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1.
Social gatherings, for extroverts, were often simple enough. Even for introverts who tricked themselves into ease of socialization, it was still doable, and though holding a conversation kicked their sparks into overdrive, they’d manage and even excel with enough practice.
Bluestreak was a part of the first category—an extrovert. He loved talking to others.
“—and you’d think that would be the end of it, right? No, it wasn’t! He tried to haggle me down even further and eventually I just had to say no, ‘cause why would I accept an offer for a quarter of the price for something like a cloak that I made myself, y’know? I mean, it’s just kinda crazy!”
The polite smiles around him were having a hard time retaining themselves as Bluestreak chattered on and on about the unruly customer he’d had that one time. Well, it had happened loads of times, but this one stuck out in his processor. The twins were looking at him with the same interest they always did, he could count on them, but the mecha that he had only just met, gathered around him in a circle, did not seem to share their enthusiasm. His doorwings twitched nervously in the warm air and he took a nervous step backwards.
Almost immediately, the circle closed and he frowned, twisting his hands together in front of him.
Bluestreak liked parties; that was why he’d agreed to come when Sunstreaker had asked. Finding himself alone, pushed out of the circle, though… he reconsidered, looking up at the peachy lights overhead. His doorwings felt sticky, remnants of the fancy polish that Sunny had slapped all over his wings, and no amount of flicking or not-so-subtly rubbing against other mechs' shoulders or the walls was getting rid of the sensation. He hadn’t put on much of anything else, abiding by the twins’ command to simply “bring himself.”
Sideswipe sidled up beside him, leaning heavily on Bluestreak’s helm with one arm, avoidant of the sharp red chevron. He looked beautiful; his brother had spent hours polishing him up to standard since he’d needed a lot more work than Bluestreak had. Sides always jumped at the chance to be at any party, though more often than not ended up kicked out of the ones thrown by Sunny’s type of crowd. He threw plenty of his own, which Bluestreak himself preferred, that tended to be far rowdier.
“You good?”
“Yeah! Yeah,” Bluestreak said, injecting enthusiasm into his voice that he wasn’t sure was genuine. Maybe he should feel bad about being untruthful, but Sideswipe didn’t need his night ruined by the Praxian being a stick in the mud—that was just rude. “I’m okay, I was just kinda, um, eyeing the snack table and stuff, so don’t mind me! Hey, do you think there’s rust sticks there? Those would be pretty yummy!”
Ever-patient, Sideswipe laughed and patted his head, each clang ringing with affection. “I bet there is! You should go get some,” he suggested kindly.
“Yeah, okay! I’ll come back quick, alright? Don’t miss me too much!” Bluestreak took several backwards steps towards the snack table, waving.
“Already do!” Sideswipe called, flashing him a grin before turning around to insert himself back into the conversation in what Bluestreak was confident would be the most annoying way possible.
He finally spun himself around and walked forward, carefully avoiding all the pristinely-polished limbs and finely-decorated minibots that seemed determined to get in his way and prevent him from reaching the snacks. Everyone here was beautifully put together and he felt out of place in comparison, like a stone in a field of gems. Bluestreak wondered what kind of rock he’d be as he made his way towards the bountiful table of snacks.
They all smelled wonderful! He inhaled, dragging the scent over his olfactory sensors with a small smile. He could pick out the unique tones of rust sticks, overpowering the inoffensive foam meringues and the energon berries that decorated the table. Gosh, even the snacks made Bluestreak feel rather out of place. They were nicely placed, shiny, attractive and his wings fluttered nervously at the concept of disturbing the display; as far as he could tell, the food was untouched, and he wasn’t sure if there was some sort of special etiquette here.
He paced around, not-so-subtly eyeing each and every snack to try and determine what he could get away with taking. It was unfortunate when Bluestreak realized just how hungry he was; his tanks gurgled with desperation, trying to urge him to stuff his intake.
In the end, he clutched a plate full of snacks and the table looked appropriately ravaged. Bluestreak was, deep in his spark, slightly ashamed of his greed but surely they wouldn’t have put food here if they weren’t supposed to take it! He was pretty sure someone would have said something if it were off-limits. He tucked himself strategically behind a great white pillar, careful not to touch it lest the whole place come crashing down.
He picked up his first choice—a meringue—and placed it in his mouth, allowing the flavor to melt over his glossa. It was sweet, though not sickeningly so, and he allowed a tiny smile to spread over his face, doorwings falling low in a display of bliss. Such luxurious tidbits were becoming more and more sparse as tensions rose.
Bluestreak didn’t like thinking about the divide between the people of his planet. He sort of just wanted everyone to be happy—yes, even at the expense of functionalism because everyone deserved to live as their authentic selves, including what they wanted as a profession. He just wished there didn’t have to be violent protests about it. He shook himself out and allowed the sweet treat to wash away his worries, instead focusing back in on the current moment where he was hunched behind a pillar and snacking away.
Behind him, someone laughed and he whipped around to find one of the most gorgeous mechs he had ever seen. He was much larger than Bluestreak, with wings that stood far above either of their heads. His paint was equal parts purple, gray and black and his helm had a three-way crest on it. He was grinning in a way that was undeniably sleazy, but even that couldn’t take away from his angular face and sharp yellow optics.
“Hey there, cutie,” the beautiful stranger greeted, wings twitching minutely. Bluestreak wasn’t well-versed in the subtleties of wingspeak but was pretty sure it was a greeting so he returned the motion. It was then that he realized his face was warm and that he was embarrassed; he straightened up and swallowed his mouthful, quickly wiping his mouth of any remnants.
“Hi,” he choked, looking at a point just past the other’s helm. Bluestreak was startled when the stranger stepped into his view, forcing eye contact.
“What’s your name?”
“Bluestreak! I think my name is pretty accurate, which kinda sucks, but what can you do? I’d rather have a name that suits me than a name that doesn’t. What’s yours?”
“Octane,” Octane purred, taking a step closer. Bluestreak flinched, wings going stiff; this strange mech was between him and the rest of the room, essentially trapping him into the corner. They were hidden by the same pillar that had been an area of respite mere moments before and he cursed his lack of foresight. Octane, though, seemed to realize his discomfort and paused where he was, wings folding back in what the Praxian hoped was an effort to make himself look less intimidating. “What is someone pretty like you doing back here?”
“Oh! Um, just… well…” Bluestreak raised his plate, smiling bashfully. Octane’s optics glimmered and he reached forward to snatch a bright blue square, sticking it in his intake before a protest could even be uttered. That didn’t mean Bluestreak allowed it to happen, however. “Hey!”
The playful smirk thrown in his direction was enough to have his knee joints weak and he cleared his vocalizer, fighting to calm his racing spark.
“Octane! Cease your fraternizing!” A shrill voice rang out, causing a brief silence to fall over the crowd. Octane jumped and leaned forward to slide his hand beneath Bluestreak’s palm, raising his servos to his lips and planting a firm kiss on his knuckles. The Praxian squeaked, but before he could say anything, a set of blue claws landed on his acquaintance’s shoulder and tugged him back. They were connected to a blue and then gray arm and a red chassis, which Bluestreak followed upwards to see a seeker with a scowl fierce enough to rival Ratchet’s after a particularly disruptive patient.
“You never let me have any fun,” Octane complained, pushing lazily at Starscream’s chassis. Bluestreak looked nervously between them, wondering what the story here could possibly be. Starscream was fairly well-known around these parts; he had a tongue like a silver dagger, able to drive his points home swiftly and sometimes painfully. He had never met the mech, but gossip traveled quickly, especially taking into consideration the secrecy of Vos. He was one of the few seekers actively out and about.
“I don’t care about your fun,” Starscream spat, giving Bluestreak a look containing enough venom to kill him and everyone else in this room. Octane scoffed, and the jet took that chance to grab him aggressively around the wrist and pull him away.
Bluestreak looked down at his plate and then back up just in time to see his new friend shooting him a playful wink that had his processor reeling. Holy scrap.
2.
No matter how hard life tried to beat Bluestreak down, he always sprung back up. When the revolutionaries began to revolt, he carried on. When it was time to pick a side, he did his very best making a choice and was reaffirmed by the twins and Ratchet, who had also placed their sympathies with the Autobots. When the news was filled with news of death and destruction, Bluestreak went about his day, following the inspiring words of the fresh faction’s novel leader: Optimus Prime.
When Praxus fell, that was a little bit harder—yet he continued, adopting the Autobrand right in the middle of his chassis and picking up arms to fight back against the oppression that the Decepticons were attempting to place on the mecha of Cybertron. He learned to defend himself, and then he learned to shoot, and then he learned to kill.
After that, each individual that met their end via his servos (or his sniper, to be more specific) was just another number. Whoever Bluestreak was before the war was still present, buried beneath several locked boxes wrapped with chains to protect his softness. He was no longer the gentle, naive mech he had once been.
Nursing his lame arm, he cursed himself for not shooting Skywarp before the seeker had been able to shoot him. A well-aimed blaster shot had the Praxian retreating, his helm held low to keep himself from being targeted. Sideswipe shouted something to him but he just waved a hand and stumbled through the rubble, set on finding cover. The air reeked of gunpowder, energon and smoke, creating a mix that choked even the most optimized ventilation systems.
It had started as a simple enough exploration, working off a tip from a greasy mech named Swindle. Bluestreak strongly disliked him; he had yet to confidently attach himself to a faction, interested in playing both sides, but would almost certainly be a Decepticon. It was a rare time where he disagreed with Optimus; the Prime had claimed Swindle to be an ally until he proved he was not.
Well, he wouldn’t be considered one after this. A sonic boom had announced the arrival of the ‘Cons’ flying forces, the elite trine in the lead, intent upon taking any energon for themselves. The kicker was that there was no energon—Swindle had set them all up for a fight.
Bluestreak figured it was better he didn’t put words to how he felt about that.
He curled his servo tighter over the burning wound, feeling energon leak from between his fingers and dribble down his arm. He wouldn’t bleed out, but it was a significant injury that would need medical attention after Ratchet had stabilized everyone. He coughed against the suffocating air and crouched behind a metal beam, sticking jaggedly from the planet and providing a meager amount of cover. He nearly flattened himself to the ground as Starscream went whistling overhead, not intent on catching any of the seekers’ attention.
Bluestreak took a moment, dragged in a rough breath, and then looked around, spotting an overhang created by structural debris. That would do. He sprung out of hiding, assessing the battlefield around him, and was relieved to see many of the flyers occupied by Autobot ground forces. His legs burned as he ran for dear life, practically throwing himself into the darkness and hitting the other side with a startled grunt. It was bigger than he’d thought, a crater surely created by one of Blitzwing’s infamous bombs.
Groaning quietly in pain, he peeled his servo off of his wound and felt his lip curl in disgust at the sight. It was blackened around the edges, energon already beginning to cake around the edges. As it dried, it shifted into a muddier pink.
Gross.
“So, uh… do you come here often?”
Bluestreak whipped around, his gun already in his hands, and pointed it straight into the face of Octane, whose crimson optics grew wide. The Praxian nearly pressed the trigger as his clawed servos flew up into a mollified gesture, raised in the air like he was harmless.
“What are you doing here?!” Bluestreak demanded and Octane blanched, gesturing to the weapon several feet away, Bluestreak narrowed his optics and then snatched it up, tossing it behind him so the Decepticon couldn’t access it.
“My gun, it stopped working,” he said.
Why would you reveal that information to an enemy soldier? Bluestreak thought, optical ridges rising in astonishment. “...Uh-huh.”
He eyed Octane; the mech wasn’t dirty, save for some scuffs on his massive wings. Nothing like Bluestreak, who was caked in so much dirt that one may believe him to be brown instead of navy, black and gray. His wound told enough, and he tensed as Octane’s gaze wandered down to it.
“Bluey, babes, this doesn’t have to be violent,” he pleaded, and Bluestreak snorted.
“You expect me to believe that? Do you know how many of us the ‘Cons have killed? A lot, I’ll tell you that,” Bluestreak snapped, waving his gun threateningly. The servo he was leaning on curled into the ashen dirt; Octane shrank back.
To his credit, his enemy did not attempt to defend himself, instead mouthing wordlessly and gesturing around.
“That’s what I thought. You know you guys are wrong, that you guys are evil and you hurt innocent mechs, and yet you’re still a Decepticon! You have to be just like the rest of them, I won’t believe anything else!” Bluestreak cried, wings flaring wide. He’d never been allowed to spit all of this at someone who had caused him this harm and it felt absolutely wonderful. Octane had the grace to at least look ashamed of himself, and that only fueled the Praxian’s fire. “Were you there when they burned my home? Maybe you were dropping the bombs, huh? How did it feel to destroy a place that was once so full of life, so beautiful?!”
“Bluey—”
Bluestreak was dead set on yelling this practical stranger's audials off because he was listening (even if it was forced).
“No! You don’t know me, you don’t get to call me a stupid cute nickname! You’re a monster!”
“I didn’t destroy Praxus!” Octane suddenly snapped, raising his body to be higher than Bluestreak in an attempt to intimidate. The small grounder was not cowed, instead glaring upwards. After a moment of silence:
“I need you to leave. And if you don’t, I’ll shoot you.”
Bluestreak hated them. It had taken this interaction to convince him of that; a cowardly ‘Con hiding behind what his faction was doing and trying to claim innocence—even physically hiding to not be held accountable. Because he was scared.
Octane, to his credit, only shimmied around and crawled towards the exit from where he’d been tucked into the structure, casting a rueful glance back at Bluestreak.
“You’re still pretty,” was all he said before exiting. Bluestreak tried not to listen to the throaty rumble of engines moving away, absently noting down Octane’s two alternate modes and nothing more.
3.
It felt nice to be trusted.
Bluestreak was given important tasks. Real important tasks, not the kind designed to keep mecha like him busy and out of the way. He was a spy some times, their best sniper others. He was often placed on prisoner transportation or assigned to guard certain mechs because his friendly disposition put them at ease and made them more likely to talk. He’d even played a bit of good cop, bad cop with Prowl here and there, though he didn’t like that responsibility as much. He hated the way his superior officer looked at him sometimes, like he was merely a statistic and why was the statistic talking to him?
Yeah, he’d learned Prowl didn’t care about him or his day very early on. Jazz was the only one to not receive a swift dismissal if he ran his mouth around the enforcer because he was actually brave enough to push it if he didn't get what he wanted. Bluestreak would never; he couldn’t stand the full force of Prowl’s glare despite the third in command’s claims that he was, “just a big softie.”
Easy to say for someone not under his command, huh?
“Bluestreak, my man! I was just looking for ya!” A red arm slung around his shoulders and he almost immediately leaned into the mech it belonged to, recognizing that booming voice anywhere. Blaster laughed and gave him a brief yet tight hug before stepping back, allowing the Praxian to turn around and smile at him.
“Blaster! Hi! I was just thinking about you a little bit ago, I wanted to come say hi but it totally slipped my mind! I saw you working on the communications tower with Rewind and Eject and I think it’s coming along really good! You’re good at what you do, you know,” Bluestreak yammered enthusiastically, unable to prevent his wings from fluttering. Blaster was a very good friend to him, always patient and allowing him to finish his thoughts even when he had somewhere to be. He was also really cool, and Bluestreak admired him greatly for his accomplishments and his role in the war.
“Thanks! Yeah, Rewind was especially excited about being able to help and guess what? He didn’t even break anything this time,” Blaster joked. His smile dropped slightly and he rubbed the back of his neck with a servo, adding under his breath, “yeah, just lost every screw I needed.”
Bluestreak giggled and shook his head; that sounded accurate to Rewind’s character.
“Anyways, I just wanted to let you know that Prowl swapped ya out with Cliff for guard duty tonight. I guess we snagged someone good, ‘cause he wants you to soften him up for interrogation,” Blaster informed, cuffing Bluestreak lightly on the shoulder in a show of camaraderie. It didn’t make the information any easier to digest, his smile disappearing.
“I had a movie planned with the twins tonight,” he complained, already mourning their time together. There were very few things he enjoyed more than movie nights, where he got to spread out across the laps of several mechs and pass out, completely sure that he was safe in their presence.
“I know,” his friend replied sympathetically. “I’d take it from ya if I wasn’t busy, man, but I’m sure they’ll understand.”
Of course they would, but that wasn’t the point! Prowl couldn’t just expect him to change his plans last minute from something he’d been looking forward to for weeks! They hardly even got spare time to themselves! He was going to march in there and—
The cell was empty. Bluestreak shifted, shifting his weapon to his other hand and then covering a wide yawn. He’d been standing here for around twenty minutes, if his chronometer was to be trusted. It had felt like much longer, but he supposed part of that feeling was attributed to the five minutes he’d spent outside of Prowl’s office, knuckles raised to knock, steeling himself for either a swift rejection or a shouting match.
In the end, he had done neither, because he’d sighed and marched right to where he was supposed to be, blaming his interest in just who they had captured.
Waiting was boring, though.
Luckily, the lull didn’t last long; he heard Ironhide’s gruff yell through the door before it swung open and he entered, dragging a purple arm through the threshold. Bluestreak’s first thought was, Skywarp? They captured Skywarp? The color was wrong, though, and as Hound muscled his way through the door dragging the rest of Octane with him, his wings drooped. He was going to be guarding Octane?! Oh, brother.
“Get ‘im in!” Ironhide bellowed, perhaps louder than necessary, and he and Hound dragged the triple-changer into the cell.
Bluestreak eyed the prisoner. Octane looked defeated; there was a terrible hole in his wing and he was missing an entire hand. He was also unfathomably dirty; only the scrapes in the muck showed his true colors. There was still energon leaking from his open wounds, and as his chassis was turned towards the Praxian, he noticed the claw marks where his Decepticon brand had once been. His head tilted in curiosity, but there was a far more pressing matter.
Coming up beside Ironhide as the bars closed, he frowned. “He needs medical attention.”
“Medical attention for a ‘Con?” Ironhide asked, snorting as if the concept was ridiculous. Standing beside the door, Hound shifted uncomfortably.
“If Prowl is gonna interrogate him, then yeah! He’s gonna bleed out—look at him. He’s already leaking onto the floor. I can guarantee that command is gonna be really mad when they come in here and their high-priority target is dead!” Bluestreak said hotly. After a moment of staring in which neither mech refused to back down, Hound stepped between them, placing a gentle servo on Ironhide’s chassis.
“He’s right,” he said in that kind voice of his, the one that made even the most hardened warriors think twice about the battle they were picking.
Bluestreak stamped down the pride he felt at winning; he didn’t care about Octane, he just cared that prisoners were treated with respect regardless of where they came from. Once the two were out the door, he approached the cell and frowned, noticing how shallow each breath was. That couldn’t be good, nor was the fact he’d hardly been able to drag himself over to the makeshift berth before falling unconscious.
Ratchet certainly couldn’t get here fast enough.
When Octane began to stir, Bluestreak finished up the last paragraph on his data pad and then slid his optics over it, allowing them to focus on the poorly put together mech in the cell. His red optics were dark, glowering at the Praxian like he was personally responsible for placing him in there.
“When does the interrogation start?” Octane asked, voice hoarse from disuse.
Bluestreak’s head tilted. “We’re not monsters, you’re injured! Even Prowl wouldn’t subject you to that while you’re in pain! I mean, maybe not in pain, but you know what I mean. Ratchet fixed what he could, but we still need to give your nanites time to repair you, so…”
The triple-changer’s head lowered, resting on his arms. He seemed far less upset now, just exhausted, and Bluestreak could hardly blame him; he didn’t know what Octane had been through in the time since they’d last seen each other, but he could piece together enough of the puzzle to conclude that Octane was going through the horrors. He shuffled his feet, wincing at the sound of metal on concrete. “...so, um, how did you end up here?”
“I was shot down by Megatron,” Octane muttered. Bluestreak’s wings straightened with interest.
“For what?”
“Desertion. Cowardice. Treason. You name it, I’ve probably been accused,” he huffed, scraping at a dent in his chassis.
To say Bluestreak was surprised by the information would be a lie. After all, he’d been witness to Octane’s pusillanimity all those vorns ago when he’d tucked himself beneath that rubble, only to force him out. Even back then, he had been struggling to do what the rest of the Decepticons did, hiding away instead of daring to risk himself for his army. For once, the Praxian didn’t have a lot to say on the matter.
“Yeah,” was what he decided on.
Silence fell between them. It wasn’t exactly uncomfortable—Bluestreak didn’t know Octane well enough to feel any particular way about their meeting—but the buzz of the ship was grating on his audials. He twisted his servos together and then shifted his pedes again; it caused him to knock his precariously-balanced rifle to the floor and he scrambled to pick it up, flushing beneath Octane’s gaze.
“And you’re still a cutie,” the prisoner said, a playful grin taking over his face. Bluestreak flicked his wings. He could hear the exhaustion, the lack of conviction in the flirt. It was unlike what he had experienced previously and he chalked it up to Octane’s personality rather than anything to be taken seriously. To think that he, himself, was special was a fool’s move. The ‘Con—ex-’Con—didn’t care about him more than anyone else. Bluestreak was smarter than that.
Instead of acknowledging the flirt, he took a couple of steps forward and sat down in front of the bars. The distance left was just enough to not allow Octane to reach him in the scenario he lashed out and attempted to reach through the bars and sink his claws into the soft Autobot on the other side. He was rewarded with the other’s full attention, even going so far as to drag himself into a sitting position and lean his back up against the berth.
“So… what did you do?”
Octane grinned. “What didn’t I do?”
And so, Octane told him.
He detailed his attempt to underhand Megatron, and Bluestreak saw right through the exaggeration of his words when he painted himself a hero, not the poltroon he truly was. Still, he said nothing. Even as Octane talked about his time with Trypticon, where they’d sunk their greedy little fingers into the world of human politics and affairs and then eventually about the Decepticon leader who had found him out alone and caused a majority of his wounds. He found that it was easy to believe the triple-changer because he had absolutely nothing to gain from lying.
Bluestreak was sure it was important to tell Prowl who they had. Not an important Decepticon, but a Decepticon deserter. His doors flicked thoughtfully. He didn’t be the one to break the news, if only to avoid the cold stare that would follow.
At the end of the long and flourished tale, all Bluestreak did was hum softly. He had to give the mech credit; he never would have believed it possible for him to strike out on his own like this, leaving the relative safety of a faction. He’d still gotten captured, so minus points for that, but perhaps there was more to him than met the eye.
They exchanged stories long into the morning. As the time stretched on, Bluestreak relaxed further, and though he still maintained vigilance about what information he volunteered, he found it was easy to talk to Octane. His sentences grew longer and Octane’s replies grew shorter until the triple-changer was laying on his back, intake whistling with quiet snores. Bluestreak stayed diligently by his side until he was relieved the next morning by a cheerful Sideswipe.
When the news of Octane’s disappearance spread hours later, he couldn’t bring himself to feel anything but a warmth in his spark.
4.
The fourth mouthful of confetti was the breaking point. Bluestreak leapt at Sunstreaker, who had turned around to lean against his crutches and whistle innocently. He tackled him around the waist, nearly unbalancing him, but Sideswipe was there to catch them both with an ugly cackle. Nearly crushed underfoot, Bob trilled and took a cautious step back.
“How’s it taste, Blue?” Sunny taunted, and Bluestreak had half a mind to kick his remaining leg out from under him. He couldn’t remain grumpy, though, because the joy in the air around them was infectious. Mecha chattered and cheered, pressing against the carefully-placed guard rails to lean into the street and better see the parade. Confetti coloured the sweetly-scented air and humans danced around their pedes, sharing in their joy at the conclusion of The Great War. Chip was shouting to be heard at Prowl’s feet nearby and Bluestreak watched the enforcer’s stone face crack into a smile.
“Tastes like someone is getting his crutches hidden,” Bluestreak teased, taking a step back and laughing. He’d never do something like that… to Sunstreaker. Now, if Sideswipe was the one who needed walking aids…
“Then he’ll make me find them,” Sideswipe complained, turning towards the street once more. He gasped and pointed at the passing float; it was dark in coloration, edged with purple lace and topped with a glowing platform that Rumble was having the time of his life on. His brother’s arm glittered in the light, a contrast to his own periwinkle paint but beautiful nonetheless. “He gets to dance around, but Prowl wouldn’t let us ride with Optimus?!”
“He is the cassette of Megatron’s killer,” Sunny reminded dryly. Bluestreak nodded in agreement; the poor minibot was the sole survivor of his entire group, minus his carrier, who sat at the very top of the float with his visor dim. The Praxian felt for him.
Nobody yet knew what had driven Soundwave to the breaking point. The only information the Autobots had received was a message about Megatron’s sudden death via Skywarp, who had merely delivered the information, shrugged at them, and then teleported off. Bluestreak wondered if he’d finally, finally come to his senses and realized that the Decepticon cause no longer existed—it was an army beneath the control of a Tyrant.
Sideswipe turned to him, his face dropping as he looked past Bluestreak. He turned, too, and came face-to-face with a mech he hadn’t seen in ages, one that towered over him: Octane.
His chest was an unmarred expanse of black. He looked virtually the same as the first time they’d ever met except the glaring absence of one of his massive wings—the same one that had been grievously injured before their latest meeting. The triple-changer looked real good and Bluestreak found his spark clenching painfully.
“You all look wonderful,” the cowardly ex-’Con said, dipping his head. His gaze shifted from Sunstreaker, who glared, to Sideswipe, who stuck his tongue out, and then to Bluestreak where it lingered. Octane sidled up closer, sending both of the twins shooting off at the mouth.
“Excuse me, what do you think—”
“Fuck off, trash can! You think—”
“Guys,” Bluestreak interjected. They spoke over him.
“I mean, truly, the gall—”
“I will kick your slimy—”
“GUYS!”
This time, both of the twins snapped their mouths shut and stared at him, optics wide. Even Bob, who had taken his place beside Sunstreaker, looked startled. Bluestreak huffed and stepped towards Octane, holding up a servo to silence them. He appreciated that they wanted to keep him safe, but he was perfectly capable of protecting himself. He was capable of choosing who he did (or did not) want to talk to.
“Hey, Bluey, babes,” his companion greeted once Sunny and Sideswipe had finally caved and moved away. Bluestreak smiled and offered him a fist bump, which he took gratefully.
“Hey.”
“How are you?” Octane asked.
Bluestreak’s wings perked up. Oh, boy. “Oh, I’ve been good! I’ve been staying with these two knuckleheads, it’s been really nice! Prowl is trying to get me a job at the academy, but I think I’m alright if it doesn’t work. I kinda want a boring job after all the fighting, ‘cause… well, you know. It sucked, and I don’t want to make anyone feel that pain ever again. Uh, and I’ve been doing some cooking lately and have gotten really good at it and oh! You should totally come by! I don’t know if Sides would want you in our place, though, since, you know…”
“Yeah,” Octane muttered.
“But still! Maybe I could bring you some! Where have you settled down?” Bluestreak asked enthusiastically.
Octane fixed him with a stare and then finally smiled, avoiding his gaze. “Honestly, I don’t think I’ll stay on Earth. It’s not really my thing,” he sighed, looking up at the overcast sky. Bluestreak followed, wondering if rain would soon follow. It didn’t smell like it. “This parade is really something, though.”
“Oh, yeah! I actually helped Optimus make his, not to—”
“Octane!”
Bluestreak looked up as his companion’s name was called, watching a big yellow mech weave his way through the crowd with impressive grace. He was undoubtedly handsome, with a chiseled face and a compact, triangular nose and the Praxian already did not like him. He placed a hand on Octane’s shoulder, smiling warmly.
“I’m so sorry, is he bothering you?” the stranger asked. Octane spluttered.
“No, actually, we were just catching up,” Bluestreak objected, quickly wiping forgotten remnants of confetti from his chin and face and standing up a little straighter.
“Oh, that’s nice,” the mech replied, barely even looking down at him. “Octane, we gotta go, I got us a spot at the bar for tonight. We’re gonna be late if you keep harassing cute little grounders.”
Octane looked back at Bluestreak, grinning ruefully. “Let’s catch up later. I’ll find your comm. frequency, ‘kay? Sandstorm and I gotta run.”
Off they went. Bluestreak watched their retreating forms and couldn’t push away a bitter thought about how well orange and purple went together in comparison to purple and navy blue.
+ 1
This was a terrible idea and Sandstorm was going to have his helm roasted over the fire.
He wasn’t supposed to be chasing over pretty little Praxians.
There were a lot of things Octane wasn’t supposed to do; Decepticons shouldn’t be crushing on Autobots from afar. He’d failed at that spectacularly, even if he’d told himself at the time that he was just analyzing Bluestreak’s movements, skills and abilities and definitely not watching the shifting of his waist and hips. At least he’d been able to bond with Skywarp over their crushes on grounders who hated them.
He hadn’t understood the whole blood-drinking thing, but that was fine.
Octane also wasn’t supposed to be a coward. Everyone knew how that had gone.
Fleeing the Decepticons had probably been his bravest moment. After that, he’d hid and he’d avoided and done everything he could to preserve himself—exactly like a coward. When the time came to finally pursue something more with Bluestreak, to feel him out and gauge interest, he couldn’t even do that. He’d just allowed Sandstorm to pull him away without much of a fight. He’d promised to get Bluestreak’s communications number, someway or somehow.
He had succeeded, and had almost immediately called a meeting.
There was no need to keep it a secret, yet the habits of soldiers died hard. He kept himself from being tracked or followed, carefully covering up every trace that he left, even going so far as to walk to the actual location he’d chosen; a forest clearing.
It wasn’t particularly romantic, but Octane was trying his hardest, okay?
Bluestreak clearly did not share his apprehension, because the rumble of his engine was audible long before he was visible, bouncing off the stumps of the wizened trees that surrounded them. Birds fled, startled by the foreign noise in their forest. The cruiser came crashing through the trees and his mech of affection transformed, running a couple of meters and then skidding to a stop in front of him. Octane opened his mouth, but was cut off by a hug that had pressure pings appearing in the corner of his vision. He yelped, placing uncertain servos on top of Bluestreak’s helm, but did nothing to shoo him away. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been hugged, let alone hugged with a plethora of passion like this.
When Bluestreak stepped back, he laughed nervously. “Hey, Blues.”
“Hi!” his companion burst out, wings high with joy. Octane mirrored with his lone wing. “I’ve been hoping you’d message me! I told Sunny, he thought you wouldn’t, he thought you’d be too scared, but you did, isn’t that awesome?”
Enamored by Bluestreak’s tendency to say too many words, he grinned. “Of course I messaged you, you can’t think I’m that bad! How was I supposed to pass up on getting to know someone like you?” If the Praxian asked him to, he’d probably cross the galaxy, and that was how he knew he was completely screwed up. He had a big, fat, stupid crush on someone he hardly knew.
“Well, plenty of mechs have done that! I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I talk a lot, like a—”
“A blue streak,” Octane finished and his companion laughed.
“Yeah!”
After that, their conversation flowed naturally. They caught up on what they’d missed from each other, though Octane could tell that for all of his yapping, Bluestreak was still hesitant to reveal certain information. It was evident in the way his optics would grow wide and he’d stutter before abruptly changing conversation topics, the way he’d bite his lip if something slipped out that wasn’t ready. He, of course, did not acknowledge these blunders out of an abundance of respect.
He discovered that Sideswipe had saved Bluestreak from certain death, that Sunstreaker had lost his leg in that same battle and had overcome the difficulties presented by the disability with the help of his friends and an iron will. Octane learned about Ironhide’s death and how it had personally affected Bluestreak.
He told about Trypticon’s fate and his own near-starvation. He spoke of Sandstorm and his hospitality, how they’d become tentatively close over the course of several years but had since mostly gone their separate ways in life, only brought together by necessity or when Octane needed assistance picking up something he’d broken with his clumsy claws and insufferable personality.
By the time they’d finished talking, the sun was hanging low. Their shadows danced together several meters away, stretched long from their feet, a glimpse into an alternate world where they had no history dividing them. The remnants of warmth ghosted across their plate, combating the chill that the dark brought. The fauna had long since begun to grow noisy; the chirrup of crickets, the squeaking of voles, and the song of birds that kept a smile on his face.
“Aww, are we watching the sunset together? How romantic,” Octane joked as he spotted a perfect outcropping, one that allowed them a perfect view of the valley below. Already, the first wisps of fog were floating through the trees, creating an entirely different environment at the bottom than the top. The forest smelled fresh and he loved it.
This planet wasn’t all horrors.
“Duh! Why else am I still here?” Bluestreak countered, skipping past him and hopping up onto the rocks, finding a suitable place to plant his aft so they could watch the sun sink below the horizon. Octane took up the seat beside him, stretching his legs out. Bluestreak soon followed suit. They sat in silence, in quiet awe of the view they were witnessing; Bluestreak the sunset, and Octane, Bluestreak. His face caught the light just right, accentuating the round features that the triple-changer adored so dearly.
All was quiet until his friend leaned against his shoulder, sighing wistfully.
“Hmm?” Octane inquired, turning his gaze back downwards. The sun had gone, leaving only a single interesting view on the mountain—the view cuddled up against his side.
“Do you think we have a chance?” Bluestreak asked, not looking at him, and Octane chuckled.
A lion and a coward were an unlikely pair, but without the threat of death looming over their helms at all times, he was pretty sure they could learn to love each other—if they didn’t already. Octane didn’t know what Bluestreak felt about him, even now, but he’d decided before calling this meeting that he would play the role of the optimist if it was necessary.
“I think so,” he replied, and that was that.