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“Optimus?”
The maglocks of his office door disable with a soft sshk; Elita steps through cautiously, as if a sudden movement might scare him away. Optimus doesn’t move from where he leans on the balcony railing. He keeps his optics trained on the lights of Cybertron but inclines his body towards her in acknowledgement. The silence, his melancholy, is something she hesitates to break— yet she needs to reach out, to reel him back in as he drifts a little further from her in every klik that passes.
“You were distracted during my debrief.” She says it matter-of-factly— as she does everything— but without a trace of accusation. Making her way over to him, she keeps close watch on his minute reactions. A relax in his faceplate encourages her to continue speaking. “Praxus was… an unfortunate loss. It won’t happen again.”
He slides his battle mask back. Despite his entire manner saying otherwise (the slump in his posture as he sags his weight onto the arm propping him up, the exhaustion in his optics that he struggles to keep open), he is as calm as always. To her, this expression is the second mask he dons— the crutch of the position he holds. It betrays nothing, and that is where the fault lies; a stillness to an extent where she can only see the absence of the smile she seeks out. She notices everything about him. She is utterly beset by everything about him.
Elita’s own demeanor must falter into something just as broken as him, because he quickly reaches out to touch her arm. The gesture makes her want to melt into his touch. “I understand. I feel… as if I could’ve done more. But we still fought our hardest.”
“You say that, Optimus, but…”
When she meets his eyes, she feels stripped down to the barest of her very being, freezing her next words in her vocalizer. A whole argument could pass by wordlessly. The silence is unnerving— she wants bite and bark, something other than the detachedness; shake him and make sure he’s alive. She wants to argue and vent the fiery anger that she feels after every loss. Desperately, more than anything, she wants him to be okay. Unbeknownst to Optimus and herself, Primacy had a weight that killed the essence of the Matrix holder, yet Elita had admired that leader's spirit so dearly. She was drawn to how, in the face of danger and death and the upending of their entire lives, he tried— he was— fearless. That first fight against Sentinel was exhilarating just because of his presence. The speech to the High Guard, even in the absence of their friends, caused her spark to flicker and jump in ways it never had before. He dazzled her with his strength. And, to Elita, she never coveted just strength; it was the unabashed confidence to be genuine and himself, a drive to break out of the mold that rivaled hers for a promotion. She remembers days, an entire life, consumed by mining for energon. She remembers the one inconstant part of her monotone job. The annoyance, the strictness forged, the secret delight of being better but not superior, as she could turn to him like he could turn to her. Her inner conflict at the love she holds for two very different mechs tears her apart— she looks at Optimus helplessly, wishing she could convey every word and thought of hers to him and force him to listen and make those two, the past and present, one again. In war, she will never get what she truly wants, so she settles: wisely keeping her harsh truth hidden and drawing him in for an embrace, hoping touch will heal what words cannot.
Surprised, Optimus hesitates before wrapping an arm around her tightly. He brings up a servo to the back of her helm to caress it, lovingly, and Elita tries to let go of her worries for this moment— flickering her optics offline— and this moment alone, if anything.
Her small attempt at comfort works until she looks back up and sees his optics wandering back to the city lights. Following his gaze, frustration builds up in her once again. She can’t understand what captivates him about the endless skyline. As beautiful as they are, it is only artificial light.