Work Text:
“You’re still not in recharge.”
“Of course. I can’t risk having to miss these wonderful poems from you, could I?”
“We always have tomorrow.”
“You say that, yet you know me. My patience wears thin when it comes to you and your works.”
Megatron sighs, and holds the Prime closer. The blue and red mech nuzzles his faceplate further into the ex-warlord’s neck cables, his movements sluggish and delayed as his optics grow unfocused and dim.
“Even if. You still have a scrap ton of paperwork to do from G.H.O.S.T.,-” Optimus groans, and Megatron chuckles. “-all piling up and waiting to be turned in eventually.”
The Prime’s finials flick back to its lowest position, distaste evident in both his EM field and through the two’s shared bond. “I know that. But can’t we both get a break? I from my paperwork, and you from..” He trails off momentarily, struggling to compose his thoughts. “..I forgot what you do. Anyway, shouldn’t it be fair? The humans get to rest during the ‘weekends’; shouldn’t that go for us Cybertronians as well?”
Megatron’s shoulders rattle as he laughs, chassis clacking noisily against Optimus’ windshield. “You’re losing your Prime-ly talk. But yes, I believe it should be fair. After all, the war is over—we cannot continue to be overwhelmed with stress. Should we bring it up with- ah .”
The once-gladiator pauses as he looks down at the handsome mech lying on his chassis, arms intertwined with each other’s. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Optimus smiles wider, faceplate creasing where the edges of the optics meet the soft metal of his face. “Nothing. You’re just—ah, how do I say this—It’s just been a while since you’ve agreed so easily with one of my suggestions. I’m just happy that we’ve come a long way since the war. Cybertron may not be accessible to us anymore, but many of us have found solace in this small planet and with its inhabitants.” His smile turns sheepish, but he doesn’t bother to apologize for ranting. He knows that his lover doesn’t mind.
Megatron smiled.
Not one of his mischievous smiles when you know he is up to something, not one of his dreadfully large grins that strikes fear in whoever unlucky ‘bot would be encountering the Slagmaker himself, and definitely not one of those smiles he’d give his conjunx pre- or post-interface.
Instead, his faceplates donned a soft, intimate smile he wouldn’t dare show outside of the berthroom. As his derma curled upwards, the wrinkles on his face smoothed out, as though to bring out the young gladiator deep inside his spark.
His intake grew dry, losing all skill in properly stringing together words, and instead pressed the crest of his helm against his lover’s.
Optimus said nothing, his chassis vibrating lowly as his engine trilled happily.
Neither of them said anything as both mechs held one another, servos and digits laced together, chassis against chassis, and legs intertwined with one another’s.
Megatron’s optics grew tired as the weight above him quickly grew heavier– as if the Prime was rinsing all his problems away through late-night cuddles.
The ex-archivist’s helm turned upwards to face his conjunx’s, as gray arms tightened around his interestingly-slim waist. Optimus’ intake opened and closed, as though forming words, but they never seemed to reach Megatron’s audials.
“Mm?” Scarlet optics met azure as the two warmechs gazed into each other’s optics, warmth and love echoing throughout the bond.
Millions of years of war and stress washed away like solvent as Optimus giggled as if he was still an archivist and Megatron was still a miner. As if both of them were still hiding away their relationship from both of their superiors like rebellious sparklings.
“I said that I love you.” Optimus’ optics grew soft and dim as his servos left Megatron’s and instead cupped the gray mech’s faceplates gently, delicately, as if the other could be lost at any moment.
Gunmetal gray faceplates pressed into the palm of the Prime’s servo instinctively as one of Megatron’s servos left Optimus’ waist and slid his own servo to rest on top of his partners’. “I love you too, Orion.”
“Orion?”
“Mm.”
Blue audial fins tipped backwards even more as Optimus’ smile quickly turned into a frown. “Orion is dead , Megatron. He’s been dead for as long as we can both imagine. You watched him die, right in front of your very optics.”
Megatron’s arm tightened around the ex-archivist’s middle, pressing his faceplates even further into the blue servo cupping the side of his face. Scarlet optics darkened into a deep maroon, though it was without malice. Instead, Optimus quickly found himself staring into the optics of a mech who’s lost the archivist he’s fallen in love with all those eons ago.
“I know that. I know Orion’s dead,” Blue digits dig into the grooves parallel to one another on the sides of Megatron’s helm. “But I can’t help but notice that, sometimes, I see a glimpse of him in you. And I can see him right now.”
“I don’t even have his memories.”
“I know.”
“I don’t even know how he acts .” Optimus huffed in exasperation, flailing his free servo around the air beside their frames. “How am I supposed to act like him if I don’t even have his memories?” Frustration was beginning to bleed into the Prime’s voice, yet it didn’t—or rather, couldn’t —overpower the exasperation dripping in his tone and his field.
“I don’t know.” And it’s true . Megatron doesn’t know, but maybe, just maybe, that’s okay.
“Yet-”
“Yet I see him right here, in front of me.” Megatron lets go of Optimus’ waist entirely, choosing to cup both his servos right in front of his lover’s audials. “I still see that archivist, the one who supported me no matter what I did as Megatronus. I still see the same fire in your optics, like when you used to watch my gladiatorial matches from the sidelines. You may not have been cheering on me verbally, but I knew, by the look in your optics, that you rooted for me and knew that I’d come out victorious.”
Optimus sighs, any and all retorts disappearing from his processor. His optics grow sorrowful and apologetic as he loses the will to look Megatron in the optics. Although he doesn’t look at his lover, he presses his right servo on top of the black one on the side of his helm and leans.
“I’m sorry.” The Prime visibly deflates—shoulders sagging, optics resetting once, twice—as he presses a chaste kiss to the servo on the side of his helm.
“Sweetspark,” Megatron whispered, his thumb running over the scar he’d given his lover. “Why are you sorry?”
Blue servos gripped the darker ones as a way to ground the owner. Optimus ex-vented a few times, before speaking. “Because,” He paused, mulling over his next few words. “Because I am not Orion. I am not the mech you fell in love with all those vorns ago. For that, I am sorry.”
The Prime regained his regular speech—the one he’d use to shield his emotions—as he stared at the unsightly insignia that burrowed into a gunmetal gray chassis. He couldn’t bear to look at his partner, his conjunx, in the optic. Not yet.
Megatron’s servo moved ever so slowly to cup Optimus’ jaw, and coaxed the archivist to face the ex-warlord. “I loved Orion, once, when I was a gladiator and he was an archivist.” The digits on his other servo traced the outline of his partner’s scar, “Yes, I miss the naïve, silly, downright adorable little ‘bot, but I have grown to love you even more, Optimus.”
“But I am not him .” Optical ridges furrowed, azure optics narrowed in defiance and a hint of sadness. “I am not the mech who originally captured your spark.”
“No, you are not.” Megatron agrees. His spark cracks when his lover’s optics fly up to meet his, all narrowed and accompanied by a quivering frown. “You are better. Far better than what I thought I’d end up with before. No mech is comparable to you– slag , you’re like a gift sent down from Primus.” He chuckles, shaking his helm with a fond smile.
A cute blush settles over the Prime’s faceplates, and that frown slowly turns and settles into a flustered expression. Megatron wishes he were Soundwave– how nice it would be to be able to capture his lover’s endearing appearance.
“And here I was, all confident in our entire relationship, believing you were an atheist.” Optimus snickers and leans into the servos on each side of his helm. “You even told me yourself!” Snickers turn into soft laughs, all the negative emotions from earlier having washed away.
“I did. You’re just so perfect that I had to bring Primus into this.” Megatron presses his helm against his partner’s, his gaze piercing through Optimus’. “You have no idea just how much I love you, Optimus. You’re the reason I look forward to getting out of berth, you’re my reason to live, you’re my spark . I love you, so much , sweetspark.” The ex-warlord’s optics softened considerably as his gaze roamed over his lover’s faceplate.
The soft smile that once donned Optimus’ faceplates grew to a lovestruck grin, and he doesn’t bother shielding it with his battle mask. “And I you, my love.” He moves his servos and places them atop Megatron’s chassis. “ And I you .” His vocalizer echoes, as he leans his faceplate closer to his partner’s.
Megatron’s servos pulled his lover’s blue helm to clank loudly against his as their lips met—growing from innocence to passion.
Optimus wasn't Orion. Not anymore. But maybe, he thinks, relishing in the soft purrs and trills from underneath a goregous, red, chassis. Maybe he was.
The Prime grins as he pulls away from his conjunx, his steady blue servos skillfully removing Megatron's helmet with well-practiced restraint.
Maybe, the ex-warlord's processor continues, his spark overflows with love and hope, Maybe Orion is still buried somewhere underneath the Matrix.
The poet will hold onto this hope for as long as their relationship unfolds, and will continue to love the Prime for the rest of his life.