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The Necroworld, Rung had to admit, was beautiful to look at.
Yet Rung didn’t manage to share his crewmates’ enthusiasm at the prospect of meeting the Necrobot. He felt uneasy in the meadow that stretched beyond the horizon and he didn’t know why. He felt like he was staring at a puzzle whose pieces didn’t make sense.
He had decided to take a break, wandering between the flower fields as everyone else chatted wildly and speculated about what Nightbeat might be doing with the Necrobot (Whirl’s salacious comments didn’t count). Rung avoided treading on the flowers, whose delicate petals swayed in the gentle breeze. They gave off a bitter feeling, which he didn’t want to go near.
He looked around. The meadow surrounded him, echoing in his spark despite the fact there was no sound.
Why… Why did it look so familiar? Had he ever tread on this ground, despite the fact he had no memories of this place?
“Rung!” an unfamiliar voice called, full of longing and relief and joy, which didn’t make sense, and there was the sound of quickly approaching footsteps.
He half-turned around and caught the sight of a lanky orange mech, his swirling cape floating around him. He was barely registering this information when long fingers framed his head, a face came closer to his and…
There was a mouth on his.
There was a mouth on his, kissing with all the long lost love poets sang about, with all the tenderness of someone you called home, with…
There was a stranger kissing him, out of nowhere. He heard a collective exclamation of shock and he bashfully realised it was directed at him and whoever was— was kissing him—
He jerked his head back and stared into the sea blue optics of the Necrobot.
“Rung,” the Necrobot said again, still lost in the maelstrom of feelings swirling inside him. But then he noticed Rung’s confusion and discomfort, and gave him some space.
He still didn’t let go of his face.
Rung wanted to tell him he had mistaken him for someone else, but he knew his designation, so how…?
“Rung,” the Necrobot whispered, worry creeping into his voice, “don’t you recognise me?”
It felt like the missing piece of the puzzle was dangling mockingly, just out of his reach.
“Do I know you?” Rung asked, with a pained voice that matched the hurt spreading across the Necrobot’s face.
“It’s been so long, cāritas, too long,” and the yearning made the mythological being look so real, “please,” he begged, “ remember me. Remember us.”
He had called him ‘love’, in Primal Vernacular. It was the shove that brought the missing piece into Rung’s hands.
He gasped and collapsed on himself, the Necrobot’s arms being the only thing anchoring him to the present as something deep within himself unlocked and everything it contained poured like a hurricane, past and forgotten times, loving hands, the birth of a people, four pairs of eyes, the calm, the storm, the soured feelings, Adaptus’ treason—
Adaptus.
The Guiding Hand.
Home.
“Censere?” he called out weakly, he couldn’t believe he had forgotten, couldn’t believe the blanks were filled only now…
“Oh, cāritas,” Censere said, falling on his knees before him, tears sparking in his optics. “I missed you so much.”
Rung outright sobbed and flung himself at Censere, hugging him with all his might.
They had retreated in a berthroom, promising more detailed answers to a confused crew, but right now all that mattered was catching up lost time, even though the task seemed enormous.
But nights could feel like millenia with enough willpower.
Censere was straddling Rung’s thigh, careful not to crush him while pressing his frame against his. It had been a mess of tongues and questing fingers, of desperate kisses and crackling electricity.
“Censere,” Rung gasped, overwhelmed, not knowing what he wanted but begging for it nonetheless, “Censere, please, I don’t…”
“Sshh,” Censere soothed him, running the bridge of his nose along Rung's jaw, “don't think about the past, about anything. Let me take care of you.”
And Rung let him, let Death cradle life between his hands. Opposite as they were, both spark windows flared in unison when Censere rubbed them against each other, bathing the room in blue light. Rung actually yelped when a zing of charge passed between the glass. Censere immediately drew back, worried he had hurt him, but Rung let out a desperate plea and clutched his lover's shoulders. He glued himself to the lanky frame, kissing Censere feverishly, holding on for dear life.
He didn't want to let go. If he let go, Censere, and everything he held dear, would disappear again, like water trickling between his fingers.
Again he rubbed their spark windows, electricity surging through his cables like a storm washing his grief away, lighting his circuits with pleasure instead. And then Censere's fingers found the spot in his hip joint that made him melt in a puddle, and the confidence in his caress proved he hadn't forgotten about Rung's sweet spots. He stroked Rung like a cherished treasure, and it was so sweet and nostalgic and yearning it made Rung hiccup in their kiss.
He hadn’t realised he had opened his panels until Censere brushed his thumb against his node, more a fleeting glance than an actual stroke, but one that made him arch nonetheless. Just like the kiss, Censere was incredibly soft in his touches, his hand almost trembling as he mapped a territory that was almost haunting in its familiarity.
“Beautiful,” he whispered against Rung’s neck, when had they broken their kiss? “As beautiful as the day we lost each other.”
Rung sobbed, because of the words, because of the gentle caress, he didn’t know, but he knew he wanted more, grinding his hips to chase Censere’s touch. His own hands fumbled around Censere’s head, until he rubbed the tip of the crest-like finials between his fingers, which made Censere shiver from head to toe. Emboldened, Rung did it again, marvelling at Censere’s soft gasps, which he tried to silence by biting on his lip plate.
“No, no, please darling, let me hear you,” he pleaded almost desperately, and Censere couldn’t deny him.
They spent a long time touching each other, listening to each other’s whimpers and moans. Lubricant was beginning to trickle out of Rung’s valve, which Censere was quick to spread on his blinking node. The slick noises would have embarrassed Rung, were it not for Censere’s marvel and his gentle praises, murmuring about how gorgeous Rung was when he was lost in pleasure, which made him spurt even more lubricant.
He felt self-conscious for not returning the attention, but then Censere’s hand left his valve and he let out a small cry at the loss, until Censere moved and Rung saw as his lover gathered more lubricant that he brought to his own valve, that was Rung’s lubricant he was spreading across his own platelets with an expression of bliss as fragile as crystal poppies in bloom, and he was touching him again, knuckles rubbing insistently against his blinking node—
A strangled, surprised sob came out of Rung’s throat as a small overload washed over his frame, his plating rattled like wooden chimes and Censere kept touching him, cooing encouragements that felt too soft to be real.
Still trembling, Rung reached between their frames and cupped Censere’s valve, warm and slick and silken and eerily familiar. Censere gasped above him, optics shuttered tight, dangling at the edge but not quite there. An ancient memory rose, like bubbles reaching high water, and Rung’s fingers quested below, framing the caudal node nestled between pulsing valve lips. Censere actually squirted when Rung pinched it, and he breathed out his designation like it was the air he needed to survive as he overloaded.
They collapsed in a tangle of limbs, panting, their spark windows pulsing brightly before calming down, tide recessing to let their frames cool down slowly. Rung didn’t immediately realise he was stroking Censere’s back until the bot purred against him. That made his spark melt even more if it was possible, and he pressed his lip plates to his forehead, committing his scent, his plating’s taste to memory.
He remembered. He remembered and that was all that mattered.
He jumped a little when Censere shifted and his thigh accidentally brushed against his valve, and he jumped even more when his spike stirred with interest.
“Rung?” Censere asked, lifting his head with curiosity rather than confusion.
“I’m– I’m sorry, it’s been so long, I didn’t think I would—”
“Hush, cāritas,” Censere whispered with an impossibly fond smile, “I said I would take care of you, didn’t I?”
Rung licked his lips and nodded, but felt compelled to ask if they could cuddle afterwards. Censere laughed, glowing and shining like the sparks he guided for their last journey, but here he was alive, they were both alive and of course they could cuddle, anything for Rung, he only needed to ask, and then his hand found Rung’s spike and he squirmed in his grasp to get closer to completion until they lost themselves in the night.
They actually cuddled for several hours.