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“Are you-… happier, being a warrior than a scientist, Starscream…?”
Starscream stares up at the ceiling. The memory of that awful question haunts him. He'd said yes at the time, enthusiastically.
He is happier as a soldier than he was as an explorer. The only part of exploration he enjoyed was the flying.
And… Skyfire.
But he likes being Air Commander. He likes being second-in-command. He likes barking orders, likes making tactical plans. Likes the rush of a good fight, the high of a victory.
He is happier. Genuinely.
And that… Doesn't necessarily bother him. Maybe it should. There's blood, oil, and energon on his servos even though he washes himself off after every excursion. He doesn't blink when a mech loses their spark, doesn't care when a fellow cybertronian goes offline.
Does that mean there's something wrong with him?
He hadn't really considered it until Skyfire looked at him with- with those optics.
It's not his fault Skyfire is a weak, soft-sparked fool. It's not his fault he sided with the inferior autobots.
Why didn't you kill him when he first picked them over you the decepticons? A traitorous voice whispers in the back of his processor. Why didn't you shoot through his spark? Or at least his processor?
He shutters his optics closed.
I saved him. The ungrateful sack of bolts, I saved him, and he'd rather risk his life for fleshbags and autobots than follow simple orders and fight by my side.
Starscream refuses to think about the academy. About Skyfire covering him with a blanket when he drifted into recharge in the lab. About Skyfire holding a wing out over his head to keep the rain off of Starscream because he hadn't gotten a rust-proof finish yet. About Skyfire tightening the screws on his upgraded wings because Starscream couldn't reach, and quietly commenting that his new additions were pretty.
He growls under his breath, pressing the heels of his servos to his optics.
“Skyfire is a traitor,” he seethes to no one in particular. Maybe saying it out loud will get it past his thick helm and into his processor.
Even if he wasn't a traitor, Starscream is far from the little rich jet from Vos that Skyfire knew, all bright eyed and excited to see new places. Whatever relationship had existed between them was long dead, doomed from the start no matter who Skyfire aligned himself with.
Starscream isn't the same Starscream that Skyfire had grown fond of.
Once he discovered that, he was always going to be disappointed. It was inevitable. Him being a traitor just gave Starscream reason to hate him.
Starscream drops his servos from his optics and glares at the ceiling again, like it’s responsible for every unpleasant thought in his neural net. His cooling fans cycle too loudly in the stagnant air, and he hates that he even noticed.
He sits up and stiffly gets to his pedes, pacing his quarters angrily. His wings twitch like they’re trying to take flight, like they remember a time when flight was freedom, not formation. When the sky meant opportunity, not strategy. He snarls, kicking the frame of his berth.
“I am happy,” he tells the empty room, a little too loudly.
He is. He has status, power, respect—even if it’s often begrudging. The Decepticons fear him. Some even admire him. Megatron listens to him. Sometimes. Occasionally. It’s more than most get, at least. He’s built something here, clawed his way up from frag-all with nothing but raw brilliance and spite.
Skyfire would never understand that. All he can see is the other, less important mechs Starscream has hurt rather than Starscream himself.
He was born with kindness in his spark and the privilege to indulge it. He never had to fight for recognition. Never had to outshine peers just to be seen. Never been dismissed as one of many, never been ‘replaceable.’ Never got punished for being too smart, too ambitious. And when it got hard, when it got complicated, what did he do?
He left.
He abandoned Starscream.
Not just during the mission. Not just in the storm. But again, again, when they crossed paths on the battlefield. Skyfire looked at him like he didn’t know him. Like Starscream was a stranger, a monster. Like he was the tragedy in the story. How dare he. Where did he get the right?
As if Skyfire wasn’t the one who left Starscream all alone when he ‘died.’ It's his fault in the first place, really.
“Frag him,” Starscream spits, wings flaring sharply. “Frag him and his disappointment and his- his pity! As if I need pity!”
The pity and sadness and hurt he'd seen in Skyfire's optics made him want to rip his own fuel lines out and strangle Skyfire with them. He much preferred the anger he'd seen afterwards. Fighting Skyfire, shooting at him, glaring at him, it's easier than hurting him.
The betrayal in his gaze as he looked up at him drives his systems wild every time he remembers it.
A tremble runs down his struts, fury spilling into the space around him like water in a sinking ship. A rapidly sinking ship. His vents hitch and his denta grind. He clenches his servos tight and digs talons into the edge of the desk until the metal bends beneath the pressure.
He doesn’t miss Skyfire.
Skyfire looked at him like he was good. He didn't look at him, though, not really. Starscream has always been vicious, ruthless. He's a survivor, a climber. He was always going to end up here.
Starscream’s jaw trembles. He locks it tight.
It doesn't matter. He’s stronger now. More capable. Respected. Feared. He leads troops. He wins battles. He builds empires.
What he and Skyfire had was a footnote. An irrelevant page in the long, blood-soaked book he’s writing with every victory.
The only thing left of that era is regret—and he’ll burn that, too, if he has to, use it as fuel alongside everything else that could be considered weakness.
Let Skyfire keep his ideals, his morals, his kindness.
Starscream will keep flying.