Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Megatron’s post war life was far from the idyllic ensemble of arts, theatre, good interface and dictatorship he had imagined for himself.

The alliance had meant everyone had to make sacrifices. Adjustments to their way of life, to their frames and their ideology.

Disarming the majority of mecha returning to Cybertron had been a difficult process. It had begun with Megatron removing his infamous fusion cannon in front of a crowd, lips pressed into a hard line as he cast it aside. Optimus had followed, doing the same and their legions for the most part followed - an uneasy mutual trust that was required for the foundations of a better world.

The rest of the situation Cybertron was still figuring out.

Meetings were daily, long, and dull. Megatron often found himself frustrated, arguing the obvious and finding himself outvoted anyway. Speeches, diplomatic essays and phone calls so aggravating he considered ripping out his commlink seemed to fill the majority of his time.

Each day things were settling in more. Mechs who formed partnerships moved in together. Businesses opened. Government offices popped up. Roads were cleared and certified for use. A hot spot to the far north showed promised signs of beginning a heat.

Megatron had even heard tell of a small amount of ‘nightlife’ beginning to blossom. Mechs being social, enjoying existing with each other. No matter their social standing or alt mode.

Industry was also on the rise. Factories for essentials like energon, oil and construction material opened and created jobs. Jobs that were well-paid, overseen and accompanied by guilds with Unions.

Cybertron was blooming under the careful watch of mechs in the voted-for, diplomatic Council. Rebuilding efforts were bolstered daily.

However, due to lack of housing many of the Decepticon High Command were still living aboard the warship while they worked in government. 

This issue pertained to a more recent development which Prowl and Ultra Magnus had entrapped him in.

A nightmare they called a ‘formal conversation’.

The Autobots had mentioned something about how it was ‘bad optics for the public’ and ‘what goes for them must go for everyone’ when speaking of the former Decepticons still living aboard their wartime vessel. In honesty he hadn’t thought much of it. The Nemesis was parked, disarmed and had been their living quarters for the best part of two millennia. It served well as housing.

But now, against his better judgement- Megatron had found himself moving into a hab suite.

While his room aboard the Nemesis was no luxury apartment at least it was his. The sparse decor, private washracks and most importantly - silence had become a favoured staple.

Not willing to make the Autobot - Decepticon alliance look anymore unstable however, he had gingerly agreed to move into one of the prefabricated suites. Under the condition that he roommate be tolerable and clean. 

Being as he had no permanent Conjunx Endura, a roommate would be assigned. Prowl had oh-so-thoughtfully mentioned that Optimus would be a great roommate. The ‘optics’ would be really good for the stability of the alliance. The two wartime leaders cohabitating together peacefully, living proof of the post-war reintegration success.

Unable to find a convincing enough rebuttal and forced to choose between Optimus or, Primus forbid, Swindle - Megatron had ground his teeth together and agreed.

That had been a week ago.

Megatron now stood before a tower block of very plain looking apartments near the centre of Iacon. Built in a hurry by the Constructicons, the apartments were apparently simple but big enough for two. Or so he’d been told - he was not in charge of inspecting them.

It was a stark difference from the decorative gilded buildings that used to grace the Iaconian skyline. Megatron stepped into the awaiting elevator and pressed the neo-cybex sigil for floor 17.

About two thirds up the building, with a small balcony and a marshy brown front door. Megatron adjusted the pitifully small box of his belongings in his left arm and glanced down at the keycard Magnus had given him. It was a plain white and black thing, as was the small information leaflet that accompanied it.

The title read in a less than charming font ‘Iaconian Apartments’ and below it in smaller text-

‘a new life after the war, for all’.

The uninspiring nature of it confirmed in Megatron’s mind that Magnus had likely designed this himself.

There were several boxes that had been filled out for him in neat, almost too-perfect handwriting.

Designation: Megatron

Apartment Unit: 113

Lease: 500 Years

Status: Ex-Decepticon

Position: (Unspecified) Governing Consul

Adjoining Party: Optimus Prime

Megatron had to sign it. Along with an extensive document of Rules & Regulations Ultra Magnus had no doubt spent hours labouring over. He’d sat and read through each line and accord, eventually signing after nearly an entire afternoon spent debating property damage costs.

The box in his arm was a dismal collection of ratty, well-thumbed texts, datapads, a bottle of finely aged engex and an assortment of office equipment.

Megatron swiped the card over the info-pad displaying the 113 number and took a deep breath as the door slid open.

Optimus was already there. Perpetually early and endlessly aggrevating as he was.

Already pottering about, placing unrecognisable, colourful little ornaments on the shelves. Battlemask withdrawn and gait casual as he crossed the room. He hadn’t even noticed the front door had opened. In fact, Megatron could’ve sworn he was humming a tune.

He had maybe three boxes stacked on the island counter of the kitchenette. Megatron prepared himself for the astounding amount of clutter he would not have to get used to living amongst. 

The loud noise of an aged mech clearing his throat accompanied him as he crossed the threshold and caught the Prime’s attention.

Optimus looked up from where he stood next to his box of trinkets on the counter. There was a beat of silence, followed by them both speaking at the same time, followed by Prime’s apology - and finally a silent nod as Megatron pointed at the the untouched habsuite, assumedly his, and made strides towards it. 

Optimus’ blue optics tracked each step as he went, the apartment seemingly shaking slightly with Megatron’s characteristic stomping.

Megatron placed his box of belongings on the desk. The room was as frugal as the habsuite itself. One double berth. One bookshelf. One desk and chair for his room.

The suite sported shared washracks, a kitchenette with energon dispenser and an island counter. And couch that faced a modestly sized telecaster with little else.

Optimus was stood in his doorway, leaning against the metal.

“Home sweet home,” he offered lightly, thinking back to some human saying.

How much Prowl had apprised Optimus of Megatron’s less than contented opinion about co-habiting with him, Megatron did not know. But he seemed overly chipper nonetheless. 

Megatron didn’t know why he bothered. He  saw the tiredness in the Prime’s optics. The lazy pose he’d taken in the doorframe. How all his plating was locked down tight. Maybe it was possible Optimus was apprehensive about living with him for different reasons entirely. 

“It’s not a home, Prime. We are forced to be here by providence of our positions. This husk of a building is home to no one.” Megatron bit out, not bothering to look at Optimus. He began unload textbooks onto the shelves, slamming each one down.

It was an act. He’d come round in the next few hours, Optimus knew. For a mech who spent his entire life campaigning for ‘revolution’ he was not best equipped to deal with any sort of change.

Optimus sighed audibly, watching him. Megatron, though slightly more amicable with deeper frown lines than ever, was still Megatron. He did not expect their living together to be a constant pleasantness of domestic bliss, but they could at least be civil.

Their personal understanding had never, in his mind, truly withered. Ideologically they couldn’t have been more violently juxtaposed of course - but Optimus maintained that they shared a modicum of mutual respect which was the seed of their relationship.

A seed that had blossomed into an extremely ugly tree, but might now for the first time bear fruit.

These days Megatron was sometimes so disagreeable he could claim the sky was blue and the grey mech would object purely for the sake of argument. But there was comfort in that. A steadfastness that Optimus had come to rely on even when they were opposed.

“I think these things just become homes because we live in them. Earth was home for a time. Surely the Nemesis harbours some semblance of familiarity and homeliness for you?”

Megatron grumbled something that might have been acceptance.

Chapter Text

It was a terrible idea.

Especially at their age. Especially considering the jobs they had to go to tomorrow. Especially knowing how handsy Megatron was. How terrible a drunk he had always been.

None of these things made Optimus reach out and stop the grey mech has he popped the top off a bottle of ancient engex. It was very old, branded and recently rediscovered.

The efforts to clear up and rebuild Cybertron had unearthed the remains of Maccadam’s famous bar and his luckily untouched stores of engex in the basement.

The entrance to the cellar had apparently been caved in by a decepticon bombing early during the war.

To stop a mad scrambled for prized engex, the site had been locked down and after a little deliberation it was ultimately decided all the engex would be given out via lottery, not to the highest bidder. 100 shanix a ticket and the prize bottles randomised.

Optimus had brought four tickets, seeing it worthwhile and charitable as all proceeds were going towards rehoming displaced or returning cybertronians.

Megatron had only brought one ticket. And yet he’d strode in victoriously in the late evening, a bottle of the finest, oldest engex Maccadam ever had clutched between his thick black digits. 

Optimus did not bother to pry on how he had obtained such an item. It was easier just to agree that Megatron was ‘characteristically lucky’ and that the bottle was destined for him than to accuse him of any cheating misdeeds.

He set it down on the island counter in their small kitchenette so they could both stare at it. Dated well before the war in an almost sensuously shaped bottle. The label was faded but still legible with outdated sigils.

Tigrine’s Tipple - Old Helexian Mix.

Optimus hesitated to reach out and touch it for fear the bottle might turn to dust and cease to exist altogether.

The pink liquid inside sloshed pleasantly as a Megatron spun it slowly from the top. As if it was an item on display at a museum, constantly rotating. A precious, marvellous jewel from bygone times. 

“Shall I get the glasses?” He asked, flashing one of his less menacing smiles.

One glass had been a treat. The second, a deserved drink for life of stress. The third was mistake. The fourth, which Megatron was haphazardly pouring into his glass would be a calamity.

Megatron, on his fifth glass already for his faster drinking pace, was positively drunk.

If the room was any colder Optimus was sure he’d be able to see steam rising from his helmet. His usually crimson red optics were dulled to an almost pink. He was grinning and laughing at himself, faceplates flushed and frame sprawled over their sofa.

The small table Optimus had gotten from a sale was littered with energon treat wrappers, half eaten rust sticks and a crudely drawn diagram Megatron had sketched out showing the inner workings of the Decepticon phase-missile technology that had scared Optimus half to death during the war. Now cast aside. A mere inside joke. 

They faced each other on the sofa. Opposite ends, but with large frames and lax, overcharged attitudes their knees touched. Megatron was talking animatedly about the war, his second favourite subject when inebriated and Optimus was listening eagerly. Their conversation had already spanned hours and so many topics he’d lost count.

The grey mech placed the now near-empty bottle back on the table and slid the newly filled glass towards him.

“Megatron- we have-,” Prime paused to hiccup. “We have work tomorrow! Meetings, responsibilities.”

He picked up the glass anyway.

Megatron clinked his own glass against the one in Optimus’ blue servo.

“Nevermind. To us! To peace.” Megatron nodded to himself, his smile lopsided and genuine.

“To Cybertron.” Optimus finished, taking a sip of the aged engex. It truly was a beautiful elixir, just the right amount of sweet.

They laughed. Full bodied and deep.

Optimus brought a servo up to rub idly at his audial fin.

“Do you remember when we drank like this once in Kaon? After we watched that dolt you had argument with get his kibble carved off during a title fight. And you thought it was so funny you brought drinks for everyone in the bar just so they’d remember it. We stayed out until sunrise.-“ he was rambling. “And the next day we woke up in Praxus with no idea how we got there!”

Megatron slapped his thigh in boisterous laughter, jerking up the arm holding his glass and accidentally spilling some. He was swaying slightly. Usually engex didn’t put him in such a good mood. 

“Yes, of course!” He barked out a laugh. “Hammerhead. I’d never forget. That was an eventful night. You looked beautiful when you came to visit.”

He leant back into the plush cushions Optimus had picked out, feeling sentimental as he sipped again at his engex.

Optimus stared at him blankly before reminding himself about the words of the inebriated. Since they were both drunk, and Megatron drunk enough to be truthful - he might as well ask.

“Beautiful?” Optimus pressed, leaning forward slightly into Megatron’s personal space so their thighs touched.

He’d taken a lot to doing what Orion never could regarding Megatron lately. These talks about their shared past had become more frequent and personal over the past weeks. A symptom of proximity - but also of Optimus’ creeping desire to get answers to a millennia of questions.

Megatron shrugged like everything was obvious and Optimus was stupid for asking.

“Of course. You were a spectacle in Kaon - shined, buffed and little. You looked expensive.”

Orion Pax had felt nothing but out of place in Kaon.

“I had mecha asking me if I was renting you out with my winnings!” Megatron put a friendly servo on Optimus’ shoulder, squeezing it as he laughed.

“If only I knew then what - who you were. Optimus.” Megatron suddenly went quiet, his boisterous laughter sobering into something more introspective. Though the smile did not fade from his faceplates, nor did the warm flush.

“What do you mean ‘what I was’?” Optimus sat back too, swirling the engex in his servos. Sod the day of meetings tomorrow, he had waited a lifetime for this conversation.

“I mean your ..” Megatron rolled his servo upwards, grasping at the air for words. “Your potential. I was so convinced of your .. something.. I just never guessed it would have been Optimus. The Prime. My Prime.”

The words were choppy, drawled and slurred but Optimus’ spark flourished nonetheless.

“I always thought you saw my accession as something that altered Orion or killed him, or as a fluke.” He breathed, placing his drink down.

Megatron rolled his optics.

“I did for awhile. Because I was in denial, betrayed- but I accepted that it was always destined to be your role.” The grey mech took another sip, accompanied by a cough. Like it was all the most clear thing in the world. 

“You were always going to be Prime. Because I was going to be Megatron, and it wouldn’t make sense with anyone else.”

Several things clicked in Optimus’ mind all at once. Megatron believed they were cosmically bound. Fated. His grandiose, egotistical view of himself only allowed for Optimus to be his lifelong rival-muse. As if by providence of making himself Megatron he had sealed the installation of Orion Pax as Optimus Prime.

It was something Optimus had spent a long time thinking about.

As if reading his mind, Megatron cheekily, sarcastically, mouthed ‘you’re welcome’.

Chapter Text

Peacetime had birthed many changes Megatron was still learning to cope with.

One of the more mundane changes was the new influx of music. Earth Music was popular, an assertion by the Autobots.

The nightlife boomed with it, fast and electronic. He heard it in stores. When driving, others played music he could overhear. Mechs hummed tunes. They sang and danced in the city centre. Performing Arts had taken an upturn, some were forging careers as dancers, singers, actors.

He could not escape it, even in his own habsuite.

Optimus was in his room when Megatron stepped through the front door and slid it shut with a bang.

Their hab was truly taking shape. What the shape was Megatron didn’t truly know. A nonsensical, asymmetrical alignment that he found himself comfortable with nonetheless.

The kitchenette now boasted more amenities, some colourful pots and new mismatched barstool chairs so they could sit at the island in the centre and share energon in the mornings.

The trinkets that lined the majority of the shelves were no longer just Prime’s ridiculous, ugly collection of sentimental rubbish but instead a familiar, comforting presence. Each one had a story, and in Optimus’ explaining each object he had been able to gage a better understanding of the mech. Of his experience on Earth. On how he could not let anything go.

Dull sound thudded through the walls from the Prime’s room. Music from earth, likely recommended to him by some human companion. He had gotten used to Optimus being in their shared front room when he arrived home, as Optimus’ offices were closer to the habsuite than his.

Megatron often felt himself picking up speed to arrive back quicker.

Optimus might have even prepared energon for them. Or have some interesting tidbit to share about his day. Or some question he’d been stewing over that would launch them into a four hour long conversation or debate.

These talks sustained him. After the aching mediocrity of his workday, with the typical chatter being so dull that he found himself answering in measured grunts and the debate so rigidly bound he couldn’t raise his voice without being asked to leave - at this point the time spent with Optimus was vital for his sanity.

He was not easy to warm to the delirium that was the rapidly changing post-war world. The habsuite was one of the few places with any semblance of sense.

“Prime!” He knocked on the closed door to his arch nemesis’ berthroom across the hall from his own.

After a moment and a couple bangs emanating from inside the room, the door opened and the volume of the music playing inside increased dramatically.

Optimus looked at him expectantly.

“Primus- what is that?” Megatron asked, raising his voice to be heard and placing a servo over the sides of his helmet to cover his already covered audials.

Ignoring his reaction and clearly basking in a good mood, Optimus glanced behind him to the small radio speaker on his desk.

“Earth Music. This one is ‘Rock the Casbah’ by a collection called The Clash.” He spoke without ire despite Megatron’s frowning expression.

“It sounds awful.” The grey mech grumbled. 

Optimus stepped back into his room, keeping the door open. The sound floated out into their hab. Megatron shifted in the doorway, placing his weight onto his back pede and watching the mech.

His room was comfortable. Decorated, with lamps and polishes and empty energon cubes. It wasn’t messy as much as it looked lived-in. Optimus had spoken about how nice it was to have his own space again.

Megatron felt himself drawn in as the Prime began to move erratically, senselessly- first his arms, side to side in time with the music. Megatron stopped dead, watching. Then it was his hips, a slight, modest sway. He began stepping to the disjointed melody, all his limbs now in time.

Megatron tried to look anywhere else.

It wasn’t that he had never seen the mech dance. He had danced with Orion Pax. Megatron himself hadn’t danced since before the war. He was unsure if his programming would even allow for him to generate such movement now.

The grey mech turned his helm to glance back at the door, moving to escape through it to avoid this strange nightmare of Prime dancing at him.

A strong servo caught his wrist.

“Come on, Megatron.” Optimus’ deep tones were easy on the audials. He turned back, gaze flicking between the blue grip on his wrist and the Prime’s earnest faceplates.

“Don’t just flee. It doesn’t suit you.”

He wasn’t fleeing- it was a tactical retreat in the case that this madness was contagious.

But it was too late. Optimus had caught his other servo while he was unawares and the mech was now manually moving his arms in time with the music.  Swaying with him, hips jerking from side to side.

Optimus grinned, stepping back. Taking Megatron with him. Pulling him forward so their chasis almost touched.

“No one is watching but me.” The Prime mused. Megatron supposed that was meant to be comforting.

Optimus was not ceasing his onslaught of movement. Megatron stood dumbly, all his weight on his front pede as he stared forward with vacant optics.

Slowly, his joints creaked as he began to move.

A step to the side. Lifting his arms with Optimus so they formed an arch above their helms. Coming down, Optimus letting go of the left and spinning outward. Megatron caught his servo as he came back in. Unison without thinking.

The music began to turn from a muddied noise of sounds to an actual tune. One with words and a chorus.

Optimus began to heel-jump on the intone of ‘Rock’ and landing with a sway on ‘Casbah’. Megatron found himself copying.

With a laugh, the song ended and Optimus turned belatedly to switch the radio off. Megatron could now hear the sound of his own fans with the music gone.

“I was just tidying and got caught up in it.” Optimus said airily.

Energon thudded in Megatron’s audials.

Chapter Text

Despite all the body upgrades, years of war, hard working subsystems and possessing one of the strongest frames on Cybertron - Optimus was prone to sickness.

During the war it had been covered up how often these episodes occurred.

‘Optimus Prime is busy conversing with the ancients’ was the message communicated to the Autobot masses, when in actuality he was laid flat on his berth, snivelling with a congested processor and heavy limbs.

Or so Megatron had discovered a few months into their cohabitation.

It was a cloudy morning then he clumsily made his way into the kitchenette. Optimus was not there. He grumbled, pulling two glasses from the cupboard and sliding them into the energon dispenser.

The older he got the longer it took for his systems to boot up. Movements first. Battle protocols. Then subsystems, consciousness, emotionality, reasoning and logistics.

Each blinking online as he threw back his cube.

Optimus always woke up first.

He dragged heavy pedes down the hallway and cracked open Optimus’ berthroom door, peaking.

“Megatron …” The Prime’s unusually raspy tone floated over.

“Prime?” He shifted in the doorway, stepping inside.

The mass on the berth shifted. Laying flat on his back like a corpse, the therma-sheets screwed into a ball at his side. Megatron could tell his armour was heated as he approached. A sheen of slickness to it.

Megatron’s optics darted quickly over him. Spark clenching as he placed the two energon cubes he’d brought on the side table.

“You are not dying.” He muttered, more to himself.

Optimus made a noise like a strained laugh.

“No, Megatron.” He rolled his helm, optics squinting at the little light flooding the room to stare up at the grey mech.

“Not yet. I am merely unwell. I’ve already communicated with Ratchet - he will come while you are at work to check in on me.”

Megatron frowned.

“Tell him not to bother.”

Optimus wheezed, attempting to sit up before Megatron placed an uncharacteristically gentle servo on his shoulder and pushed his weakened frame back down.

“I will stay with you today.”

Blue optics stiffened suspiciously.

“I don’t think the council will be pleased about two members taking a joint day off-“

Megatron had already left the room with a grunt and a wave of dismissive servo.

—

By midday they had managed to move the short distance from Optimus’ berth to the sofa. Megatron unreasonably aggravated by Prime’s horizontal state, had with some effort picked him up and carried him to the main room. Bringing a blanket which he folded expertly over the Prime’s legs and placing the remote for the telecaster next to him.

Optimus sniffled, optics withdrawn and faceplates pale.

On the other side of the hab, Megatron was concocting a vile mixture of several medical energon types and tablets that fizzed inside them.

“I do not understand how this happened.” He picked the mixture up and shook it, the goopy liquid turning an acid green as the ingredients combined.

“What is making you sick-“

“It is just a bug, Megatron.”

The grey mech grumbled, sitting next to the sickly mech. His weight making the sofa slouch downward so Optimus had to readjust to not fall into him.

“A bug..” Megatron spat the word, thrusting his vile looking energon mix into Optimus’ servos.

“A ‘bug’ can weaken the Last Prime more than I could in 4 million years of war?”

Optimus almost smiled. Their lighter jests about the shared history made each day easier to digest.

“Is that why your bedside manner is so terrible? You’re jealous of a bug?” Optimus looked down into the mixture, tanks curdling. It was a bubbling pot which resembled a witches poisoned cauldron.

“I brought you medicine, didn’t I?” Megatron retorted, voice droll. He picked up the telecaster remote and switched the thing on, picking out what to watch. The news seemed wrong, as did a war documentary. There were some human shows and movies. Looking at disgusting organics was the last thing he wanted.

“Choose.” He commanded, causing Optimus to sigh next to him.

“Put on the news, at least we can keep up to date-“

“No.”

Another sigh. This one more tired, thickened by the sickness.

“The radio channel then. Music is fine.”

Megatron complied, flicking through the channels to reach one that played only pre-war music. Cybertronian and soothing.

They relaxed back automatically, plating seams widening.

Optimus let his optics lull shut. He was cold now, fever switching so he pulled the blankets up. Megatron reached over to do it for him. Thankfully laying the drink for the side for now. They were silent for awhile. A mutual presence. Optimus enjoyed the feeling of Megatron’s familiar body heat at his side and leaned into it.

“I thought the matrix would protect you from things of this nature.”

Optimus cracked an optic open, glancing over.  Megatron was lying back, servos clasped on his lap. Expression too tense to be peaceful.

“From sickness?” Optimus chucked weakly.

“No - the matrix offers a moral guidance. It can do healing for others when I open ..” he gestured vaguely to his chestplating. Megatron knew why he was doing without looking.

“But if anything, it weakens my frame. Saps my strength slowly.”

Megatron scarcely tried to hide the disgust schooling his features.

“And yet you always fought with added malice when I attempted to rip it out.”

“I think now it would be more painful to part with it.” Optimus’ voice sounded nasally where his internal tubing was blocked. He rubbed at his chestplate with a servo, as if soothing the thing inside.

—

Their day drawled on much the same. They did not bother opening the blinds or windows. They sat. And ate, and talked. The small table filling with rubbish. Megatron propping up his sore pedes on it. Optimus sipped at his green sludge after much bullying encouragement. The viscous liquid making him recoil.

They ignored comms and pings from work. Megatron moved about the hab, gathering more blankets and pillows. They laughed, subdued and personal, and Optimus napped. Drifting in and out of recharge. Waking up groggily with his helm pressed into a grey shoulder in the late evening.

“Do you feel any better?”

Optimus shifted, pulling the blanket up under his chin. The telecaster was on. Megatron was watching blearily.

“A bit.”

Megatron moved his arm upwards, the heavy weight of it falling across Optimus’ shoulders. His helm tucked against broad grey chasis.

“You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

The heavy arms around Megatron’s middle constricted, squeezing his tanks and holding him firmly in the berth. 

Under the warm, inviting covers with his aft pressed into the frame of the alluring Optimus Prime. What  terrible fate had become of him. 

His engine purred as Optimus made a noise between a pettish grunt and a begging whine. The blue servos prying at his torso beginning to slink over the sensitive buttons there. Distracting and detaining. Making the energon in his lines heat. 

Megatron’s HUD alarmed him to the meeting he was due to attend in just 20 minutes at the Iacon Hall. A location a 15 minute drive away. He threw the covers off of his tired frame and began on the tumultuous journey that was removing Optimus Prime from his back. 

“I’ve got to go,” he muttered, voice still groggy and rough from recharge. 

The servos refused to budge. Rather increasing their grip on his waist, pulling him further back into the hold so their hips aligned and Megatron’s back was twisted in such a way it forced him to readjust his shoulders. He scarcely admitted he enjoyed being the smaller spoon, but feeling the faint heat of Optimus’ neck cabling against the top of his helmet was joy enough for him not to grumble. 

“Optimus.. come on now.” He petted the blue servos with a mockery of understanding softness, wondering when they had gotten to be so sappy.

A symptom of the Prime’s nature, for sure. 

The response came in the form of kisses along his nape. First peppering the outer armour before devaluing down into the more sensitive wire and protoform beneath. The purr of the truck’s engines increased and fans flicked on with an unashamed whirr. 

“Optimus.. I need to leave. I have a meeting.” The designation was half-heartedly spoken in a berating tone. Megatron’s frame rapidly heated under the Prime’s knowing touches and teasing kisses. 

Megatron felt the mech still behind him, servos not ceasing to fiddle with his buttons. 

“Cancel it.” Optimus murmured. 

“I can’t cancel it -“ Megatron’s tone hitched up as if that was the most outrageous thing he’d ever heard. 

“It’s not my meeting and the incredibly short notice would be taken into account by Prowl. I don’t need him having something else to rub into my faceplate-“ 

“Say you’re sick.” 

Megatron gave an indignant huff. Optimus had often been described as a selfless mech. However when it came to Megatron, on all accounts he was incredibly selfish. 

Megatron vented his frustration, aware he needed to escape now lest he be trapped in berth with an overheated Prime all morning and lay waste to the final scraps of his reputation. 

“I am not faking illness so you can grind your spike against my back.” Megatron said firmly, again pulling against the biblically strong hold over him. The grip did not loosen. Optimus only buried his faceplates in the crook between Megatron’s neck and heavy shoulder armour. 

Optimus breathed him in. The musky scent of oil and old smoke, iron and authority, heady from recharge and utterly, totally Megatron. He continued his barrage of kisses, this time focussing on delicate neck cabling as he hooked a leg through Megatron’s and entwined them, forcing the grey mech to bend backwards at the hip. 

He growled, engine revving as communication. Tarnian’s often reverted to using primal engine noises to communicate anger or discomfort. However the noise only edged Optimus onwards, the thrumming of Megatron’s frame an ever - pleasant vibration. 

Optimus took his opportunity, hoisting himself onto an arm and dropping his frame down on the grey mech. Laying across his frame like brightly coloured blanket. Megatron hissed but wrapped heavy arms around him anyway, plotting to roll them so he was on top and therefore escape easily. 

“I have to go, Prime. It’s not negotiable,” Megatron’s tone was firm. The same he’d used during the war while trying to barter a deal tipped in his favour. 

It was too late. Optimus was descending down the length of his frame. Wordlessly glancing up from the silver thighs he’d settled between. 

Megatron’s iron will began to bend. 

The Prime licked the length of his intimate panelling. From aft port cover, over his valve to the end of his spike housing. 

It was filthy. An insult formed on Megatron’s tongue that never came forth. The Prime was letting him choose. 

Optimus laughed softly, victorious as black spike panelling transformed away and he captured the hardening length in his mouth. 

Megatron was going to miss his meeting. 

Chapter Text

It landed with a crash on the floor and promptly shattered into a million tiny pieces. 

Megatron stared down at it. 

The small shards exploded in every direction before eventually settling at his pedes.

“Frag.”

That was Optimus’ favourite mug. 

Not an engex glass - a mug. An overly large human design that had been fashioned for him by allies while on Earth. It had sported a large, garish flag on the side. Red, blue and white. Stripey and distracting. 

Optimus had taken care in telling Megatron to put the mug at the back of the cupboard just in case it fell out. 

Megatron stared at the empty engex glass in his servo. The rounded handle of the mug, which he’d lazily placed at the front, had caught on his armour when reaching for the glass. And now the mug was on the floor. In shards. 

His processor began to run. Megatron’s strategic processor and battle protocols were so powerful they were listed on the Cybertronian Heritage Protection Page. 

And yet staring down at the mug he was coming up blank. 

He could not replace it. Even if he possessed the correct materials the flag design would surely be wrong and Prime would just know. He could not piece it back together. The drop was high and parts of it were practically dust. 

It was midday and Optimus was out. The best course of action was to hide the evidence and then act as if he knew nothing of the disappearance. Using a fibre brush he promptly swept up the pieces and hid them in his subspace. 

Of course the Prime would notice eventually- but he would act none the wiser. Maybe even tell him that he must be losing it- the matrix beginning to decay his processor in his old age. Turning him senile. 

—

That is not how it went. 

“Megatron, have you seen my mug? The one the humans gifted to me.”

Optimus asked over his shoulder. He was stood in their kitchenette looking to make some warm gooey engex. Megatron stiffened slightly from where he was sprawled out on their sofa. It had been weeks. He had almost completely forgotten about the blasted mug. 

“No. I thought you put it at the back of the cupboard.” He answered boredly. 

Optimus opened and shut every single cupboard they had multiple times. Hunting for something Megatron knew was long gone. He felt the exposed protomesh at the back of his neck heat slightly. But remained silent, optics trained forward on whatever pitiful drama programme the Prime was watching. 

“I can’t find it. It’s not here.” 

Optimus sounded almost exasperated. His vocaliser dipping from its usual low and steady tone. Guilt prickled at the back of Megatron’s mind. 

“That’s a shame. Perhaps next time you visit you can get a new one?” He offered. 

Across the room, Optimus turned on his pedes to slowly approach the grey mass on the sofa. Megatron set his jaw. Pretending the now looming presence over him wasn’t making his backstrut tingle. 

“Really, Megatron? No comment about ‘why would I want that disgusting human thing anyway?’ nothing about how you’re glad it’s gone?”

Blue optics pierced the side of his helmet. 

“No ‘I’m glad it’s gone, I don’t know how you drink out of that human crafted trough?’” 

Megatron swallowed thickly. He had failed to take into account just how much Optimus knew and expected of his behaviour patterns. That did not mean it was time to back down however. 

“Prime. I am surrounded by your vile little artefacts every waking second I spend here.” A black servo gestured to many Earth trinkets lining the shelves on the wall. All dimly colourful in the low light. 

“The absence of one is hardly a victory.” 

Optimus vented. He moved to grip Megatron’s shoulder. A little too hard to be comfortable. 

“Of course, Megatron. How irrational of me.” 

The servo at his playing squeezed, a mockery of friendliness. Megatron fought to not react to the pinch it gave his protoform underneath.  

“Quite.” 

——

It had been weeks. 

They were drinking out on their balcony. A shoddy table and chairs hauled in from a market. Set up on the balcony overlooking Iacon. A tall bottle of cheap engex was empty on the surface having been shared between them. 

Optimus had allowed Megatron to have the final glass and the grey mech was feeling ever the more lax for it. The conversation, as always, had turned to nostalgia. This time predominantly their battles on Earth. 

Megatron was laughing from his chest, right arm animatedly doing a poor reenactment of a fight they’d had under Mount Rushmore. 

“-and then I crushed you with that rock!” He said joivally, expecting Optimus’ to retort that he then proceeded to throw the rock off himself and shoot Megatron in the stomach. 

But it never came. 

Optimus was looking out to the city, optics downcast and attitude now somber. 

“It was after that battle I was presented with my most cherished mug.” 

Oh, the fragging blasted mug.

Megatron took a sharp breath. Suddenly feeling this was all a ploy. The drink, the table. Maybe even the living together. Maybe Prime had engineered this whole thing, convincing Prowl to get him to move in here - all so he could take revenge over a mug. 

He cleared his processor. Optimus was staring at him, faceplates stern. 

“Do you remember my mug, Megatron?” 

“I do.” Megatron managed. 

“What happened to it?” 

Optimus was staring at him, blue optics striking him through the spark. A gaze so intense any lesser mech would falter. Accusatory and stoic. Luckily, Megatron was the best versed mech in the universe when it came to Optimus Prime’s less than loving stares. 

“I have no idea,” He said, drunk and unconvincing. 

A moment passed where Megatron realised he hadn’t sounded as vindicated and strong as he’d hoped. 

“You broke it, didn’t you?”

Optimus folded his arms across his chasis. Megatron averted his gaze, choosing instead to look at the twinkling skyline of the under-construction capital city. 

“I think the City Hall project is coming along well, however I have to-“

“Megatron.” 

The grey mech shuttered his optics, sighing. 

“Yes. I broke it.”

—

The fallout was even more terrible than he could have imagined. Prime had begun his customary sulk of course, but it was lasting a long time. Days. Megatron felt as if he was living with a ghost. 

He’d tried everything. He’d cleaned the hab. He made breakfast. He’d put on Optimus’ awful shows in hopes the Prime would come and watch with him. But the mech just walked straight past to his berth room. Where the door closed and he stayed. 

It was growing tiresome. 

Less than a week after the incident, a small package arrived at Optimus’ desk. Finely decorated with nice wire ribbon. He’d opened it quietly, pulling out an engex glass from the wrapping. 

It had an etch on it. An engraved picture - of him and Megatron. Taken on treaty day. Megatron had an arm around his shoulder and they were smiling. Well, Megatron wasn’t frowning, which meant he was smiling. He held the crystal glass up to the light and admired it. Underneath the image were the words ‘now until forever’ in cybertronian sigils. 

Yes, Optimus thought. Hopefully the peace would last forever. 

Inside the box was a small note in scrawling handwriting. 

‘I’m sorry.’

Chapter Text

Optimus rubbed at his optics. 

Internal chronometer informed him it was late. His tank statistics informed him he was hungry. His frame informed him it needed maintenance as his joints creaked while he swung his legs over the side. 

Groggily, the Prime arose from his berth and shuffled out into the corridor. 

The hab was completely dark par the murky light flooding the hallway from the washracks. The window across from him displaying the view of a sleepy Iacon, lights twinkling dimly below. 

Optimus’ optics struggled to adjust as he glanced over, gaze landing on Megatron’s broad back. He was bent in the middle, leaning forward over their sink. Apparently staring into the mirror. Hard. 

Optimus tightened his jaw. Megatron, perceptive as he was had not noticed him leave his room. He was entranced in whatever he was looking at and had likely been there a long time. This was not some thirty second glance to check there was no energon stains on the corners of his mouth. He was staring at his reflection, studying it. Clutching the sides of the sink, elbows locked. 

Optimus calculated the chances this may have been some form of mental break. Megatron had worn a lot of faces, inhabited a lot of frames - some better than others in Optimus’ opinion. 

Whereas he had remained mostly the same, save the rebuilding of limbs and major repairs. He’d wondered how the constant changing of frames must affect the psyche. 

He’d assumed in the case of mechs like Starscream, clearly not well. 

He’d wondered before if Megatron ever looked at himself and expected to see someone else. A version of him long dead, recessed into his mind. Or if he just maintained an updated view of himself easily - simple and militaristic. No nostalgia attached to his previous lives. 

If he did it was not expressed outside of the hidden datapads of poetry in his room. 

“‘Megatron?” Optimus found his voice at last. Keeping his tone soft and body language casual. Startling a mech with Megatron’s strength was in no one’s interest. 

The grey mech grunted, optics brightening as his torso spun to look at Optimus stood lazily in the hallway. 

“Why are you awake?” 

Optimus considered just leaving this conversation before it began and going to get a nightcap of engex. He was tired and not in the mood for Megatron’s defensive nature. 

“I never sleep through the night. You know that.” He answered with a sigh and a wave of his servo. 

Megatron’s frame lost some of its tension. 

“Us both.” He muttered, turning back to the mirror and lifting a servo to trace a line from the top his ridged nose to the tip. 

Optimus looked between Megatron and the kitchenette which held his beautiful, non threatening nightcap. He found himself trodding up behind the grey mech anyway. 

He was alluring from the back. From every angle. No one can raise an army of millions without a certain appeal- Optimus knew well. 

Every one of his incarnations had a certain aspect of intangible power and levity to them. This frame was no different. All the trappings of Megatron - but it felt more honest. None of the bright biologhts or extra trimmings. An original, boxy and broad and taut at the waist. The decals on his chest often made it difficult to look anywhere else. Optimus adored it; maybe his favourite yet. 

Optimus met Megatron’s gaze in the mirror. Standing behind him, to the side. Their armour bumping each other. There was a moment of silence.. It was not uncommon for Optimus to see images of them together. Photo opportunities for government campaigns, war footage, meeting captures. 

This was different. Staring at himself next to Megatron in the stillness of their shared washracks. Oddly intimate with no one else onlooking or expecting anything. If only he’d known life would lead him here. He needn’t worried so much. 

“Do I look old, Optimus?” Megatron broke the silence. 

The Prime gazed at Megatron’s reflection. Blue optics tracking over it. His heavy brow and large nose. The entrenched frown lines that etched around his mouth and reached up to his optics. His wide jaw, set and dulled with age. The soft derma of his upper lip and his high acheek plating, streaked with old faded scars in the metal. Optimus had never thought he looked old; only that he looked like Megatron. 

“We both do.” He laughed softly with no real amusement. 

“We are old.”

Megatron’s faceplates only hardened distastefully. Not appreciating the less than shocking news. 

Optimus raised a brow. “What is it?”

“I don’t want to be old.” Megatron muttered, leaning in closer to the mirror and evaluating the lines in his faceplates as if they were bacteria under a microscope. 

“I’m Megatron.” 

As if his name alone was explanation for everything even after all this time. To an extent it was, Optimus thought. Megatron was an idea of himself. Immortal and unchanging. 

The Megatron he portrayed to the loyal decepticon masses at the beginning of the war was a vastly different mech to the one that slept with a special neck pillow Optimus had brought him. 

“Neither of us can halt the march of time.” Optimus assured him, placing a servo on Megatron’s back. Rubbing gently. 

“Come and get a cube with me.” He offered. 

Megatron broke his intense staring match with himself. Nodding and letting Optimus lead the way into their kitchenette. 

Chapter Text

“I am going to come out. Do not laugh.” 

The Prime’s charming tones were muffled slightly through the thick metal of his berthroom door.  The resonance marred. 

Megatron was stood dutifully outside, leaning against his own door across the narrow hall. Arms crossed and processor dusty with boredom. What had been a ‘I need to try these on before tomorrow- wait here’ had turned into a twenty minute ordeal of Optimus clanging around inside his room attempting to don sacred vestments. 

Megatron was not overly pleased about any of it. 

Never one for religion, the true validity of the matrix or the Primehood had been one of dubious nature in his mind for as long as he could recall. But in his varied, entangled life with Cybertron’s most prominent religious figure he’d had to admit that he’d witnessed some things he simply could not explain. 

Not that they were miracles. Just that he could not explain them. Yet. 

With the treaty signed and the war beginning to be pushed back into a memory to make room in the cultural mindset for a glorious future - religion was on the rise. 

Primalists. Believers in the Matrix and Primus and whatever ludicrous myth suited the authority of the day. 

While mechs had always had a certain reverence for Optimus, the religious sector held something else. Something far worse. 

Genuine worship. The strongly held belief that he was a vessel of the one true God. Walking amongst them. Called upon to offer guidance, wisdom and protection.  

But rather most days he was eating energon cubes and falling asleep open mouthed with his helm on Megatron’s lap. Scratching under his plating when he thought no one was watching. Whining on the end of thick spike, begging for deeper. Leaving the washracks dirty with oil and smokestack fumes.

Cohabiting with a living religious relic made it vastly more difficult to believe in the ridiculous bounds of religion he was meant to represent.

The uptick in religious interest had meant new temples had been erected and Optimus had been called to complete special duties not performed since the break of the war. Each of which required an overly expensive gaudy vestment and long ceremonial scripts. 

With no former Prime to teach him the correct movements or pacing, Optimus was simply winging it. 

“Come on, then.” Megatron ushered, not bothering to cover his irate tone. 

There was a moment as Optimus fiddled to hit the door button before it flew open with a woosh. 

The Prime was illuminated from behind by the many lamps in his room. His helm covered by a white hood with gold trim. There were little cut outs for his long audial fins to poke through. 

The vestment flowed down the length of his frame, meeting in the middle before going wide and draping to the floor. His sides exposed along with the chest that held the matrix. The material artistically cut to decorate his frame, looping golden embroidery and embossed seams. It hugged at his armour. The open sleeves hanging at his sides. 

Optimus had to dial his fins downward to pull off the hood without ripping it. 

“What do you think?” He asked, finally looking up to Megatron’s expression after readjusting the fabric. 

Megatron’s mouth was pressed into a firm line. 

“You can’t leave the hab like that.” He bit out. 

Optimus blanked. And then frowned. 

“What do you mean? This is what I have to wear to give out blessing-“

“Blessings?” Megatron became more animated, servos swinging to his hips.

“You look like you’re giving ‘blessings’, certainly.” He made sure the word sounded a vile as possible. 

“The kind of blessings a mech would usually seek hanging out the side of Vosian brothel!”

“Megatron!” Optimus snapped, clicking his digits in front of the mechs flaming red optics. 

Megatron stepped closer. 

“Look at you- it’s provocative, Prime. They are dressing you up like one of the Winglord’s favoured!” He attempted to temper his tone, knowing that Optimus would likely slam the door in his faceplates for anymore of an outburst. 

For all his argument he could not drag his optics from the cut outs of the Prime’s sides. Entranced by the soft swoosh of material that followed just behind his movements.

“This is a ceremonial vestment. I am not wearing it for fun-“

“They are forcing you to wear it for those disgusting physcophants who just want touch you.”

“They want to receive a blessing.”

“Same difference.” Megatron grumbled with a dismissive wave of his servo. 

Optimus’ brow softened.

“Whats wrong, Megatron, did you want a blessing?” Optimus had, somewhere, taken a step or two forward so Megatron’s back was now flat against the door of his berthroom. Optimus reached up to place servos either side of his helmet and brought him down into a kiss. 

Megatron resisted at first. Still vaguely angry at an argument without conclusion but sense soon won out. He began to melt, servos flying to Optimus’ exposed waist. The material below brushed at his wrists.  

Optimus deepened the kiss. Leaning his weight against Megatron as he began to work with his tongue, their helms moving messily. 

“Should I take this off then, since you despise it so much?” He teased between kisses. Megatron’s servos clamped around his middle, pulling him closer. Optimus hit the button for his berthroom door to open and they stumbled in backwards, the taller mech guiding them to the edge of the berth.

Megatron’s room was dark and void of the home comforts Optimus had afforced himself. His back landed on the firm berth and Megatron pushed between his thighs. The garment riding up bunching at his waist. 

“I want a blessing, oh great vessel of Primus,” Megatron mused sarcastically, groping at Optimus’ heated panelling. 

“Then you have to say the sacred oath.”

“I’m not saying the oath. Let me in.” He slid a digit over the length of the Prime’s panelling impatiently. From aft port cover to spike panel, pressing harder as he went. 

Optimus had his arms crossed over his chasis like a stubborn sparkling. Legs hooked over Megatron’s hips and lewd garment askew, he looked ridiculous. 

“Say it.”

“I don’t know it.”

“Yes you do.”

Optimus sharpened his gaze, knowing all too well that Megatron had studied and put to memory all the Primal texts. 

Megatron sighed, shuttering his optics for a moment to gather himself. The war was over. He and Optimus had something now he’d only dreamed. It was worth it, he reminded himself. All worth it. 

“To my Prime,” he started, watching as Optimus’ blue optics glimmered in amused anticipation. 

“I devote myself to you. My mind, my spark, my body. I place it all within your knowing embrace. Seek my light, oh Prime, for I give it willingly-“

He felt the legs over his hips tighten. 

“Must I recite the entire passage?”

“Yes.” Optimus breathed. 

Megatron drew in a laboured intake. It did nothing to help his spike straining against its panelling. 

“-willingly as I am yours. Lead me not into temptation,” He stroked a servo down the smooth metal of Optimus’ inner thigh, a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. 

“But purify my light, so I might serve once more in the Afterspark.” 

Optimus’ panels transformed apart, a bead of lubricant dribbling free and soaking into the berth beneath him. Megatron took moment to look over the sopping folds before freeing his spike. There was something terribly blasphemous about the Prime heating up at his own worship, but he could save that insult for later. 

He slid home with one deep thrust. Optimus’ valve opening around him as callipers rippled. It was breathless and eager, kissing with too much tongue and repeated prayer-like designations. Optimus tilted his hips upwards for more, throwing his helm back with a loud moan as Megatron repeatedly hit the nodes that lined the entrance to his forge. 

He overloaded, bucking his hips with a choppy shout of Megatron’s designation. Megatron pulled his spike free before Optimus could tighten his legs around him. 

With a furious final pump of his servo, Megatron shot ribbons of slivery transfluid all over Optimus’ precious vestment. Even swivelling his hips to make sure multiple areas were hit.

“What a shame,” he heaved, catching air in overheated vents. “It’s ruined.” 

Chapter Text

Megatron was dying. 

After escaping the cold grasp of death for millennia, it was clear that he could avoid it no longer. 

His frame was stiff and heavy. Wet, sickly moisture filled his stuffy vents. His optics dim and glazed over. Vocaliser shorted and croaky. He was nearing his final hours, he was certain. 

The death of a constant. He began to shallowly ponder his legacy, wondering if he should make his peace with whatever force had brought him forth from the nothingness. Granted him the mortality he had so enjoyed and utilised over the past seven million something years. He was bracing for his last moments, wondering if he should’ve sired a sparkling before his time was up.

Optimus Prime was tucking him into bed. 

Pulling the sheets up to his neck and folding the corners into the berth-side too tightly. Megatron rather felt he was being strapped down by a warm blanket of steel than tucked in to feel better. 

“You’ve killed me.” He croaked, his voice weak and lacking its usual depth. “I am dying, Prime.” 

Optimus sighed, fixing up the last corner. For all Megatron’s boasting of how he never fell ill, the affects of the bug Optimus had awhile ago were showing. Likely transferred when Optimus himself was sick.

However, either Megatron’s frame had taken a worse hit of it, or he was going to win the Tetrahex Actors Guild award for best death performance. 

The collapsed heap of grey armour coughed meekly, attempting to clear his throat tubing. 

“Don’t be so dramatic. You just need to recharge.” Optimus drew up to his full height. Observing his handiwork as Megatron was held down under the sheets. So weak he hopefully wouldn’t be able to escape and walk through the hab like a zombie, dripping vent moisture everywhere and groaning. 

Megatron sniffled. 

If only he could take a photo, travel back in time and show it show the mech who had just taken control of the First Five Cities. The victorious Megatron, so full of his power and ego there was little room for anything else. 

Now here he was. A mass of creaking joints and sickly circuits. 

“Are you sure you’ve drank as much medical energon as you can?” Optimus asked softly. 

Megatron huffed. “Yes. I told you. It makes my tanks churn.” 

“So you said,” Optimus confirmed, barely bothering to cover the tiredness in his tone. His comm was full of pings, messages and missed calls. Taking yet another day off had not been in his plans for the week but when Megatron had called out for him this morning he couldn’t have done otherwise. 

He’d opened the door to Megatron sprawled across his berth, sheets bunched at his pedes and frame an overheated, sticky mess. His mood did nothing to help the matter. 

His comm pinged again. Ultra Magnus, no doubt with a very detailed explanation of the new integration laws. Optimus smoothed out Megatron’s blanket one last time before turning away. He could at least work from home, taking calls and answering messages from their sofa. 

“Prime…” 

Oh, God. 

“Yes, Megatron?” He turned to glance over his shoulder. Getting caught in the mechs dim, teary optics. 

“You are abandoning me .. in my moment of need?” 

—

Optimus somehow found himself sat upright against the headboard of Megatron’s berth. Stroking softly over the angled top ridge of the mech’s helmet. 

He was recharging. Drawing in shallow, shaky vents. Sometimes Megatron scowled even while slumbering. However with his mouth open to draw more air in through his clogged internals, he looked almost peaceful. Devoid of sneering but rather snoring after every other intake. 

It had taken much bribing, fussing and talking to get him to settle. At one point Optimus had to threaten calling out Ratchet to check on him. And while Ratchet was a dear friend to Optimus, Megatron was convinced that if anyone outside of the hab knew he had fallen ill that it would be the headline on tomorrow’s news. 

Titles such as ‘Megatron, Soon to Meet the Afterspark’ or the more lurid magazines publishing something mocking like ‘Towards Palliative’ or ‘Peace Through Passing Away’.

Optimus rumbled next to him. Using one servo to painstakingly tap out comm messages and emails. Everytime he removed his touch stroking over Megatron’s helmet the mech would stir and mutter some grumpy comment. So one servo would have to do to keep him placid. 

Drafted message after despondent reply after passive aggressive chime-ins from the likes of Elita One. Everyone had their own view of what was best for the future of Cybertron and no one wished to concede too much. 

Perhaps it was for the best Megatron had taken ill today. Some actual progress might accidentally be made. 

Time passed slowly and Optimus found himself bored. His optics feeling heavy. He leant into the comforting warmth Megatron’s frame generated. Like a coaxing pull. He felt tired, pulling the blanket over his legs. It would not be so terrible to just spend ten minutes …

He adjusted himself down onto the berth and wrapped an arm around Megatron’s middle lightly. Spooning him from the back. Servo gone from his helmet, Megatron awoke groggily and quickly grabbed the arm over him. Placing his own over the top. 

They stilled, vents falling in time. Optimus’ work datapad discarded and forgotten at the edge of the berth. Megatron moved back into his embrace. Frame labouring to rid itself of the virus. 

Optimus pressed a kiss to the back of Megatron’s helmet as they both wound down for recharge. 

Chapter Text

Today was one he would sooner forget. 

There was nothing to celebrate about being another cycle older. Megatron kept his true age to himself, but there was a general accepted date for his creation that at one point during the war the Decepticons had utilised as a day of festivities for morale boosting and propaganda. 

His joints creaked as he stood. Lines barely lukewarm as his stabilisers reconfigured and his systems began to properly wake up. 

It was nearly midday. He’d set no alarm as every Cybertronian now had their creation day free from work thanks to some ridiculous by-law Bumblebee had input. He rolled his neck, cracking the stiff bonds before meandering into the kitchenette. 

He scratched at his plating. The hab was empty. Quiet without any music, or Optimus’ dry chatter. The telecaster screen was black and the balcony doors locked shut. Megatron placed a glass under the energon dispenser and watched despondently as it filled. 

It was … odd. 

He’d expected something. For Optimus to wake up early and wish him a good creation day. Maybe they’d go out. Maybe they’d stay in and Optimus would spend the entire day with his mouth full of spike as a present. 

But the hab was empty. Silent. Optimusless. Void of life and utterly normal. 

Megatron took his full cube from the dispenser and made his way over to the sofa, putting the telecaster onto the news channel. Maybe there had been some god-level threat that had pulled the Prime away. 

He checked over his comm messages. Creation Day celebrations. Soundwave. Shockwave. Impactor. Even a belittling one from Starscream. Ultra Magnus, formal and impersonal as ever. Swindle offering him a creation day discount. Nothing from Optimus. 

-

Optimus stalked through the chattering office of post-war bureaucrats, negotiatiors and tired Autobots. Arms full of datapads as he pushed through to the door of Ultra Magnus. 

“Oh- Optimus.” The officer snapped up from the ludicrously detailed document he was pouring over. Sat at a desk which was decidedly too small for him. 

“I did not expect to see you today. Is it urgent?”

Optimus placed just five from his mountain of datapads on the desk distractedly. 

“Not particularly. These are the plans for the Praxian Quarter, I was hoping you would look over them for me.” 

Ultra Magnus was looking at him with a rare confused expression. 

“What is it?” Optimus met his gaze. “Why weren’t you expecting me in office today? It’s a weekday as any.”

Magnus cleared his throat, sliding the datapads towards himself. 

“I must admit I went ahead and booked the day off for you when I saw you had not done it yourself. I had assumed you’d just forgotten to input the request.” 

Optimus furrowed his brow. “Why would I need a time off request today?”

“It’s Megatron’s creation day. It made sense you would be spending it with him.”

Ultra Magnus watched as colour drained from the Prime’s faceplates. 

“His .. creation day.” Optimus mouthed. Standing very still. Magnus shifted, slightly unnerved by the display.

“Yes, I didn’t remind you as-“ He stopped himself. “Maybe you should go and buy a gift.”

Optimus moved his helm in a way that would have been a nod if it was not so slow and creepy. Ultra Magnus stood and, possessing some survival instinct, began ushering the Prime to the door. 

“Go on, I shall handle this.”

He eased the datapads out of Optimus’ servos and into his own. Noting that the top one had a cracked screen from how hard the mech had been gripping it. 

-

Energon thudded in Optimus’ audials as he rushed through the busy Iacon shopping district. Weaving through groups, brushing past couples. Mechs gave him wry, recognising glances that he aptly ignored.

How had this happened?

Normally he was so on top of his dates. Marked out precisely on his calendar. Even if he left the present buying too late or failed to attend a party, he always knew these things were coming. 

Of course Megatron’s creation day was today. A week from the peace treaty celebration. 

He came to a halt outside of the engex store. Picking up three of the most expensive bottles shanix could buy. Next, the bodywork shop. Varnish. A detailing brush. Next, a more intimate shop. Vibrating spike ring. Edible valve covering made of energon candies. He shoved all of it into his subspace. Making a final stop to pick up a card which he scribbled into on the store counter. The shop clerk watching him judgementally. 

-

It was late afternoon when the hab door slid shut with a bang, alerting Megatron from his half awake daze. 

Optimus shuffled in, placing gift bags on the kitchenette island from his subspace. Megatron watched him in silence as the mech reset his vocaliser and approached the sofa. 

“Megatron I-“

“It’s okay.”  He cut the Prime off with an absent wave. 

“I have no excuse -it escaped me that your creation day was today I feel-“

“Optimus. I said it’s okay.”

Megatron reached up and took his blue servo in his own. 

“I don’t like to be reminded of my advancing age.” He pulled Optimus down into him, the mech landing heavily half on his lap and half on the sofa. They scrambled to come together. Optimus’ spark pulsing in his chest, the guilt wanting to ebb but suspicion rising. He was too calm .. too normal …

They kissed slowly. Megatron taking his time threading his digits over the Prime’s back plating. Tongues entwining wetly. The room filled with the sound of drawn out vents and Optimus’ small moans into Megatron’s open mouth. 

Optimus heaved as they parted, frame pinging with heat. His codpiece hot to the touch. Megatron had placed his large servos on his sides so comfortingly. His red optics dialled down and soft. 

He was planning something. 

“Are you sure it’s okay, I feel awful. Magnus had to tell me.” Optimus muttered, all his admissions rolling out as one. Megatron ran his servos soothingly up and down his sides. Squeezing lightly at his waist. 

“Magnus?” Megatron laughed and his engine rumbled. “I suppose there is one thing you can do,”

Optimus’ optics brightened. Apprehensive. 

“And that is?”

“Let me use your aft port.” 

-

Optimus found he could not move. Paralysed from the waist down. He flopped forward, not caring to engage his arms and brace himself. Slipping off Megatron wetly as he hit the berth, listless and groaning. 

Megatron chuckled behind him, putting a knee on the edge of the berth to climb in. Pulling the Prime into his arms. Placing gentle caresses across his back.

“Thank you for my creation day gift,” He mused. Transfluid reserves empty and mood smug.

Optimus keened into it, knowing he’d be feeling a dull ache for days. 

Chapter Text

“Optimus. We’ve got an invitation.” 

Megatron held aloft an ornate gold embellished slip with fancy writing and a crimson red border. He’d never seen such an overly dressed up piece of script. 

“Starscream?” Optimus tilted his helm, reaching for it. 

Megatron inhaled his laugh. “How did you know?” 

The Prime turned the invitation over in his servos. Admiring the embossed material and how their names were written together. 

‘To Optimus Prime and Megatron, you are cordially invited…’ 

He wondered when they had begun being a unit. To be invited as a pair rather than two separate entities. Perhaps it was a subtext, a shift in the narrative out of their control. One could not be mentioned without speaking of the other. Too much entwinement had occurred. 

Not that they often got invited to events together. Not many hip parties required the presence of the slagmaker and a sad reminder of wartime loss. 

“It just says ‘Vos’ it doesn’t have an address or an explanation for what it actually is.” The Prime muttered, placing it down on their kitchenette island. Megatron shrugged and made his way over to the sofa with a glass of energon, kicking his pedes up onto the coffee table. 

“He leads Vos. It’ll be held in the Capital Spire.” Megatron spoke absently. “It’s the season for them anyway. Did you never travel to Vos before the war?”

“No, I heard ‘ground pounders’ aren’t overly welcome and I never had .. reason to.” He shrugged, moving to organise their counter top. They’d need a deep clean soon. 

Megatron laughed from across the room. 

“A cultural pylon as always, Optimus.” 

The Prime ex-vented lightly. “Oh yes, my apologies. I am certain you spent time in Vos purely for enrichment purposes that had nothing to do with seekers you’ve had decorating your presence for years?”

Megatron chuckled dryly, refusing to let his mood be dampened. 

“I did feel enriched.” He muttered. 

“What was that?” 

“Nothing.” Megatron sipped at his energon. “Don’t bother writing back. I’ll comm Starscream and tell him we aren’t available that day.”

Optimus furrowed his brow, looking between Megatron and the invitation on the island. 

“Well, why don’t we go? It might be nice to see Vos. And good for post-war relations.” 

Megatron glanced up from the datapad he had pulled onto his lap and grew thankful for the protruding edges of his helmet that concealed his grin. 

“I don’t think you will enjoy a Vosian Ball. They can get … rambunctious.”

“I might enjoy it.” Optimus said a little too hastily, his tone tightening up. “Are you saying I can’t do rambunctious?” 

“I am saying we left Elita One’s creation day party early because someone thought the music was too loud.” Megatron sighed. 

“It was too loud.” 

“My point exactly.” The grey mech picked up the telecaster remote and reclined back on the sofa, conversation evidently finished. 

Optimus crossed the room and stood in front of him, blocking his view. 

“I want to go. Let’s go to Vos.” He folded his arms over his chest, standing his full height. 

Megatron nodded slowly. 

“I’ll tell Starscream we shall be there.” 

Optimus nodded slowly as well. Mostly to himself, shifting his servos to his hips and looking around the room. As if confirming with the unpainted walls this was certainly a good idea. 

Optimus licked his thumb digit and reached across the transport to rub at a dirty spot on Megatron’s collar armour. He grumbled but let it happen, not willing to have the same argument again and put them both in a terrible mood. 

The transport carriage was barely big enough for two war frames to face each other. Their knees bumped against each other when the train rattled. Megatron was sat with his arms crossed, watching the mostly still destroyed landscapes pass. Optimus was engrossed in a Pamphlet about Vosian sights, culture and opportunity. 

Many sites were still under reconstruction. But there was now an 100 foot tall golden statue of Starscream outside of the Main Spire. Megatron had scoffed, making a snide comment about how such a project suited the seeker’s priorities. 

Other than that, Vos had become a hub for body modification and de-scaling. Mechs came to have their internal weaponry removed or frame made smaller. To make them less threatening and their post war lives easier. Paint jobs were easy to come by. The cosmetics district was a hotspot for returning Decepticon forces. 

“How are you feeling about it?” Optimus asked airly, not glancing up at Megatron from his reading. Doing so would only make him feel cornered or that the conversation was too serious. 

“About what?” He grumbled, shifting his frame yet again. For a mech who spent the first part of his life crawling through mineshafts, he was tetchy in confined spaces. 

“About seeing Starscream.” Optimus fluffed the paper. 

Megatron made a noise like a dying mechanimal. 

“We communicate several times a week. I saw him every miserable day for millions of years. I hardly think it’ll be any different.” 

“Everything is different now.” Optimus responded in a tone that Megatron couldn’t help but notice was far too soft. Their knees bumped again as the transport glided across the uneven surface of Cybertron. 

Megatron grumbled. 

“You two were - well, you’re exes, as Bumblebee would put it-“

“We are not exes.” Megatron cut him off. “He was my Second in Command. He was -“

The words died in his mouth as he caught Optimus’ gaze. It wasn’t jealousy or disgust it was .. concern. Megatron took a deep inhale. 

“Meeting personally with Starscream will not be an issue for us. I already have several talking points prepared that he will find so dull he’ll just leave us alone.” 

Optimus pursed his lips, looking back down at his pamphlet. “We’ll see about that.”

Megatron had always considered Vos a gaudy, classless pit that seekers flew out of so they could sneer down at others from the sky. 

Whereas before the war Iacon was a place of wealth and class, Vos was a place of wealth and greed. The Winglord presided over his spires, hoarding and goading and being utterly contemptuous. There was a fifteen year period where Tarnians were simply not allowed to enter the city-state at all. 

Now a pretty seeker checked Megatron and Optimus into their overnight habsuite with a fake smile. 

The room was cushty. Too nice. Overly golden, with silk sheets and one large double berth. Optimus stared at it for a moment, trying not to think of the implication. 

A gift basket was placed warmly on the centre table. Vosian energon treats, small shot bottles of locally produced engex all wrapped in red sheer cloth and positioned attractively. Megatron reached for an unassuming brown box and immediately cracked it open. 

Optimus watched as he revealed a set of Vosian cigars. Megatron brought them to his olfactory and inhaled deeply. 

“They always could do one thing right.” He muttered. Optimus suppressed a laugh. 

“It’s meant to start in an hour- do you want to look around the capital?” 

Megatron was already heading towards the balcony doors, eager to enjoy his newfound cigars. 

“No point arriving until at least three hours after the start time. Vosians are notoriously late.” 

Optimus followed him out. The balcony faced the sprawling spires of the city, lit up with golden sky beams. He hadn’t realised how high up they were. 

Megatron leant forward on the balcony railing, taking his first toke. A grey cloud drifted upwards from the lit stick. Optimus ignored the pings on his HUD as he watched the mech exhale. Reminding himself it was a ridiculous thing to find so attractive. 

“How did you get them to turn up on time for flight drills? Or training?” 

“I didn’t.” Megatron twirled the cigar in his servo. “He did.”

Optimus’ optics followed the line of sight Megatron had jabbed his cigar vaguely in the direction of and landed on the giant rotating gold statue of Starscream.

It had started pleasantly. 

Each of the esteemed guests were announced. Megatron assured they arrived even later than late so they wouldn’t have to wait around. Starscream was posted up on a gold and white throne as expected. Draped in satin finery as he overlooked the proceedings. Waiters darted around carrying trays of expensive engex and posh wrapped energon treats. Megatron plucked two glasses off one of the trays and downed them both in quick succession. 

Optimus opened his mouth about to chastise, but upon looking around the party and seeing the already half-drunk state of every mech there he merely reached for a glass himself and began to drink in earnest.  

The not-so-secret secret in Vos was that everyone hated each other. So mingling only became possible with the deft introduction of strong engex. The noise of chatter crescendoed as the night grew older. Starscream joined the crowds. Megatron kept to the sides, optics harsh as he nursed a cigar. 

Beside him, Optimus gazed over the sea of fluttering wings and faux laughter. He wondered how they had become wallflowers. Or rather that conversation with two wartime fogeys wasn’t fashionable in this day and age. 

Starscream appeared at his side. He was taller with fresh heels, his armour somehow even more polished and gleaming. He looked undoubtedly beautiful. 

“Optimus Prime!” His scratchy voice carried over the sound of the music. “How are you enjoying the party?” 

Optimus glanced at Megatron who had suddenly gone stiff next to him. 

“A true success, Starscream. An exemplary gathering.” Optimus nodded, trying to remember what normal mechs said in this situation. Orion Pax was once socialised for aristocratic balls, upper middle class meetings and the small talk of betters. After a thousand lifetimes of war, this type of communication seemed a lost art everyone was lying to themselves attempting to replicate. 

“Don’t lie, Prime. Look at that old fossil next to you. Were you just discussing how you were going to slip out without anyone noticing?” An amused sneer painted the seeker’s lips. 

Megatron’s engines rumbled, low and unsettling. 

“What an excellent suggestion.” He muttered, voice tart. Optimus fought the instinct to reach out and pet at his arm. Or hit him. 

Starscream tilted his helm to the side, resting a cheek on his knuckles. “Surely you wouldn’t want to miss the afterparty?” 

Megatron caught his optic and Optimus did not miss the knowing exchange they shared. 

“In fact it’s already begun. Follow me.” Starscream commanded with a curled digit and began walking, long legs and heeled pedes striking the floor. Megatron threw back another drink and extended an arm for Optimus to go first. He followed a step behind. 

The seeker lead them down a long ornate corridor. Then through a smaller door. Then cornered to another corridor. This one lined with statues of long dead Vosian royalty. And finally through a set of crimson red curtains. 

Optimus’ optics had trouble adjusting to the dim light. The sound of Megatron’s subdued chuckling next to him was heard before he could see. 

He blinked several times before everything came into view. Every inch of the room was lined with blankets and pillows. Tables of refreshments pushed against the walls. And in the centre, a pile of mechs. Seekers and grounders alike. Lost in their ecstasy. Soft, breathless moans filled the Prime’s audials as he tried to decipher which wings belonged to which mech. Starscream had already joined his harem, well detailed servos reaching out for him eagerly. 

The mechs were so gone in the pleasure they hardly noticed the two warbuilds staring. Optimus’ mouth was agape behind his battlemask. Optics blown wide. Next to him, Megatron tapped ash from the end of his cigar into an empty engex glass nearby.

“Oh my.. Primus.” Optimus finally got words out, trying his absolute best not to meet Starscream’s optic as one of his trine pawed at his panelling. 

“This is …” Optimus reached for something to say but found himself flailing. 

“Vosian ritual.” Megatron supplied for him, taking a thick drag. “It’s embedded into their coding. Very communal creatures, seekers. They get very irate otherwise.”

Optimus took a step back, servo coming to rest above the matrix in his chest as if searching for comfort. 

“What about the grounders?” He choked out. 

“They just want to be there.” Megatron said a little too knowingly. 

Optimus didn’t know where to look. Every surface was covered in a sprawl of limbs, the filthy sound of wet valves and mechs taking their fill. 

“This is worse than those Kaonite bars you took me to before the war-“

“Those were the nice bars.” Megatron said defensively. “I picked them out especially.”

Images of filthy walls, fight pits and mechs languidly crawling over each other covered in dirt flashed in his mind. Optimus blanched. 

“Those were the nice bars?” 

Back in their habsuite Optimus sighed, tilting his helm into the crook of Megatron’s neck. Breathing him in. The sheets smelt foreign but Megatron always smelt the same. Comforting and familiar.

“I don’t think I’ll ever look at Starscream the same.” He muttered. Helm swimming with engex as he curled into the grey mech’s warmth. 

Megatron’s frame moved gently with shallow laughter. He stroked a servo over the Prime’s back. Softly caressing his smokestacks. 

“So much for your cultural education.” 

Optimus huffed. Pressing kisses into Megatron’s thick neck cabling. 

“I’ll show you my education.” 

Chapter Text

“What do you mean you’re going away for a week?” Megatron was sour and disbelieving. 

“I told you this a month ago. I’m travelling to Praxus to  oversee the opening of the new science and engineering district.”

Megatron glanced behind him as if there was evidence of this wild claim that he was informed a week ago, or perhaps a camera filming them to confirm this as some vile joke. 

“You never told me.” He said pointedly, shoulders locking up. 

Optimus looked at him tiredly. 

“I told you more than once. I am leaving tomorrow morning- I was just asking if you will be alright on your own for that length of time?” The Prime gestured with his servo, patience wearing ever thinner. 

Megatron scoffed. “Are you suggesting I can’t cope without you skulking about the place?”

Optimus raised an irate brow. 

“It’s just after what we talked about-“

“We are not codependent!” Megatron seethed. 

“I will be fine. Enjoy Praxus. I am certain Shockwave will be entertaining company while you’re there.” 

Megatron moved to turn away from the conversation they were holding over the kitchenette island. He’d had a long, dull day of signing forms and casting meaningless votes. The type of day that made him almost miss the war- the physicality of it.  

If it wasn’t for his consistent fighting and fragging with Optimus he was certain the war would’ve been rekindled just because decepticons need something to do with their bodies. 

Needless to say a week without Optimus seemed a large stretch of time. He had grown so used to his presence. Their routines and his day to day life.

A week was a very long time indeed. 

“I can have Elita One come and check on you if you-“ Optimus began to offer, sensing the rusted cogs of Megatron’s processor turning themselves to scrap metal attempting to calculate just how discontented he was.  

“No. Absolutely not.”

A counter offer. “Ultra Magnus.”

“What, so he can tell me our table is a tripping hazard? I’d rather talk to a sack of rubble.” Megatron was embittered, heavy pedes circling the island to stand behind Optimus. 

He lowered his forehelm onto the mech’s shoulder. Squeezed comfortingly between the crook of the Prime’s neck and his smokestack. 

Optimus sighed and saw through the affection for what it was - a guilt trip. He turned and pulled Megatron into a soft embrace anyway. 

They stood stock still like that for awhile. Megatron’s arms wrapped around Optimus’ neck. Holding him close, measuring his spark beat against his own slower one. 

“Tomorrow morning?” Megatron muttered, the noise muffled by armour plating. 

He felt Optimus nod. 

“Let’s just eradicate Praxus.” 

Due the majority of the diplomats, council and beaurocrat workers being out of Iacon for the grand opening in Praxus, the remainder of Cybertron’s governing body was running a skeleton crew. 

Which meant Megatron was free to ‘work from home’. The offices deserted and communications slow. 

A notion that seemed utterly counterintuitive, counterproductive and ridiculous. However due to his foul mood it was welcome news. 

Optimus had placed a kiss on his forehelm before leaving. Megatron had squeezed his servo and then batted him away with a sleep heavy arm before falling back into recharge. 

A week seemed a terribly long time. 

By the third night Megatron invited Impactor to the apartment. Solitude was something he luxuriated in during wartime, now the silence only served to aggravate him. 

Impactor had slapped a yellow arm around his back as he came in. One servo clutching a pack of fizzy engex. 

He took in the apartment. Optics sweeping over it. Admittedly it was messier than Optimus had left it. Usually they both cleaned as a point of principle, but since the Prime was not present Megatron saw no real need. 

“So this is where the magic happens?” Impactor joked, placing the cans down on the island and cracking the pack open. 

“I must say it’s pretty tiny for you two fellas.”

Megatron gratefully accepted the can that was tossed to him. “It suits us well enough. The only frustrating thing about living here is him.”

“Optimus?” Impactor lifted a brow suspiciously. “I thought you guys were-“

“We are.”

“And you definitely-“

“All the time.” 

Impactor swallowed his laugh and some engex. “Look, Megs, you’ve lived here with him for months. I can’t help but notice it’s the first time you’ve invited me round and it just so happens to be when his Primeliness is absent.” 

Megatron shrugged, heavy shoulders lifting. Impactor got the impression he’d rather not be having this conversation at all

“Is it because you’re alone or because you’re different* with him? You don’t want me to meet you as a couple?” Impactor teased. 

“I wish Terminus was here to smack you.” Megatron muttered, a smile playing on his lips. 

“He would smack you first.”

Megatron kissed his teeth. “I suppose he would.” 

It was unfortunate that Ultra Magnus decided he was due a visit the following morning. The apartment was trashed from their evening of talking nostalgia, wrestling on the floor and every surface was littered with cans and bottles. 

Megatron awoke with a helmsplitting ache between his optics and the sound of knuckles rapping at the door. Impactor had fled the scene in the early hours of the morning after delivering a one armed hug and some unsolicited terrible relationship advice. 

“Megatron. I know you are home.” The somber tones of Ultra Magnus called to him behind the door. 

His systems lagged, addled with engex and exhaustion. Megatron took in the less than presentable living space and brought a servo to rub at his optics. 

Magnus was still knocking. 

“Megatron!” He was beginning to lose patience. “As your property manager I reserve the right to carry out a habsuite inspection-“

“A minute, Magnus!” Megatron called back, the words coming unevenly as his vocaliser recalibrated. He cursed under his breath, springing up to shove as many bottles as he could into the waste shoot. 

He opened the door gingerly, shielding his optics from the morning sun with a servo. Magnus stared down at him with a face like a thundercloud. 

Megatron refused to look up, instead staring at the crux between Magnus’ Autobot insignia and upper chest plating. This way the officer would be able to get a proper look at his bruised optic (woes of wrestling with Impactor) and obvious hangover. 

“Yes?” 

“Are you going to invite me in?” Magnus placed a servo on the door, propping it open himself. 

“Wasn’t planning on it.” 

“Hospitality was never a Tarnian strong suit.” 

“Glad to see you’ve gotten over your prewar biases.”

“It’s not bias if it’s true. Now-“ Magnus stepped forward and with a sigh Megatron relented, moving aside. He had learnt a long time ago that arguing with Ultra Magnus was the equivalent of climbing an eternal steep incline. 

He refused to shrink under Magnus’ gaze as his blue optics swept the apartment. 

“It is in your housing contract that unsanctioned parties are prohibited.” He said tightly. 

Megatron laughed humourlessly as he walked to the energon dispenser and poured out two cubes. 

“No party. Just Impactor and I.”

“I see.” Magnus took the offered cube, eyeing the overflowing wastebin. Not needing any more explanation for the mess other than Impactor’s presence. 

“You can drop the inspection act, we both know you’re only here because Optimus has asked you to check in.”

They sipped at their cubes in silence for a moment. 

“I see your infamous petty wit has not died.” Magnus sighed. 

“You’re the one that tried to write it into the treaty that I wouldn’t be allowed to joke or utilise sarcasm.” 

“Mhm.” Magnus nodded, attention turned to the trinkets that lined the shelving on the walls. “Indeed, what a shame it wasn’t passed.”  

Megatron shielded his amused grin. Of all the Prime’s close advisors Ultra Magnus was by far his favourite. Headstrong, viciously thorough, brilliant strategic thinker and completely and utterly unbudging. He would have been an asset as a Decepticon, had his morals not been strictly bound to the Autobot Code. 

Their mutual respect was founded through an enjoyment of order and polished literature amongst other trappings. It had withstood the tests of time, and although they often butted helms over policy nowadays it was more the pitiful squabbles of two mechs with nothing better to do. 

“What will you report back to him?” Megatron asked over the rim of his glass. 

“That your home is comparable to an explosion zone and you look awful.”

“Lovely.” 

Megatron spent the rest of the day picking up the pieces and logging in half-absently to online work. Filling in meeting reports, writing communications on rebuilding pursuits in decepticon dominated areas. 

The next few cycles continued much the same. He woke up late, grovelled around the apartment, ate, slumped in front of the telecaster and waited. Waited for seven nights to pass. Growing more agitated until when he’d lost track of the days - the hab door slid open with a whoosh. 

Optimus stepped into the hab gingerly, the air thick. Every single light was off, par the weak sickly light of the telecaster. In front of it Megatron was laid across the length of the sofa, covered in crumbs from crunchy energon treats. 

“Sweetspark-“ Optimus kept his approach slow as not to startle him. 

Megatron made a grunt that travelled upwards from his engines. 

“Optimus?” He asked clearly, the pillow he was clutching against his chasis falling from his grip. His tone was suspicious, as if he didn’t actually believe the Prime was there. Simply a delusion or apparition. “Truly?”

Optimus rounded the sofa, lifting Megatron’s legs and sitting down. Placing the legs back across his lap. They were a warm comfort after his long journey back. 

“How was it?” Megatron muttered, processor slowly fully onlining. 

“It was-“ Optimus’ couldn’t find the words as he slowly panned the room, looking over the devastation that had come to their previously spotless living space. 

Megatron watched as he opened and closed his mouth three times, clearly undecided on wether to mention it or not. One hard look from Megatron sealed the deal. 

“It was drawn out.” He sighed. “I am glad to be home.”

Megatron nodded, brushing crumbs from his armour as he sat up on his elbows and offered a servo. Optimus took it, squeezing softly as their digits entwined. 

“How was your week?” Optimus asked. They’d had some phone calls, but neither of them did particularly well over the line. 

“Exemplary.” Megatron muttered, gesturing to the room. 

“We can clean tomorrow.” Optimus squeezed his servo. 

“Let me make the mess up to you.” Megatron offered. 

Megatron’s vents hitched as Optimus settled atop him, spike pressed flat against the heated armour of his stomach. His own prefluid was beginning to create a silvery pool that was threatening to seep into the crevices of the buttons on his lower belly. 

Their servos were entwined, Optimus’ heavy weight pinning him to the berth. They moaned in tandem as the Prime pushed in, spike spearing past sensitive valve mesh. Megatron let his helm roll languidly to the side, focussing on steadying his breaths. 

“I missed you.” Optimus pressed kisses onto the exposed side of his helmet as they both adjusted. “I missed you so.”

Megatron rolled his hips downwards, signalling he was ready to move. He awed at the Prime’s gentleness with him. Optimus’ thrusts came paced. Slow, deliberate and firm. Each one hitting at Megatron’s ceiling node and making him squirm. Unable to move his arms, he arched upwards. 

“Look at me, Megatron.” Optimus said softly, picking up his pace. He released a black servo. Instead coming to cup the larger mech’s chin, stroking soothingly along his jaw as delivered measured pistoning of his hips. 

Megatron eased open his optics and met the Prime’s intense stare, hungry and raw.  He tilted his helm into the warm touch, attempting to ground himself in it. Charge crackled between their frames as Megatron cycled down on the spike, drawing a guttural moan from Optimus. 

“Good. You’re doing so well. Taking me so well. I missed you.” Optimus leant down to capture Megatron in a kiss, perhaps too sickly sweet for Megatron’s taste but he found himself lost in it nonetheless. Taking spike was not their usual course - but he’d wanted Optimus more than anything. 

He liked feeling filled up and encompassed by him. His presence warm and consoling. Falling away from his restraint and into his need. Megatron moaned, open mouthed into their kiss, rocking his frame downwards to meet the thrusts. Optimus’ engines revved in response. He couldn’t get enough of Megatron’s vocalisations when he was taking spike. There was no more erotic sound in the Galaxy. 

Optimus began to feel tightness swell in his lower tanks and at the base of his spike as overload threatened to wash over him. 

“Megatron-“

“Don’t finish.” Megatron’s raspy chords filled his audials. Command still dripped from his voice no matter their positioning. 

“I want to taste you.” 

Optimus felt his insides flip over. Eagerly pulling out with and laying back against the pillows at the end of the berth. Megatron took a moment to gather himself before moving. Crawling between the Prime’s legs - kissing along the sensitive interior of his thighs where his armour was thinnest. 

Megatron took the base in his servo, squeezing firmly before wrapping his mouth over the top. Tasting himself on Optimus’ length. The Prime groaned, reaching down to hold the back of Megatron’s helmet. Watching with lidded optics as his spike disappeared inch by inch into flexing throat tubing. 

The soft wet silicone rubbed against his tip, drawing long moans from him that encouraged Megatron to take more. He swirled his tongue over the tip, playing with the slit as he swallowed the entirety- his hooked nose bumping against pelvic armour as he attempted not to gag around it. He began to bob his helm in earnest, sucking harder the lower he went. 

“Primus- I missed you. I missed you-“ Optimus panted, repeating the words like a hurried admission of guilt. He began to buck up into Megatron’s mouth as the grey mech reached down and began to toy with his own node. Rolling and squeezing the throbbing bundle between his digits. 

Optimus overloaded first, servo pushing at the back of Megatron’s helmet, encouraging him to take the length the hilt as he spilled transfluid into Megatron’s throat. Vocaliser cracking over gasps of his name. Megatron soon followed as he swallowed down the load, valve cycling as he rode out his own overload onto his digits. The brackish taste of transfluid filled his receptors as some of it spilled out of his mouth and dripped down onto his chin. 

Megatron pulled off with a wet pop and sat back on his haunches. Venting heavily as he stared down at the limp and totally listless Prime. His frame sprawled over the pillows as he fought for conciousnes. 

“It’s nice that you missed me.” He breathed, tone playfully mocking as he wiped the drips from his chin. He laughed airly as Optimus brought an arm up to swat at him. 

Chapter Text

Megatron stumbled forward as his pede caught the corner of a box full of junk Optimus had been ‘planning to sort’ for months. 

It was about the third time that week. He ground his teeth together. 

“Are you ever going to put that scrap away?” He called. 

“Mm?” Optimus didn’t bother to glance up from his knitting. At least what he assumed was correctly knitting. Two thick fiberous wires hooked through large needles, he was entwining them and eventually forming what would at some point become a badly shaped blanket. 

“That box of scrap in the doorway.” Megatron huffed. “The clutter…” He gestured around the room. “Everywhere.”

“I don’t think it’s that bad. I’ll get to the box-“ Optimus moved up and accidentally met Megatron’s cold optics. 

He looked between Megatron and the four stacked shelves of trinkets he was pointing at. His point moved to the new drawers, already full to the brim with collected junk and old memoirs. And then back to the box in the doorway. 

“I’m not seeing your point.” Optimus went back to his knitting. 

Megatron rubbed at his temples. 

“You get irate when I leave an empty glass on your side table but then-“

“Megatron. Come here.”

The sharpness of Optimus’ tone caught him off guard. Megatron glanced around the hab, looking for some form of trap amongst the clutter. 

None was apparent. He slowly lifted his heavy pedes to stand in front of the Prime. 

“Come put your helm on my lap-“

“What?” Megatron said incredulously. 

“Just do it. I’ll make it worth your time. Forget about the box.”

Megatron grumbled but moved anyway. Seating himself next to the Prime before lowering his frame. Pedes swinging over the side of the sofa before his helm landed heavily in Optimus’ lap. A coy smirk marring his finely cut features. 

The Prime stifled a grunt a placed his knitting aside. 

Megatron shuttered his optics. Feeling the warmth of Optimus’ thighs through the back of his helmet. He shuffled upwards, getting comfortable as a servo came to rest on his forehelm. Stroking softly. Delicately, as if he were some fragile thing. 

The sensation seemed amplified with his optics closed. The digits grazed the fine edges of his helmet. The ridges. Ghosting through the underside. Tracing the highs of his cheeks and taking grace caressing along the more sensitive metal. 

There was a click as Optimus tucked his digits beneath the sides of the helmet and skilfully unclasped the locks. Megatron grumbled, but placated and having utterly forgotten the clutter, allowed it to happen. 

Optimus lifted the helmet away gently, optics softening as Megatron’s crown unfurled. 

He brushed along them with a soft servo. Careful not to apply too much pressure. Edging them out of their cloistered state. Megatron’s engines began a low appreciative hum. 

“Do you remember when I first found out about these?” Optimus spoke softly. Affectionately touching over the sensory fans. 

“Mm.” Megatron growled, displeased. “You punched me in the face so hard the locks cracked from the impact and my helmet flew off.”

“Yes,” Optimus replied as if it was a treasured romantic memory. The scowl Megatron wore was moderately less threatening with shuttered optics. 

“Starscream didn’t let me live it down for months.” The grey mech grumbled. 

“Well, he is blind. They are beautiful.” Optimus mused, watching as the fans flared upwards at the praise. He’d been trying to work out if they responded to Megatron’s emotional state- or if they held their own sentience. Wheeljack had once privately compared Megatron to Medusa, a human mythical figure. 

“Quiet, Prime. Just touch them.” Megatron commanded. 

Chapter Text

Megatron tilted his helm, placing gentle kisses along the ridges of Optimus’ chestplate. 

He was laying atop him. Comfortable enough for Optimus not to complain he was getting crushed. Nestled between open legs.  When he turned his helm to the side and pressed his audial the Prime’s plating he could hear the faint hum of the matrix. 

It was a constant warmth in Optimus’ life that Megatron could only view through a window of suspicion. But the noise was a comforting, constant presence. As defensive about the matrix as the Prime was. 

It had been a long week. Several outposts had suffered power outages and the expansion onto Luna One had been gutted out by the senate. Arguments over what to do with the moon. Some suggested a military outpost, a planetary protector base. Others argued this ignited the culture of violence and warfare. Some wanted the base to be an attraction- tourism to bolster the economy. Others wanted a memorial. 

Megatron was firmly against that idea. They had unveiled so many memorials, both Decepticon and Autobot  over the past year he was beginning to suspect they were losing their meaningful value. 

Optimus brought a servo to stroke over the ridge of his helm. Where the front met the top. The weight of his touch was soothing. Megatron sighed so deeply his engines rattled the noise. There was truly no greater peace than Optimus’ berthroom, splayed out across the berth. His pedes hung off the edge but he couldn’t muster the emotionality to care. 

They had been like this so much recently. Lethargic. Touchy. Attached. Megatron wrapped his arms around the Prime’s middle, tilting his helm more into Optimus’ absent minded strokes. The Prime was scrolling through a datapad, half lidded optics struggling to focus. 

Megatron wondered when they had gotten so old. Even their hardness was gone. He could never recall being so soft. Living so softly. Optimus was, once, a soft mech. Kind and bright. The war hardened him immensely but bits of Orion still shone through. Stolen laughs and small, petty jokes. Certain youthful glances. It tugged at his spark whenever he saw glimpse but scarcely mentioned it. Their old selected still seemed a taboo subject. 

He buried his face into red, warm plating. 

In the crook between the thick, blast resistant metal panels just under Optimus’ chest plating and the slightly less hardy silver metal of his middle was a scar so deep it couldn’t be buffed out during wartime. 

Megatron felt down to slide a digit over it. Optimus grumbled but didn’t look up from his all-consuming datapad.

Megatron recalled it fondly. A battle on Earth. He’d just had a frame upgrade - courtesy of Shockwave. All new weapons. Built in swords. He’d opted for close quarters combat. Wanting to get in Optimus’ face. Wanting the Prime to see all of him. His glorious, powerful new body and show off his new capabilities. 

He’d struck Optimus there, forcing him to stumble back and fall. The gash was deep and oozed bright blue energon. The rest of the memory was a haze of rolling in dirt and calling out commands.

There was another in his shoulder. Right above the Autobot insignia. Poorly welded over so the metal was bumpy and he complained of it aching in the evenings. Megatron had slid his entire sword through the shoulder joint and ripped it back out. Luckily for Optimus, he didn’t twist it so the limb stayed sort-of attached. 

Each of them were covered in scars. A history of each other. Branded and sentimental. It came with the aging, Megatron had decided. That they both without discussing somehow knew they’d never be rid of these scars. Even though all the cosmetic procedures were readily available. 

Even though the council, especially Prowl, pushed them both for a shiny new reformat that would present them as ‘beacons of a new age’ they chose to keep their well earned wounds. 

Because as Optimus put it, they were not* of the new age. They were wartime leaders and representatives of times better forgotten when carving out a future of fruitful cohabitation. 

Megatron kissed over where the matrix lay in Optimus’ chest.

Megatron more clearly shared his fair weight of marks. A large slash of damaged, bubbled metal on the back of his right thigh. His neck. Forearms. Torso. Each told a different tale. Some had been lost to upgrades and reformats, but Megatron had hung onto the thin line of a scar that ran high over his cheek- a gift from gladiatorial days. 

Optimus enjoyed scratching at the damage -sensitive seams on his left side during their play fights. Falling sideways into molten lava tends to scorch the sensors in unusual ways.

“What are you thinking about?” Optimus hummed, glancing over the rim of his datapad. Usually Megatron’s face served to tell what needed to know but as it was hidden actual communication was required. 

“How dull we have become.” Megatron muttered. “And this scar under your plating.” 

Optimus set down his datapad and exvented. “Charming.” 

“The one that tingles whenever I go under hot solvent in the shower?” He mused, petting at Megatron’s helmet. 

“Does it really?” 

“Yes.” Optimus muttered. Megatron could hear his smile in the way he spoke. 

Datapad of distraction gone, Optimus’ systems were very angrily making him aware that both his legs were numb as Megatron had laid his ridiculous weight across his hips and upper thighs. Cutting off all energon circulation. 

“I think it’s time to get up.” Optimus said gingerly, removing his servos from Megatron’s helmet and trying to shuffle his torso up the berth. Megatron grunted his annoyance but sat up. He felt groggy, in need of a midday nap. 

The feeling certainly did not aid his self perception. 

“Prime,” - Optimus braced for what was coming. Megatron only reached for the titular name during dire circumstances. 

“Yes?” Optimus stretched, trying to shake some life back into his limbs. 

“That evening out you mentioned, the one where we get drinks and then try and get into that new club, the one in the Iaconian undercroft-“

“The evening plan you shot down immediately?” Optimus nodded, watching as the grey mech adjusted himself on the edge of the berth. 

Megatron chose to ignore the allegation. 

“I have thought it through and perhaps such an idea isn’t so terrible.” Megatron spoke evenly, not wanting Optimus to feel too proud of himself. 

“This weekend then. Me, you. Club Solus.” 

Megatron scoured his mind for some sort of escape plan if it was just as terrible as he first thought. 

“Who owns it again?” 

“Mirage and a few others. I am sure Soundwave has a stake.”

Megatron breathed a laugh. “Soundwave has a stake in every blooming business across the planet. He’s forming a trust fund for his minicons.”

Blue optics dilated as Optimus felt a rush of energon to his legs and sensors popped back online. 

“He’s thinking of a future for them.” He spoke softly. “It’s sweet.”

“I just hope he’s giving it to ravage. Rumble and Frenzy will waste it frivolously.” Megatron grumbled. Unable to argue, Optimus settled for placing a servo onto his hab partners broad back. Enjoying the feel of warm metal. 

He found himself reaching for Megatron more and more. His touch so familiar and their frames so attuned it felt natural to just lean in. 

“This weekend then?”  

He moved to sit on the edge of the berth alongside Megatron, audial fins flicked downwards and relaxed. 

“I’ll think it over.”

Optimus rolled his optics, already considering their best route into the undercroft. 

“Energon?” Megatron offered. 

Chapter Text

“This was a terrible idea.” Megatron ground out. 

“Drink your drink.” 

Optimus sipped at his own brightly coloured engex, looking over the bouncing crowd. Multicoloured lights showed off sharp, new age paint jobs. The dances seemed even more foreign than the music. 

Next to him, Megatron was scowling into his glass of ‘regular’ engex that he’d demanded the bartender make for him.

Optimus had tried his best not to look embarrassed as Megatron slammed a pointer digit into the counter top, asking bitterly why they didn’t stock any normal engex. 

The answer being ‘no one drinks it anymore’. 

The club itself was a sight to behold. Low ceilings made for an intimate feeling. Optimus had managed to spot a few familiar faces. Chromia, Ironhide, Rodimus and Whirl to name a few. The crowds moved amongst each other. Dancing in time to music Megatron felt the need to comment on the moment they walked in. Calling it organic rubbish. 

“I should’ve drank more before coming.” The grey mech leaned in to mutter against his audial fin. Hot breath dusting across the metal. 

“You drank nearly two bottles of aged helexian engex.”

“Exactly.” Megatron folded his arms. 

“I thought you loved this type of thing when you were young. It was never my crowd.” Optimus had to shout above the music to be heard as Megatron was already slightly hard of hearing. 

“Because you were a dull clerk scared of getting drinks brought for you by some Tarnian scum.” Megatron responded, mood lifting with nostalgia and their flagrant mutual mocking. His dimmed red optics caught Optimus’ dangerously. 

Optimus smiled. “Well look at me now.”

“Look at both of us.” 

Optimus stifled a laugh. It had dawned on the pair quickly as they knew it would - that they did not fit in here. Partying was for the youth.

Their large non-descaled warframes stood out starkly from the roaring crowd. And those that did recognise them turned away in shock and rushed to tell their friends the news that the slagmaker and the Prime were stood against the far wall looking lost. 

The drinks flowed fast after Megatron was goaded past the initial want to leave. The night crept on and after the fourth round and Optimus almost falling backwards onto some poor monoformer - Megatron confidently led them onto the dance floor. 

One of the major draws of Club Solus was that it had taken inspiration from Earth design, as was popular in many upscale spots.

Autobots returning from the mud ball relished it. The centre of the club sported a checkered light up floor which alternated colours. 

Mechs naturally stepped aside for Megatron’s bulk and the Prime soon found himself planted in the middle of the room with Megatron moving his shoulders in a way that could maybe be considered on beat. 

Drink in servo, Optimus followed suit. Letting his frame flow naturally to the music. Twisting his hips from side to side stiffly, raising his arms when the crowd did. Wide smile plastered over his faceplates as he danced with Megatron. Their rhythm meshed flawlessly after just a few moments. Weaving in and out- turning and stepping near synchronised. 

Each so used to the other’s movements. Millennia of studying and memorising the flow of one another’s frame. The technicality. Their servos coming together as empty engex cans were discarded on the club floor. 

Frames pressed front to front. Swaying, moving. Dipping and spinning as the music built. The club revolved around them as Optimus lost himself to the feeling. Engex coursed through his lines as he was encapsulated in the strong warmth of Megatron’s arms. The rest of the room fell away. 

Until he swallowed, HUD flashing warnings that his underplating was being touched. Sensitive mesh on his neck subject to the abuses of Megatron’s sharp teeth.

He rolled his helm to the side, letting him. Hips moving to the music. It was pleasant for a moment before he became suddenly, shockingly, terribly aware he was still in the centre of the night club. 

With Megatron suckling on his neck. 

“Megs-“

“Don’t call me that,” Megatron slurred, helm lifting slightly. Optimus banged a servo against his thick grey shoulder plating, hoping to shock some sense into him.

“You never call me that.” Was the meagre response.

“We are not alone.” Optimus ground out. And yet failed to pull away from their embrace. Or meet the now prying optics that had landed on them from multiple directions. 

“Truly a shame.” Megatron growled, low and hot in his audials. “I want to ravage you.”

The words sent a bolt down Optimus’ spinal strut. Megatron, overcharged and overconfident clearly felt a million years younger than he actually was. The final straw was a large black servo groping firmly at his aft plating. 

There was a cordial cheer from a few nameless mechs in the crowd behind. 

“Home!” Optimus choked out. Unlatching himself and watching as Megatron’s faceplates fell before forming up into a barely lucid smirk as the Prime offered a servo to hold.

Megatron followed him out of the crowd. Weaving through the whooping, dancing collection of cybertronains behind them. 

Once outside and venting cleaner air, Optimus tried to rationalise the weight of the situation. Internal chronometer informing him it was only a few hours until sunrise. 

Megatron, however, was seemingly unphased by the stark reality that they had been seen and reached to pull Optimus in for a bruising kiss. 

“I felt better after you dropped a building on me.” Megatron spoke into the air, an arm slung over his optics to shield them from the overhead lights. 

Optimus tutted next to him. 

“You fired your canon into the base of the building before I pushed it. What did you expect to happen?”

There was a moment of silence as Megatron adjusted, shuffling to the side. His comm was overflowing with messages. Some from Impactor congratulating him on the ‘big pull’.

Others were from Soundwave giving him a full statement and briefing on the public reaction to his now apparently widespread public knowledge intimate relationship with Optimus Prime. 

None of which he felt like answering. His helm pulsed with pain and he shoved his faceplates into Optimus’ pillow. How they got home last night was a mystery. As was how much they had drank. As was how they were going to deal with the fallout. 

“Prowl is calling me.” Optimus announced next to him, voice groggy and coarse. 

“Tell him you’re one with the allspark.” 

Optimus laughed faintly. The berth was wet beneath his thighs and  his plating felt bent out of shape. Megatron rolled over, pulling him into a crushing embrace. It was warm and comforting. 

As if sensing the others anxieties, Megatron kissed the back of his helm. 

“It was a good night though, wasn’t it?” He asked. 

“The best in a long time.” 

Chapter Text

Prowl slammed both fists down the table, teeth gritted. 

Optimus listened as the screws made horrific scraping noise from the force of it. He’d been cornered in this small non descript office the moment he’d stepped in the office building. 

He’d left the hab-suite with a spark sinking feeling. Megatron had tried to act as if nothing had occurred but their mutual silence while moving through their morning routine spoke volumes.

“So, it got out then?” He asked, voice even but body language guilty. 

“Got. Out?” Prowl seethed, arms coming up and over his chevron. Optimus could see where this was going. 

“Got OUT? Optimus, it’s all over the news! In fact it’s the only news!” 

He’d made a point not to check the morning tabloids. 

“I’m sure that’s not true-“ Optimus began to protest against the overestimation but was interrupted by the door opening and the oncoming combined rapture of both Ratchet and Ultra Magnus pushing through. Voices raised and armour flared. 

Deflated, he slumped back into one of the desk chairs and covered his faceplates with his servos. Never had he missed his precious battlemask so much. 

Ratchet’s voice cut through first. 

His long, demeaning, disappointed drawl of ‘Optimus…’ followed by ‘what were you thinking? You were meant to live with him to show cohabitation was possible! That did not mean fall into his berth!’

Ultra Magnus was bursting, citing laws they could arrest Megatron under to make the problem ‘cease to persist’. 

The three of them were animated. Talking over each other. Arms flying and optics wide, looking to him for an answer or explanation. He had none. 

Optimus sighed, mustering his most primely voice. 

“Enough!” 

His three accusing confidants fell silent, looking at his slumped frame with ire. 

Optimus drew up, meeting their gaze one by one. Slow, confident movements that had proven effective in wartime. 

“I did not ‘fall into his berth’. There has always been .. something between Megatron and I. Just recently it has become manifest.”

“How recently?” Ratchet lifted an optic ridge. Arms folded and unbelieving. 

“A few … months?”

“Months?” Prowl and Ultra Magnus gawked in unison. 

“I assumed you two just had a drunken fling at the bar like stupid newsparks! This is ongoing?” Prowl pressed. 

Optimus nodded. 

The table flew across the room. Hitting the far wall and shattering into a pile of broken metal and bent screws. Magnus made a mental note to write Prowl up for property damage later. 

“This could call the entire alliance into question! The entire war!”

Optimus restrained the need to roll his optics. The war was a legally signed agreement. Any accusation of foul play would just be dismissed. Hopefully. 

“This is not some torrid affair. It’s mutual. It’s .. good. Megatron and I work. We are both different now. Everything is and - it’s good.”

“Optimus, while I respect your authority surely you can see how this will be perceived by the public. Especially if Megatron is the dominant party-“ Ultra Magnus began. 

“Dominant party?” Optimus repeated, expression twisting. “There is no ‘dominant party’. We are equals. We are doing well and the situation suits us. In future, I will be certain to keep any finer details away from public view-“

Ratchet slowly unfolded his arms. 

“My Primus.” He muttered. 

“You love him, Optimus, don’t you?”

All optics landed on their leader. 

Two hard knocks sounded off Megatron’s office door. He knew it was Impactor without looking up through the frosted glass. Old miner knocks never fade from memory. Two firm for good news, three in hurried succession for bad. Two and then a gap for management approaching. 

Impactor didn’t wait for an invite before pushing in. 

“Megatron!” He announced, arms up and elated. 

“How is he?”

“Who?” Megatron answered coyly. 

“Don’t do that.” 

“Optimus is fine. Thank you for asking. Now, don’t you have a job to get to? It’s the middle of the work day.” Megatron gestured back towards the door, not wanting to discuss the issue. He’d spent the greater part of the morning scrolling through scathing tabloids and gossip blogs. 

Impactor shrugged and dropped his weight into one of the visitor chairs opposite Megatron’s. 

“So you’re official now?”

The clock ticked on the wall behind Megatron’s helm. Impactor grimaced at the irritating sound. 

“No.” Megatron sighed. Finally placing his datapad down. “Yes. I don’t know. We are waiting for the press releases. Optimus’ people will want a say.” 

Impactor nodded slowly. 

“Bet Soundwave’s happy with you. Still got him on damage control even after the war.”

Megatron’s jaw tightened. Not liking the insinuation that he was having Soundwave edit public information and blackmail journalists. Which he absolutely was with considerably less success than he did pre-war.  

“Well, I think it’s a good thing people know you and Prime are clanging. Everyone always thought he had a massive stick up his aft- good to know it was just your spike all along.” 

Megatron threw a sharpened light pen across the desk. 

“Listen!” Impactor put up his servos defensively. An amused smile on his faceplates. “It could be a good thing. Publicity and all that. I bet Prowl’s brain cogs are cranking trying to figure out the best move.”

Megatron sighed, collapsing back into his plush desk chair. Feeling entirely too old and desperately in need for a stiff drink and a cigarette on the balcony with Optimus at his side. 

“You know what the move is already. You know what Prowl will forcefully suggest. Cmon, Megs. You’re smarter than me.”

“Of course I do.”

“Are you going to do it then? Sparkbond with Prime?”

Drinks were already poured when he got back to the habsuite. The balcony door slid open so a soft cold breeze could drift in.

Optimus was stood by the kitchenette with his back turned as he stirred the glasses. Megatron approached silently. Pressing his frame to the Prime’s back. Breathing him in. Placing his chin on the mech’s shoulder. 

“How was your day?” He asked, already knowing the answer. 

“Busy. Lots of different opinions. Not much actual work was completed.” 

Megatron hummed. Hummed in way that said he got it. In a way that told Optimus he had experienced much the same. 

“What are your thoughts?” Megatron asked outright, having found it was the best way of communicating. “Everyone knowing? The publicity?”

“We were built for publicity.” Optimus said lightly.

Megatron drew his frame closer. Servos snaking around the Prime’s hips. 

“That is not an answer.” 

“You ask unanswerable questions. There are multiple answers.”

Megatron rolled his optics. Primely riddles. The silence served as a prompt for Optimus. 

“It is for the best. I like … I enjoy that it happened naturally. On our own terms, during a joyful moment than being revealed during a state-backed privately catered and scripted government event. The scandal makes it real.” 

Megatron buried his helm onto the crook of Optimus’ neck. Optimus could feel him smiling.