Shining Jewels

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

PG
IDW prewar AU
Wing/Drift
for wind_on_wave  Follows Altihex Glow.  I hope this is what you were looking for?

Drift dreamed about the jet.  He hated the dreams as much as he longed for them: the plush sensation of the white mech’s lip plates against his own, the sultry voice like velvet stroked across his audio. In his dreams, he tangled with Wing, limbs sliding, palms flat, exploring the inviting contours of the wing panels, tracing the path of air, feeling the jet quiver and arch in response. In his dreams, he felt the satiny mouth against his, yielding and demanding by turns, offering a taste of some unimaginable richness.  In his dreams, they twined, discovering each other, body and spirit, lambent and lit, pushing toward ecstasy.

They were like jewels, or treasures, these dreams, though Drift had never seen either in life: he just  knew that the memory purges in which he lay with the jet left him feeling trembling, crystalline and alive. And he hoarded them against the dirt and gray and vulgarity of the gutters.

The gutters ruined everything, smeared with dirt and oil as though it sought to darken any glimmer of light, damp any flash of hope. 

Drift found himself wandering the higher Red Zones. Not because he wanted to be there, surrounded by things he couldn’t buy, food he couldn’t eat, friends he couldn’t pretend to have.   He had Gasket, of course, but compared to the laughing clusters of mechs who brushed past Drift as though he didn’t exist, their friendship seemed grimy and thin.

Probably my fault, Drift thought, glumly, dropping his gaze to his dented footplates. Gasket was always having to talk him out of a bad mood, or suggesting something ‘fun’ to do. No, he didn’t deserve Wing, not even that glancing promise of happiness from the Altihex festival.

Besides. Wing had forgotten all about him. He was sure of it.  Why remember two grimy guttermechs? And Wing had been drunk. 

Drift frowned. Who would even remember that much? And even the filtered sunlight from the far upper zones couldn’t pierce his mood. 

“Drift?”

Drift’s entire frame twitched, optics searching. Who?  That wasn’t Gasket’s voice. And Security forces didn’t ask your name in that soft way.

A flash of gold optics, achingly familiar, from the middle of a crowd of airframes.  Each of them sleek and powerful, wings glistening in the light, chattering and laughing, as though they held some secret to joy.  But there: it was Wing, as beautiful as—even more than—in Drift’s dreams. 

“Drift!”  The voice repeated, more confident now, and Wing began pushing his way through his friends, who rippled around him like waves. 

Drift felt acutely…ugly, abruptly, aware of every scratch and dent and scrape on his motley-colored armor. And he stank of the gutters, the rancid odor of bad oil, untreated cuts.  And…all of the jets were turning to look. 

He fled. 

He spun on one heel, slicing through the ambling, leisured crowd, heading for an alley, one of the gates to the lower levels, driven by the sting of mortification, biting at his heels.

“Wait! Please!”  Footsteps behind him: he stopped, just long enough to look, part of him hoping perhaps for one last look at Wing.

The jet caught up to him, venting air. “Drift.  I knew it was you.”  He burst into a smile, so bright it was blinding even in the dim alley.

“Wing.” That was all he could say, words failing him, like a tap drying up. 

“It’s good—I-I thought I’d never see you again.”

Me too, Drift thought, his spark giving a hard flutter at the golden light of the gaze, skimming over his face. It was hard not to feel the warmth, acceptance from the jet. As if the dirt didn't matter. As if the dents didn't matter. As if running away...didn't matter.  “Didn’t think you’d remember.”

“Remember?” Wing’s smile saddened, somehow even more beautiful and the idea of the jet being sad tore at Drift the way his daily misery in the gutter never did. “Of course I remember.”

 A hand brushed his shoulder, sleek and polished, and Drift caught the scent of a light fine oil.  Drift twitched wanting to flinch back, and lean into, the touch at the same time.

“Why did you run?”

How could he explain? How could he put into words how beautiful Wing was and how ugly and crude he was? How they didn’t, couldn’t possibly, fit?  “Thought you wanted to be…left…alone.” It sounded lame even to him.

“I don’t,” Wing said. “And I didn’t before, either.”  The hand curled over his shoulder, fingertips sliding up to Drift’s neck. Inviting, but not forcing. 

Drift’s mouth quivered, tingling at the memory.  “Yeah,” he said, his voice unsteady, feeling a rising pull of energy, like a net weaving itself between them.

“Do you want me to leave you alone, Drift?”  Wing leaned in closer, his EM field a tantalizing buzz over Drift’s, and his world seemed gold and white and pure and beautiful.

“No.” And his body strained against the jet’s pulling him back against the wall, wanting, yielding to his own desire for a kiss.

Comments

[wind-on-wave.livejournal.com]

Oh, Wing. Hope, in this AU he could teach Drift some… trust, and gave him much sunlight *_*

Thanks so much for this fic: it makes my bad day more, more better *_______*
*so happy* *O*

[acidgreenflames.livejournal.com]

Awww this was fantastic! I love how you write Wing and Drift so much!

[ravynfyre.livejournal.com]

Oh Drift... ;_;

Wing, you're such a wonderful mech. I love this little interlude, Drift's hope, Wing's pleasure... so lovely! Thank you!

[ladyofdragons.livejournal.com]

Poor Drift disbelieves in anything good. The way he holds himself apart from it, it's so very sad. And his confusion when Wing looks past all the things that are marks of his shame... You capture his viewpoint very well. And so lovely to see Wing trying to push past it all.

Maybe Wing should just take him to a bath house and spend the day there in a private... :3