Habsuitewrecker

by systemscheck

Summary:

“When I agreed to become Starcream’s conjunx,” Megatron says, slowly, “it was certainly not with the intention of joining some sort of harem.”

Chapter 1

"This sounds just like any other senate function I've had to scowl my way through," Starscream complains, tossing back the embossed copper invite without looking. Megatron has to duck out of the way. "Just book-flavoured."

"I'm sure that the engex will taste normal, Starscream," Megatron answers wearily. Primus knows how many galas, commemoration ceremonies and assorted high society shindigs a senator's bodyguard can expect to attend over the course of their career, but Megatron is hoping that he can make an exception here.

"Besides, Optimus will be disappointed if my plus-one fails to show up after I told him about you."

The newly-appointed Prime is the one who had extended this invitation to Megatron in the first place. It's kind of cute that he's trying to stay friends with a lowly former labourer, though Megatron has to wonder how long it'd take before Optimus forgets all about Orion's previous relationships. He has a shiny new upgraded frame that Megatron absolutely does not notice every time Optimus shows up on public broadcasts, and an entire cabal of Primal devotees worshipping the very ground he walks upon. Even the place he lives is elevated far above the public sphere, an opulent temple built out of reach of the air pollution that clogs the city. A lesser mech would have let this level of privilege go to his processor a long time ago. As long as Optimus continues fulfilling the promises he made to the disenchanted bots he and Megatron used to radicalise rally, Megatron's satisfied. Orion had been a good friend. Optimus is shaping up to be a great leader.

Starscream wasn't there to see the revolution rise, or splutter out abruptly when they decided to let Optimus take the reins of government and work at peacefully reforming the system from within. He only knows Optimus as the public figure who's taking the Council by storm, bright-opticked and irresistibly commanding.

The note of genuine regret in Megatron's voice is completely disregarded by Starscream's social subroutines. His optics blaze.

"The Prime will be there? Why didn't you say so earlier—of course I'm coming!"

Starscream leaps off the edge of the table where he’d been perched.

“Where are you off to,” Megatron asks, bemused. “We don’t need to leave for another two hours.”

Starscream shrieks loudly enough to make Megatron’s audials fritz painfully from the feedback. “How am I supposed to get detailed in time?” he screeches.

The seeker puts on speed only to forgo running entirely, transforming mid-step to streak out of the door and down the hallway with his thrusters howling. Megatron shrugs helplessly at a neighbour who's watching in confusion before giving chase to his conjunx. They soar over the balcony and the whole of Iacon unfolds beneath them, a golden grid of delicate spires and jewelled domes that once filled Megatron with the urge to bomb everything to smithereens from on high. Now, he merely savours the chilly air currents that tickle his wings.

Thanks to his specialised engines, Starscream is rapidly disappearing into a distant speck. Megatron comms him to slow down. He has no idea why Starscream wants to be detailed again. From what Megatron remembers from the last time he was allowed up close, the seeker's chassis has remained in top order.

Once Megatron catches up, Starscream doesn't wait before banking hard. They shed altitude in an exhilarating rush that terminates on the rooftop of a small apartment block. Megatron takes one look at the cracked concrete and flickering lights and knows that there's illegal subletting going on below his feet, dividing cramped spaces into something truly claustrophobic.

As the fliers touch down, a trio of sparklings playing on the roof halt their game. One of them falls over in surprise, or maybe the blowback from Starscream's fiery landing. Starscream waves dismissively at the children before dragging Megatron into the lift.

"Sunstreaker! I know you're in there," Starscream yells while banging on the door of one unit. "It's an emergency!"

There's no response. Megatron watches with some measure of bewilderment as Starscream paces the narrow corridor. At this rate his heels are going to wear a path into the floor, and then who's going to pay to repair it?

After a lot more cursing, a bright yellow bot finally opens the door. The irritation on his face totally clashes with such a cheery finish.

"Do you know what time is it," he says, tersely. "What do you want to bother me about?"

"I have to be presentable for some party the Prime is attending tonight."

Sunstreaker's illumination routines all go off in alarm. "Get in," he snaps, and Starscream moves so quickly the air shimmers in his wake.

The doorway barely accommodates Megatron's shoulders. For an absolutely terrifying moment he thinks he is well and truly stuck, unable to extricate himself unless they disassemble him, until Starscream grudgingly comes to the rescue.

Inside Sunstreaker's apartment, there's a gorgeous racecar splayed on the couch. Some kind of reality show is playing. The holo gets distorted by Starscream walking straight through it, followed by Megatron who tries and fails to avoid doing the same in the cluttered apartment.

The car yelps and switches off the projector.

“Sunny, you didn’t mention anything about group activities,” he whines. “Am I not enough for you?”

Sunstreaker leans down to give the car a peck on the cheek. “They’re clients, Mirage. I’ll make this up to you later.”

Mirage scowls and stalks off. As he brushes past Megatron there's a nasty static shock. Megatron can't tell if it was deliberate or not.

"Why didn't you come to me earlier," Sunstreaker groans. He beckons them over to a tiny workshop located at the back of the apartment, obviously converted from a storeroom. Starscream goes to sit on a paint-splattered stool placed in the middle.

"Megatron only saw fit to inform me of the event just now," he sniffs. "I appreciate how exacting your standards are, Sunstreaker, but just this once could you do me a favour and speed things up?"

After a beat, Sunstreaker nods unhappily. He collects jars of wax and other supplies from an overstuffed cabinet in the corner and sets them around Starscream like a devotee making offerings before a statue of Primus. There is a short, jargon-filled discussion that Megatron understands roughly two percent of and then Sunstreaker whirls into action. Sunstreaker drapes Starscream’s lower body with a tarp and covers the rest of his plating with masking tape. Starscream has already put on the face shield to protect his haughty features. After making sure that everything is attached securely Sunstreaker goes over Starscream’s wings with a handheld spray paint applicator, moving with a delicacy that belies his powerful appearance. Sunstreaker may look like the kind of mech who’s more familiar with scraping up paint rather than applying it, but nobody watching him work can deny that he’s good at it.

Megatron’s internal chrono pings him just as Sunstreaker is finishing up.

“I can throw in a touch-up for the big guy,” Sunstreaker says, weighing the buffer in his hand like he’s thinking of attacking Megatron with it. “How can you even let him out of the house looking like that?”

Starscream smiles ruefully. “You should have seen the state I found him in. Megatron used to think that paint stripper was an acceptable engex substitute.”

Sunstreaker laughs in horror. Megatron quickly gets to his feet.

“It’s quite alright,” he says. “We should get going now, to avoid the evening rush.”

“Bring him along the next time you drop by,” Sunstreaker calls out when they leave. Starscream waves a hand in acknowledgement.

The suburban air lanes are filling up with people returning home from work. Megatron's still worried when they get nearer to the city centre where traffic is sparse. They're going to be late if Starscream continues dawdling like this, hovering beside glassy office blocks to check out his reflection.

"There won't be anyone left to show off to if we take any longer," Megatron says. "Such a pity too, when Sunstreaker did such beautiful work."

Starscream's field radiates smug. "He wants to open a real workshop. It's hard for an ex-pit fighter to get the permits, though. Think you can ask Optimus about this?"

“If we get there before the event ends, probably,” Megatron allows. Starscream kicks his afterburners up to full thrust and scorches Megatron lightly before zooming off.

Even before the hotel comes into view, the music playing can already be heard, a deep bass reverberation momentarily confusing Megatron’s radar before he filters it out. Starscream lands and flounces away in root mode without breaking momentum.

“You look like a million shanix,” a helicopter coos at Starscream. Behind Starscream’s back, Megatron scowls. The figure is close enough. Despite operating illegally Sunstreaker charges upmarket prices for his services. Still, the enormous sum he’d extracted from their joint account has probably more to do with the hassle of being commissioned for a rush job.

“Don’t be too kind,” Starscream replies, even as he preens under the attention. Starscream’s wings are elegant slashes of slate grey that flutter prettily when Megatron gives into the temptation to run a hand across them.

Practically everyone there is polished to a shine. Megatron had thought that Starscream's freshly pampered armour would be a beacon for attention, but it's Megatron who stands out. He almost regrets turning down Sunstreaker's offer when the next ugly look someone gives him comes from a service bot, one who manages to offer him a drink in the most ungracious way.

At least one of them is having a good time. Starscream is the recipient of far more welcoming handshakes as they stroll across the marble floor. With his security logos covered by temporary paint and his integrated weaponry folded away, Starscream passes for yet another young aristocrat trying to fit in with the literati.

Optimus had portrayed this event as a networking opportunity, and sure enough, there are several big-name publisher booths and literary agents milling around. Megatron still feels horribly out of place, suddenly self-conscious of the remnants of hazard tape that cling to his frame. He ends up letting Starscream handle introductions and drinks cube after cube of disgustingly sweet highgrade while the other mechs titter over how brave Starscream is to pursue a cross-caste relationship.

Approximately five hundred compliments later, Starscream looks like he has completely forgotten how mad he was at Megatron. He doesn’t even protest when Megatron tugs him along after spotting a familiar flash of red armour.

Optimus is talking to a little microscope near the light fountain but interrupts himself when Megatron and Starscream walk over.

“I’m so glad you two could make it,” Optimus says warmly, and unlike everyone else who has been saying this at the party he sounds utterly sincere. “Megatron here runs a bookstore, Ferrus. Perhaps he could promote your latest tome?”

The microscope squints suspiciously at Megatron. “I don’t write manuals on hauling slag,” he says eventually. Optimus’ smile sort of freezes on his face.

“My store stocks other kinds of books,” Megatron says, freezingly polite. “Scientific texts are welcome too, although our shelves are mainly occupied by novels.”

The microscope makes a contemptuous noise at that. At least he’s smart enough not to criticise Megatron’s choice of occupation in front of the Prime who has made it possible. Ever since his ascension to office, Optimus has been passing legislation to relax the correlation between function and form, allowing people to make career changes and pursue a purpose that didn’t necessarily have anything to do with what they turned into.

Megatron tunes out as Ferrus launches into an explanation of his book at Optimus’ request. He’s mildly amused by how Starscream criticizes the microscope’s theories over their comms, but there’s no escape from how unrelentingly dull Ferrus sounds as he goes on and on.

“And what do you do,” Ferrus asks Starscream after finally remembering that other people exist.

“Private security. I also go for night classes at the Jhiaxian Academy.”

“Starscream’s earning a degree in xenobiology,” Megatron says.

“A shiny pair of wings like you shouldn’t be poking around in a lab,” Ferrus interjects. “If you really want to discover new things, however, I may have an offer…” To Megatron’s disgust, the microscope’s lack of height doesn’t impede him giving Starscream a once-over. His optic band glows suggestively as it roves down Starscream’s frame.

Megatron’s knuckles creak with the effort of resisting the urge to punch him. It wouldn’t do to spoil Optimus’ reputation, but this is exactly the sort of thing the new Prime had said would stop under his rule. Starscream’s lips are pressed together as he ponders the best way to eviscerate the microscope, hopefully only verbally. Before he can open his mouth, however, Megatron grabs him by the arm and beats a hasty retreat. He can hear Optimus explaining to Ferrus that the ‘shiny pair of wings’ he’d been ogling was in fact conjunxed. Underneath all that ridiculous posturing, Optimus is a good mech.

Megatron draws Starscream into a little nook illuminated by softly glowing crystals. This decoration probably cost more to import than both their combined salaries. The waste heat dumped by their angry frames quickly makes the small area stifling. Starscream’s ailerons flex in agitation.

“I wish all those people would just explode into a hundred thousand flaming pieces,” Starscream growls. “And then I’d solder them back together and do it all over again, and again and again. You’d help me, will you?”

“Starscream, it was only one mech,” Megatron tries to tell him, but then Starscream looks up into his optics with resentment heating his face.

“Sure, that scope was the only one daring enough to make a move,” he says. “But didn’t you notice how people were staring at me? You’re my conjunx, Megatron! When will they finally stop—”

Starscream cuts himself off when a cleaning drone emerges from a hidden door in the wall. They shuffle aside to let it pass.

“What do you mean," Megatron says.

“Nothing! Just sit back and enjoy the show, will you.”

Starscream abruptly sags against Megatron’s chest as if all the fight has drained out of him. “I want to go home,” he mumbles. “Let’s go home.”

Megatron scoops him up in his arms. He would like nothing more than to do as Starscream suggested, but opportunities to see Optimus in person are few and far between. Passing up this chance will be a terrible waste.

"Darling," he says, hating himself, "could you wait for half an hour?"

Starscream flies back alone.

Gaining a second audience with the Prime is difficult when there's truckloads of other people who want to meet him too. As Megatron bides his time, he ends up chatting with couple of writers and distributors on his own. The response is lukewarm, to put things mildly. Belatedly, he realises that it’s true. His chances of attracting an audience were much better with a beautiful seeker by his side. Or perhaps with Starscream’s night ruined, Megatron doesn’t sound very enthused when talking about his business.

He nearly drops the flute of engex in his hand when a nearby motorcycle gives a low whistle. “Will you look at that,” the bike remarks. Megatron reluctantly follows their line of sight to see two seekers strutting side by side, or to be more accurate one seeker strutting and the other flier kind of stumbling drunkenly.

The blue seeker finally gives up on looking dignified when his companion trips over his own feet.

“Sit with me, TC,” the purple seeker slurs. “This ca, carpet is softer than our berth. Can we bring it home?”

Without waiting for an answer he extrudes a laser cutter from one finger and scrutinizes the ground, apparently intent on taking a souvenir.

Megatron quickly reaches out and pinches a cable at the base of his exposed neck. The purple seeker jolts upright, instantly sober. It’s a nifty little trick to divert excess fuel from the brain module based on how seeker physiology prioritises adequate supply to the engines.

“Thank you, uh,” the blue one says, helping his friend to his feet.

“Megatron. My conjunx’s a seeker,” Megatron explains. “Starscream’s also prone to intoxication, although I’ll admit to never seeing anyone this overcharged.”

The seekers stare at him with identical expressions of total shock. “It’s alright,” Megatron says awkwardly. “I’m sure there are lots of people here getting drunk off their afts.”

“Skywarp—” the blue one says. “Are my audials malfunctioning?”

Skywarp jabs at Megatron’s chest. “I’m not drunk enough to believe that Screamer bunked down with this guy,” he says.

Megatron swats the hand away. “Well, Starscream did," he bites out in probably the most aggressive way anyone has admitted to being married.

“What's he like? Mean? Vain? Extremely pre—petty?”

“You could say that,” Megatron says, frowning. “Do you know him?”

“Me and Thundercracker were his trine,” Skywarps bites out. “Are his trine, I mean.”

“You used to work together?” Megatron doesn’t recognise the word Skywarp used.

Thundercracker’s mouth drops open.

The scene they’re making is attracting a fair bit of attention, and not the kind Megatron cares for at all. “Let’s take this outside,” Megatron says, and hauls them both down to the lobby. Despite sharing the same base model they’re slightly heavier than Starscream, having kept the reinforced armor typical of active-duty warframes. Starscream had stripped his frame of most military features after turning civilian and only retained the nullrays Skywarp keeps powering on and off again.

Megatron never knew how intimidating those rifles could sound.

The receptionist keeps sneaking worried glances over at them. Megatron hopes that nobody will do anything that makes her call for the enforcers.

Skywarp’s mad pacing is producing a loud clicking noise against the marble tiles. “You know how grounders think we all look the same,” he whispers to Thundercracker loud enough to overhear. “And this Magmaton doesn’t seem like his type at all.”

“Mega-tron,” Megatron cuts in. “And I can tell Seekers apart just fine. Why don’t you show me proof of this so-called ‘trinemate’ and we can get this nonsense over with?”

Skywarp crosses his arms. “He deleted all his holos when he left.”

How convenient. Megatron tells them so, and Thundercracker’s gaze slides uneasily to the side. Skywarp finally taps Megatron on the arm.

“Look,” he says. “It isn’t the best quality but I do have this image capture.”

As Skywarp warned, Megatron can barely make out what’s happening in the picture. Nevertheless, even while blurry, out of focus and covered in bright orange paint, face contorted into an expression of extreme rage as his claws reach out towards whoever was holding the camera, Starscream’s features are undeniably recognizable.

“That’s him,” Megatron says. “He must have put you in hospital for this.”

“Two weeks,” Skywarp answers, suddenly smiling. “It was worth every minute of taking energon from a drip.”

Thundercracker shifts on his feet. “Look, Megatron,” he says. “Trines are a—seeker thing. We share responsibilities. A household. Sometimes, a berth. Starscream was our wingleader until he decided that being a flying gun wasn’t his thing. He lit off a couple of years ago and we haven’t heard back ever since.”

Megatron wants to think that Thundercracker is mistaken, or lying, but he really doesn’t know much about Starscream’s history. Starscream had simply crashed into his shop one day while hunting a would-be assassin, shooting the mech dead in the fantasy section while dust billowed around his shapely calves. With one powerful blow, Starscream succeeded in knocking several hundred thousand shanix worth of merchandise off the shelves and sweeping Megaton off his feet.

“The Senate will compensate you for the loss,” Starscream had panted, nullrays glowing with orangey red with heat. All of a sudden, Megatron realised that Fifty Shades of Steel wasn’t the sexiest thing in his store.

“When I agreed to become Starcream’s conjunx,” Megatron says, slowly, “it was certainly not with the intention of joining some sort of—harem.”

“Wh—Whaddya mean, we’re not some kind of package deal,” Skywarp bursts out. His wings quiver with barely controlled indignation, and at this point Megatron has spent enough time around flightframes to recognize the high-pitched whine of flight engines as they warm up in preparation to commit violence at top speed.

Thundercracker pushes at Skywarp’s cockpit and slots himself in between Megatron and the purple seeker. He’s of the same height as Starscream—which makes sense since they are technically identical models—but his better posture imparts a certain gravitas. Starscream usually hunches over like he’s preoccupied with tracking down the latest person to wrong him. The thing is, when Thundercracker crosses his arms, coincidentally letting the muzzles of the weapon loadouts mounted on his forearms point right at him, Megatron finds himself stepping backwards involuntarily.

“I think it’d be a good idea to stop assuming things and start talking,” Thundercracker says, although his deep voice makes it sound more like an order. “Starscream hasn’t explained what a trine bond involves?”

Megatron shakes his head, feeling sick. Disappointed. “I never even knew that the two of you exist,” he admits.

Somewhere from behind Thundercracker, Skywarp scoffs loudly.

“Screamer was the one who said we should trine up in the first place. Fifth cycle, vorn one-twenty one after the Milflax campaign.” Skywarp frowns. “To be fair he was kinda doped out at the time—they took his sensor net offline after half his torso got completely slagged. You could see all sorts of weird stuff poking out of the hole, super gross.”

A tentative half-smile shows up on Thundercracker’s face as Skywarp elaborates, as if he’s recalling fond memories instead of the most macabre damage report Megatron has ever heard of.

Skywarp spreads his arms dramatically, nearly smacking Thundercracker in the face. Somewhere down the line they’ve moved to stand in a loose circle, like old friends being reacquainted on the street as opposed to three-quarters of an accidental foursome.

“It was this wide,” Skywarp says, “and leaking everywhere.”

“How did he even survive that,” Megatron asks, morbidly curious. Starscream has always given him the impression that his frame requires the greatest degree of care and attention. Once, after finding out that Megatron forgot to buy his favourite wax product, they had to fly all the way back to the store.

“Through the power of love, duh,” Skywarp replies, bringing a hand to his chest and sighing loudly like someone out of a holodrama. He nearly over-balances leaning backwards but Thundercracker catches him, one hand curling around his waist while the other cups his face. Skywarp’s expression flickers from pretend to something deeper, his lips parting, and all of a sudden Megatron gets the feeling that he shouldn’t be watching.

Thundercracker darts a glance towards him. He quickly sets Skywarp upright and turns towards Megatron all business again, as if he hadn’t been seconds away from a public display of affection. To the side, Skywarp pouts unseen. Thundercracker deliberately resets his vocaliser with a noisy burst of static.

“It’s late,” he says. “Why don’t we discuss things some other time?”

They exchange comm codes. Knowing Megatron’s conjunx-slash-their wayward trinemate, moving too quickly will only spook the seeker. Megatron’s already dreading the custody battle that awaits, if such a thing extends to spouses. Starscream may have palled around with these mechs in the past, but his lot is with Megatron now. They can’t just show up and take him back like a runaway turbofox puppy.

Later, Megatron sits on the edge of the berth. Starscream has already settled into his favourite sleeping position, arms and legs spread to take up far more space than his skinny frame should need. Megatron carefully folds himself into the sliver of berth Starscream had magnanimously left over for him and winces when a sharp elbow jabs into his side. Even in recharge, the seeker never fails to be a pain.

A surge of affection grips his spark, tightly.

There isn’t a thing Megatron would change about him. Only, what other secrets are hiding inside that pointy helm of his?

Notes:

sooooo usually when i mark something as multi-chapter it's usually bc i can't be arsed to finish everything straight away, but in this case it's ALSO thanks to how i haven't decided what flavour of makeup sex these idiots need. thots and prayers much appreciated xoxo

Chapter 2

Notes:

- so this is not the end 🫶 but i figured it's a pretty nice chunk for an update. have 4K of men talking (and not talking) about their feelings
- thank you for all the nice comments over the years, you have no idea how much it means to me.
- rating is now explicit

Megatron whirs awake with a start.

Starscream’s palm is pressed flat against the plating between Megatron’s legs. He’s rubbing slow circles over the metal, hard enough that Megatron’s fans are kicking in to disperse the heat of arousal.

“Starscream,” Megatron says. The seeker only leans over him and smiles, fangs gleaming in the morning light. His shape is harsh and predatory. Groggily, Megatron remembers that it is Starscream’s off day. This is how he enjoys waking him up when they have time to spare, rousing Megatron with his clever hands and cleverer mouth.

Starscream knows exactly where the best targets are located on Megatron’s frame, licking and biting with all the accuracy of a military plane. His tongue leaves a trail of buzzily overstimulated sensors in its wake. Under Starscream’s insistent touch, Megatron’s port cover is already spiralling open.

The berth creaks. Megatron feels warm enough to start a small fire. The manual stimulation is a terrible substitute for the charge he is abruptly yearning for. He can detect a hint of ionisation in the air; the byproduct of his poor, neglected port asking for more. Conductive fluid drips out of him and onto the tarp they use to cover the berth.

“Cable,” Megatron pants, but Starscream’s own panel remains firmly closed. Starscream merely flicks the metal rim of Megatron’s aching port with one fingertip as if to berate him for his impatience, optics gone narrowed and pleased.

More often than not, Starscream is the one who initiates interface. Megatron never thought to correlate this with the popular notion of seekers well, seeking it out all the time, but last night’s events have cast a pall. Megatron can’t help but speculate if Starscream is finding him lacking after downgrading from having two partners. He can easily imagine how many pornvids feature this exact scenario; he might have searched them up as a callow gladiator during his rest cycle.

Yet, Starscream must have parted ways with his so-called trine for a reason. Real, concrete reasons that he will surely share when Megatron asks about this Thundercracker and this Skywarp, if those are even their real names.

It’s hard to hold onto any negative feelings when his cables are being nibbled like that. Starscream sticks his tongue into a seam and processor threads puff out of existence. Megatron is unable to do anything more than absorb Starscream’s touch, say more than Starscream’s name. Starscream tells him in low, mocking tones how good he looks like this, spreading joints to their limits to expose the sensitive flexor cabling and still wantonly twisting for more.

The seeker grins down at Megatron’s heaving, tortured frame. His port is so wet.

“Please—” It takes a tremendous effort to speak.

Fortunately, he isn’t forced to beg for long.

Starscream’s charge goes into him like a wave, like a collision that goes on and on. Megatron’s socket is reinforced and insulated. He has nothing to fear. His breakers hold. He still feels a sense of wonder watching the electricity arc between their frames, Starscream moaning and shivering above him. At the moment of release Starscream’s expression turns curiously blank, as if the current he sends also washes away all the anger and ambition that usually takes up frontal processing.

He’s never this still outside of sex. Plugged into Megatron, every firewall down, he could be nothing more than a conduit. Megatron wants all of it, all of him.

Their connection approaches overload. Starscream is a scorching presence pressed against his frame. When he bites down on Megatron’s neck, the pain doesn’t even register.

---

When Megatron turns his optics on again, the sun is coming in at a rather much higher angle. He bolts upright. Or rather, he attempts to bolt upright and is thwarted by the arm and leg Starscream has thrown possessively over his torso. Also, his own panel is still open. Megatron hurriedly slides it shut, checks his chronometer and extricates himself from his conjunx. If he flies like a demon he might still be able to make it to Soundwave on time.

A quick rinse later, Megatron is streaking down the street fast enough to make windows tremble. A motorcycle raises a fist and yells at him, too late.

Soundwave is one of Megatron’s oldest friends. They have lived together, fought together, and bled excessively on each other. Megatron’s spark holds no fondness for the fighting pits of Kaon, and being granted the chance to leave the arena forever brought only an exultant sense of relief, that he would no longer have to risk life and limb for the amusement of a baying crowd. But the energon-soaked sands were where they’d met in the first place. He knows he hated every second he spent in the arena. He’s not so sure if he would take back any part of it, if it means missing out on Soundwave.

The navy blue mech is elegantly folded on a low bench. He raises his visor as Megatron approaches, Laserbeak chittering from her perch on Soundwave’s shoulder. The cube he holds is already half-empty.

“Apologies,” Megatron says, nodding to them both. He holds out his hand, and Laserbeak magnanimously lets him scratch her under the chin.

Soundwave retrieves another cube from subspace and offers it to Megatron. Such generosity would have been unheard of in the old days, when their fuel was parcelled out in miserly portions dependent on their wins. Still, Soundwave always made sure to have something on hand whenever Megatron swung by his quarters. Half a packet of rust sticks. A pilfered magnesium bon bon. Bootleg engex. To receive a whole cube is still astounding. Megatron accepts it with both hands and drinks thirstily.

:: Breakfast? :: Soundwave transmits. He may be restricted to comms, but there’s no mistaking the note of sly amusement in the glyphs—they are meeting during Soundwave’s mid-shift break, the only time he has to spare during the workday.

Megatron thought he’d gotten the worst of the evidence off in the shower. Of course, Soundwave’s keen eye for detail is something he doesn’t restrict himself to using only professionally.

Megatron shrugs. “Busy morning,” he says, and lets his field elaborate on what he refuses to speak of in front of the deployer. At this range, with their shoulders brushing, his embarrassment is a nearly tangible thing.

Laserbeak discreetly sips from Soundwave’s energon, the very picture of innocence.

Soundwave lets it slide.

He takes out a slim grey rectangle and puts it down on the bench between them. A standard portable data storage stick, completely unremarkable. Megatron sells dozens of these in a day.

On a planet with nearly global network coverage, storage sticks are supposed to be an anachronism. But to a disposable-class mech with limited access to the grid, these things are a lifeline. And some people are made so cheaply that they simply don’t have the hardware to process external data, relying instead on direct plugins or visual mediums like datapads. The intellectual caste view Megatron running a bookstore as a mere curiosity. A frivolous enterprise, even.

It’s safer that way.

Megatron gives the storage stick a cursory scan. Soundwave has been incredibly thorough. Between last night’s frantic ping and now, Soundwave has assembled a dossier on the mechs Megatron met at the party that is probably longer than their actual files in Vector Sigma. He thanks Soundwave and is equally grateful for the fact that they’re on the same side.

Soundwave doesn’t question why Megatron is so interested in some washed up veterans. He does, however, ask how Starscream is doing.

Megatron hesitates. His fingers tighten on the storage stick. Soundwave is one of the few people who’d been invited to the conjunxing ceremony, and didn’t remark on the fact that Starscream had insisted on foreign rites.

The uncertainty that has been roiling his spark for the last twelve hours sharpens into a type of hot stabbing pain. Starscream has been lying to him, possibly for years. Starscream also gave him three fantastic overloads before he left the house.

Megatron doesn’t know what to say, so in the end he says nothing.

“He’s fine,” he mumbles. “We’re fine. I don’t want to keep you any longer, Soundwave. Would you like me to walk you back to your office?”

The tilt of Soundwave’s visor is distinctively questioning. Soundwave, obviously, can sense that Megatron is hiding something from him. Megatron would not be surprised if Soundwave turns him down.

Laserbeak flies and lands on top of Megatron’s head, settling the debate.

Standing before the security gantry to the office block, Soundwave pauses. He taps one skinny finger against Megatron’s chestplate.

:: Your stubbornness is a virtue, :: he sends, :: and also a stumbling block. We can only be amica after you understand this. ::

Soundwave goes striding off through the gantry, leaving Megatron to sputter impotently behind him. He’s insulted. And confused. And what was that about amica? He loves Soundwave, obviously, but never felt the need to put a name to what they share. They are friends.

“Soundwave!” Megatron shouts. “Soundwave! I can only deal with one personal crisis at a time!” But the other mech is already inside the elevator, his back facing the glass door. Neither Megatron’s voice nor his comm can reach Soundwave through the walls of the shielded tower.

Megatron ignores the people staring at him and grumpily returns to street level.

---

He peruses the data on Thundercracker and Skywarp while flying.

There are a number of surprises. For one, Thundercracker and Skywarp are still serving in the army, albeit classified as reservists. When Cybertron isn’t actively embroiled in any major conflicts, the armed forces are allowed to integrate with civilian life. A small contingent stays to maintain and staff the bases, of course, though these two haven’t opted to keep polishing their rifles.

Thundercracker hadn’t been pulling Megatron’s leg about knowing Starscream. The dates line up. Basic training, first deployment, second deployment and so on match the bits and pieces of Starscream’s military career that Megatron has heard about over the course of their relationship. Troops are minted in phases depending on whether Cybertron is at peace or at war. The basic body plan can be modified to meet the needs of the latest campaign in which they are embroiled. Megatron has inspected Starscream’s frame, in a manner of speaking, enough times to memorise the myriad details that differentiate his seeker from any random one on the street. The blueprints provided are nearly superfluous. He doesn’t need to look up manufacturing codes; he can see for himself that the two strangers come from the same batch as Starscream.

There is no mention of Starscream in either of their files. This makes Megatron relax, somewhat: whatever a trine is, it doesn’t seem to be an officially recognised status.

Soundwave has yanked psychometric data as well as service records. Megatron doesn’t put much store by personality testing, but at the same time he doesn’t have much to go on. When he meets them again, he would rather not be caught unawares for the second time.

Thundercracker had been identified as officer material.

Skywarp was nearly sent to re-education four times.

Paging through the terabytes of dubiously-obtained information takes up most of his flight time. It gives Megatron a lot to think about, and maybe worry about. Everyone has had bad exes. Starscream could have done a lot worse than a blue tryhard and a purple loser. Still, he’s concerned that Starscream never even wanted to mention them. Megatron has talked about his previous relationships…The blue speedster from Nyon. A brief fling with a Tetrahexian welder. And even that one time with Orion Pax in the arena barracks, although it was kinda embarrassing and terrible and Starscream has nothing to worry about in that department, really.

When he gets to the cafe, Megatron transforms and gets to his feet double quick. The place is a popular tourist destination. There are dozens of flight-capable mechs landing and launching off from the roof at all times, and he has no desire to get crashed into.

He still has a couple more minutes before the seekers are supposed to show up—they’d suggested meeting rather late in the day. Megatron believes this is for the best, considering how hungover Skywarp would be. Also, it gave him the time to see Soundwave.

Megatron goes down the stairs and orders something for himself. When Thundercracker and Skywarp finally show up, he’s already finished most of the cube.

Thundercracker greets him with a strained smile.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the blue seeker says. “Enforcers stopped us for a chat on the way. You know how it is.”

Skywarp smacks his hand on the table. “Those slag-merchants wanted to check our travel permits.”

He says this a little too loudly; a two-wheeled server shoots a dirty look their way. Megatron can foresee the fight that will ensue when someone confronts the angry, frazzled soldiers. Thundercracker hasn’t noticed it yet, but Skywarp’s weapons systems are audibly priming. The other customers are picking up on the tension in their fields.

Megatron taps Thundercracker on the shoulder.

“I think we should go somewhere else,” he says quietly, and thankfully they manage to leave without any trouble.

The seekers only relax once they’re outside, in clear airspace. Megatron flies silently ahead of them. He’s never been harrassed by the enforcers in Iacon, but he remembers what it was like in Kaon. Being searched for contraband had been a routine humiliation.

They approach the outskirts of the city. Near the industrial zone, there are dozens of small, owner-run fuel kiosks that cater to factory workers and hauler types. Orion Pax and him often used to meet at these sorts of places because Orion got a discount from his union. That, and the lack of government surveillance.

The kiosk he stops at has only three types of fuel for sale. Megatron buys them standard grade, which they drink while perched on upturned oil drums.

“I thought everything was going so well,” Thundercracker says. “Iacon is nothing like the holovids.”

Skywarp throws his empty can into the waste receptacle without looking and crows. He’s a lot more cheerful with a full tank.

“TC, you gotta look sun-ward. Four execs gave you their comm codes! And I didn’t even need to flirt with any of them. Screamer will be so impressed.” He addresses Megatron next. “When will we meet him?”

“I was under the impression you were estranged,” Megatron says.

“Eh, he can’t stay mad forever.” Skywarp throws an arm around Thundercracker’s shoulders. “Fate brought you to us, or something. It’s time for us to be a trine again.”

Megatron can’t stop the flare that sends through his field. Thundercracker gives him a considering look.

“We understand you’re conjunxed,” he says. “Notarised by the Hall of Records and all that.”

“It was a nice ceremony,” Megatron says.

Thundercracker nods. He folds his hands together, carefully choosing his next words.

“Trining is completely different. Skywarp and I, we’re not trying to take Starscream away from you. He’s like an old friend whom we just want to reconnect with.”

Skywarp sniggers. “He never wanted to connect with you much,” he says.

Megatron looks at Thundercracker, who only grimaces.

“We’re all adults here,” Megatron says. “There’s no need to censor yourself explaining the nature of your relationship with Starscream.”

“He has really great wings—” Thundercracker quickly kicks Skywarp in the shins.

“He is our trineleader,” the blue seeker says. “We answered to him within the Vosnian military hierarchy. The last Winglord introduced a bunch of reforms that curtailed legal recognition for trines, and going into the reasons why will take too much time. Most people—most seekers still trine up, but the push towards modernising means choosing one person to be the leader’s conjunx, and the other their amica. I personally disagree with this, it’s an expectation of conformity to the Iaconian standard and interfering with our private lives.”

Thundercracker visibly makes an effort to collect himself. “Politics aside…Starscream managed our personal and professional affairs. Although his formal authority over us ended when he left the air force, we still recognise his influence. The trine bond is still in effect. If Starscream truly wanted to sever it, there are rites he must perform. He would have returned the tokens we exchanged during courtship. But he left Vos without telling anyone.

“As for what he means to us? It’s nothing so simple as loyalty, or base as lust. I will admit there was a sexual component to our trine, but again, it depends on individual preferences. Some trines function more like a work unit. Starscream and I were more professional around each other, whereas him and Skywarp—Warp if you don’t shut up I will shoot you—they did interface.

“I suppose you’re already aware about me and Skywarp.

“Trines are supposed to rely on each other for anything. We’ve killed for each other, sacrificed promotions that would have split us up. Skywarp has lost me my rations a ridiculous number of times, and Starscream used to make us do terrible things to his rivals. But for better or for worse, I’ll never do anything to betray them.”

Thundercracker speaks evenly, without dramatics. It’s the first time Megatron is hearing any of this, but he can’t find a reason to doubt him. The blue seeker gives him a moment to digest this before going on: “So that’s what a trine does, Megatron. I don’t know if Starscream still wants the same things, or if he intended to start over in Iacon. Regardless. We’ll appreciate the chance to see him again.”

---

Sunset paints the sky blood-pink. Tired, dusty and confused, Megatron thinks it would be a good time to start heading home. But home has Starscream, whom he doesn’t feel quite ready to face again just yet. Megatron flies around aimlessly until he realises he is wasting fuel.

He needs to talk to someone who would understand.

Drift is the sort of friend who would probably give essential oil recommendations instead of sound advice, but at the same time he’s also the only one who would know anything about Megatron’s problem. You see, Drift shares his home with an enormous crystal collection, his conjunx Ratchet, and his conjunx’s boyfriend Wheeljack. Apparently the three of them had met at a fencing competition.

At present, Megatron doesn’t think he is ready to expand his definition of a loving relationship. But going to Drift for more information wouldn’t hurt.

He opens the commline. The last message he’d sent was from two months ago. Megatron sends a simple talk request and Drift accepts it immediately.

:: I don’t really know how to explain this, :: Megatron sends. :: but I think you could help with something personal I’m dealing with. ::

:: A troubled spark can lead to clouded vision, :: comes the reply. Drift seems to consider what other people describe as “small talk” as a waste of time. :: I am happy to offer guidance. ::

Megatron steps inside the house and is immediately choked by a cloying blanket of incense.

“Sorry about the smell,” Drift says, which is a crazy understatement. Megatron doesn’t care about what the incense smells like, he’s more concerned about the possibility of his ventilation system going into shutdown. His filters could deal with the industrial pollution of Kaon. They weren’t designed for this.

To his great relief, Drift leads him through the orange-coloured miasma to a balcony. There’s clear air here, which his vents gratefully use to cycle out the incense. Megatron picks the sturdiest-looking bench and Drift sits opposite him.

“This is the only time I can conduct my rituals, ” Drift explains apologetically. “Ratchet doesn’t really understand, so I do it when he’s at work.”

“I see,” Megatron says. “Thank you for letting me visit, Drift.”

Drift leans forward in his chair. “It sounded important. And I’m glad you came over—there is great turbulence in your aura. It’s not something I could have picked up over comms.”

Megatron carefully maintains his expression. At least Drift isn’t trying to hug him.

“So, what will you like to try today? Guided meditation is where I usually like to start with for beginners, though of course you’re welcome to experience the crystal room. I’ve got a beautiful new silicon dioxide geode.”

Drift completely misreads the confusion in Megatron’s field. “Silicon compounds have amazing harmonising properties. This one taps into and grounds the psychic energies of the spark. I think it would really complement you,” Drift goes on. “The colours synergise.”

Megatron can’t turn him down now, not when Drift is looking at him so earnestly. He supposes he can talk to Drift just as well in the so-called crystal room.

The crystal room turns out to be more of a cave than a room. There are no windows, and the lights are dim. Soft music starts playing when they enter—Camien energon harp, he thinks. Drift has one section dedicated to live crystals growing in little pots, while the rest are stored on shelves that line the walls. He tells Megatron to hold his palm over specific crystals and let him know if he feels a “resonance”.

Megatron doesn’t feel anything more than a steadily growing sense of impatience. Drift natters on about the qualities of each crystal like they are beloved pets, and proudly points out the silicon dioxide geode that is displayed in its own niche.

Following Drift’s suggestion, Megatron holds the rock in his hands. The cut side faces upwards to reveal the purple crystal interior. Megatron stares at the dazzling colours and struggles valiantly to access his connection with the universal harmony or whatever the hell Drift is going on about. He only succeeds in making wavy lines appear in his visual feed.

“It doesn’t work if you force it,” Drift says. He puts a hand on Megatron’s wrist. “Come here. Sit down. Turn off your optics.” Megatron hears a strange hissing noise. There are faint vibrations coming from the geode. He opens his eyes, alarmed, and sees a white cloud emitting from the dissolving crystal.

“Hold on to it,” Drift says. “I just added a few drops of acid. This will unlock the spiritual gateways that guard our wandering selves.”

Megatron turns to tell Drift he has had enough of crystals for the day, but then the fumes hit his air intake and he passes out.

---

In all fairness to Drift, Megatron didn’t know he was allergic to a particular kind of rock until he was having a reaction to that rock.

He comes to in the arms of a big, strong truck like some kind of insipid holodrama. The comparison stops there and runs away in embarrassment. After pulling a seventeen hour shift at the hospital, Ratchet is running very low on bedside manner and regretting very much that he married a hippie.

“Do you know where you are?” snaps the truck. “Do you know your designation?”

“Megatron of Tarn. This is…Drift’s house. You must live here, too.”

“Although he’s hardly ever at home,” Drift says, leaning over Ratchet’s shoulder. Ratchet grumpily shares a kiss with him and then shines a bright light into Megatron’s face, testing his optic response.

“You’re fine, kid,” Ratchet says. “Just don’t let my idiot conjunx give you any more junk. And what were you doing here, anyway?”

Megatron tries to explain. He belatedly realises it might be kind of offensive to say “my spouse used to frag other people, plural, and I thought you guys might have some idea how to handle that”, but Ratchet only makes a considering sound and Drift beams.

“I’m so glad you decided to come to us with this issue,” Drift says, “but I think what the seekers are doing is a lot more complicated. Did you say that they were working together in the military?”

“They are trine,” Megatron clarifies.

Ratchet clears his vocaliser. “Well, according to Iacon law you’re the one shacked up with Starscreech—”

“Starscream.”

“Starscream, so the other two fliers can go hang. And honestly it sounds like he doesn’t want anything more to do with them. You’re the one he wants.”

“I suppose,” Megatron allows. “However, Thundercracker made a persuasive case for a reunion. And I would like some answers from Starscream.”

Ratchet nods. His field is warm with understanding.

“In my experience, open relationships only work when all parties communicate. It would be good to get everyone talking.” “Starscream didn’t even want to tell me anything,” Megatron mutters, somewhat bitterly. “He’s evasive. He’s good at distracting you. I have no idea how he’ll react to me knowing.”

Drift tries to put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"I don’t think you have a crystal big enough for that,” Megatron says, and Drift answers “No,” with perfect sincerity.