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    Summary

    “Sure. I wouldn't want my favorite client to feel alone.” He chuckles as he steps away, turning. It's far more efficient for him to lead, given their height difference. Megatron settles a servo on his shoulder, clasping their servos together while he courteously holds the mech's hip strut.

    “I'm your favorite client?” Megatron's gravelly voice sweetens, syrupy as if charmed.

    A quiet confession meant for only his personal reference. But, it's already too late anyway. He can curse his engex heavy glossa in the morning. They're at a gala, for Primus sake. He can relax a little. “Yes…I…suppose you are. At the very least, none of my other clients discuss poetry or literature with me.”

    Megatron tilts his servo to spin him. “Is that the only reason why I'm your favorite?”

    Scoffing, he raises an optic ridge. “Fishing for compliments, Megatron?”

    A deep chuckle rumbles through his own engine from their proximity. “Perhaps. I made an effort tonight. It'd be nice to be noticed by my favorite advisor.”

    -

    Or, Optimus grows into his designation, learns what it means to love and be loved all while being a functional alcoholic. Chaos ensues.

    Language:
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