it’s the slow days that bring the best out of them both, he thinks no nightmares ( machine who dreams a thousand deaths ; how does it feel to be icarus fallen ? have wax woven wings scalding against your back as needles puncture metal ? ), no harrowing screams / nails against glass, awaking to a symphony of self - fulfilling prophecies. rare days of CALM, that has rewind rebooting with a lackadaisical stretch & visor flashing dim, absentminded trails of tiny digits against beige plating in savored moments.
❛ you up, domey ? ❜ voice heavy in sleepy static, mumbled against a large forearm. it didn’t matter, if chromedome was still asleep ; primus knows he needed rest.
he’d been awake for fifteen minutes now ; body stationary and stiff in its faux rest, careful not to disturb rewind. the small voice and the vague sensation of a soft blue light on his shoulders. the lighting of their habsuite is dim. shrouded in the same sense of vast black as what was outside the windows of this ship ; it’s relaxing, if not vaguely disassociative. there are NO DISTRACTIONS. nothing to do, nothing to say. just the two of them floating in something simultaneously bigger and minuscule compared to each other.
chromedome shifts, sitting up slightly and turning to the other. his visor is dim, a low light of yellow, casting the color of ageing light bulbs in garages that allowed nothing natural to enter through their absence of windows. he starts their day-long conversation in the same way that he always does, with useless small talk. a finger on the other’s servo, a loving thought always at the forefront of his mind. ❛ what about you? ❜
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