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Rung rubs at his elbow joint absentmindedly when he stumbles over his words. Whirl is focused on him, sitting across the booth, content with listening to his stammer, until he sees his face and says his name.
“Whirl? Were you listening?” his smile is trying.
“Huh? Oh. Nope.”
“I asked you, you… used to be a chronosmith?”
He freezes. Whirl always sees Rung with this expression: impressive eyebrows slanted upwards, head cutely inclined to the side, mouth in a smile that is heartwrenching but keeps the sly promise of being bendable enough to be able to convey pity, neutrality, and on momentous occasions, scorn.
Whirl snaps out of his trance. It’s a hard question with others, an effortless one with Rung.
“Yeah, I made watches and stuff. Why?”
Rung straightens in his seat.
“Well, I thought… I just have this particular thing for clocks, is all,” he manages. He does have trouble speaking, at times, but usually stutters confidently. Whirl can tell, for whatever reason, right now Rung is shy. He barks out a laugh.
“A ’thing’? For clocks? Wow, Rung, didn’t know you had it in you to have a ‘thing’ for anything,” he mocks playfully.
“Whirl, you know that’s not–look, I just… like the sounds they make. I like seeing them move and hearing them tick,” Rung explains, giving Whirl a look he gives only to him (he hopes). He resets his vocalizer. “I know most chronometers don’t make noise anymore, but I can’t help feeling attached to the old ones, the ones that do.”
Whirl makes an inquisitive noise. “Huh. Didn’t know you like chronometers so much. ‘s that why everyone can hear you from a mile away every time? You got clocks bouncing around in your secret compartments with all your snacks?” he asks. They both know Whirl is among the very few who really do notice the slight rattles that accompany each step Rung takes.
“Well, they don’t bounce around, really–” he is cut off when Whirl slams his claws down on the table.
“No way, I was joking! You really got a bunch of clocks inside your frame?” Whirl interrupts, optic widening. Rung looks at the floor, as if he thinks Whirl couldn’t possibly see his faceplates flood pink this way.
“I usually have at least three installed somewhere under my plating and in different compartments. If I remember correctly, the most I’ve had at a time was eight, but I realized it was impractical after a while,” Rung’s voice is quiet but this time doesn’t waver.
Whirl places his claws underneath his chin and leans forward, over the table. “Why?”
He can practically see Rung’s bright, bright spark whirling in its chamber with the way his optics light up, and it’s gorgeous, he’s gorgeous.
“Like I said, well-crafted chronometers are beautiful, but the best ones are the ones that tick. I love…” He took in a vent of air and looked Whirl up and down quickly. “…I love watching them move, and hearing them work in time with each second,” he says.
“Y’know, I think I know what you mean,” Whirl says honestly. He is momentarily taken to a time millions of years ago, in a little building with the walls of the store painted garish colors but overshadowed by the sheer quality of the craft inside.
There was a particular corner where the older models are clustered, arguably “antiques,” huddled together in a mass of ticking, serving as a metronome for the universe. The pervasive functionist idea of planned obsolescence left these clocks untouched.
Whirl might’ve shared some of this out loud, although much less eloquently, he’s sure. He doesn’t remember. All he knows is that Rung is staring at him like what he thinks and hopes is the same way he has been looking at him. Maybe he just didn’t notice before.
The service drone comes by with a refill of their drinks as had been requested prior. Rung mouths a “thank you” to the thing and takes a sip of his highgrade (which was really more like midgrade with a kick).
“Often times I would find myself listening in to my own frame. How each organ worked, how every little piece fit somewhere and would make a particular kind of whirr. Chronometers add to that kind of somatic soundtrack,” he says. Whirl gives a “mm” in response, letting his thin proboscis take a sip of the amber liquid in the glass in front of him.
“I usually try sitting still, because anyone can hear your joints move,” he continues, and mutters, “especially when you’re my age. I hear beeps and clicks from my brain module, and the wordless sound of energon flow… everything.
“Another clock is the heart,” he says, sticking up a finger like he’s giving a psychology lecture at a university, as if they magically hadn’t been destroyed like everything else during the war. “The pulse of a spark is a marker of time for our frames, ageless as they are. It counts seconds evenly, routinely, without stopping.” His hand had floated down to draw circles on the table with his pointer finger as he speaks in a tone that is more hushed and somehow, even more genuine. “It’s my favorite sound.”
Rung’s optics are so blue and sweet and soft and Whirl can think about little else than him right now, him with his shyness about something so benign and charming. Something that made Whirl feel. He scoots his claw up to Rung’s hand where it rests on the table, and Rung looks at it.
“Can I–?” Rung asks, reaching.
“Yes.”
Rung looks as if he’s about to melt when he gently grips Whirl’s offered claw. His fingers intertwine with the individual digits, threading through the sharp metal before resting on top of where the tip starts to form a semicircle. Whirl shivers slightly but makes no indication for Rung to let go of his claws.
Rung shutters his optics, as if he could fall asleep here, in this bar, listening to his clocks tick and Whirl’s heart spin from across the booth.