*throws dratchet angst at you and runs away*
Ratchet was getting better.
Or at least, that was what Drift kept telling himself.
The vorns they had spent together had taught him to read his conjunx with an accuracy that sometimes bordered on frightening; from the way Ratchet set an energon cube down on the table, Drift could tell whether something was weighing on his mind. From the sound of his first step through the front door, he knew if work had been exhausting or merely irritating. A glance, a sigh, the slightest shift in posture, each one spoke a language Drift had spent decades learning by spark.
Then the illness had come and stolen that certainty from him.
Overnight, Ratchet had become someone he had to learn all over again.
The disease had changed everything. It had stolen pieces of him bit by bit, reshaping familiar habits into something foreign.
The mech Drift had known so intimately was still there, buried beneath the pain and exhaustion, but finding him had become harder with every passing cycle.
And yet Drift had adapted. He had learned to recognize the new signs, to read movements slowed by weakness and smiles dimmed by fatigue. He had learned to hear the things Ratchet no longer said aloud.
Most importantly, he had learned to recognize when Ratchet was pretending.
He did it for Drift's sake; he had never doubted that.
Ratchet would force a smile, laugh when he lacked the strength for it, insist that he was feeling better when they both knew he wasn't, not because he wanted to deceive him, but because he couldn't bear watching Drift suffer alongside him. He wanted to give him hope. Wanted to preserve the illusion that one cycle their lives might return to that quiet, ordinary happiness that now felt impossibly far away.
But Ratchet was Ratchet, and Drift knew him better than anyone else ever could.
That was why, when the first signs of improvement appeared, he had noticed them immediately.
And this time, he had believed them.
Primus, how desperately he had believed them.
A part of him had remained cautious, unable to completely silence the voice whispering that it was too good to be true, that recovery was rarely so simple, that hope was dangerous.
But another part -the selfish part, the terrified part that wanted nothing more than to keep the mech he loved beside him- had seized that fragile spark of hope with trembling servos and refused to let go.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the darkness no longer seemed endless.
For the first time, Drift had allowed himself to imagine a future again.
Ratchet was suddenly walking without needing to steady himself against every surface within reach. The light in his optics seemed brighter too, burning with a vitality the illness had spent so long trying to extinguish. His appetite had returned, and more than once Drift caught himself staring in quiet wonder as Ratchet finished an entire meal.
Most precious of all, he laughed.
Not the faint chuckles or tired huffs that had become so common over the past months, but real laughter. Warm, rich, and deep enough to fill every corner of the room. The sound Drift had missed more than he had ever been willing to admit.
And despite everything, Drift still treated him with the same gentle patience one would reserve for the sick.
Whenever Drift fussed over him, Ratchet would answer with an amused snort or a fond roll of his optics, as though he secretly enjoyed being the center of all that attention. As though, despite feeling stronger with every passing cycle, he didn't mind having Drift hovering around him, ready to anticipate his every need.
Then, one evening, it happened.
Night had settled quietly over their home, and pale moonlight filtered through the window, casting silver shapes across the bedroom. Their frames lay entwined upon a berth that had long since memorized the contours of their frames, shaped by countless night-cycles spent together.
Drift held Ratchet close.
Possessive. Protective. As if sheer determination could keep him safe.
Ever since the illness had taken hold, Drift had spent every night wrapped around him, lulled to recharge by the steady rhythm of Ratchet's vents while carrying the same terrible fear into every recharge cycle: that one morning he would wake up only to find silence next to him.
But tonight felt different.
Ratchet wasn't exhausted.
For joors they had talked about everything and nothing; sharing stories, teasing one another, laughing harder than they had in what felt like an eternity. The shadow that had hung over them for so long seemed, for once, less suffocating.
Drift's servos wandered lazily across Ratchet's frame, tracing familiar red markings with slow, affectionate strokes. There was no urgency in the gesture, only the quiet comfort of rediscovering something beloved.
And when Ratchet's hand settled over his forearm, his grip was firm, strong. Not the fragile touch Drift had grown accustomed to, but something closer to the mech he remembered.
For a brief, fragile moment, lying there beneath the moonlight with Ratchet warm in his arms, Drift allowed himself to believe that perhaps the worst was finally behind them.
“Do you remember the day of our conjunx ritual?” Ratchet's voice broke the comfortable silence between them, a faint smile curving his dermas.
Drift smiled immediately.
“Of course I remember it.” He leaned forward to press a soft kiss to the corner of Ratchet's mouth. “It was the happiest cycle of my life.”
For a moment, Ratchet's expression faltered. His optics lowered briefly before he looked back up at him, amusement shining through.
“And here I thought that title belonged to the day we met again.”
Drift groaned dramatically.
“Oh, absolutely not. You were unbearable.”
Ratchet let out a laugh, and Drift joined him. Their voices mingled together, filling the room with a warmth that had been absent for far too long.
For a little while, neither of them spoke, then Ratchet's gaze drifted toward the ceiling.
“And the night-cycle after the ceremony?” He asked softly. “Do you remember that?”
The question died before it could leave Drift's mouth.
Ratchet lifted a servo, resting a digit gently against his dermas.
“Do you remember how we looked at each other when we were finally alone?”
The teasing edge had vanished from his voice. His features had softened, illuminated by something tender and distant.
Drift felt his spark flutter painfully inside his chassis.
Carefully, he took Ratchet's servo and turned it over, pressing a kiss into the center of his palm.
His thumb brushed over Ratchet's knuckles.
“I remember how we held each other almost immediately, as if neither of us could bear to wait another moment before starting our life together.”
The words lingered between them.
Starting our life together.
Once, those words had felt endless; full of promises and futures and centuries stretching out before them. Now they carried a weight Drift could barely stand to acknowledge.
A quiet smile touched his dermas.
“And I remember spending the entire ceremony wondering if any of it was actually real.” His optics softened. “I kept looking at you and thinking there was no way our sparks were finally tied.”
Ratchet's cheeks warmed slightly.
“And those ceremonial veils didn't help. You looked beautiful.” A deeper blush spread across Ratchet's face. “Really beautiful.”
For a moment neither of them looked away.
Time between them seemed to disappear, leaving only the same love that had brought them together all those cycles ago.
And for a brief, precious instant, they were simply two mech in love again.
“I remember realizing that there was nothing in my life I wanted more than to give you all of my time.”
The words settled heavily between them. Drift felt his spark tighten painfully in his chassis.
And what made it worse was the sadness lingering behind Ratchet's smile.
The sadness in Ratchet's gaze was a mirror, and Drift hated how clearly he could see himself reflected in it.
Carefully, he lifted Ratchet's servo to his dermas again; this time he pressed a kiss to each knuckle, slow and deliberate, as though he could somehow preserve the moment through touch alone.
“You gave me more than time,” Drift murmured, his dermas brushed against warm plating. “You gave me patience when I had none. You gave me love when I was convinced I didn't deserve it. You offered me kindness when life had given me little else besides bitterness.”
Only then did he look up. Their optics met.
“You never once made me feel like a burden.”
Ratchet's vents hitched. The reaction was so subtle most mechs would have missed it, but Drift didn't.
“You were never a burden.” Ratchet replied quietly, his voice sounded rough around the edges. “You were...”
Ratchet looked away for a moment, shaking his helm slightly, as if struggling to find the right words, but when he finally spoke again, his voice was softer.
“You were the only thing that ever made sense.”
Drift closed his optics briefly. The confession hurt far more than it should have.
His free servo rose, hovering near Ratchet's face.
Drift traced the line of his jaw with infinite care, following familiar contours he had memorized long ago. The faint stress lines near his optics, the warmth blooming beneath his touch even now, after all these cycles together.
He wondered how many times he had done this.
“I love looking at you.” Drift whispered.
A faint smile touched Ratchet's dermas.
“That sounds strange, doesn't it?” His thumb brushed along Ratchet's cheek. “But sometimes I catch myself staring and thinking... this is the mech who chose me.”
His voice trembled slightly.
“The mech who saw every mistake I've ever made; every ugly part of me, every reason to walk away.” His digits lingered against Ratchet's plating. “And stayed anyway.”
Ratchet's optics shimmered.
The plea was gentle, almost fragile.
His thumb brushed over Ratchet's lower derma, reverent as a prayer.
“I've done terrible things, I've spent most of my life running from consequences, from fear. From myself.”
His forehelm lowered slightly.
“But I never ran from you.” The words emerged barely above a whisper. “Not once.”
He leaned forward until their forehelms touched.
Their optics closed together.
Silence wrapped itself around them.
Warm, tender, painfully finite.
“I want to give you tonight.” His voice was little more than breath. “All of it, every moment.”
His digits intertwined with Ratchet's.
“No responsibilities. No ghosts waiting for us in the morning.”
“Just you.” A pause. “Just us.”
When Ratchet spoke, his voice was thick with emotion.
His servo tightened around Drift's.
A small gesture, a lifetime of meaning.
The kiss that followed was slow, almost tentative.
A gentle meeting of dermas that tasted of old memories, quiet devotion, and all the things neither of them seemed willing to say aloud.
Drift's servo slid to the back of Ratchet's helm, cradling him as though he were something infinitely precious, something fragile.
Ratchet leaned into the touch, releasing a soft sound that resonated through both their frames.
The noise settled somewhere deep inside Drift's spark.
Ratchet shifted back against the berth, drawing Drift with him, and they settled effortlessly into the familiar shape they had created together over the years.
Drift's chassis pressed against Ratchet's, warmth passing through plating, and beneath it all he could feel the steady rhythm of Ratchet's spark pulsing in quiet counterpoint to his own.
The thought arrived unbidden, terrifying.
They kissed again, deeper this time. Not desperate, simply unwilling to let go.
Drift's servo wandered down Ratchet's side, tracing contours he knew better than his own: the curve of his waist, the line of his spinal strut, every familiar detail etched into memory through centuries of love.
Ratchet's digits found their way to Drift's finials, tugging gently. A small laugh escaped Drift before dissolving into a quiet groan against Ratchet's mouth.
For a moment he simply looked at him.
The silver moonlight caught the edges of Ratchet's faceplate. His optics glowed softly in the darkness, and there it was; that smile.
The one Drift had spent centuries learning to treasure.
The one he had feared he might never see again.
“I love you.” Drift whispered.
The words felt impossibly small compared to everything they carried.
“I think I've loved you since the first time you called me an idiot.”
“I still am.” He pressed a kiss to the corner of Ratchet's mouth. “But I'm your idiot.”
Ratchet's expression softened immediately.
The words wrapped around Drift's spark more securely than any armor ever could.
Then Ratchet pulled him closer.
Drift closed his optics. Normally, that word would have hurt.
A promise that suddenly felt far too fragile in the face of illness and mortality.
But tonight, lying there with Ratchet safe in his arms, Drift couldn't bring himself to fear it, because forever had never really been about time.
It had never been measured in cycles or centuries. It lived in every choice they had made.
Every battle survived, every quiet morning shared, every moment spent reaching for one another.
They belonged to each other, nothing could change that.
Not distance, not suffering, not even death itself.
They made love slowly, as if they had all the time in the universe.
Drift traced every line of Ratchet's frame with his dermas, pressing kisses to the joints that ached from centuries of work, to the scars that told stories of battles fought and survived.
He mouthed along Ratchet's neck cabling, feeling the pulse beneath, tasting something that was uniquely him.
Ratchet's servos roamed across Drift's back, his hips, his thighs; not grasping, not rushing, but exploring with the same meticulous care he brought to everything.
He found the sensitive seams where Drift's armor joined, the places where a gentle touch could make him shiver, and he lingered there, learning them all over again.
When they finally joined, it was with a shared exvent of relief, their frames aligning as naturally as if they had been made for one another.
Drift moved above him, slow and steady, while Ratchet's legs wrapped around his waist, drawing him closer until there was no space left between them.
Ratchet breathed, and the designation sounded like a prayer.
“Right here.” Drift pressed their forehelms together once more, optics locked, sparks singing through their proximity. “Please-”
Their rhythm built gradually, a rising tide of heat, pressure, and the electric hum of their sparks resonating in harmony. Drift's ventilations grew ragged, and Ratchet's digits tightened against his shoulder plating, holding on to him as though he might disappear.
“I'm not going anywhere.” Drift promised, reading the fear beneath the desire.
He lowered himself, wrapping his arms around Ratchet and holding him as close as physically possible. Together they moved through the darkness, two sparks beating as one, a rhythm older than memory and newer than the present moment.
The peak came slowly, a wave that built and built until it finally broke over them both.
Drift felt Ratchet's frame arch beneath him, felt the tremor that rippled through his systems, heard the broken sound of his designation on Ratchet's dermas.
He followed a moment later, his spark expanding, filling his chassis with light, warmth, and an overwhelming sense of rightness that made his optics sting.
They lay tangled together afterward, their vents gradually evening out, the silence soft and complete.
Drift pressed a kiss to Ratchet's shoulder.
He said again, because the words never lost their meaning, no matter how many times he spoke them.
Ratchet's servo found his, their digits interlacing.
“I love you too. More than I ever thought I could love anything.”
Drift smiled against his plating.
“All the time in the world.” Ratchet agreed.
And the lie was beautiful. So, they held on to it anyway.
A few cycles later, Drift was alone in that same house.
Ratchet's scent still lingered among his belongings, which Drift hadn't dared to move. The shape of his frame remained impressed upon the berth they had shared, as though stubbornly waiting for him to come home, and Drift's spark felt shattered.
For a moment, he had truly believed they still had eternity ahead of them.
He had believed the improvements in Ratchet's health were real.
He had believed they were going to make it.
But the cruel truth was that his hope had deceived him.
Ratchet had spent the last of his strength making sure that Drift would not be left with the memory of a mech slowly fading away, but with the memory of the mech he had fallen in love with.
Strong. Sharp-witted. Always ready with a clever remark and that low laugh Drift would have recognized anywhere.
And despite the illusion, despite the sparkbreak it left behind, Drift found himself grateful for that final act of selflessness.
That night, when he finally lay down in their berth, he instinctively left Ratchet's side untouched, as though he might return at any moment and slip back into his place beside him.
One servo rested on Ratchet's pillow, searching for warmth that was no longer there.
And with the memory of Ratchet's smile lingering in his mind like a beautiful wound, Drift finally fell into recharge.
