The night Prowl's letter arrived, it was the end of the end - no, after. The epilogue. Lovely sentiment had rotted into cold and quiet glares, containing only the barest hint of fading affection.
He gazed at the letter and debated whether or not to open it.
It is with my sincerest regrets -
The end was completely avoidable. And if he were to be honest, they were ending as a result of abiding prejudice.
Briefly, he considered fixing them. It would've been easy. He could talk; they could talk. Talking wasn't the difficult part, listening was. Talking - apologizing - would have meant defeat, and neither of them had ever lost a battle so great against their pride.
- and deepest apologies that -
This fiasco had been the guillotine blade to their foolish necks. Any rosy optic glass left remaining, faded. Kisses were rescinded and replaced by distant scowls.
- I inform you of our closure.
Soon, their relationship would dwindle into familiar camaraderie. That is, he hoped their prior working relationship would eventually thrive once more.
That was being optimistic though, and he didn't do optimistic.
Prowl, he figured, had known all along about their demise. He resolved then to hold a grudge, but then realized… it had been pleasant while they'd lasted. Pleasant in the way that a continental breakfast was - light and agreeable, but not satisfying, or even good. Something to appreciate before forgetting about by lunch.
I never loved you, and I suspect that you never loved me.
He might have grown to love Prowl one day. He wouldn't get the chance, now.
He opened the letter.
It was early morning, just after midnight. The two lovers reclined on the floor of Prowl's office. His helm was tucked against Prowl's neck.
As I write this, I am laying next to you.
His kisses scaled up the side of Prowl's face with warmth. Prowl smiled, deeply and beautifully.
You are kissing my audial and saying kind things. I want you to know that I appreciated every word.
His logic center ran the scenario, over and over. He and his lover as the constants, the war as the variable. It presented the same result each time. They wouldn't make it.
His lover smiled as he told a dirty joke. Prowl chuckled as he dimmed his optics, feeling something like love.
For the rest of the night, with every kiss, Prowl ran their scenario. He switched around variables, created workarounds, deleted small hiccups, and generated hotfixes.
Sorry, no deal, his logic center would infinitely reply. Except its reply was displayed as a large flashing zero with a smaller percentage symbol dangling next to it. It wasn't something easily ignored.
So Prowl sighed… and accepted the inevitable.
And I wanted, more than anything, for us to last.
It was the beginning, and Prowl wrote the letter.