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There are few things Optimus is sure of in such odd times.
One of them is that he can be too much for some bots.
Not as a leader, no, he had long since seen his ability and potential as a leader flourish and be solidified before his optics. He means more in the interpersonal sense.
Sure, friends were easy to have. It was easy to sit back and chat with various bots and have a drink with them. Humans were shockingly easy to connect to, even more so now that he spent so much time on Earth and became more acquainted with their culture.
Even cons were easy to befriend, usually connecting through shared complaints over the Autobots High Council or, more often than not, complaining about Sentinel being a pain in the aft.
No, it was the deeper, romantic relationships that he struggled with.
He had dated some during the Academy, but it always fell apart. The most common critiques were that he was “too much” in all sorts of ways. Too attached yet too distant. Prioritized his training over others too often. Too strong a sense of justice and too passionate.
After his expulsion, he shoved all that behind him. After all, if those flaws ended a relationship when he was a Prime candidate, they would surely kill even the prospect of such a thing being a Prime only in name and never in true meaning.
Then he had called a temporary ceasefire with the Decepticons to help Earth with their Quintesson problem and things got complicated.
When he wasn’t zipping around a battlefield or stuck in endless meetings, he was passed out in his berth. Even with the few small snippets of free time he got he was still technically busy. So finding a relationship wasn’t on his radar.
And there was the larger issue of the odd way his spark jumped around the last mech he should be having any romantic thoughts about.
He’s not a stranger to attraction, not at all. Which is why, the first time his chest tightens around Megatron, he nearly runs out of the room.
It had started when they’d been in a meeting, Optimus fully zoned out, nursing his cube of warm energon. They’d been up all night chasing Quintesson ships out of Earth’s atmosphere and just his luck Sentinel wanted a video call right as they arrived back on their temporary Earth base. A smattering of other bots and cons sat in the meeting room but he largely ignored them.
The cube in his servos was so blessedly warm. The energon contained within it was more bitter than what he was used to, having been farmed and processed from the energon crystals popping up across Detroit. But its taste was richer and more complex, like the essence of the ground it sprung out of lingered in its molecular structure. It was quite nice in his opinion.
He was thinking of his berth and the recharge he would be getting when he snapped back to attention at the mention of his name.
“Sorry Sentinel Prime, could you repeat that?” he asks. He didn’t catch the words but he caught the tone and knew it wouldn’t be good.
Sentinel huffs and crosses his arms. The video feed lags behind the audio by a few meager clicks. “I said, we wouldn’t have to be worrying about this whole mess if you could actually do your job and eradicate the Quintessons already! But you charged ahead without Council permission and made a deal with that backwater planet and now we’re stuck putting time, credits, and energon into a mess that wasn’t even ours to begin with!”
Optimus sits up straight. “First and foremost, we are not wasting energon nor credits on protecting this planet. Need I remind you the only reason Earth is being attacked by the Quintessons at all is due to the energon crystals bursting out of the ground. The deal is that if we defend Earth and eliminate the threat, all energon would be split equally between the Autobot and Decepticon armies. Even taking into account only getting half of the energon crystals, we have seen an increase in credits and do not need energon imports as we process everything here.”
Sentinel opened his mouth to argue and Optimus continued. “Secondly, I went ahead without Council permission because it was an emergency, and as the temporarily appointed Magnus, I had every right to send forces to Earth. Alongside that, I did not send all of our forces, which I could have done, but didn’t because I knew if I did, it was likely Quintessons would take advantage of an unprotected Cybertron and attack. I sent myself and a small portion of forces to defend a planet we have ties to. And finally, if you would use your processor and think for even a milliclick, you’d understand that sudden Quintesson interest in energon is a sign of something bad happening in the future. They have largely used other forms of fuel and energy sources, but considering energon is highly concentrated and the primary agent in most intergalactic combat weapons, whatever they want it for cannot be good.”
Sentinel is clearly angry but desperately trying to hold it in. His arms are crossed and his optics wide but his mouth is shut tightly. Everyone around Optimus has gone silent but he doesn’t even bother looking at them. He misses how Bulkhead and Bumblebee share an excited smile at seeing Sentinel getting chewed out, the proud smug grin on Ratchet’s face, and how Lugnut mouths wow at Strika who just nods enthusiastically in agreement.
And he most certainly misses the look Megatron sends his way. If he had seen it, he would likely call the expression a mix of fondness, infatuation, and wonder, then fall out of his chair from his spark stopping.
The meeting ends and he runs back to his quarters before anyone else can grab him. The recharge he gets is blessedly peaceful and uninterrupted. He wakes just before sunset, hearing the end of Retreat echoing from the nearby Air Force base. Dying sunlight peeks from between the gaps of his blinds.
Evening turns into night as he churns away at reports. His makeshift office is in a hangar near the edge of the airfield, somewhat quiet and secluded when not flooded with bots and humans asking a million questions at once. He gets lucky tonight, as the combination of the late-night-turned-early-morning battle and encroaching weekend means everyone turns in at the usual time. Soon it’s just him and the faint chirping of nighttime creatures.
He’s got two datapads left when there’s a knock at the door. Or, rather, what is supposed to be a door. Really the hangars are all kept open, their massive metal doors only closed for meetings or during inclement weather due to how large and obnoxious they were to close. So when Optimus looks up, he sees who’s there immediately.
Megatron stands in the large doorway, two ornate crystal glasses in one servo and an oil barrel in the other. The glasses look like they’re quartz with the way they glint in the light. The oil barrel has a label on it he’s never seen before.
“You know it’s well past working hours,” Megatron says, glancing at his desk before raising his optics back to the mech.
“Yeah, well, I figured get it out of the way now and spend the rest of the weekend passed out,” Optimus says. Which is a lie. He wanted to get it done simply to have something to do. He still wasn’t quite accustomed to having so much designated off time.
“Smart thinking,” Megatron muses. “But none of it is truly pressing is it?”
Optimus shrugs and sighs. “No, it’s not.”
Megatron raises the barrel in his servo in a silent question and Optimus nods and beckons him in.
“You need to learn when to relax and pace yourself,” Megatron says as he sets the glasses down on the desk. Optimus shuffles datapads and styluses off it to give him space. “Winning a war is a matter of patience and endurance. Burning yourself rather than celebrating your victories will lead to losses down the line.”
“Do you celebrate every battle with fine oil?” Optimus asks as Megatron sits down across from him. The chair, made of Earth metal and hastily slapped together, groans ominously under his weight.
But the mech doesn’t pay it any mind, instead chuckling as he pops the top of the oil barrel with a sharp digit. “Unfortunately not. If I did, we’d run out faster than they could make more.”
Optimus snorts, but there’s no mocking or malice behind it.
Megatron pours them both equal amounts into their glasses. “Besides, this one is special. One of the human scientists got curious about oil consumption and asked if she could try making some.”
“Which scientist?” Optimus asks as he takes the offered glass. The oil is filtered but not refined, its color darker than he’s used to. Its viscosity is the same as oil he’s had before, but the smell is unique. It’s an organic scent in the way that the trees smell after a rainstorm.
“Mai something. You know the one who usually runs about asking Bulkhead a bunch of energon questions,” Megatron replies, swirling his glass. “I said yes because she seems too prideful to poison me.” At Optimus's confused look, he continues, “You know, like she takes too much pride in her work to even consider tarnishing her reputation with a murder attempt.”
“I guess that makes sense,” Optimus says, even though he knows the tiny human has no reason to poison any of them. He swirls the oil, briefly wondering if Megatron had poisoned it. But that thought is quickly dashed by the knowledge that if he dies Sentinel is next in line which means Megatron would be dealing with him and not Optimus. He takes a sip of the oil.
Optimus has never been one for oil, instead preferring high grade. Nice oil, oil that tasted decent and didn’t taste like it could strip paint off a starship, cost quite a bit. High grade was cheaper, a little better tasting, and he needed less of it to get that nice fuzzy feeling in his processor.
That being said, this oil was surprisingly nice, if strong. It’s a complex flavor, tasting like the forest smelled in a good way and he swears he can taste the lingering traces of gold. The burn kicks in next, a familiar one, coming from leaving it on his glossa for too long. He tries to suppress his cough as he swallows, but it only makes it worse.
“That’s quite good,” Megatron muses. “If you need to cough, then cough. No shame here.”
Optimus turns and coughs a bit. The burn was gone as soon as it got there.
“Why celebrate this victory?” he asks, taking a smaller sip of oil this time and swallowing swiftly. At Megatron’s confused look, he explains, “We’ve had much larger and more dangerous battles than this one. Why celebrate this one?”
“Oh we’re not celebrating the victory of the battle,” Megatron says. “We’re celebrating your triumph over Sentinel.”
Optimus frowns in confusion. “What, we’re celebrating me scolding him? Don’t see the point in celebrating that.”
“Why not?” Megatron asks.
Maybe it’s the oil getting to him or because his recharge schedule has been all over the place, but the question sounds so sincere.
“Because it’s nothing new. And it’s probably gonna result in him retaliating in some stupid way. He’s technically the primer Prime after all, and the Council’s favorite,” Optimus replies.
“He’s the favorite because he’s an aft kisser. Doesn’t take a genius to see that,” Megatron says. He grins at the laugh he gets out of Optimus. “Besides, when it truly comes down to it, he’s all talk and no action. Let’s not forget, he wasn’t the one who bested me in battle.”
“Yeah, but he’s the one with the actual Prime title,” Optimus counters.
“Frag the Prime title. At the end of the solar cycle, it truly means nothing. It’s all glyphs printed on a datapad somewhere given to bots who jumped through the right hoops and said the right answers. It’s not the mark of a true leader,” Megatron says.
Optimus looks at him in shock, waiting patiently as the larger mech sips his oil. When he says nothing else, Optimus asks, “What is the mark of a true leader then?”
“Action, for one. Passion, critical thinking, financial mindfulness, a whole mess of other stuff,” Megatron says with a wave of his servo. “That’s not the point. The point here is that you stood up for not only yourself and your honor, but that of everyone who fought alongside you, and those you defend. You pushed back against his criticism and asserted yourself without gloating. It takes a real leader to be able to do that.”
Optimus finds himself at a loss for words. He tries to hide his bashful silence behind another sip of oil, hoping the pink flush of his face can be chalked up to the drink making his core temperature rise. He knows he should take the compliment and not push back against it. Yet that part of him that always said he was never enough prevailed as he sighed, “I think I may have gone overboard with it.”
“Nonsense. You kept your emotions in check and didn’t throw anything. I would say that you were quite reasonable,” Megatron replies instantly, like he had anticipated Optimus’s knee jerk denial.
“I guess, by Decepticon standards. But there’s all these social rules with Autobots that I have a bad tendency of blowing right past,” Optimus says. “I get a little too intense and involved sometimes. Makes me a little too much and usually results in messy bureaucratic fights late down the line.”
Megatron snorts. “Frag, the one thing I had hoped had changed in the millennia since my abolishment. Ah well, can’t win them all.” He reaches over and tops off his glass. “Regardless, I would hardly call you ‘too much.’ You have quite a nice balance in my opinion.”
And that compliment really gets to Optimus. His chest tightens, his spark stutters, and he knows he’s going to be thinking about those words and purr of the other mech’s voice as he said them for decacycles to come. He gets the overwhelming urge to drop his glass and bolt because these are not feelings he should be feeling. But he manages to stay right where he is.
“Thank you,” Optimus replies. He knocks back the last of the oil in his glass, letting it slide down his throat and burn all the way to his tanks. He’s feeling quite a bit more confident now. The oil has warmed him from the inside out and relaxed him. He finds himself sagging a bit in his chair. He’s got a nice buzz—not quite yet overcharged but certainly not sober.
So he’s not entirely surprised when his next question is something he wouldn’t ask normally.
“Do you think we can live like this? After everything has settled down?” Optimus asks. He’s swirling the dredges of his oil in his glass when it slips out.
Instantly he regrets it. The topic of what comes after has been staunchly avoided and borderline taboo to discuss. This tentative peace that existed here on Earth was like a bubble. In time, it would pop. After all, there would come a point where there were no more Quintessons to fight or no more energon popping up on Earth or some catastrophic betrayal that would shatter their treaty and return them back to their ways of before.
After all, it was inevitable. Autobots and Decepticons had been locked in a never ending war older than the planet they currently stood on. It had become almost a law of the universe at this point that Cybertron would never again see true peace.
Optimus glances up, sure he’s shattered that bubble and popped it wide open. And while Megatron does look tense, staring down at his own glass of oil in thought, he doesn’t look angry.
Instead, he looks pensive and almost worried. He sighs heavily, “I do hope so. I hope to return to some sort of calm after all of this. Whatever that may be.”
He rubs at his optics. “If I may admit something to you, I’m tired, Optimus. I think I’ve been tired for such a long time. And it’s this weariness that no amount of recharge can seem to fix.” He looks up, staring at Optimus like he was trying to gauge his reaction. “Sorry, you must think me to be weak.”
Optimus shakes his helm a little harder than he intended to and the world spins a bit. “No! Not at all. I mean I just opened up to you so only fair you do too, huh?”
Megatron chuckles at that. “I suppose so, yes.” He pauses for a moment. “Do you know why I accepted the temporary treaty? Why I chose to return to this mudball and protect it?”
“I assume for all the energon,” Optimus says. He grabs the barrel of oil and tips it to refill his glass. Only about a mouthful spills out.
“Yes, it is quite lucrative. But the other reason was so my army could be at peace and rest,” he says. “For so long we’ve been fighting to survive on barren planets, tangled in intergalactic trade routes to stay fueled, and desperately chasing the remnants of victory. Then Earth called for aid and I accepted because I knew it meant stability and safety. While I do not have the fondest memories of this place, as I most certainly did not enjoy being maimed and kept in a lab like a personal project, I find this planet has grown on me. Of all the organic planets I have been to, this one is the mildest and gentlest I’ve encountered. Humans can be quite annoying, but some of them do hold some charm and usefulness.”
Megatron holds up his glass, sloshing the oil in there. “Take the oil for example. We wouldn’t be enjoying this without a human getting interested in trying her servo at making it.”
At the mention of the oil, Optimus downs the last of his.
“This planet is a rare place of peace for myself and my army. And the energon we receive is more than enough to share among troops. A moment of calm among the chaos. It’s a rare thing and should be treasured while it lasts.”
“And if you can make it last longer, would you?” Optimus asks.
“I would read the terms and conditions ahead of time, of course. But if they looked good? I would sign without a second thought,” he replies.
“We could make it happen,” Optimus says resolutely. “I truly think we could. This doesn’t have to end when Earth has regained its peace.”
Megatron stares at him for a long moment with an unreadable expression before grinning and nodding. “I think so too.” He sits up straighter in his chair, ignoring its ominous groaning beneath his weight. “But, for now, I believe it is time to retire for the night. Plenty of rest is long overdue for us both.”
Optimus nods as he sets his glass on the desk. He teeters a bit when he stands, the world shifting around him for a brief moment before he reorients himself. His balance feels fine but it’s like his sight lags about him, taking a click to snap into place when he moves his optics. He’s so focused on trying to walk straight that he doesn’t control his processor and asks, “Are you going to finish that?”
He’s looking at the bit of oil remaining in Megatron’s glass. The larger mech snorts a laugh. “I was planning on it but it’s yours if you want it. Although I worry I may have to carry you back to your quarters if you have any more.”
Optimus physically bites his glossa to avoid blurting out I wish you would and instead stands straighter. “I’m fine. Just been a long solar cycle and my tolerance isn’t what it used to be.”
“It’s yours then,” Megatron replies. He moves to stand and Optimus’s stupid traitorous processor acts fast. He lunges forward, boxing the larger mech into his seat, keeping him from rising. He sees red optics blink in confusion as Optimus reaches out with both his servos, wrapping them about the singular large servo holding the glass, and gently guiding it towards him. He’s not holding tight enough to trap Megatron’s servo but he doesn’t let go, letting himself be captured by the smaller mech’s servos.
Optimus guides the glass to his lips, tilting it back slowly, letting the oil fill his mouth. The taste consumes him, overwhelming his senses and burning the whole way down. It tastes even better than when it first touched his glossa, overtaking him, etching itself into him almost.
He’s not sure when he closed his optics but when he opens them, he finds Megatron staring at him intently, his own cheeks flushed and his mouth agape ever so slightly. Optimus lowers the glass from his mouth, servos still trapping Megatron’s own. He feels a drop of oil escape him and slip down his lip.
Megatron’s free servo comes up in an instant. His thumb slides ever so lightly across Optimus’s lower lip, swiping the oil onto his digit. Megatron brings the digit to his own mouth and licks the oil off, never breaking his gaze with Optimus.
“Don’t want to waste good oil, now do we?” he purrs, both with his voice and his engine, which has kicked on at some point and is now quietly rumbling. Optimus’s whole body feels electric and high strung. Gone is the pleasant buzz from the oil and the blurring of the world. Now every sense is alert and soaking in every bit of feeling he can get in the moment.
Without thinking, he raises a leg, planting his knee in between Megatron’s parted thighs, and leans forward, towards the larger mech on the chair, and—
A groan of overexerted metal is the only warning they get before Megatron’s chair quite literally falls apart beneath them.
Optimus yelps in surprise as he suddenly drops and Megatron grunts as his back hits the cold concrete. The smaller mech fumbles forward onto his chest, still clinging to his servo like a lifeline. A piece of metal juts into Megatron’s back uncomfortably and Optimus looks dazed.
There’s a moment of complete silence between them as their optics meet and they both are clearly trying to process what just happened.
Then Optimus, still overcharged, snorts a laugh and Megatron can’t help but chuckle as well. It devolves into calm but joyful laughter.
The sound of steps approaching the hangar finally pulls them apart. Optimus keeps his hold on Megatron’s servo as he stands, using his grasp to help pull the mech into sitting up. Optimus finally releases his servo as Strika appears in the doorway of the hangar.
“Everything alright, my liege?” she asks, looking over the no doubt odd scene before her.
“Yes, general. My chair simply fell apart beneath me,” he replies as he moves to stand.
Her optics narrow in frustration. “Ach, I told those human engineers the chairs would never hold. We will have to have a talk with them later.”
Ratchet appears from behind her then, asking, “Any injuries?”
“Only thing that hurts is my pride,” Megatron says as he gathers the crystal glasses and empty oil barrel.
The exact nature of the situation and how it would appear to an outsider occurs to Optimus then. The two leaders of warring factions sitting together, draining a barrel of oil with nice crystal glasses, both flushed pink with overcharge, and one of them sprawled across the ground from a broken chair. He contemplates protesting for a brief moment but decides against it. He knows Ratchet won’t gossip and while he isn’t too sure about Strika he knows she’s loyal enough to assume the best.
So instead he stretches, says something about needing to turn in for the night, and follows Megatron out of the hangar and past the other two.
(Although he could swear he heard Strika whisper something about Ratchet owing her fifty credits for something.)
Only when they’re both a fair distance away, standing alone in the middle of the temporary base, the tarmac beneath their pedes cold with the chill of the night, and the stars struggling through light pollution to shine above them, do they turn to each other.
Optimus makes the first move, still being pushed ahead with blind overcharged confidence, as he says, “This was nice. We should make it a habit.”
Megatron smirks and it’s genuine happiness peeking through. “We should. I’ll talk to that human about securing more oil. I believe she mentioned having a few more barrels we could try tomorrow evening.”
“We should also get better chairs,” Optimus adds without thinking.
Megatron chuckles and it sends a shiver up his spinal strut. “Indeed we should. Hopefully, there will be fewer interruptions in the future.”
Optimus grins back. He feels floaty, a combination of the oil and his enjoyment of the evening. Megatron gives him a soft smile before saying, “Respectfully, you look like you’re about to pass out on your pedes. I suggest getting some recharge.”
Optimus nods dumbly and the larger mech turns and begins walking back to his own quarters, bidding him farewell as he went. It takes everything in him to turn and go towards his quarters and not chase after the larger mech.
His spark pounds in a peculiar way with every step he takes but he doesn’t mind it. And he especially doesn’t mind the dumb gleeful smile plastered on his face. Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.