It’s a moment.
Betrayal. Sparkache. He should have known. He should have known.
And then darkness. Only, it wasn’t darkness. Neither was it cold. There was warmth and light, a distant light, one that grew closer. He was floating. Not in the sense he was falling, but in the sense he no longer held any mass.
It was the lack of pain that clued him in.
Dreadwing had been knocked into stasis before. He’d been injured enough that only a regeneration chamber saved his spark and frame. Both times had been a cloying dark, a suffocating black mass that he felt he could never escape.
This was different. Welcoming.
He touched feet on solid ground, knees slightly bent to soften the landing. He was on Cybertron, he thought. Miles of endless expanse stretched in front of him. In the distance, mountains. The Manganese Mountains? Too early to tell.
He didn’t know where he was. Only that it was empty. So empty. There was a sun in the sky, two suns. And Luna-One. It hung there like a gem. Close enough to touch.
Dreadwing looked down. His frame was whole and hale. There was no sign of Megatron’s betrayal. His plating shone. He had no weapons, not a one. But his transformation cog was functional. He would transform and go anywhere.
He didn’t know where he could go. Or where he wanted to go.
He pressed his hand to his chestplate, felt the strong hum of his spark beneath. So strong, yet it shouldn’t be. The ache of loss remained.
Dreadwing bowed his helm. Dimmed his optics. His free hand curled into a fist, talons biting into his palm.
“All you had to do was ask.”
Dreadwing’s helm snapped up. His optics brightened as he whirled.
There. Within arm’s reach. As whole and bright as Dreadwing himself. Unarmed, but not lesser for it.
Dreadwing’s spark pulsed. It tugged him toward the olivine frame, familiar marks etched into wings that were a match for his own.
Marks, not a badge. Not a claim. There were no factions here. There didn’t need to be. All that remained were the marks they shared, family glyphs that marked them as one.
“You look confused, brother,” Skyquake said with that damnable smirk of his. One that never ceased to infuriate Dreadwing.
Skyquake was so cocky. Always so cocky. Thought nothing could touch him. He’d been wrong.
“Don’t you know where you are?”
Dreadwing’s ventilations stuttered.
“I traveled across galaxies,” he started as he moved toward his brother, frame drawing him more than anything else. There was a need, and it yawed through the echoes of his spark chamber. “I felt your death across the universe. And you have the gall, even now, to taunt me.”
Skyquake spread his hands. “What are older brothers for?” That damnable smirk did things to him.
He ached and there was no cure for it save Skyquake and the moment he was within reach, he grabbed his brother, his twin. He pulled Skyquake close like he hadn’t done in ages, their frames colliding, chestplates coming into ringing contact.
“Brother mine,” Dreadwing murmured, embrace so strong his talons left scratches in Skyquake’s dorsal armor.
Skyquake deigned to return the hold, when he’d always been the first to decline before. He pressed the side of his helm to Dreadwing’s. “Spark of my spark,” he rumbled. “Welcome home.”
Dreadwing’s lips pulled upward, the closest thing to a smile he’d had in millennia.
It was good to be home.