Beaux Arts

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

PG
IDW
Drift, Wing
talking

The world was white and red in front of Drift’s recharge-bleared optics.  And it smelled of the sharp tang of jet engine. And vibrated with the almost shimmering idle that he implicitly associated with Wing.

He was curled on his side, the jet sprawled over him, one long leg slung over Drift’s hips, his hand lying lightly over the arm Drift had wrapped around the sleek white chassis.  It was a needy position, clinging to the jet, his own leg threaded through Wing’s, face nearly buried in a shoulder nacelle. Needy, weak. 

But he couldn’t tear himself away, actually found himself nuzzling into the nacelle, the round swell of his cheek armor sliding over a flattened pinion.  His spark seemed to tremble, surging, stirring in its chamber, warm and moving and entirely unfamiliar.  His hand slid back, palm flat over Wing’s chassis, swearing he could feel the soft thrum of Wing’s own spark chamber. A deep vent rattled through his system.

The soft idle revved under his palm. Wing’s gold optics began to warm and glow behind the still lidded shutters, turning toward Drift.  A smile curved over the exquisite mouthplates, even as Drift withdrew.

The hand closed over the back of his. “You don’t have to move,” Wing said, his voice soft and chalky, undercharged. Drift hesitated, feeling caught out, clinging to the jet even in his recharge. It would  probably look worse if he pulled away entirely. No, he wasn’t clinging. He was just…possessive. That was it. 

He pushed forward, on that note, mouth covering the still warming mouthplates. Wing gave a pleased sound in his vocalizer,  hand coming up to stroke Drift’s helm as Drift pushed his glossa past the lip plates, tasting the rising ozone charge of a mech coming out of recharge.

Wing’s body turned toward his, hand stroking down the deep spaulder. Drift pulled away, slowly, almost…bemused. He wanted Wing, but…not that way right now. 

A smile dawned on Wing’s face.  “You look thoughtful.”

Drift blinked. “No,” he said, quickly.  “Just looking.”

The smile broadened. “Me too.” 

Drift felt his spark surge at the words, at the idea that Wing might actually want him.  His body bore the physical evidence of it, but still, hearing it…was different.

Wing bumped his head up from the berth against Drift’s mouth, a quick, almost chaste kiss that still sent sparks of light and color and pleasure over Drift’s net. “What shall we do today?”

Drift’s optics shuttered, his frame yearning against Wing’s, for a moment lost from the question. “I…I don’t know, “ he managed.

“The museum,” Wing said, optics bright, one hand slicking down Drift’s hip, his own leg still draped over Drift’s body.  “I think you’d like it.” 

“Museum.”

“We preserve the history of Cybertron there.”

“This whole city does that.”

A teasing flare of the optics, one shoulder pinion spreading. “We try to keep the Cybertron we knew alive.  This is history, older than that.”

Drift shrugged, some of the delight fading. “Don’t know any history.” Just…the gutters. Time seemed frozen down there, news of the Senate, of the world above, floating down like some vague fog.

Wing’s smile dimmed, briefly, as if aware of the soreness of the issue for Drift. “We can learn together,” he offered.  It was obvious and heavy-handed , but in that moment and for all that, Drift felt another rush of that strange, hard heat around his spark. 

[***]

“Nominus Prime,” Wing said, leading Drift into one of the rotundas of the building. The statue loomed over them, a steely presence.  “Successor to the Matrix after Nova’s disappearance.” There was a quiet reverence in his voice.

Drift studied the statue. It was…a mech. “Matrix.”

“The creation Matrix, Drift.”  The luminescent expression faded. “It was one relic we could not find to bring with us.”

“Instead you brought this chunk of metal.”

“No. We filled space with raw materials.” He frowned. “We took as many living mechs as we could, Drift. This was made by one of us.”

“Waste of time.”

“Beauty is never a waste.”

“Doesn’t help when you’re starving.”

“No,” Wing agreed. “It doesn’t.  But even so, it has a purpose.”  He stepped back, optics moving up to the bright clerestory, shining artificial daylight in a ring of light. “It gives us something to strive for.”

Drift snorted. “Something to do with all that free time.”

“Perhaps. But,” a challenging glint in his optics. “You had free time in the gutters. What did you do with it?”

The question startled Drift, and for a moment he was speechless, teetering on the edge of outrage: that Wing dared ask, that the question hit a sore point. Drift snapped his gaze around the room, a long frieze of what he guessed was what Cybertron looked like.  He moved over, turning his back on the question. “Trying to survive,” he muttered. Always. Still. Just trying to survive. He had no time for this, any of this. There was a war.  He needed to be fighting. Not looking at…history.

He caught a corner of one of the friezes. Altihex, Kaon. Places, names that stirred up memories. The bas relief depictions, the names, seemed to hurl him headlong back into the past. The desire for a better world so big and bright it hurt, like a swelling sun in his chassis; the urge to do, to be useful. The smell of combat—scorched energon, charred wiring, the unmistakable tang of slag-melted metal.  Even here, in this cool, sterile air, he could feel the heat from thermal bombs washing over him.

“Drift?”  Wing’s voice seemed to cut through a roar of phantom fire, the blast of ghost artillery and the illusion disappeared. 

“What?” He felt a shudder travel through him, as though hit with a sudden chill.  And he felt—more than saw—Wing’s optics move to the frieze, spot Altihex. “Long time ago,” he whispered, half to convince himself, trying to avoid looking at what he knew would be raw pain on Wing’s face.

“It was.”  The voice quivered.  Drift felt a hand creep into his, a small gesture, seeking solace.  He turned his wrist, opening his palm into Wing’s hand, threading his fingers through the others.  The least he could do.

“A lot’s happened.”  He squeezed, tugging Wing closer. 

“It has.”

A terrible silence, as Drift struggled for something to say.  He turned, slowly, forcing his optics to Wing’s face, the silver faceplates taut, stricken, the mouth parted in a restrained sob.  “Art,” he muttered, darkly, feeling the same emotions roil off Wing as had held him rapt moments ago. 

“We need this,” Wing said, leaning forward, letting his weight rest on Drift’s frame.  “We need to remember.”

“That’s what history’s for.” And ugly enough—a long string of battles, campaigns.

“No, Drift. History tells us what happened. Art,” he turned, letting his optics skim the carved stylized map, “art makes it beautiful.” 

The morning came back to him, another flood of sensation that swept him almost entirely away from the here and now: curled around Wing, as though even in his recharge clinging to something beautiful and real, something he didn’t really feel he deserved.

He pulled Wing against him, pressing his face against that same shoulder, nestling between the hard round bulge of the nacelle and Wing’s throat, pulling Wing’s hand around him.  Wing’s other arm came up around Drift’s shoulder, cautious, curious, but accepting. And Drift felt the mouth against his own shoulder curve into a gentle smile. 

Comments

[eerian_sadow]

*wibbles*

[tainry.livejournal.com]

Lovely, and I like just sleepy snuggles, too. :D
And art conveys how we feel about what happened. Nonverbal communication across time and space.
Current reading has illustrated how important empathy is, in human endeavors of all kinds. ^_^;

[mmouse15.livejournal.com]

I like it when you need fluff, 'cause you do it so very well.

Thank you.

[birdiebot.livejournal.com]

Your Drift/Wing is so beautiful! Gahhhh *dies of happiness*