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Optimus couldn’t sleep.
That much wasn’t so unusual. Even as a miner, he had an undeniable habit of always staying up late, but it was normally always by choice. He’d purposefully set his chronometer to some unholy hour in the middle of the night just to wake himself up, then drag D-16 outside for a moment of privacy.
But now he couldn’t sleep even if he willed it. His sturdy frame twisted and turned on the unfamiliar berth surface. Much more comfortable than the standing recharge pods he was used to as a miner, yes. But unfamiliar in all the wrong ways.
Optimus groans, turning over to one side. His shoulders keep getting in the way, and he huffs in frustration, trying the other side. It didn’t help that the Matrix insisted upon glowing so bright that Optimus could feel the blue light even upon closing his optics.
He tries lying on his front, face down into the pillow, but he couldn’t get his helm to touch the pillow. His chassis was way too big now. He contemplated recharging standing up, but the ache in his leg struts responded otherwise.
Instead, he opts to sit up straight and toss the pillow to the other side of the room in annoyance. It smacks against the wall with a pathetic thump and slumps down to the floor.
He leans his back against the headboard and dims his optics. The berth groans with his movements, the only sound in the dead of night. Everyone else was asleep for sure. He looks out the window and catches a glimpse of the moon. Its light spills through the sill. Optimus checks the time, and it’s a little bit past midnight.
In Orion Pax terms, the perfect time for some horrible decision-making.
Optimus sighs to himself. It had been a long two and a half weeks. His whole world had been undone, he’d been given the Matrix of Leadership, he’d lost his would-be conjunx, and now he was Prime of Cybertron. But anyway, a long two and a half weeks.
If sleep wouldn’t claim him, Optimus thought, he’d mess around for a bit. He brightens his optics and looks around. His HUD had a few pop-ups and many more options than he was used to as a miner.
What was usually just a screen to indicate energon power levels now had a ton more options. Games, comms, weaponry, etc.
Optimus scrolls through the games section for a long while, eventually just sighing and clicking out with mild disinterest.
(Two-player games. That was all the interface had.)
He scrolls through his weapons systems, and it proves to be even more boring than the games. Optimus decides he’d just stick to the energon axe and flamethrowers. Everything else seemed too complicated.
Finally, he scrolls through his comms. There weren’t many options, but Optimus had expected there to be none. He hadn’t given away his comm code to anyone, but if he had to guess, any interaction with a bot just automatically gave him their number.
Still, the codes were encrypted. Optimus would probably have to manually change the names later.
There were a few numbers on the screen.
E-029481
B-378127
D-849016
J-091861
Optimus blinks and sits up.
Megatron couldn’t sleep.
He doesn’t, unfortunately, have the luxury of a berth or even a recharge pad. The rocky ground of the surface didn’t do any favors for his spinal strut, so he’d given up on trying to lie down on his back.
If he tried either side, he’d feel a sizzling pain in his arms, undeniably his broken weapon systems protesting from the pressure of his weight. Plus, his shoulders were way too broad and sharp to even consider it.
He’d tried his front, but his helm hit the floor at an awkward angle. It was sharper than what he had as a miner, and the middle jutted out at an angle rather than the rounded shape his frame had previously stored. It made his helm turn to the side, which put too much pressure on his neck.
He groans in frustration, optics narrowing as he pushes himself upright. The rest of his crew is asleep.
He’s used to not getting much recharge. Normally, at a time like this, he’d already be out on the rooftop, laughing with Orion Pax under the lights of Iacon. He’d complain about not getting enough sleep, but he’d stay anyway. So it wasn’t like he was annoyed at the lack of sleep. More like a lack of comfortable positions.
He gets onto his pedes and gently walks out of the makeshift bunker, careful not to wake any of his Decepticons. He steps over a Seeker’s wings and pads his way outside, where the sun had already set, and only the stars lit the night sky.
Megatron brushes away the dirt, catching the grass blades on a spot on the floor, and sits, back against the outside cave. He draws his knees up and looks at the moon. Its light spills through the leaves of a tree just shy of blocking it entirely.
It had been a long two and a half weeks. He’d uprooted a tyranny, been betrayed by his would-be conjunx, led an army of soldiers, and he’d been exiled from his home. But anyway, a long two and a half weeks.
He wasn’t really angry anymore. He was, but not really. He was angry enough to disagree with everything Optimus Prime stood for, but he wasn’t angry enough not to miss his home. He’d never let Optimus have the satisfaction, though.
(He feels like a teenage kid, running away from home only to return the next day and cry to his guardians.)
His optics dim enough to count as falling asleep, and he feels recharge start to claim him. Only for his spark to do a complete jumpstart as an annoying ping rings in his audials. His HUD flickers to life, and a huge block of numbers covers his screen.
O-028413
Optimus had clicked the third line on his contact list out of curiosity. He hadn’t remembered interacting with anyone starting with the initial “D” in the past two and a half weeks. He’d guessed “E” stood for Elita, “B” for B-127, and “J” for Jazz. But “D” was a total mystery to him.
So, he clicked it. The Orion Pax in him is still back to making horrible decisions, Optimus guesses, because when he hears a sleepy groan and a “who the frag is this” on the other line, he realizes he’s made a horrible mistake.
(But also, secretly, relief. And maybe a little happiness knowing he’d answered so fast.)
“Megatron?” Optimus mumbles back, just as lethargic. The “D” had stood for D-16. Optimus just thought that Megatron’s contact would’ve started with an “M” and totally overlooked it. Stupid.
Megatron, meanwhile, jolts awake, helm banging against the hard stone behind him. His red optics flare bright, and he scrambles to sit upright. “Prime!?” he whisper-shouts. He feels anger rise in his spark.
“Uh—hi,” Optimus says. He scratches the back of his helm as if Megatron could see his confusion. “What was that sound?”
Megatron narrows his optics as if they could burn away the numbers on his screen. “‘Uh—hi,’” he mimics, voice pitched an octave higher. “Don’t ‘uh—hi’ me. Why are you calling me? How do you have my number? And why are you calling in the middle of the night!?” he demands.
“Hey, I don’t sound like that,” Optimus huffs. To be honest, he’d stopped listening after the first question. Optimus only really registered the frequency of Megatron’s voice.
It was deeper than when he had been cogless, and for some weird reason, Optimus really liked it. It was like therapy to his audials. His voice was smooth, so what?
“Answer the question,” Megatron growls. He straightens his spinal strut, ignoring the pain that began to settle into his helm from bumping it into the rock.
“Um… I don’t know,” Optimus responds sheepishly, and to his credit, he really did not know. Or mean to. Or, you know, feel happy that it was Megatron. He really didn’t. “Oops.”
“‘Oops?’ What do you mean, ‘oops!?’” Megatron snaps. And to Megatron’s credit, he really did not know why he was still on the line. Or why he hadn’t slammed the hang-up button as soon as he’d heard Optimus’s voice. He didn’t.
“Why are you even awake?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” Optimus admits. “This new frame is a total pain. I’m way too broad now. Plus the berth feels weird, and the Matrix won’t stop glowing.”
“Boo-hoo,” Megatron taunts. “You’re drowning while others die of thirst, poor you. I don’t even have a berth.”
Optimus rolls his optics and lies back down with a grunt. “So why were you awake?” Optimus asks lightly. Megatron hears berthsheets shuffling around, and his sparkrate spikes a little. He ignores it.
Megatron decides to just stay on the line and humor the Prime. Maybe he’d get some intelligence or lower Optimus’s guard.
(Definitely not because he missed him. That would be stupid.)
“Who said I was awake?” Megatron huffs. He watches the audio lines below Optimus’s number oscillate. They seemed to create a gentle wave every time Optimus breathed softly. Not that Megatron was listening.
“You answered instantly,” Optimus chuckles matter-of-factly. “Almost like you were waiting for me, or something.” The suggestion is teasing, and Optimus doesn’t really mean it.
Megatron, though, flinches at the suggestion immediately. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he snaps. “I just wake up really easily.”
Optimus raises a brow ridge at the lie. “Really?” he teases, a smile creeping on his faceplate. He sits up again to shift on his front and props his chin in both of his servos. He idly taps his digits on his cheek. “Because it used to always take me so long to wake you up. I’d have to tap on your helm like four times—”
“Do you ever shut up?” Megatron grumbles. He feels heat creeping onto his cheeks and the back of his neck. Megatron tries to will it away but staring deep into the wavering lines on his screen, but Optimus’s breathing just makes his frame heat up more. “I couldn’t sleep, okay? Primus.”
“Was that so hard to admit?” Optimus hums. He kicks his pedes up, leg struts bent at the knee joint as he idly sways them in the air. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Megatron retorts. He picks up a tiny pebble and turns it idly between two fingers. “My weapon systems hurt. Somebody cut them off.”
“Sorry,” Optimus shrugs, and he doesn’t sound very sorry. “You were kind of trying to kill me. I had to.”
“I wasn’t—whatever,” Megatron grunts. He tosses the pebble away, and the echo of it bouncing on the surface dies away after a few seconds. “Why did you call, again?”
Optimus hums for a second, trying to think of an answer. But he’s always been horrible at lying. “It was an accident. I saw your number in my comm list and decided to press it. Didn’t know it was yours.”
Megatron feels his spark sink a little. He’s not even sure why, and the annoyance flares up equally as powerfully, enough so that he can ignore that little emotional accident. But something inside him had hoped Optimus had called him on purpose. Maybe because Optimus missed him, or just wanted to hear his voice, or to beg for forgiveness and grovel at Megatron’s pedes.
(He tells himself he favors the latter of the bunch. He doesn’t.)
Megatron sighs, trying his best to convey annoyance in his tone. “Seriously?” he grumbles.
Optimus shrugs as though Megatron could even see. For some reason, he kept moving around. Perhaps it was his subconscious or something, but it felt like Megatron was really there in the room with him. His voice sounded so clear. “Yeah,” he says. Optimus pauses for a moment, and when Megatron’s response doesn’t come, he speaks again. “But I’m glad I did.”
Megatron barks out an incredulous laugh. “Oh, shut it,” he says, even though his spark does another flip. His frame is suddenly enveloped in a familiar warmth. “I’m not. Don’t ever call me again.”
Optimus is silent for a second, and for a moment Megatron debates on backpedaling his words and apologizing. Optimus, though, isn’t hurt. He’s smiling behind the screen. “Hm,” he hums softly. “Then why did you pick up?”
Megatron opens his mouth to respond, but his mind goes blank. A million flimsy excuses flood his processor, but they’re all unbelievable. He settles for deflection. “Obviously, I didn’t realize it was you,” Megatron declares. “How was I supposed to know you had my number?”
“Okay, fair enough,” Optimus grins. “But now you know it’s me, right?”
Megatron squints his optics. “Duh. What am I, stupid?” he scoffs. He folds his arm struts and leans back against the cavern.
Optimus sits up again with a little bounce against the berth. He crosses his legs and leans back against the headboard, humming to himself. Megatron watches the lines on his screen again, face heating up.
He can hear the creak of Optimus’s berth. He wonders, stupidest, smallest part of him, what Optimus looks like right now. What position he’s in. If he’s tucked under a bunch of blankets or if he’s lying on his side, curled up.
“So why haven’t you hung up yet?” Optimus asks.
Megatron thinks for a moment. Why hasn’t he? He should have severed the line as soon as he heard Optimus’s voice. He clears his vocalizer, fumbling with his digits as if grasping the answer from thin air. “Because.”
“Because…?” Optimus echoes, and when Megatron doesn’t answer, he chuckles. “Because what?”
“Because,” he starts, voice wavering and trailing off before returning to its previous boisterous tone. “Because given the opportunity, I can finally tell you why you’re wrong and I’m right.”
Optimus rolls his eyes. Of course, Megatron, the king of deflection. He was good at it even when he was D-16, but it’s like gaining Megatronus’s cog gave him ten times the confidence and negative ten times the emotional vulnerability. “You haven’t said anything about that at all,” Optimus tries.
“I’m getting there,” Megatron retorts, gritting his dentae to try to sound as intimidating as possible.
He hears the subtle, low sound of Optimus’s laugh, quiet but entirely for him. Warm, unguarded, pretty. And it infuriates him because Optimus has no right to sound like that, not when it warms Megatron’s spark to the point of ache in ways he can’t stand. Not when he’s so far away.
There’s a little silence as they listen to each other breathe. It’s a new sort of intimacy. Megatron closes his optics, and, for a foolish moment, imagines Optimus is beside him, leaning his helm against the not-so-sharp part of Megatron’s pauldron.
Optimus, too, closes his optics. He imagines it’s not the headboard he’s leaning against, but Megatron’s heavy, large frame. The warmth of his recharge blanket becomes Megatron’s servos, bunched up in his lap and around his thighs.
“You still there?” Optimus asks after a whole minute of silence. He cracks one optic open, and the fantasy falls apart.
“Shut up,” Megatron murmurs. His voice is softer now, laced with fatigue and fondness. He opens his optics and meets the moonlight spilling through the leaves again. Optimus is far away again.
“I barely said anything,” Optimus hums. He looks around, bored. His room is too plain to do anything, and he doesn’t really think a suggestion to meet Megatron in real life will be taken too kindly, if at all. So he scrolls his HUD back to the game selection. “Wanna play a game?”
Megatron raises a brow ridge. “A game?”
“Yeah. My HUD has loads of games,” Optimus smiles. He scrolls past the first few, which are all fighting and war simulators. Not something he’d want to play with Megatron. It would probably give him ideas.
“Prime of Cybertron, and you’ve got video games loaded in your systems,” Megatron mutters in disbelief.
“I heard that,” Optimus hums pleasantly. There are a lot of games to play, and Optimus doesn’t have half the mind to decide. “What should we play?”
“I don’t know, just pick,” Megatron grunts. Honestly, he doesn’t really care. He’s still watching the oscillation of the lines on his screen, listening to Optimus’s vents, and trying to ignore the way his chronometer seemed to be going faster than normal.
“Don’t you have games on your HUD, too?” Optimus muses. He finally manages to select a game, some sort of cart-racing simulator. He toggles a few settings and changes the map to a simulation of the Iacon 5000.
Megatron rolls his optics. “Why on Cybertron would I have games in my HUD?” he scoffs. “I’m not a child.”
Optimus shrugs. “Then how come I have them?” he murmurs, more of a question to himself than Megatron. He sends over the invite to Megatron’s comm line. Megatron strategically waits a minute before accepting the invite. He’d rather offline himself than let Optimus know he was actually waiting for the pop-up.
“Probably because you’re soft,” Megatron sneers as he customizes his character to Megatronus Prime.
Optimus chuckles. He picks Prima Prime as his default racer and boots up the simulation. The graphics are more on the modern side, and the screen is split side by side. Optimus can see Megatron’s icon on the top left of the opposite side.
Megatron notices Optimus’s icon on the top right. Neither of their icons really resembles what they look like now. In fact, Megatron’s helm is entirely black, and Optimus is missing his audials. They look a lot more like D-16 and Orion Pax.
(Megatron ignores it.)
“How do I play this game, again?” Megatron huffs, looking through the control rulebook. He hadn’t really taken the time to get familiar with his frame over the past two and a half weeks, more focused on running away from Quintessons and trying to find shelter.
“I don’t know, I’ve barely touched my HUD,” Optimus shrugs to nobody. He squints his optics as he reads the controls. “It’s just a racing game, I guess. Whoever’s first wins.”
“Wins what?” Megatron asks, closing out of the information window and readying his character up. The little mini racer icon on the screen smiles back at him as the engine of his cart begins to run.
“Uh… nothing,” Optimus chuckles. “It’s for fun.” He thinks for a moment, humming to himself. Megatron hears him, the ghost of Optimus’s breath lingering beside him for longer than he’d like to admit. “I guess whoever wins gets bragging rights. That should be enough for you.”
Megatron rolls his optics. “Bragging rights are meaningless without an audience.”
Optimus laughs again. Megatron wonders if voice calls can be recorded and saved. “I’m the audience. Unless you’re too scared to race me.”
“This is some stupid sparkling game. Why would I be scared?” Megatron scoffs impatiently. Still, he shifts to straighten himself, crossing his leg struts and leaning forward. His vents flare to life when he hears Optimus sigh, and his cooling fans automatically kick on, whirring to life. “Ready up, Prime,” he says as loud as he can to mask the fans.
“Okay, okay. Primus,” Optimus mumbles. “What are you so in a rush for? We’ve got time.”
“In case you’re wondering, I don’t plan to stay on call with you all night,” Megatron snarls in response without too much thought. “So hurry up.”
“Somewhere to be?” Optimus asks pleasantly, readying his character up. The countdown begins in the middle of the screen, starting from three.
Megatron doesn’t dignify his question with a response, instead leaning forward with laser focus as the race begins. As soon as the countdown ends, Megatron explodes off the track.
For a long while, he’s alone. He veers corners with neat precision. He stays on the best line of the track. He drifts when he needs to and jumps off of ramps, following every rule from the instruction pop-ups.
He doesn’t even see Optimus on his side of the screen. He’s way ahead, according to the glaringly obvious large “1st” on the bottom of his screen. Still, Megatron curiously glances over to Optimus’s side, just to see where he is on the map.
“Wha—” Megatron scoffs in annoyance. He nearly veers off the track just watching Optimus’s so-called gameplay. His left optic twitches when Optimus lets out a hearty laugh at Megatron’s disbelief. “What are you doing!?” Megatron asks, drifting along the track.
Optimus is in some entirely different area of the map, a place that Megatron hadn’t seen as a path for the track. Optimus had apparently instantly veered off the given course at the start of the game and was now making his own route to the finish line in some random city highway.
“Taking a shortcut, duh,” Optimus responds, trying not to laugh. He glances over at Megatron’s side of the screen. “Woah, you’re pretty close.”
Optimus recklessly crashes into street signs, and his screen is barely even visible, the debris obstructing his racer’s view every two seconds.
Megatron lets out a long sigh. “Prime, what are you doing? You’re letting me win at this point.”
Optimus smiles, breathing out a low chuckle. “Don’t be so sure. I’m almost there, I can feel it.” Optimus leans forward as his racer launches off of a conveniently placed ramp.
“I’m literally at the straight away,” Megatron sneers. He lets a smile cross his face as he approaches the finish line. Obviously, he knew he’d win. He had followed every part of the instructions given to him before the race began. As long as he stayed on the track, he’d win.
Then Optimus flies in from the side. It’s comical how Optimus just randomly launched himself back into the race. He crosses the finish line before Megatron can complete the straight away, and a huge block of letters spelling Optimus’s name underneath “WINNER” obstructs the center of the screen.
Megatron yells in frustration, throwing his servos up and leaning back. “You—you cheater!” he accuses, puffing out short vents of frustration. “Where did you even come from!?”
Optimus laughs, and he doesn’t stop laughing until he’s out of breath. Megatron listens to him pant. “Oh, I wish I could see the look on your face, haha!” Optimus giggles. “Told you I’d make it.”
Megatron huffs and folds his arms so tightly that the joints creak. “That wasn’t fair. I was the one on the given track the whole time!”
Optimus hums, still catching his breath after wheezing with laughter. “The given track isn’t always the fastest,” he says with infuriating calmness. Then, added with a delicate softness, bordering on teasing. “You should know that by now.”
Megatron glares at the screen, and the word “WINNER” stares back at him. It should be his name under that title. He’d followed the rules down to the letter. What more did the game want? “The track exists for a reason,” he argues. “Only a fool—”
“—or a visionary,” Optimus chirps, sing-songing the syllables, voice as smooth as silky energon.
(Megatron isn’t sure if he’s still talking about the game.)
“Same difference,” Megatron grunts. “You just got lucky, that’s all.” He tilts his helm back, exasperation rumbling in his chassis. He wants to argue more, but Optimus’s easy, unshaken voice needles him in a way that feels far too familiar.
“Sure, Megatron,” Optimus chuckles lightly.
Megatron bristles at his tone. “What? What is it?” he snaps. “What’s with that tone?”
Optimus shrugs, contemplating whether to speak or not. He talks slowly, voice emphasizing his words. “Nothing. Just… it’s funny.”
“What is?”
“You,” Optimus grins. “You’ve hardly changed, Megatron.”
Megatron stares at the little icon of Orion Pax on his screen for a while. He keeps his breathing even, but his spark starts pulsing a little faster. “What are you on about?” he mumbles. “I’ve changed the most out of everyone. Literally and figuratively.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Optimus hums. “But you still play by the rules, even now.”
There was something about the way Optimus spoke. Not mocking or smug or victorious like Megatron thought he would be. No, he spoke sweetly, as though he could see Megatron through the screen.
Megatron restlessly drums his servos against his thigh. “Because following the rules works,” he says with indignation.
Optimus lets his quiet thoughtfulness seep through the screen, and Megatron listens to him breathe. It relaxes his annoyance a bit. Optimus’s breathing is short and cute. “Yeah, or you just don’t know how not to follow the rules.”
Megatron rolls his eyes. “Don’t be smart,” he huffs. He closes out of the game menu and is met again with the oscillating lines on his HUD, gently moving up and down every time Prime breathes. He starts counting in his processor.
Optimus sighs quietly. The game dissipates from his HUD. Another awkward silence spreads between them. He tries to imagine Megatron sitting alone in a field of flowers, lying down on an empty patch as the moon shines down on him.
“Still there?” Optimus whispers.
Megatron shivers at how quiet and fragile his voice is. “Yes,” he mutters back in response, closing his optics and letting his helm tilt back against the wall.
“Good,” Optimus murmurs softly, almost like he hadn’t been sure he’d get an answer.
“What, did you think I’d vanish?” Megatron asks, though the thought did occur to him. He could hang up whenever he wanted to. In fact, he probably wouldn’t even need to notify Prime. But he doesn’t.
“No, just… don’t want you to go,” Optimus whispers. He yawns, and the sound is adorable in Megatron’s audials. “How are you, by the way?”
“Hn. Fine,” Megatron answers back with little bite. He surprises himself, how easy it is to talk to his supposed enemy. “Alive, I guess.”
Optimus smiles to himself. He checks his chronometer, and it’s only been about a joor. Megatron clearly sucks at getting calls because he never really asks Optimus any questions. Just answers Optimus with infuriatingly short responses and goes back to being quiet. Optimus begins wondering what Megatron is even doing on the other end.
(Megatron is on breath count 92.)
Optimus lets the silence linger a little longer before finally clearing his vocalizer. “What are you doing right now?”
“Counting,” Megatron responds instantly, and his voice is slower and deeper now. Sleepier.
“Counting what?” Optimus asks curiously.
“Your vents,” Megatron admits flatly, almost daring Optimus to laugh. Optimus chuckles softly. The sound is like music to Megatron’s audials.
“What? My vents?” Optimus whispers back, amused. He exaggerates a breath just for show, sighing deeply. It comes out as sort of static on Megatron’s end, but nonetheless makes Megatron’s processor fizz out a little. “Why?”
Megatron thinks for a moment, and he isn’t even sure why he disclosed such vulnerable information. He could have just lied to the Prime, told him he was plotting his death or something. Although breath counting sort of did have a threatening undertone to it. Still, though. He doesn’t want to lie for whatever reason.
Instead, he shrugs to himself, optics dimming. The faint sound of wind across the cavern whistles in his audials, and it makes Optimus’s breathing even more haunting. “Just wondering when you’re going to hang up.”
It sounds just as pathetic as Megatron thought it would. He winces, bracing for a severed line. Instead, he feels more warmth envelop his frame as Optimus laughs in his audials again. He feels so close.
“I’m not gonna hang up,” Optimus chuckles. He smiles, imagining what Megatron might look like now. Maybe he’s vulnerable, struts spread out in a snow angel against the grass. Or he’s got his arms folded on his front, and he’s staring at the stars. It comforts him a little, even though he isn’t there. “You can keep listening, if you’d like. I’ve got nowhere else to be tonight.”
Megatron scoffs out a laugh, pauldrons shaking for a second. He draws one leg up and rests his arm on his knee joint. For a second, he thinks about ending the call just so he can see the look on Prime’s face the next time they meet. Would he be regretful? Angry?
But Megatron is selfish. He’d prefer to keep the Prime’s breath to himself. “Don’t you have, like, Prime-ly duties to do?”
Optimus hums in thought. He shifts in the berth again, trying his side. It’s uncomfortable, but imagining Megatron beside him helps. He imagines Megatron behind him, chassis pressed against his back and arms around him. The blanket helps mimic the warmth. “No. Not really.”
“Well, what do you do all day then?” Megatron huffs like the question took strain to escape his throat. He’s making meaningless small talk just to keep Optimus awake and on the line. Megatron almost wants to slap himself.
“I… read,” Optimus mumbles slowly. His tone is almost reluctant, embarrassed. Megatron imagines Optimus squirming on the berth, faceplate heating to an adorable shade of light blue. He snaps himself out of it.
“You read,” Megatron echoes. Despite everything, he grins to himself.
It puts a ridiculous image in Megatron’s processor. Optimus Prime, large, bulky frame, sitting in a too-small chair and holding a tiny datapad in his servos. Megatron laughs despite himself, and it’s a deep, full sound.
Optimus’s spark lurches. Megatron’s voice doesn’t completely imitate D-16’s, but the similarity is uncanny. His voice, though, is lower. Stronger. Warmer, in a strange sort of way. “Don’t laugh at me,” Optimus manages, but he would do anything to hear that sound again.
“You’re ridiculous,” Megatron smirks. One hundred and thirty-five. One hundred and thirty-six. “What do you read, then?”
“Just historical things. I’m getting into poetry, you know. I’ve already written some of my own,” Optimus says. He sounds all too proud of himself.
Megatron stills for a bit, optics widening a bit in mock surprise and amusement. He lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Poetry,” he hisses incredulously. “You. Poetry.”
Optimus shoots back with a chuckle of his own. He doesn’t falter. If anything, his tone becomes more inviting and warm. Megatron nearly loses count. “What? You don’t think I can be poetic?” Optimus teases. “I used to break into the Archives for a reason, you know.”
“I thought that was for the Matrix,” Megatron murmurs.
“Yeah, well. I was in there doing other stuff, too,” Optimus whispers. “Where do you think I got all those stories I told you about Megatronus Prime?”
“Those were real?”
Optimus laughs again, like Megatron had just asked the dumbest question in the universe. “Of course they were real. Did you think I made them up?”
Megatron tilts his helm back in exasperation, sighing deeply to himself. “Wouldn’t have put it past you,” he murmurs. “How was I supposed to know?”
“Because I kept telling you I’d bring some stuff from the Archives for you,” Optimus counters. “Did you think I just forgot?”
Megatron huffs. He doesn’t have a better answer than just a sound of agreement and an embarrassingly quiet “yeah.” Now, he imagines Orion Pax running from a couple of cogged guards, datapads of stupid Megatronus Prime stories held tightly against his chassis.
Megatron can see it clearly now. Orion Pax would be smiling. Laughing as he ran away, like he didn’t have a care in the entire galaxy. And something about that image makes Megatron angry. Nostalgic, yes, but with it, a fierce sort of anger. A fury that screamed “why didn’t you tell me?” because maybe it might have changed everything.
Optimus just chuckles quietly and lets the silence wrap around again. He’d always seen the way D-16’s optics would light up whenever Orion Pax brought up Megatronus Prime.
Megatron fiddles with his servos for a while, staring down at how large they’ve become. “Read me some,” he finally murmurs.
“My poetry?”
“Yes,” Megatron swallows. For a moment, there is silence on the other end, not even breathing. Megatron checks the line just to make sure it hasn’t broken. He releases his own vent of relief when he sees that Optimus is still there.
Megatron hears fumbling and a couple of loud thuds. Berthsheets rustling and the frame creaking. “Prime.”
Optimus, meanwhile, is holding his breath. He feels heat creep up the back of his neck as he sifts through a collection of datapads. “Yes?” he almost squeaks out, optics blown wide as he skims what he has written. He doesn’t remember writing half of these, most of them done in some half-asleep state in the middle of the night or after drinking engex.
He fumbles through the stack of poems, trying desperately to find something that wasn’t about D-16 or Megatron or how much he loves him. Primus, he should never have brought up poetry, this was mortifying. He’d written some pretty flimsy, metaphorical things, sure. But every poem had some part that mentioned his name, or his features, or was just straight up obvious.
(It had felt pretty good in the moment. And some part of him fantasized about Megatron randomly stumbling on his borderline erotic poetry. Then they’d talk and kiss and everything would work out. A ridiculous scenario, but it was better than reality.)
“PRIME,” Megatron growls low into the microphone, and Optimus’s spinal strut shoots straight up. He fumbles, and there’s another loud crash of datapads hitting the floor.
“Alright, alright!” Optimus hisses, scooping up the literature into his arms. He picks a random one and skims it. Maybe this was that fantasy, he thought. This was the cosmos giving him a chance. Megatron had picked up, stayed on the line, and counted his vents like that wasn’t the most weirdly intimate thing ever. So, he’d take a chance.
He clears his vocalizer. “Ahem. This one doesn’t have a name,” he announces as proudly as he can without letting the tremor in his servo show as a shaking in his voice.
Megatron scoffs but quiets down, listening to Optimus’s uneven, nervous venting as he speaks.
“Even so far, I can hear
your spark, does it beat
just for me, my dear?
Dear, is it complete?
I’ll miss your touch, your laugh,
optics, like a ghost.
I’ll miss you, my half.
I’ll miss you the most.
Had good times, didn’t we?
Laughing and loving,
entirely free.
Now it’s just nothing.
I’m writing this to plead.
I know I’ve no right,
but it’s you I need.
I don’t want to fight.
I know you’re out somewhere
cold—come back to me.
I’m here. I still care.”
Optimus trails off near the end, and his voice and breath fade into nothingness. Megatron opens his optics, bristling with annoyance. “You didn’t finish,” he says, and it comes out softer than he wishes.
Optimus chuckles. He stares at the last line.
I still love you, Dee.
He turns the datapad over. “Ah. It’s a work in progress.”
Megatron huffs. He folds his arms and leans back faster than he anticipates. The cave wall scratches his back plating, but through his searing hot, angry thoughts, he doesn’t even feel it.
He doesn’t know why the poem claws at him. It hadn’t even been that good. He could do better any day, right? But it wasn’t the flowery structure or the sentences that struck him. No, it was the fact that Optimus wrote a love poem.
Optimus Prime, writing a love poem about one specific, special, happy little mech. And the way he wrote about them, like they had died or something. Was it someone whose spark Megatron extinguished at his first raid on Iacon last week?
Was that it, then? The Prime was writing about some pathetic little soul he failed to save, and he was guilting Megatron about it through this poem?
But that was the better alternative. Because Optimus Prime was writing a love poem about one specific, special, happy little mech. And if that mech were still alive (Megatron wishes he could get his hands on them), then Optimus had someone new, even if they were fighting or whatever melodramatic nonsense Optimus was writing about.
Oh, that alternative was far more difficult to stomach. Megatron feels something hot and sour fester in his tanks. His jaw tightens for a moment. He could see it now.
He imagines Prime, smiling wide and optics crinkled towards some other faceless, nameless mech. They’d smile back with as much gentle tenderness that Megatron lacked, and they’d never betray Optimus or shoot his arm off or drop him to his death or destroy his home.
Maybe they’d sit together in their obnoxious, quiet little home, helms pressed together. Maybe Prime would spend his time reading his overly sentimental poems to them, and they’d gush and compliment and love them.
Megatron grits his dentae. He almost wishes it was about some dead Iaconian. Some bitter, deeply twisted part of him hopes for it because grief was simple. He could bark cold laughter at Optimus’s grief because the Prime had it coming, daring to love someone else like that.
Megatron digs the tips of his fingers into the palm of his servos, balling them up on his knees. He hates the thought of Prime pouring his spark out to some random mech.
Some mech who probably didn’t deserve it.
“Sounds pretty finished to me,” Megatron finally grunts hoarsely. Anger, now, twists in his tanks when he hears Optimus’s breathing, knowing that some happy-go-lucky mech got to hear him breathe like that every night.
“Poetry’s never finished,” Optimus says. Megatron can almost hear the smiling from the other end. “So, what did you think?”
Megatron relaxes a servo and taps his digits on his knee, once, twice, three times. What did he think? That it made his tanks churn and his spark seize in ways never before. That if he knew who this nameless mech was, he wouldn’t hesitate to crush their spark between his fingers.
Instead, Megatron lets out an awkward cough. “It was… words,” he mumbles. He makes his voice rough enough to pass for disinterest. “Didn’t know you liked love poetry.”
“I’ve always been sentimental,” Optimus says, voice almost sultry in the microphone. It reads more like static on Megatron’s end, and he has to strain himself to try to hear.
“I wouldn’t have guessed.” Sentimental? For who!?
“Don’t sound so surprised,” Optimus whispers, chuckling to no one but himself. He pushes the datapads away from his lap and lies back down, flat on his back with a little “umf.” He yawns. “You must have known. Back then. I was terrible at hiding it.”
Megatron isn’t sure what he means, but he glosses over it. He yawns himself, exhaustion beginning to take over his frame. But his stubbornness overpowers it. He won’t let the Prime have the satisfaction of being the one who didn’t hang up.
“You must be curious who it’s for,” Optimus finally says, voice teasing. Megatron flinches. Wow, Prime really was insufferable. His optics narrow, focusing on the annoying oscillation of the vocal lines.
“I don’t care,” Megatron lies. He bares his dentae in a silent snarl. “I’m not interested in whatever poor mech got you to write stupid drivel about them.”
“Poor mech, huh?” Optimus chuckles sadly. “Yeah, you got that right.”
“Anybody would be poor if they were loved by the likes of you,” Megatron grunts. He doesn’t like the way Optimus sounds now, like he’s overcome by some unnamed sorrow. Megatron feels a little guilty. “What, are they dead?”
“No, not exactly,” Optimus murmurs. The pause stretches, giving time for another hot coil of jealousy to seed itself into Megatron’s processor.
“‘Not exactly?’ What does that mean?” Megatron asks despite himself. He doesn’t care, he really doesn’t. He’s just curious.
Optimus exhales softly, like he’s trying to pick his words carefully. “No, they’re just really far away,” he finally sighs. “Too far for me to get to them.”
Megatron scoffs. He feels a sense of victory overwhelm him. “So they’re a coward then. Couldn’t stick around,” Megatron grins. “Can’t say I’m too surprised.”
Optimus laughs softly, and it’s a sad sort of laugh. Megatron decides he prefers the other laugh more. “Maybe. Maybe they just don’t realize how much they’re missed.”
Megatron frowns, rolling his optics. His servos curl tight on his thighs. He feels a scathing remark crawl up his throat, but it dies away. He should mock the Prime for his stupid, bleeding little spark and useless poems. But instead, he sits there, seething. Because the thought of anybody else haunting Optimus like that makes him want to tear something apart.
Had he really been that easily disposed of? That Optimus had moved on just weeks later? Or was it always like this, and D-16 never had a chance to begin with?
Megatron exhales roughly. “Good riddance, then,” he says. It sounds kind, but really, he’s just trying to convince Optimus to let it go. Stop thinking about them. Think about me. “If they really mattered, they’d be there.”
Optimus smiles, optics crinkled up as coolant gathers. “Yeah?” he whispers.
“Yeah,” Megatron affirms. “So just… let it go.”
Optimus breathes out a little laugh. He feels a pain twist in his spark. He’d never let it go; he knows that. Megatron seemed adamant to believe it wasn’t about him. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It is simple,” Megatron says. He leans forward, like he’s about to deliver the final blow. “If they’re gone, if they’ve left, then it was their loss.”
Optimus smiles and closes his optics. “Yeah,” he whispers so quietly that Megatron can hardly hear him. The lines on Megatron’s HUD barely move. Optimus musters up some courage, but his voice is so soft in his own audials. “Megatron.”
“What?” Megatron responds immediately.
“It’s you.”
Two hundred and ninety-nine. Three hundred.
(Megatron isn’t sure if he’s still counting Optimus’s breathing or his own sparkbeat.)
“... What?” he manages to mumble out. He wonders if it’s the lack of recharge messing with his processor, making him dream and imagine Optimus saying ridiculous, impossible things. His voice is low and sharp.
“‘I still love you, Dee,’” Optimus mumbles. “That was the last line of the poem.”
Megatron stares at the pulsing lines on his HUD angrily. He glares at them, red optics flaring bright. He’s not sure if he should cry or yell or scream. He feels as though the universe had swallowed him whole, and suddenly, when he looks up, every star, every moon, every light becomes Optimus’s blue optics.
His vocalizer crackles. “I killed you,” he manages to grit out.
“I know.” Optimus’s voice is hauntingly beautiful. Megatron feels coolant gathering in his optics, and he blinks them away in a dizzying attempt to stay angry. His vision blurs for a moment.
“I betrayed you.”
“I know.”
“You don’t love me.”
“I do,” Optimus mumbles, almost ashamed. “I do,” he echoes like a prayer.
His voice is like static, but it’s his nonetheless. Megatron feels every breath from Optimus in his very spark, almost as though he were pressed chassis to chassis right in front of him.
Three hundred and thirteen. He feels the words burn through his plating, and he lets the silence haunt their distance before speaking. “Why.” His voice is guttural, and he feels tears slide down his cheeks.
“Why,” he repeats, voice sharp and angry and broken now, “didn’t you tell me?” He inhales, trembling. “Why did you wait this whole time?”
Optimus looks down at his servos, wondering when they had gotten so large. “Would it have changed your mind?” he asks quietly.
“Of course it—I wouldn’t have—it—!” Megatron stammers, cutting himself off. He breathes heavily, anger pumping through his wiring. How dare Optimus decide what was good for him. His vents stutter as he tries to come up with something to retort with.
But he wonders, would he have really changed? Would it have mattered if Orion Pax had told D-16 he loved him, even with the gun pointed at Sentinel’s spark? Would he have stayed then? Listened?
He grits his dentae, biting back insults. He wipes the hot tears trailing down his cheeks and exhales pathetically. “I wouldn’t have—do you think I would’ve done all of that if—” he snaps, louder this time and with more conviction. His voice breaks. “If I’d known.”
Silence presses heavily between them, only interrupted by Optimus’s uneven breathing. Megatron counts. Three hundred and fifty-four. “I guess we’ll never know,” Optimus whispers, and Megatron has nothing to counter with.
Optimus’s breathing stops for a bit. “Good night, Megatron.”
Megatron’s spark lurches. “No—!” he nearly shouts. The intense volume and panic surprise Optimus, and Megatron levels himself. “No,” he echoes quieter and calmer. “Stay.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line, and Megatron imagines Optimus blinking in surprise. Then, a small, disbelieving laugh. Warm and soft, and Megatron can relax again. “Okay,” Optimus smiles. “I’ll stay.”
Megatron doesn’t even know why the thought of Optimus hanging up strikes him so violently, but it does. He doesn’t want to be alone right now, and he certainly doesn’t want to make the same mistake again.
“You’re very demanding for someone who doesn’t care,” Optimus teases, that playful tone seeping back into his voice. Almost like nothing had just happened.
“Shut up,” Megatron shoots back, heat crawling onto his cheeks. Optimus just hums in response. He lets the insult marinate for a moment before speaking again. “... I miss you.”
“I miss you, too,” Optimus responds quickly, like it was the easiest, most natural thing in the world. Megatron bites his bottom lip and counts.
“I’m… glad you called,” Megatron tries again.
“I am, too.” The silence settles again. Megatron isn’t sure what he’s waiting for. He flexes his servo and traces a digit along his knee joint. He opens his mouth once, then closes it. This was stupid. Stupid. He was being stupid.
“I love you,” he blurts. This time, Optimus’s response is slower. In fact, there’s nothing but silence on the other end for a while. Megatron checks the line and continues. “I always have. And… I’m sorry. For everything.”
Megatron braces for rejection. For this all to be a trick. For the line to sever and for Optimus to never call him again. But none of that happens. Optimus just exhales, soft and steady. “I love you, too, Megatron. And I’m sorry, too.”
Megatron closes his optics and imagines Optimus in front of him. His servo cupping Megatron’s jaw as he whispers those words over and over again.
“I’m sorry,” Megatron whispers again. “Optimus. Orion.”
Optimus closes his optics and imagines Megatron leaning his helm onto his pauldron, face wet with tears and arms wrapped around his waist.
“I know, Dee,” Optimus murmurs. “It’s okay. Just come home.”
Megatron nods as though Optimus could see, but the Prime knows the silence means he will. And he will. Megatron finally laughs, a quiet, breathless gasp. Incredulous and disbelieving, but genuine.
Megatron presses the back of his servos to his optics, smearing away the last of his tears. “I wish you were here,” he says. “So I can make fun of your awful poetry to your face.”
Optimus giggles, wiping his own tears away. “You’re the worst.”
Megatron just smiles because he knows he will be there tomorrow. He’ll get to see Optimus again and probably kiss him, just to make up for lost time. He’ll strangle the imaginary bot fighting for his rightful love, and he’ll learn how to beat Optimus in those stupid racing games.
He’ll write poetry with Optimus, and they’ll start a library again. A real one, not like the dark and dusty Archives.
He’ll love Optimus, and he’ll call him again, because four hundred breaths was all it took for him to realize it.