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“What are you doing up here?” Wing’s voice came from behind him. It was gentle, inquisitive, and set Deadlock’s suddenly-racing heart to rest.
Drift. Drift’s racing heart. Not Deadlock’s.
Drift shrugged. He kept his eyes on the horizon as Wing’s soft footsteps padded closer, and a knee nudged at his shoulder.
“Just sitting?” At the roof’s edge went unsaid. If Wing had really been worried he’d have grabbed first and asked later.
“Sky’s nice,” he grunted. It was the closest he’d come to admitting to admiring the sunset. The clouds were cast a sweet pink and orange, the sky behind them just turning purple. Deadlock’s fingers curled into this palms. He’d come up here to be alone, to think. Megatron’s folk had known better than to bother him when he sought out a high perch, though then it’d been because it was even odds if he’d gone up there to sulk or to snipe, and either one would get you shot for interrupting.
He wasn’t with Megatron anymore, he reminded himself forcefully. Drift wouldn’t shoot anyone for interrupting his alone time. He’d ask them to leave, and politely pretend there wasn’t a convenient ledge nearby. He was done tossing people off buildings too.
He felt Wing settle down next to him, like always a little closer than he expected, their shoulders brushing. He didn’t think he’d ever been touched as much, so casually and nonthreateningly, in… ever, as he had at New Crystal Commune. Hippy-dippy touchy-feely spiritualists, he thought, a little more fondly than he meant to.
“Oh, the sunset’s nice,” Wing remarked, like it was an idle comment and not the mind-reading Deadlock half-suspected him of sometimes. “Sunny day tomorrow too.” He nudged Deadlock’s arm. “You know what that means.”
“Sunburn and an ass-kicking?” he grumped, not really meaning it.
“We have plenty of sunscreen, Drift,” Wing said for the hundredth time.
Drift grumbled a bit. Finally he bit out: “’m allergic.”
“What?”
Did Wing want him to announce it to the whole commune? “I’m allergic. To sunscreen.”
He could feel how still Wing was, deep in thought. “Is it… bad?” Drift could practically smell smoke as Wing overthought it.
“Rash, hives.” Drift hesitated. “Some chemical or fragrance.” Incense and perfume could set it off too, if it was particularly heavy.
Wing’s hand landed on his knee, startling him into actually looking. Wing’s face had gone earnest and soft. “I’m sorry, Drift. I didn’t know. I can find the zinc cream, if you want to try that?”
Drift didn’t know what kind of expression he was making. He turned back to the sunset. Fiercer, with more purples now. “I don’t mind sunburn,” he said, and the words came out uncomfortably defensive. “I’m used to it, and I don’t… burn-burn.” He was too olive-toned for that.
“Skin cancer doesn’t care if you burn,” Wing said, too sincerely for Drift to make fun of him. He moved his hand from Drift’s knee to his shoulder, and then slid it down his back. Drift tolerated the touch. “We’ll figure something out as a stopgap.”
“I don’t care,” Drift said, but he stayed where he was and didn’t tell Wing to fuck off, which was basically like saying thank you anyway.