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It’s one of the things they don’t talk about.
At this point, the argument is as well-worn as the grip of their weapons, of a used mining drill. The fights have been spectacular, the nights spent lonely and cold. Between the two of them, their stubbornness reaches atmospheric levels. There is no compromise in sight on this, so inevitability is their enemy, and they’re both willfully turning away from it.
Their focus is on anything else, on each other, on the sticky happiness they manage to find as the planet seemingly cracks beneath their pedes. Ignorance is truly bliss. The two of them are experts now. Not when they crave each other on those lonely and cold nights, not when a touch or a glyph or a look from the other soothes them in ways no one else quite manages. It’s concerning and dependent, but Optimus finds a refuge in Starscream that he needs.
It's the same for Starscream.
So, they don’t talk about it.
Starscream stays silent as he rubs the medicinal salve into Optimus’ battered frame. It’s a victory for the Autobots yes, but they walked away with Megatron still has their enemy leader and fist shaped dents in his chassis. Megatron tried to claw his way to the Matrix, to Optimus’ spark. Tried to tear into it like he did Sentinel’s body.
He stays silent, but the agitated flicks of his wings as his digits go from wound to wound speak loud enough. Optimus’s optics trace the lines in his facial mesh, the pinch of his nasal ridge, the crevice between brow plates, the downturn of his mouth. It’s a common look on his face, leveled at everyone and everything.
Optimus doesn’t like the source of this anger, or the worry that’s fueling it, but Starscream is beautiful in every angle and shade of himself, in every actuator. He doesn’t have much energy to do anything but gaze upon him.
It has quickly become a favorite past time of his, especially since Starscream only ignites the desire with his encouragement.
Optimus doesn’t know what his own face is doing—or more accurately his optics as his battle mask remains locked across his face—but Starscream’s thumb rubs his knee as his other servo massages his thigh with even circle. It’s probably something lovesick, then.
It causes Starscream to sigh, faintly. “It’s hard to be mad at you when you look at me like that.”
“Consider,” he tiredly drawls, “I don’t want you mad at me.”
“So, you’re admitting you weaponize those optics of yours.”
“I admit to no such thing.”
Starscream chuckles, static crackling along the edge of it, and Optimus raises a servo to brush his digits along his bicep. “You do it too much, I’ll be immune.”
“And here I thought my charm was irresistible?”
He glances up, red optics cutting him a look, and it’s enough for Optimus to grin finally. “That’s debatable.”
“It worked on you.”
“Please, we all know I’m only using you for your status and frame. Not because of any personality traits you may or may not possess.”
Optimus theatrically gasps. “You’re using me!?”
Starscream grins, showing fang, and leaning closer, servos warm on his legs. “I’m going to steal all your shanix.”
He slides away his mask, so the kiss lands on his mouth. “One more thing for you to steal from me,” he murmurs against Starscream.
Both servos then grab his helm, kiss turning into something hot and hard, and Optimus doesn’t care that the salve is getting smeared all along his helm. Not when Starscream growls, low and stuttered, and Optimus grabs ahold of his waist.
He pulls Starscream close and closer, till there’s no space between them for anything but heat and steam. Starscream perches over his lap, weight more on his knees instead on him, and while unneeded, it’s appreciated. Servos are still careful as they roam about his frame, stoking heat deep within his frame.
This is one of the variants of the post-fight routine, and it’s preferred over the shouts and hissed insults that volley back and forth between the two of them. It’s better than the shield of anger. This path is just as well-worn.
The kiss ends with their helms pressed together, panting together, ex-vents intermingling. Optimus slides a servo up his spinal strut, memorizing the rhythm of his engine’s vibrations for the millionth time.
They don’t talk about this either.
How their chassis locks rattle to keep closed, the way Optimus’ spark bounces and battles with the Matrix. The way he knows Starscream’s sings for him when they get too pressed together. Just like now.
Entropy is coming for them both, but in the hold of each other’s arms, it’s easy to ignore. To pretend.
Optimus can’t kill Megatron.
Starscream will kill him for Optimus.