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Ratchet didn’t know if this was real.
He had no one to confirm. Everyone was gone. The children were sleeping in their own beds and the team was on patrols. Optimus and Ratchet were alone for the first time in a month. Ratchet had been in recovery, his brush with synthetic energon leaving him weak and brittle. His frame had healed after many long nights, and the last of the symptoms of withdrawal ebbed. He felt like himself for the first time in a long time. Of course, he also felt the crushing embarrassment, but that was to be expected. They forgave him. He focused on that.
And suddenly Optimus was there and was confessing and they were an archivist and a medical student again, young and in love.
The Prime looked ready to bolt, face scrunched in shame like he had something to be ashamed about. His fists clenched and unclenched at his side, and Ratchet couldn’t help but think back to the last time this had happened—to that day in the archives, long after closing, where Orion had fumbled through reason after logical reason why they should be together. Optimus wasn’t fumbling. Optimus was stating facts.
I still love you. I thought you were gone, and I thought I was too, and I now know I still love you.
Who the hell says that? Who walks up to a mech after four million years, and says that?
I understand if you can’t; if Orion is the only mech your spark belongs to. I accept that. But I do love you, Ratchet. I always have.
This couldn’t be real. They couldn’t. The Council—the Primes—there were too many mechs standing in their way to push aside. They couldn’t.
But Ratchet still held one arm out, reaching for that which he couldn’t have. An invitation to disprove his understanding. Searching for any excuse, any damnable reason, to take back that which his spark craved the most.
Optimus came to him. He always did. He placed himself in Ratchet’s hold, gazing down at him as though he held the answers to every question he’d ever asked.
“Prove it.”
His whispered tone gave Optimus pause, scanning for further understanding.
“Prove you love me.”
He tilted his helm to give him better access. Optimus understood then. He always did, if you gave him time.
He kissed Ratchet like he was the last drop of energon on Cybertron—hungry and desperate, yet slow and savoring. Like he didn’t know what would be there tomorrow, whether he would wake to the same lazy air that filtered through their vents now or to an empty berth, left starving in a barren wasteland.
That was it. That was love. That was proof.
Ratchet was sure to let only one tear fall before pressing against him, shutting his optics tight and trying to remember if this was what it felt like all those years ago; if he could feel the longing and desire and pure love in nothing but a colliding of the dermas. He couldn’t. Maybe this was different, maybe this was the same. But whatever it was, it was new. They were old, but this was new.
Before he realized it, he had wrapped his arms around Optimus’ neck, pulling him down and impossibly closer. The desperation was taking over, pouring into every circuit and punishing kiss. Optimus’ servos were at his waist, clutching him just tight enough.
He doesn’t know how long they were there, in the cold and sickening lighting of their medical bay. Too long. Not long enough. He was dizzy with the force of the future—with the realization there might be a future. They stumbled for a moment, drowning in the same dawning cognizance, before finding their rhythm once again.
There were no words needed. Their movement in the direction of the berthrooms was inevitable, and Ratchet was happy to lead the process. It was tedious work due to the lack of interest in untangling from whatever this was, but they made it work. Tripping over each other as they drifted through hallways, light as air, pausing only for the soft chuckles as they bumped olfactory sensors and walls. Primus, he sounded beautiful laughing. He sounded beautiful, period. Optimus made the final decision for them, Ratchet’s room, as their glossa’s intertwined; they tasted each other like they were the finest high-grade in the universe.
Ratchet’s door slid open, allowing the pair to shuffle inside and close it behind them. Pitch black darkness swallowed them, the light of their optics the only sign they were together. There was a pause then, Optimus drawing his helm away from the doctor’s.
“May I turn on the lights? I will keep them dim,” he asked, separating from his medic.
“S-sure. Why?”
He did keep them dim, very dim. But now they could see each other. The illusion of them being just some young mechs fumbling around in the dark lost in a thin layer of warm lighting.
“I want to see you,” he said.
I want to make sure you’re really there, he didn’t.
He returned to Ratchet, burying his derma in the crook of his shoulder, planting soft kisses up and down the mesh. The medic stretched, allowing his lover to slot in as though he were forged there. A sharp pant fell from Ratchet as he once again threw his arms around Optimus, digits digging into his elbows.
“Are your—are your preferences still the same?” Optimus asked, restraint tightening his every cable.
“Yes, yes,” Ratchet said, almost exasperated. He wanted to start already. He wanted to begin again, to define what it meant to make love. He had been waiting for so damn long now. It could be slow when it started—but right now, he was tired of being patient.
Optimus seemed to echo this sentiment. He was ginger in lowering Ratchet to the berth taking up most of the room, a berth big enough for two yet always empty. It creaked as Optimus planted his knees on either side of the medic, dragging him into another soft kiss.
They weren’t rushed. It wasn’t hot and heavy like Ratchet would have wanted a couple millenia ago. It was tentative, caring. And sure, he wanted Optimus to get on with it and start fragging him already, but this wasn’t bad. They were leisured, maybe for different reasons, but to the same end.
Optimus pulled away, leaving a trail of kisses down his front. He felt his Prime’s digits on his helm, and felt them move in the same direction, gingerly gliding over him. Once he reached the medic’s tanks, he moved no further, pretending to be content to mouth over the mesh there.
He was scared. Ratchet knew he was scared—from the way his servos trembled as they skimmed each inch of his frame, committing to memory his scars and blemishes.
From the way he treated him—like each inch was glass, afraid to dig in and shatter him.
From the way he moved—careful to make no sudden moves, to allow time for Ratchet to say no, like that word was anywhere near his mind.
Ratchet couldn’t help but reach out and take his helm in both servos, directing his gaze to his medic with gentle optics.
“You won’t break me. I'm not trying to get up and leave,” he joked, but he wasn’t joking and Optimus knew he wasn’t either.
There was something pained in his Prime’s face, something angry. Ratchet understood that frustration to in no way be pointed at him, but at himself. Of course, he was scared. This was a new frame. A frame forged to hurt. And Ratchet could analyze the final emotion in those optics—Optimus was tired of seeing Ratchet hurt.
“I swear I’ll tell you if it hurts, okay?” he said, cupping his cheek. He felt Optimus lean into the touch, ever suffering.
“What if—”
“Don’t. Let this martyr complex of yours go. Not tonight... not here.”
After a moment, the Prime offered a curt nod and a tight smile to his doctor before continuing downward. Ratchet knew where this was going; he remembered how the nights played out before. It was comforting to know Optimus did too.
Dipping off the foot of the berth, his Prime knelt in front of him, almost reverent, kissing the inside of his thighs and spreading him open. Ratchet went without a fight. Tonight was not a night for teasing, for giggling over bad roleplay, or for borderline-painful edging. It would be mellow tonight.
Ratchet’s panel was open, valve glistening with lubricant, before he even touched it. It would have been funny how emotional Optimus looked at the sight of it if it wasn’t so devastating. He glanced up at Ratchet, waiting for approval. With a brief nod, Optimus began to kiss the folds, drawing another gasp from his medic, before burying his glossa in and lapping him up.
“Ohh, Optimus…” Ratchet prayed up into the air, arching into the touch and blindly reaching down. He felt the crest of his Prime’s helm, laying his servo over it while applying no pressure. His other servo fisted the covers, determined not to silence himself. Optimus deserved to hear everything he was doing to the doctor. He’d earned that much.
Optimus continued to lick him open, causing the trembling medic to moan. Just his glossa felt like it was reaching so deep—reminding Ratchet of just how long it’s been since he’d slept with someone. His Prime hummed, the vibrations spawning a jolt and cry. Ratchet wasn’t loud, but Optimus was reacting to the noises drifting from him, diving in deeper. The medic heard Optimus’ panel open, and felt his mouth water in anticipation.
Optimus wasn’t rushed, optics closed save to meet Ratchet’s on occasion. Both their vents were uneven, unstable. Ratchet felt overload creeping up on him.
“W-wait, wait.”
Optimus was off him in an instant, fear flooding his vision.
“I-I’m close, and I want you in me, please.”
His Prime’s tension drained from his shoulders, and he stood to once again encompass the doctor. At the sight of his face, Ratchet let out an honest and sudden laugh. Optimus arched an eyebrow, which had Ratchet biting back more laughter.
“S-sorry, you—you have something there…” he reached up and rubbed some of the smeared transfluid on his lips off, choking back further giggles. With a subtle roll of the optics, Optimus dipped down and nuzzled Ratchet’s cheek, dying it pink, a smile the doctor hadn’t seen in years plastered on his face. How long had it been since they laughed together? Since they had had something to laugh over? Primus, if only they had done this years ago. Maybe they would be a little happier now.
Ratchet’s optics caught Optimus’ spike for a brief moment. Something akin to relief flooded through his systems, not because he knew he could take it, but because it was familiar. Because it was just Orion’s, but larger, and Ratchet was so very sentimental. He couldn’t help but kiss him then, tasting himself on his glossa.
“Please, Optimus,” he whispered against his mouth, wanting.
“I need you.”
Ratchet watched as Optimus’ optics wavered, thick with emotions both positive and negative. His servos shook on either side of his lover before Ratchet placed one of his own over them. He didn’t know if he was doing it right, but he tried to pour every ounce of love he had onto his face. He needed Optimus to see how much he was needed, not just as a leader, but as him.
He saw it. A single tear fell before the Prime gathered himself and kissed Ratchet again.
Optimus lined himself up on feel alone, with nothing but the mere memory of his former lover's frame. If they hadn’t done this before, maybe Ratchet would be nervous about that—but Optimus knew him, and he knew Optimus. There was a trust that no mech around them had ever understood, nor deserved to. They alone circled in each other’s orbit, eternally linked and caught in each other's gravity.
He slid in slow and steady, allowing Ratchet to acclimate to his new size. Ratchet gasped, a quiet moan slipping out of him unbidden. Until Optimus had him sheathed to the hilt, and it felt like they fit together like a key in a lock. Unique to each other, destined to connect. They panted in unison. Ratchet reached up and took Optimus’ neck in his arms once more, staring into the lust-blown optics of his Prime.
“Are you—”
“Move,” Ratchet demanded.
He slid his spike out until only the tip was caught in Ratchet’s entrance, pushing it back in, and then out. Again and again, each thrust reaching his deepest internals. The doctor cried out with every drag, gripping his arms so hard he was sure he was drawing energon. Optimus’ harsh grunts echoed in his audials; a sound more heavenly than any speech any Prime had ever given.
It wasn’t anything world-shattering. It was simple and soft. A promise of a new beginning. A new life for them. Ratchet had had his wild days, and he knew Optimus had too. They’d both had the kind of sex that had you coming undone. This wasn’t anything special, yet he knew it was the best either of them had ever had.
Because this held them together. This was them, finally, after all the quiet nights alone and the whispered ‘I love you’s never spoken.
Ratchet held tight—fearing he might fly away.
“Ratchet, I’m—”
“Me—ah! Me, too—”
Optimus picked up speed, not much, but enough for them to know they were almost over the edge. Ratchet pulled him into another kiss, this one bruising, to hide the tears springing to his optics. To hide the fact that this was the happiest the doctor had been in as long as he could remember.
Optimus made him happy for all those years. Just not like this.
They both overloaded with a shout, taut against each other and in perfect sync. Ratchet felt Optimus spill into him, and the tears fell. Before Optimus opened his optics to look at his medic, he released his arms and wiped them away. This moment wouldn’t be ruined by misinterpretation.
In their youthful days, they would have gone all night, relentless and powerful because they would be that young forever, wouldn’t they? But they weren’t Orion Pax, the archivist, and Ratchet, the medical student anymore. They were old mechs, hanging on by a thread, having somehow made it this far despite all probability saying they shouldn’t have. Four million, two hundred seventy-two thousand, six hundred eighty-nine years later, and they were still here. And Primus, were they exhausted.
Ratchet snapped his panel shut the second Optimus pulled out of him, trapping the transfluid inside him and saving himself from having to clean up a mess. Shuffling to the side to give him more room, Optimus collapsed beside him. They faced each other, lying on their sides. They both wore gentle smiles and disbelieving optics, panting slowly. A comfortable silence settled over them, and Ratchet felt himself begin to drift off. Before he could, he felt his leader’s servo drape over his shoulder.
“May I stay, old friend?”
Huh. That wasn’t going anywhere then.
“You’d better. I’ll kill you if you leave,” he murmured, dragging himself into the Prime’s awaiting arms. Optimus let out an amused exhale before wrapping himself around Ratchet, one arm under and one over.
“Okay then—I’ll stay.”
Those words were filled with more promise than a single night, and in shock, he glanced up to ask if Optimus meant what he dreamed he meant. But he was already out, an old mech at spark, despite his Primely appearance. Ratchet watched him, afraid to move, terrified to end the moment.
This was real, he thought, brushing the back of his servo against Optimus’ face, drenched in peace. The tears sprang to his optics before he could stop them, heavy and joyous. It was real, and the world hadn’t burned. The team wasn’t dead; the Primes hadn’t come back to life to put a stop to it.
This was real, and this was possible.
Ratchet, smile still on his face, cried in silence under the weight of it all. Under the weight of possibility.