Work Text:
Ultra Magnus - a name that could only fuel a level of overachieving comparable only to Deep Blue - had known Rodimus ('Hot Rod') ever since they were in kindergarten. He had been a new boy, recently moved in, and he had cried his very first day. It had been an unfortunate timing - Hot Rod had begun halfway through the day, and the class returned only minutes later from lunch excitedly asking if he had been to the birthday party in the cafeteria. Magnus, not knowing what to do with a crying classmate, sat down next to him and offered him his left over cupcake.
He hadn't stopped crying, but it had helped.
They had stayed in the same class all throughout Elementary. Somehow, Hot Rod had always found a way to sit next to him. Magnus was not good at making friends, he was good at studying and scoring well. But he found it was easy to be Hot Rod's friend.
When they were in fifth grade, Hot Rod brought a phone to school. Unlike some of their classmates with touchscreens and new models, his was a flip phone with a tiny screen. His father worked late, and so he was given a phone to call and let him know when he had gotten home. Most importantly though, it had two games on it. Magnus remembered Hot Rod showing him both, one had a snake that grew and the other was filled with boxes that disappeared. He had been embarrassingly entranced by them. The drive for perfection, that had been drilled into him from when he was five years old, resulted in countless recesses lost to the tiny screen as Hot Rod watched over his shoulder.
It wasn't until Middle School, that Magnus was gifted his own phone. Its screen was bigger than Hot Rod's. It didn't had any games.
It was in High School - in Freshmen year - that Magnus first asked if he could come over. They had never been to each other's houses. Hot Rod's father - who raised him alone - worked late. Magnus' parents were cold and utilitarian, but they were always home with him. He never wanted them to meet Hot Rod. They had never asked before, and he stuttered through his question. He had smiled (he always smiled) and said he would ask his dad.
Two years later, Magnus had walked in for the first time. The home was messy. Not in a way that screamed at him (like his mother did when someone stepped on squeaky floorboard), but in a way that felt lived in. His house was caught in a picture-perfect cleanliness, a cold and empty shell that bored down on him. Hot Rod's had shoes slightly off the rack, a jacket left over the couch, a few dishes still in the sink, and an unplugged vacuum laid against the wall. He never wanted Hot Rod to see his house.
Hot Rod called his dad often. Once school let out, once he got home, and whenever he was headed to bed. Magnus wondered how many times he answered. He hoped it was often - because Hot Rod smiled brighter when he did.
They had a pair of house phones as well. They were old, the type where only one person could use it at a time unless you wanted to cross the lines. It never rang while he was over, and sometimes Magnus wanted to ask why they bothered to keep them.
He did ask, once, when he caught Hot Rod glancing towards it.
"Just in case dad needs to call."
He didn't ask again.
In senior year, Magnus asked to stay the night. Hot Rod, smiling, said he asked his dad. He had shoved a spare set of clothes into his backpack after his parents had gone to bed. A sleeping bag wouldn't fit.
His father wasn't home when they had dinner. Hot Rod showed him how to grill a fish, and how to cut it without hitting the bones. The table was fitted for only two - and his dad still wasn't home. He wondered if he would cook again next time. If there was a next time.
At 07:03 PM, and hour later, the house phone rang. He had gotten up to answer it. At 07:05 PM, Hot Rod sat back down at the table. He hadn't finished his fish, and by now it was cold. He didn't say anything, and Magnus didn't know how to ask.
The fifth time it happened, the fifth time he stayed over, Hot Rod hadn't even touched his plate when the call came. He stared at the plate, waiting, for what felt like hours. It was only when his stomach growled - loudly, vigorously - that Magnus finally (finally) reached out his hand.
When his fingers brushed his, Hot Rod jerked violently. His head snapped up, with the brightest smile Magnus had ever seen. Then it dropped. Hard enough that Magnus felt his own stomach plummet to the floor.
Hot Rod began to cry, and Magnus (not knowing what else to do), moved his chair next to him and hugged him.
Magnus had looked up Optimus. He had wanted to find a phone number, to ask him to come home for Hot Rod. He didn't find a number.
He found an obituary.
Optimus was dead. Had been dead. They had used a picture of him and Hot Rod - twelve years old and missing a front tooth - in the paper. He had died Freshmen year. A volunteer firefighter, a dock worker, a single father - he should have died a hero.
Instead, he had died at 07:05 PM crossing the street to go home. He had been on the phone, and the driver hadn't seen him. He was dead before he had even hit the ground.
And Hot Rod had waited, still waited, for him to come home.
Senior year of college, Magnus asked Rodimus to move in with him. He had his own apartment, and he was no good at cooking. Rodimus didn't say anything until a month later when he asked him to help clean up his home.
Optimus' room had a white door. It was unpainted, with unopened cans of paint still sitting in the back of a closet. Rodimus stood in front of it. His hands trembled as he reached out. He flexed his grip around the knob, but it wouldn't move. Magnus, not knowing what else to do, covered his shaking hand with his own, and helped him turn the knob.
The room was messy. Clothes in a hamper left to rot, bedsheets that hadn't been changed over in years, layers of dust covering the picture frames, and a coldness that permeated everywhere. It was a snapshot. A snapshot of Optimus, of his dad, that remained unchanged ever since that night.
Rodimus had begun to cry, and asked Magnus if he could move in with him.
In seven years, they had moved twice. Their new apartment was fancier, larger - but all the unopened boxes made it look as small as their first one. Magnus still couldn't cook much, but he could handle breakfast. Rodimus was in charge of dinner, and they ate out for lunch. As a treat, Rodimus would buy him a cupcake from a local bakery and then snag a bite himself when Magnus looked away.
They had been on the couch, vaguely listening to the television after dinner. He had been reading a work report, one that had been submitted late, and Rodimus had been drifting in and out of sleep next to him. Then his phone had rang. His new phone was a touchscreen, and it had too many games on it. As Rodimus answered, there was a knock at the door. Magnus set aside the report to get up. He glanced at the clock as he walked to the door.
07:05 PM.
He froze as a voice, thick and crackled with static, pierced through the unpainted door and from the phone's speaker.
"I'm home, Hot Rod."