgate shrunk further into himself and wished he'd been onlined with the power to disappear.
His complete mortification was short lived when a clawed hand cupped his jaw and lifted, bringing his face to Cyclonus's - which was infinitesimally closer than the last time he'd looked up. Tailgate's entire structure seized as Cyclonus's lips pressed to Tailgate's faceplate, so gently and so warm; and all too soon pulled away. Tailgate just stared into his optics as everything settled back down, too lost in them to notice the tiny blip of a warning from his stabilizers before he toppled over quite unceremoniously, proceeding to bash his helm into the floor.
The booming laughter that filled the room took all the pain away, and as Tailgate lay on the floor listening to Cyclonus's laugh he felt once again that he might not survive the night with his spark entirely intact.