The request came on an old private line, one Optimus thought long abandoned and kept for nostalgia’s sake. Or perhaps an enduring hope that there might yet be an end to this war that wouldn’t call for the death of millions.
Optimus thought to ignore it, but the tug of yearning in his spark proved stronger and he opened the message shortly after. It was short, to the point, giving a set of coordinates, a requirement that he come alone, and a promise.
He should have used the opportunity to its full advantage. Prowl certainly would have advised doing so. But Optimus did not ask his opinion. In fact, he told no one where he was going, save Jazz, because only Jazz understood.
Here, on this special day, of course Megatron would contact him.
When Optimus arrived at the coordinates, Megatron was already waiting. A single sensor sweep proved that he was alone, save for a box that was resting at his pedes. He was gleaming as though recently polished, and he didn’t have a single weapon drawn.
“Why have you called me here?” Optimus demanded. He had learned his lesson in offering Megatron courtesy first. He had the scar on his protoform to prove it.
Megatron stared back at him. “Do you not know what day it is, Optimus?”
“I am aware of the holiday. That does not answer my question.”
Megatron huffed a soft laughter. “There was once a time you called me, brother,” he said with a vague gesture. “Surely I hold some piece of your spark. Enough to trust a truce.”
“A truce,” Optimus repeated, his tone flat.
He stared back at Megatron – a mech he had once called Megatronus and yes, a mech he had once called brother. A mech who had been more than that, who owned more than a piece of his spark.
Who had, just a dozen cycles prior, stared at him with hatred across the battlefield, his crimson optics burning a tale of betrayal.
“Why?” Optimus asked, his gaze flicking from Megatron to the box.
“Because,” Megatron purred as he tilted his helm and something in his gaze softened, “I have missed.”
Optimus’ ventilations caught. The Matrix was new still, fresh enough in his chassis, that echoes of Orion still resonated within him. And those echoes stirred now, lurching forward, eager to taste that which Megatron was offering.
A sense of longing rang through his frame, starting in his spark and radiating outward. Memories of softer times, gentler times. Kisses stolen in the dark. Rough grabs and gentle caresses. Pleasure winding over and through him. Gasps of want and need. Moments captured and stored in the safest throbs of his spark.
Optimus unclenched his fingers. “For how long?” he asked, those echoes demanding that he move forward, toward the offered hand, which was taloned when it had not been before.
It was stained, also, with the energon of so many Autobots.
Megatron grinned with a flash of denta. “Let’s be poets,” he said, and his free hand flicked toward the horizon. “Shall we say, until morning?”
“The first glimmer of on-cycle,” Optimus murmured, and Orion remembered this, too. Remembered how often the first flicker of light had been his cue to leave.
He shouldn’t do this.
He should walk away.
“Come now, Optimus, surely there is something left of the mech I once knew within you,” Megatron cajoled so sweetly, almost as though he hadn’t been shouting obscenities at Optimus only cycles prior.
“Surely there is room for a little holiday spirit?”
He should not do this.
But the last, echoing part of Orion Pax, the strongest part, carefully shunted such thoughts away. And it was Orion Pax that squared his shoulders, looked up at Megatron, and took one step forward.
“Do not call me Optimus,” he said, as he took Megatron’s hand.
His once-lover smirked and his free hand pressed to his chestplate, covering the Decepticon symbol that had so divided them.
“Then for now until the light, I am Megatronus once more,” he said.
Optimus and what was left of Orion allowed his battlemask to disengage. His spark warmed, though he dared not call it hope.
It may only last the holiday. But for now, he would take it.