Cybertron's night sky was starless, with just the reflected light of the moons to keep it company. He'd never thought anything of the cool darkness that used to envelope his planet. But on Earth, where there was an apt atmosphere, he could see the colorful swirls of nebulas. In the distance, light years away, he saw the bright flashes of dying stars. He loved it all, but especially the constellations.
Optimus Prime had never before seen constellations, but found he quite liked them.
This evening, he rested on a rolling hill south of the Ark with an arm behind his helm. With his optics he drew imaginary lines between stars. It was cold enough to snow, but the night was too clear for that.
Still, the mythology of constellations eluded him. Why assign a myth of a man to a broken puzzle of stars?
Humans, he thought, assigned baseless knowledge to things they knew nothing about only to comfort themselves.
Optimus Prime frequently felt powerless in big ways. Most of them involved the war. His spark, so great in strength due to the Matrix, often sat as heavy as a boulder in his chest.
But if Optimus Prime was made out of stone, then Starscream was made out of glass.
Imagine, if you will, spending the next few million years with your closest co-workers. Space is confined, food is rationed, and the sex is unfulfilling. Funny quirks turn into pet peeves that, if it happens one time too many, mean your helm on a platter and your aft in a medbay. Relationships, romantic and platonic, dwindle in affection until you mutate into mortal enemies. All the while, your boss is the whiniest nag ever to bitch.
This is why the Seekers hated Starscream. And he knew it.
He was Second in Command of the entire Decepticon Army, the Decepticon Air Commander, the Vosian Winglord, and the most powerless mech in existence.
He knew that, too.
His power and sphere of influence was a china plate: symbolic but ultimately useless. The fact burned him. It instilled in him a seething hate for his position and his subordinates.
But when their situational frustration boiled over, Optimus Prime brooded and Starscream soared.
On this night, Starscream flew. He didn't know where he was flying - the only thing that mattered was that he was. When his wings grew numb from the freezing air, he landed.
Optimus Prime was lost in his thoughts. He heard the other's landing and assumed it one of the Aerialbots. Huffing, he rolled on to his stomach and got to his knees. He froze.
Starscream always glared. His face was set in a perpetual pout that was the opposite of unattractive but still irritating.
"Aren't you supposed to be holed up in your royal palace somewhere over yonder?" Starscream sneered, gesturing toward the Ark. There were no null rays in sight.
"I thought I'd relax out here by myself for a while." Optimus Prime said. He slowly rose to his feet, keeping his movements casual.
"Yes," Starscream rolled his optics, "I imagine being so dearly beloved is tiring."
Optimus Prime couldn't help himself. "Well, one can only accept so many tins of wax before your arms become heavy."
Starscream huffed.
In an ironic twist of fate, Starscream had the stress management Optimus Prime only dreamed of. He thought frustration rolled off of Starscream's wings like a water off a duck's. If Starscream knew Prime thought that highly of him, his helm would explode.
Unfortunately, Starscream seemed to want to prove him wrong.
"So are we going to do this or not?"
"Do what?" Optimus Prime scratched the back of his neck. While Starscream stared at his face, he widened his stance.
"Hm." Starscream said. He squinted.
"What do you look like under your mask?"
Well, Prime thought, that wasn't the reaction I anticipated.
"A mech."
Starscream rolled his optics harder than before. "Do you even have a face under there?"
Optimus chuckled. "I do."
"I want to see it."
Tilting his helm to the side, Optimus Prime considered his demand.
"No," he decided.
"But I want to see it!" Starscream prepared for a tantrum. He had decided that his was what he wanted, and he was just frustrated enough to bitch about it.
"How about a deal?" Starscream said. "If you let me have a good look at your face, I will fly away. No fight."
Optimus Prime's face, Starscream would think later, was too young. Without his mask, his optics were wide and vulnerable. His mouth was expressive.
With no mask, Optimus Prime looked sad. Frustrated.
Powerless.
Starscream took a few steps closer with his hands clasped behind him, secretly pleased. "I was taunting you before, you know, about how tiring it must be to coddle the Autobots. But it seems I saw right through your… mask." He grinned. "Leading isn't all sunshine and roses over there, is it?"
"No," Prime conceded, "but then again, you would know all about a difficult leadership."
Starscream hissed.
Later, neither would be able to remember who leaned forward first or who said what. It didn't matter. What mattered was that it happened.
The kiss was chaste. There was no glossae involved, no biting. No frills.
But there was a sweetness to it. The kiss contained a minute amount of honesty, like a whispered secret between strangers. A secret that the other had no use for.
No, that was a lie. The feeling of powerlessness and nostalgia was the only thing tying them together. The weakness this kiss confirmed what was exploitable by the other.
Prime and Starscream stopped kissing.
Optimus Prime closed his face mask, and Starscream took two steps back. They looked at each other for a moment. Optimus Prime's servos were still raised from where he held Starscream's helm. With a vent, Starscream took another five steps back. Quieter than the cacophony of cricket chirping, he kept his promise. He transformed and flew away.
Optimus Prime watched him leave. He put his servos down. He went into his memory core and starred the evening.