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shadow_vector2012-12-10 09:05 pm
Treasure
TFA Inamorato AU
Drift/Wing, Dai Atlas, Brawn, an OC
shameless fluff
"I...suppose." Dai Atlas rolled the last word in his mouth for a moment, as though uncertain whether to let it escape or not. "It does have some--minimal--cultural merit."
Drift stood, unmoving, barely daring to ventilate, as if the simplest waft of air might tip Dai Atlas from the almost yes into the no. It probably didn't look like much to get excited about: a street fair, and a local festival. It had taken him days to work up the nerve to ask for permission to go, and another day to try to figure out how best to bring the topic up: how to look like he wanted to go without looking like he wanted to go too much.
It was complicated, but Dai Atlas, he'd learned, was a complicated mech.
Another frown from the large, blue mech, and then a curt nod. "Very well. Provided that you exert yourself further in your training. The Windblade technique in particular seems to elude you."
That was to be expected, Drift figured. Dai Atlas didn't seem to be able to give anything without trying to take something away. He nodded. He was working on it.
“Perhaps,” Dai Atlas said, sourly, “this might motivate you to try harder.”
It would, but not for the same reasons.
"Actually," Dai Atlas said, leaning over to examine his calendar on his datapad, "I will be...occupied that day with celebrations more, ahem, suited to my station. It is only just, perhaps, that you would be engaged in them as well." He looked up from his pad. "And of course, you will produce a report of your experience."
Of course. Drift's shoulders drooped. But he should have expected that. It seemed like Dai Atlas sometimes was just some sort of machine designed to suck the fun out of everything.
Dai Atlas nodded, to himself, as though he'd made it miserable enough. "Very well then. You can attend this...'festival'."
Drift clung to that, with fierce hands. He'd dreamt of it since he'd heard of the small fair. He wanted to go, see this thing he'd only heard about down in the gutters. And he wanted to ask Wing.
It would be their first real date.
[***]
"I'd love to!" Wing said, leaping off the stool he'd been perched on to wipe down glasses, and throwing his arms around Drift in an exuberant hug.
Drift tried his hardest not to combust under the hug, his spark throbbing against his chassis. This date was already the best thing he's ever done with Wing, and the festival wasn't until the weekend. "I, uh I was just thinking it may be fun. The Delta Magnus festival. You know. To see new stuff."
"To see it with you," Wing corrected, bumping his helm's nasal against Drift's, playfully.
Drift stammered out something stupid, his hands clinging to Wing, feeling his ebullience like a kind of warmth that seemed to drive away the dark and cold of the gutters, of Dai Atlas's perennial frowns.
"We've been talking about it all week, in the back," Wing continued. "And I was honestly getting a bit jealous that Chromia was going and Prowl was going and all of them were." A squeeze into the hug, and a popping kiss to his mouth. "And now they'll all be jealous of me, because I get to go with you."
It didn't matter that Drift was pretty sure none of them cared about him or not. It was a compliment, and Wing believed every syllable. All he could ask for in the world was to see Wing happy: and he was. Happy because of Drift. Nothing had ever felt this good. Ever.
Dai Atlas had told him that virtue was rewarded: he didn't think this was exactly what the larger mech meant, but he liked this meaning better.
[***]
"He'll be down in a flash," Brawn said, watching the smaller mech shift from side to side, light glistening off a blindingly glossy polish. Poor kid looked like he’d spent hours on it. Eh, young love. He’d learn.
"N-no rush," the white mech said. "I mean, he should take his time. I'm here, uh, early." He'd rather be here, and waiting, than make Wing wait. Wing, though, was worth waiting for.
"Drift!" Wing skipped down the stairs, his footplates ringing a quick syncopated rhythm on the stairs. He beamed, stopping just short of running into Drift, nearly breathless. "Are you ready? Do we need anything?"
Drift shyly held out the admissions tickets, their edges slightly crumpled. "You want...?"
Wing shook his head. "I want you to carry mine for me," he said, linking his arm through Drift's, who walked them out of the building and down to the street festival as though he were walking on air.
Brawn rolled his optics as the two strolled off, seeing nothing in the world but each other. Silly. Foolishness. But he couldn’t bring it in his spark to do anything other than hope it…sorta worked out.
[***]
"It's simple enough," the mech said, tossing a ball in the air with one hand, deftly catching it, as he eyeballed the pair. "And it's destiny."
"Destiny!" Wing smiled. "I think we should try it, Drift, don't you?"
Drift ducked his head, checking his dwindling supply of credits. He had enough, not that he begrudged a shanix of it on Wing. He'd returned a few minutes ago with an iced energon slush for them to share, and he'd just...stopped, seeing WIng from a distance. The sunlight seemed to gather around him, numinous and glowing, as though light itself adored him. He seemed to glow, to radiate, instead of reflect light, and when Wing had turned, and his mouth split into a smile of joy, Drift could feel it, as though a shaft of sweet light pierced through his armor, straight to his spark.
What could money do him compared to that? He'd beggar himself for a look like that, any day.
"All right." He handed over his chits. "What do we do?"
The mech, a green and blue industrial mode, grinned. "You get three challenges. You gotta get all three right to win, but whoever of you gets two right, wins between you. Got it?"
He wasn't entirely sure, but Wing was nearly bouncing with anticipation, so he nodded. He could play along.The point was to win these challenges, whatever they were.
"First challenge," the mech said. “The name of Zeta Supreme’s bonded.” He shrugged. “Kind of a love question.”
Wing beamed. “Impactor Major.” He bounced on his toeplates. “We have the history of the Wreckers on my planet.”
The mech looked surprised. "Okay, next one's gonna be tougher." He gestured behind him, to the brightly colored stall. Various games of chance cluttered the corners, and the back wall was lined with colorful balloons. "Pop one of those balloons, without touching it."
Drift surged forward. "I can do this one," he said, a hard knot of something happy in his throat. He could. Dai Atlas had been drilling him on this all week.
Wing looked uncertain. "It's all right if it doesn't work," he said, softly.
Drift shrugged it aside. "No, I can do this." He bridled at the other mech's lack of faith. He knew what he could do and couldn't do. Dai Atlas provided an updated list every day, it seemed. He'd show Wing. And this mech. And everyone. He could do it, and he meant what he said.
He stepped away from the booth's counter, squaring his stance, cycling a vent of air. It wasn't Processor Over Matter, so much as will over movement. Will, which Dai Atlas told him time and again, came from the spark, not the processor. Right. Spark. He dimmed his optics, doing it exactly as Dai Atlas had trained him: slow down, sense, feel everything, feel his spark's pulse.
He drew a blade, and looked up. "The yellow one," he said, calmly, and then swung the blade in an arc over his head and then down, in a movement almost too quick to follow with the optic. The blade whistled harmlessly past the edge of the counter, but the air current, gathered by will and speed, lashed over the surface, bursting a line of balloons, including the yellow one. He stood, feeling a charge of triumph, like electricity, carry up from his feet, exulting and confident.
Wing looked ecstatic, clapping his hands in pure delight. Drift couldn't entirely keep the slight swagger from his walk as he returned. "That's two," he said to the booth mech, nearly giddy with confidence. So this was what it felt like to be good and strong and powerful? It was nothing compared to having the mech you love look at you like that. He liked it. A lot.
A flicker of unhappiness from the boothmech, but honestly, Drift didn't care: Wing's delight was far more meaningful. He felt, for a second, almost...sexy, risking a sly smile.
"Two for two," said the booth mech. "But that could change! Destiny chooses who she'll speak to."
"We can handle it," Drift said, still giddy from his victory.
"We can," Wing echoed, and Drift felt Wing's fingers interlace with his own.
"If you say so," the mech said, dubiously, before his gaze grew a bit crafty. "Right. Your final challenge is to sing the theme song from 'Circuit Breakers'."
Drift froze. He'd only heard of the holovid: Dai Atlas would never let him see it. He couldn't even name two characters on it, much less the theme song.
Much less sing it.
In public.
Wing bounced. "Is that all? Honestly?" He squeezed Drift's hand, and began singing. Drift couldn't tell what the words were: he was just so captivated by Wing's voice: like him, it was sweet, and pure, and somehow strong. It carried the melody and the silly lyrics with a lighthearted sincerity, one toe plate tapping out a tempo for himself.
A crowd gathered, watching, listening, and Drift saw nothing but happiness on their faces--no laughter or mockery. He felt a brief flicker of jealousy, wanting to chase them all away, and keep Wing to himself, all of Wing, but he knew he was too small a vessel to contain Wing. It was unfair to the jet, and this was better, to just be near him, hand in hand, his embarrassment evaporating into pride.
Wing gave a little wriggle at the end, and then bowed, laughing at himself as the audience burst into applause.
Even the booth mech’s face had lost its sourness. “All right. You win. Now,” he said, digging behind a counter to come up with an ornate metal box, studded with fake gems lit with little LEDs. “You. Jet. You won, so you stick a hand in here, and pick your destiny.”
Wing thrust his hand in, his other still clinging to Drift’s. His optics went distant as his hand rummaged blind through the opening, and then pulled out clutching something.
He opened his cupped hand, revealing a small bit of blue plasglass, shaped like…
…a spark.
The booth mech snorted. “Surprise.”
“What’s it mean?”
“True love,” the booth mech said, “You’re meant to be together.”
Wing beamed, and Drift felt like the floor was about to fall out from under him, his fingers laced in Wing’s as though for steadiness. Behind them, the crowd cheered, some mechs pushing in, holding out chits for their turn at the game. “You see?” Wing said, and he leaned over pulling Drift in for a kiss, his mouth warm and satiny, soft and beautiful. And the crowd disappeared, or seemed to, because Wing’s body, his warm mouth, the soft chirr of his voice as he kissed him, became the only things in Drift’s world that mattered.
[***]
“So this is your room,” Wing said, looking around. Wing had come back to his room, in Dai Atlas’s dojo, with a cheeky promise that he could escape out the window if he needed to. Neither of them wanted the night to end, but neither wanted to ruin it by pushing it further.
Drift gave a nervous nod, his own optics scouring his room for anything out of place. No. Everything was tidy.
“It seems empty,” Wing said, perching on Drift’s berth—the only piece of furniture in the room.
“Not anymore,” Drift said, the gallantry bursting from his vocalizer, hard and earnest.
Wing blushed, looking away with a laugh, one elegant hand moving to cover his mouth. “You’re so sweet.”
“No,” Drift corrected. “Just honest.”
Wing scooted back on the berth, making room. “Then in the interest o being honest, I would like to kiss you again.”
Drift slid swiftly next to Wing, as though summoned. As though he needed to be asked. He said nothing, merely offering his mouth, letting Wing pull him down alongside him, their bodies sliding together, every micron of contact between them like another kiss, smaller but no less sweet.
They lay for cycles, like that, bodies twining, sighing softly, hands skimming over each other’s bodies, without haste, without urgency: merely learning and enjoying, by the dim light of Drift’s small lamp.
Until the chime downstairs sang midnight through the dark night, and Drift jolted away with a curse that mortified him as soon as he said it.
“What?” Wing said, tensing with alarm.
“I-I said I would write a report about Delta Supreme,” Drift said. “You know, about the festival. So I could go with you.” But he hadn’t paid attention to anything but Wing. He’d read the placards, he’d even sat through the little play they’d performed. But none of it stuck. He remembered nothing.
Except Wing.
Wing nodded, tension melting from his shoulder. “Do you have a datapad? We could write it now, together?”
“A-are you sure? I mean, it’s a report. It’s boring.”
“It’s with you,” Wing said. “It’s never boring.” His optics were warm from their cuddling, his words sincere, and Drift never could refuse him.
[***]
A bright blade of sunlight sliced across Drift’s sleeping optics, jerking him awake.
It was late. He’d overslept. And.
And.
The report.
He jolted upright, the warm sunlight giving way to cold panic. Dai Atlas would never let him have a day of fun again. He’d never see Wing again. Ever.
A clattering sound: he looked down and caught sight of the blue token from the carnival game rolling from his hand across the berth. It might be all he had left of Wing, after Dai Atlas finished with him.
He scrambled for his datapad, tapping it on. He didn’t remember how far he’d gotten in the report.
Two messages popped up. With shaking fingers, he tapped the first one, from Dai Atlas. Oh frag. This was it. He clutched at the blue token, as the message opened.
‘Drift. Your report was satisfactory. It is almost encouraging to see you are finally getting a grasp on proper grammar. I trust you are ready, after your break, to continue your training with even more zeal.’
Wh-what? He hadn’t sent his report yet. And that sounded almost like…praise.
The next message opened.
‘Drift, forgive me, but I took the liberty of tidying up your report and submitting it for you. It was the smallest way I could repay you for such a wonderful day. All my spark, Wing.’
All my spark, Drift thought. His mouth shaped the words. ‘All my spark, Wing.’ His fingers traced the letters on the screen, as though he could reach through and touch Wing, as though he could feel the words.
“Drift!” Dai Atlas’s bellow, ringing up the stairs to the small attic room. “Promptness is a virtue for a warrior.”
“Coming!” Drift leapt off the berth, stopping for a klik to take the blue token and place it carefully, ever-so-carefully, on a shelf where it could catch the daylight sun. His first real treasure.
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*dreamy sigh*
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