Chapter Text
For the first time in forever, all of Megatron’s life, he’s anticipating death. He’s familiar with death, of course, the life and soul leaving one’s optics, and he’s not scared of death, no, he’s never had that sort of processing. It wasn’t helpful while mining, nor surviving cave-ins, but he’s never had that grip others do. It’s like the understanding of it- the way they’d simply be absent, only leaving memories and legacies alike- slips through his clawed digits. Megatron almost bristles at the sliver servo shaking his large shoulder pauldrons, but he couldn’t find himself to care much. However, when sad, blue optics look down, he manages a glare, if only for what of his honor remains. Optimus is kneeling beside him and the sky is starry, light shedding on the red and blue of the convoy. It’s distant, but familiar, like this was a dream he had long ago and was only now revisiting. But it was very real. Megatron could feel the burn of those optics and the organic grass rubbing on his kibble. But most importantly, the servo holding his own. It was blunt, unlike his, but warm and heavy. Optimus is trying to speak, pretty optics blinking down in a futile attempt to stop the coolant threatening to spill and Megatron wonders why he’s crying. He doesn’t need to, of course, but he’s searching for anything other than what he first came up with. Optimus is crying for Megatron, a fierce, genocidal leader who has killed millions - and he’s still crying.
Megatron knows why the prime is crying, something the expanding poetic processor of his recognizes with unsurprising familiarity. After all, he’s interacted with Optimus time and time again throughout a few thousand millennia. Yet now, Megatron is impaled on a pole and Optimus is kneeling by his side. How romantic.
Optimus finally finds his glyphs and Megatron wearily tilts his helm up, listening. Optimus always had such a way with words, even when he was Orion. “ Megatron …”
Megatron didn’t know that a single glyph could hold such emotion- or pain. Huh. Megatron would think that being impaled would hurt the impaled (Megatron) more than the witness (Optimus), but here he was. Megatron was expecting a speech but didn’t find himself disappointed. In fact, Optimus’s singular glyph was far more eloquent than any of his speeches could be. Black spots were dotting the outside of his vision. Feeling obligated to give his last glyphs out, he rasps, voice terribly weak, an answer. “Optimus.” He almost sounds content and he hates and loves himself for it.
The prime doubles over, tears freely falling from those crystal-like optics. Megatron thought he’d have a more positive reaction, but he ought to know better. Once, long ago, he may have enjoyed the prime crying because of him- for him, but now it only makes a clenching, empty hole in his gut. Megatron wonders- it’s a surprise because he’s never been curious- if he should tell Optimus. It could be a burden- a dead mech who loves sitting in his love’s lap, or maybe a gift- one where Optimus can lay happy knowing Megatron wasn’t upset with him, the opposite, in fact. Megatron wouldn’t leave to regret it, and he’s never been known for thinking things through, so he speaks. “Optimus-...Optimus.” It's enough to have the prime up and alert and Megatron smiles once more, black flooding his vision suddenly. “I love you.”
His optics shut off with a click- cycling down. He can still hear the prime’s gasp, his sobs, his screaming over a comm for help, someone help . And he can still feel the servo holding his own, still warm and heavy. And blaring over it all is an ambulance’s siren. Well… Megatron will live to regret this then.