Harmony

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

PG
IDW
Drift/Wing minor OCs
more sap.Table: Talent; prompt: Song
 

 

Drift trailed after Wing, floating in his wake like any other useless, unwanted thing.  Apparently ‘They’ had decreed that the two of couldn’t be separated. Wing had offered to cancel his plans, stay home with Drift, when he’d expressed opposition to going to something that sounded so fraggin’ stupid.  But the only thing worse than going to this ‘concert’ would be sitting around staring at each other knowing Drift had pettishly ruined Wing’s good time.  Whatever. So his job was to stay out of the way, quiet.  Fine.

Still, it was hard to bear in some ways: following Wing, he couldn’t help but notice all the warm looks, the friendly greetings, one or two embraces, that would all wither and chill as the gazes, blue, gold, red, slid back to…Drift. 

And Wing, of course, circled an arm over Drift’s shoulders, pulling him forward, introducing him as ‘my friend, Drift’, determined to include him, even when Drift wanted most of all to recede, his dark armor blending into the shadows.

“And, Drift,” Spire said, coolly, “Do you like music?”

Drift shrugged.  “Don’t know.” An honest answer.  No music in the gutters. No music in the Decepticon training, unless you counted the rhythmic fire of large caliber repeaters, and melody of small arms fire, shrieking of the wounded. 

Wing’s smile brightened. “He’s never heard it!”  As though this were some impossibility to them, some sort of charming naivete.  “This will be his very first time.”  He beamed, proud, somehow possessive, as though introducing this frivolity to Drift was somehow something to be incredibly pleased about.

Ignorance, Drift thought, they’re mocking my ignorance. But it was impossible to take offense to Wing’s warm ebullience. 

“Really?”  And Spire’s gaze changed, less cold, but even more aware of the wall of difference between them.  On his side, Drift and all his knowledge of war and death and violence, on their side, frilly energon and music and friendly sparring matches.

Why did Drift’s side suddenly seem so empty? 

He felt himself frown at his own thoughts.  “Yes,” he managed, tightly, an admission of something already admitted. Trying.  Trying to reach out, to be civil. For Wing’s sake. 

“That seems…really sad.”  Another stranger, armor a bright, peacock teal, head tilting.  Drift stiffened. “But, you had art? Entertainments?”

Drift rocked, helpless. “Not…where I lived.”  There were ‘entertainments’ of a sort in the gutters.  Gambling, of a dangerous and desperate sort, prostitution, the temporary escape of chemicals.  But they seemed dirty now, petty and mean and small, and almost obscene to consider in the glittering warm light of the concert hall. 

“Ah,” the green stranger said. “War, I imagine.” He nodded. 

Drift’s optics flicked almost desperately to Wing. Not…quite.  But he really didn’t want to talk about it.  Any of it. 

“Drift’s experiences are fascinating,” Wing said, smoothly, sliding one hand around Drift’s waist.  Normally Drift would have balked at the contact—in public—but here it felt soothing, reassuring. “But perhaps now is not the time to discuss them, Brightsky?” 

The green mech, Brightsky, nodded. “Of course.  The idea is just…fantastic; you’ll have to forgive me.”

Don’t ‘have’ to do anything, Drift thought, but squirmed under the glow of Brightsky’s apology, as if trying to move an uncomfortable burden. “Don’t worry about it.”  

Wing said some other inconsequential polite thing, before guiding Drift away.  “I apologize,” he said, softly, tilting his head so that the sound traveled only to Drift’s audio.  “You see we are…sheltered.” 

Drift said nothing, hearing an admission, a ripple of Wing’s quiet discontent under the words.  Having traveled to the surface, he remembered more clearly than the others that there was a world out there, beyond them, civilizations and societies that were keenly different.  Wing didn’t understand, but he came closer than the others.  “I’m fine.” 

“I know,” and Wing’s smile resettled itself in familiar, teasing lines.  “Now.”  He gestured Drift up into the seats—long, wide benches arranged in a semi-circle around the performance area.  Wing paused, tilting his head, as if testing something, before leading Drift to one of the benches with an air of satisfaction. “Here.” 

Drift  dropped down beside him. “So…what.”

“What?  We listen.”  Wing gestured toward the musicians assembling in the center area.  At least, Drift guessed they were musicians.  If not, they were carrying some of the most fragile, ungainly, and useless-looking weapons Drift had ever seen. 

“Listen.”

“Listen and feel.”  Wing’s smile quirked. 

Great. Two things that were…not really Drift’s strengths.  Still, he’d manage.  He could keep quiet, at least. 

It began. The…’music’.  Drift heard sounds floating in the air, running over his audio.  Running up and down some chain of tones, over some sort of rhythmic…something.  So this was music.  Drift…did not get it.  He really did not understand, glancing at Wing, the white jet’s rapturous expression, enthralled entirely, his characteristic smile softened to something like a blurry bliss.

He shifted on the bench, bored, as the music went on and on.  How long was this going to last? He wanted to ask Wing, but at the same time, he didn’t want to disturb him.  Wing was obviously enjoying something about this whole thing and Drift had just enough consideration—and that hard-won and fragile at best—not to want to sour Wing’s mood.

Drift settled on watching Wing, studying the lines of his armor, the pinions of his shoulders, the sleek flow of his chassis down to his waist, the curves of his thighs, the half-arcs of the stabilizers on his knees.  Drift did not understand music, and didn’t really understand beauty, but at least he could see beauty. It was probably an impure appreciation, since he wanted to touch, to own, in a way that was impossible to own merely notes on air.

His optics drifted to the mech’s face, the full lines of Wing’s mouth, the drowsy tilt of his half-lidded optics, the long sweep of his helm’s nasal.  He wanted to touch him, could feel the desire to touch Wing build up in him, like a kind of pressure. 

He rocked forward, suddenly, restless, fighting the urge. Wing’s optics flicked open, his head tilting at Drift, curious, confused, a mute question on his lips. 

Drift straightened, turning his attention—with force—back to the musicians, trying to grab some hold in the music, some snatch of melody that made sense to him: self-conscious, caught out.

He twitched, feeling a hand brush over his, fingertips probing into his palm, begging for admission.  Drift’s optics flew around the room, to see if anyone had seen, but he spread his fingers, feeling the black palm slide over his, the fingers twining with his.  He felt his ventilation hitch from the contact. 

And then—a sharp line of something like pain over his wrist. His optics jumped downward, catching sight of a silver tendril from Wing’s wrist snaking into his own, one thin, tentative hardline connection.  A query popped up on his HUD, asking access.  He granted it, swiftly, forcing himself not to think about what the speed of his assent meant, trying to convince himself it was merely curiosity, nothing more.

The hand tightened in his, in soft affection, and it struck Drift, as a systems-access query blipped up next, that Wing was trusting him, just as much, letting a stranger, a Decepticon at that, have access to his sensor feed.

Drift felt a sudden rush of color and physical sensation—brushes soft as feathers, hard feelings, smooth and rounded like river stones. Wing’s reaction, Wing’s response to the music, shared through the hardline link, light and touch and smell and movement, and something even more, even deeper, under the bright show:  emotion.  Wing’s emotions seemed to ride the music, swelling up an arpeggio with a kind of bold pride, sliding into bittersweet minors, into gentle, rocking valleys of sound that seemed like weeping and consolation both together, inextricable.

This, then, was music.  Against which his own response seemed paltry, ignorant.  And he wanted to feel this…forever.  He understood, now, Wing’s bliss, even though he didn’t understand, at all, what it would take to be so open, so crystalline pure that mere vibrations of air could summon emotions Drift didn’t even have names for.

Another query, an offer to disconnect the feed, to return him to his privacy, to cut him off from this glorious experience, immanence, the most bright aliveness he could ever imagine, to where notes were just tones in air, the world somehow flat and dim. Disconnect hardline transfer protocol:  Y/N?

N.

 

Comments

[akufu.livejournal.com]

Aww This one is so very cute <3
Love how you write Drifts reaction to the other Mechs and Wings try to be polite but still always taking care as good as he can, that Drift dosen't feel uncomfortable.

[gatekat.livejournal.com]

This was a really great scene. Not just the contrast between the two, which was delightful, but also getting a bit more Drift/other interaction.

[playswithworms.livejournal.com]

Aww, I do adore your sap <3 Although this line:

If not, they were carrying some of the most fragile, ungainly, and useless-looking weapons Drift had ever seen.

made me giggle (though I suspect it would start getting more sad, instead of funny, if I let myself ponder it too long). It's funny how easy it feels to get in both their heads, despite their different perspectives. Hmm. Insert more profound stuff here *handwavey*

And I love the simple "N" at the end ^^

[ravynfyre.livejournal.com]

This one gives me warm fuzzies. The idea of Drift getting his first real experience with *culture* with Wing is sweet enough, but getting to feel it how Wing feels it...

And that ending was just perfection to me.

[anavidbookworm.livejournal.com]

What a breathtaking description of music and its effects on a person. I'm just floored by the beauty of it all.