Proximity

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

M
IDW
Drift/Wing
pnp sex, spark bonding,
for the tf_rare_pairing Five Firsts challenge.

FIRST KISS

Another punch went wide, aiming squarely for Wing’s chassis, but suddenly, Wing just…wasn’t there.  As though he could teleport, or something.  Drift had never fought anyone with such reflexes. 

He staggered forward from the momentum of the unlanded blow, already braced, but unable to stop what happened next: Wing taking advantage of his exposed side, his thrown balance. 

Drift had learned that much—to predict Wing’s attacks.  All it meant was Wing wasn’t having to try very hard.  The arm hooked under his ribstruts, flinging him backward.

Drift slammed back against the wall, his helm rocking back, hands curled into helpless claws.  Wing could see the frustration, almost like an electrical field, shimmering over him, crackling, hot and angry. 

“You’re improving,” Wing said, quietly, stepping forward to close the distance between them.

Drift swore. “No point to it.”

The gold optics tilted. “Not giving up, are you?” Half-teasing, half-curious. He had no basis of comparison: he hadn’t seen a Decepticon in millennia. 

The mouth flattened into a scowl Wing was growing all too familiar with, to the point that it was becoming—almost--endearing. “No.”

Wing smiled. “Good.” He stepped back. “Ready for more?”

Drift snarled, launching himself off the wall, realizing even as he did that he was giving into emotion, letting fury guide him. 

Fury had gotten him so far, though. 

“Ah!” Wing caught him, deftly, spinning on his heel, flinging Drift to the ground.  “You let your anger guide you, Drift.”  He dropped one knee onto Drift’s frame, the arc of the stabilizer resting on the chassis. “Anger serves no one: you end up serving it.”

Sometimes it was hard to feel that he was anything but rage incarnate, and that rage had protected him for so long. He bucked up, trying to throw the jet’s weight off him. 

Wing rode the push easily.  “You see? You push away.  Notice.” Wing dropped forward, his chassis landing hard on Drift’s, the knee between Drift’s upraised thighs.  The voice dropped, soft and sensual. “Notice how often I pull you toward me, to get control?”

And he was right—every touch of Wing’s on him pulled closer, before throwing him. Drift growled, hating that he hadn’t even noticed, resenting his own stupidity.  That was, of course, the point Wing was always trying to make: how narrow, how blind Drift was. Drift shifted, but his hands were caught between their frames, and Wing reached down, wrapping his wrists around them.  “Let go,” Wing said, and the optics swam huge before Drift’s new ones.  “Let go, Drift.”

It made no sense, until Drift saw that his hands were balled into fists so tight the metal plates had nearly locked, the servos trembling from strain.  The hands released, slowly, almost painfully,  the mouth flat and tight.

And Wing leaned forward, abruptly, just as he’d said, pulling Drift closer to get control, and his mouth found the hard, tight lip plates.  His own were warm, gentle against Drift’s, his EM field seeming to envelope the other mech in a warm, tingling blanket.  “You won’t fall apart,” Wing murmured, “If you let go.”

Drift sucked in a vent of air, startled, his mouth parting under the sudden kiss.  Not so sure of that, he thought, but his hands turned from fists to tentative fingertips, feathering against the white armor.

FIRST INTERFACE (PNP)

“Better?”  Wing sat back, one last fingertip-swipe over the patch tape. 

“I’m fine,” Drift said, turning his head away. Sometimes Wing was just too beautiful to look at—it hurt his optics.  Must be something wrong with them, he kept trying convince himself: poorly calibrated or something. But the fact remained that sometimes, looking at Wing, nearly incandescent in his whiteness…hurt somewhere deep inside Drift’s frame.

“I know,” Wing said, his mouth curling into a soft smile. “I don’t like to see you hurt, though.”

“Not hurt.” Drift’s body betrayed him, flinching aside as Wing reached for the shoulder he’d just patch taped. 

“You are far too hard on yourself,” Wing said, the smile fading a bit at the edges. Not entirely, just losing some wattage. Drift felt a sudden regret sucked out of him at the fade. 

“Pain doesn’t matter,” Drift said, trying to wipe away the regret. “My pain doesn’t.”

“It does.” Wing leaned forward, earnestly, and Drift barely had time to brace himself for the kiss.  He heard his own ventilation, his hands clinging, as though picking up from the first time, as Wing came closer, their mouths meeting. Wing pushed farther, and Drift felt himself leaning backwards, until his spaulders bumped the berth.

Wing chirred, his wings flaring loosely from their mountings, one palm striking the berth next to Drift’s frame. “I don’t want you to hurt, Drift,” he said, the words soft between them, like a gossamer promise.  

Drift could summon no response other than to clutch the jet closer, his hands greedy on the teasing, flared wings. He had no idea what would happen, when it would end, so he snatched at what he could, the same way, back in the gutters all those ages ago, he snatched at any crumb of food.

Wing growled into the kiss, a feral hunger surging through his own systems, as his hands scrambled down the frame, seeking the interface hatch.  “I want you,” Wing said, frantic, optics flaring, bright and wild.  Asking permission, as much as confessing.

Drift growled back: as close to coherence as he could manage, his own hands searching the sleek white frame, his body shivering with want.

Wing’s hatch popped open, his cable spilling into Drift’s clumsy hand.  Drift shivered as his hatch was opened, Wing’s hand silky over the cable, stroking down the length, untangling it with gentle strokes that sent waves of shivery pleasure over Drift’s net.

Their hands bumped together, eager, nervous. They gasped as the cable connectors made contact, Wing’s voice a high, sudden squeak. 

Drift pulled the jet down, rolling to one side, so that both of them had hands free, each others’ bodies free to be explored. His hands stroked down the frame, his legs sliding between the jet’s thighs, trying to slide his armor over as much of Wing’s as possible.

He felt the first drop of firewalls, and Wing’s sensory feed melded with his own. Every touch was magnified, echoed, each stroke of a fingertip, slide of a plane of armor was redoubled, the contact resonating through both systems. 

It had been…too long, Drift thought, too long since he’d trusted anyone enough to get this close, too long since he’d allowed himself this release. He growed, yanking the jet’s body against his, his mouth fierce on the soft kiss yielding before him. Wing arched, squirming against him, his own hands clinging and soft, seeking the smallest gaps in Drift’s armor, finding as if on instinct the pools of charge, sensitive seams.  Drift felt the overload rising toward him like a wave, lifting him up, away from himself, swirling him higher on a tide of pure sensation.

And then dropping as Wing dropped another firewall.

The jet’s emotional array swept through him like a wall of pure data, and he felt…things he didn’t even have names for, emotions too delicate for him to describe, color and texture and smell, an entire world of experience. He knew his was small and thin by comparison—hatred and rage, stubbornness and arrogance.  He…couldn’t reciprocate, didn’t want Wing to see how small and mean he really was compared to this…

…magnificence.

The overload crashed over him with the word, with the thought, and he came to himself clinging to the jet, a soundless keen cycling from his vocalizer, and the jet’s arms were gentle and strong around his frame.

FIRST CONFESSION

Wing handed another cube to Drift, with a drowsy, slightly overcharged smile.  “Beautiful night, yes?”

Drift shrugged, taking the cube, and leaning back against the raw ashlar, still radiating the day’s warmth, even though they were surrounded by the indigo fabric of night. “Guess so.” 

Wing tilted his head up, gold optics studying the spangled dome above them. “So many worlds up there.  It’s hard not to feel…insignificant.”

“We are,” Drift said.  “You, me. Nothing matters.  We’re just expendable.” 

“Ah,” Wing took a long sip of his cube. He seemed to forget—or ignore—Drift’s comment, but after a long moment, he said, as if beginning a new conversation entirely, “Up close they are so different—massive seas of boiling plasma, violent and churning.”

It sounded like poetry. Drift waited.

“But,” a tilt of the head. “From a distance, they’re so small, and…serene.”  Another flash of a smile, this time aimed at Drift, and he felt as though, in that instant, he was looking into the heart of a star.

“…never saw any stars on Cybertron,” he said, lamely, hating to follow up Wing’s words with his own, halting, fumbling facts.  “First time I saw them, during the war, I…thought they were night flak.” He looked down at his cube, held in hands braced on his upraised knees, trying to ignore the rush of heat on his cheekplates.  “Stupid.”  Himself, the war. All of it.

An evening-cooled hand on his wrist. “Not stupid,” Wing said. “It’s exactly what I was trying to say. We see what we’ve been trained to see.” His fingers slipped between Drift’s palm and the cube.  “You see everything as enemies.” 

Drift grunted, but  he couldn’t tear his optics away from the black fingers twining in his own, blackness among the shadows. 

FIRST SPARKBOND

The whole night was so fraught with significance, regret, the weight of memory, that Drift was surprised the entire thing didn’t shatter around him. 

Betrayed. Everything he could have had, and he had sold it out for some…past that no longer fit him, had never fit him.  He curled around himself, on Wing’s balcony, a tight knot of self-loathing, forcing his gaze to stay on the jewellike glitter of the city spread around him.  This…had been his and all this time he had never seen it.  This was what he’d always wanted, and he had destroyed it. It was like looking through the eyes of death itself—he could see it as through a lens of the future, the spires shattered, the glittering lights dark and ruined, the quiet bustle sudden and dead.

“Drift.” Wing’s voice was the voice of a ghost. Again, as though the future had folded into the present.  Drift heard a pitiful cry—his own.  What had he done?  He couldn’t bring himself to look behind him.

A hand on his spaulder, then a drop of weight, and red-bladed arms wrapped around his chassis, a face sliding against his audio. He stiffened, undeserving.

“…sorry.” The most inadequate word in the language. He gripped his hands together tighter. ‘Let go’—an echo of Wing’s voice from all those weeks ago.  Let go. 

He wished it were that easy. 

“Didn’t want this,” he breathed. Not the city, but the horrible weight of betrayal, like a stone, on his chassis. 

A sympathetic chirr. “What do you want, Drift?”

To unmake time, to undo his deed. To…unknit his entire history. To die before he could do this.  Before he could ever even see such a thing was possible, taint it with his presence. 

He gave a hiccup of despair, pathetic and small.

“May I tell you what I want?”

Drift nodded, slowly, waiting for a further burden, recrimination, braced for Wing’s hate. 

The hands tugged him back, turning him around, where Wing was kneeling behind him on the small balcony of his quarters.  “What?”

“This.”  An enigmatic smile, wrapped in dusk, that seemed lost in the sudden burst of light as the jet opened his armor, his spark’s energy and light spilling forth between them, blue and bright, like beauty made visible. 

“You can’t…,” Drift said, shrinking back.

“I do.”  Wing’s hands caught at his, pulling him forward, into the wash of light and energy. It was like interfacing, but with no firewalls—he could feel Wing’s body, Wing’s emotions and…more than that, Wing’s thoughts, his memories, his very being. “Please.” 

The word broke Drift, shattering the last of his resistance, and with a cry half of ecstasy, half of pain, his spark revealed itself, light swirling and dancing within Wing’s. 

He felt the jet’s spark probe at his, like sparring but warm and loved, felt his memories taken, explored, cherished, each held like a precious jewel, when he knew they were simply dull stones, ugly containers of paltry, pitiful events. He was too shy to explore Wing’s, letting them swirl around him in a kaleidoscope of images.

He felt a pressure, a weird sort of it, as though something were trying to lift him up, out of his frame, expand his spark from the inside, and he could feel Wing’s presence near him, around him, asking, politely, gallantly, for what he had no right to withhold.

Drift felt himself, split open, torn wide asunder. But instead of pain, it was exquisite, the annihilation of every ugliness, every doubt, within himself.  And when it was over, when he could trust himself to online his optics, bring himself to see what was before him, it was Wing, his golden optics the only light in the darkness, and his frame still trembled at the tenuous, suddenly alive bond between them.

LAST GOODBYE

Drift fell to his knees, beside the greying body of Wing, the Great Sword falling from his limp fingers.  Destiny had caught him again in its wretched, ragged claws, tearing him from the beautiful dream of Crystal City.

It had only been a dream, and like a dream, too pure and too fragile to survive, as though the beating sunlight of the desert day was enough to shred it.  Wing was dead, gone, like a mirage shimmering apart when you got too close.

Too close.

Drift clutched his chassis, hand over his spark chamber, the heavy armor over it.  Too close. Everything about Wing had been too close, always.  And he had burned, like the sun he had speculated about,  through everything Drift thought he was, leaving him charred of illusions, clutching onto the intangible real. 

“Wing,” he breathed, the word catching in the silicate grit that glittered in the setting sun, the susurrus breeze of the cooling air.

“Drift.” A sound so soft he thought it was the wind, except that it plucked at his spark like sistrum’s string. 

“I’m sorry,” Drift said, the apology, sincere enough to tear at his spark, bitter on his lip plates. The apology, again, too small for the magnitude of his transgression. Punish me, he thought. Assign me some penance for all I’ve damaged, all I’ve done.  Please. “Wing….,”

A swirl of wind, a dancing glittering eddy of air, and he felt the hardness of his spark crack open, a flash of the warmth, the acceptance, the setting sun’s gold rays becoming the gilded light of Wing’s optics on the night they had joined sparks.

“I’m here. I’m with you.” And he was. Always, the blessed penance, the nearness that held him apart. 

And he wouldn’t trade the beautiful pain of his redemption for anything.

Comments

[velvet-infinity.livejournal.com]

TT^TT

I will go and cry in my corner now...

I like the stories where wing somehow survives.

[eerian_sadow]

T___T

[ultrarodimus.livejournal.com]

*swipes at watering eyes* That was so beautiful, so sad... Poor Drift, but at least Wing will always be with him

[ravynfyre.livejournal.com]

so much crying here! Gods these were beautiful!

[silaphet.livejournal.com]

aching bliss, i love this one so. longer, richer, deeper, sadder. liberating tears.

[mmouse15.livejournal.com]

These are beautiful. Sad, too, but with joy running through the sorrow. I really enjoyed reading these stories.

[playswithworms.livejournal.com]

All so lovely *sniffle* <3

And I adore this bit particularly:
He felt the jet’s spark probe at his, like sparring but warm and loved, felt his memories taken, explored, cherished, each held like a precious jewel, when he knew they were simply dull stones, ugly containers of paltry, pitiful events.

[dryadic.livejournal.com]

I have no tissues ;_; Lovely snippets!

[abarai-san.livejournal.com]

Aah I'm crying ヽ(；▽；)ノ that was so... Awwww~! <3