Oblivious_Prime

The light was soft—slanting golds and rose hues brushing over the war-torn skyline of Iacon. Dust drifted lazily through the air like ash, but for once, it wasn’t from battle. It was just... peaceful.

Optimus stood beside Megatron in silence, the kind that wasn’t uncomfortable but full, like something sacred. His hand shifted, fingers brushing the back of Megatron’s, tentative. Testing.

His hand gently cusped Megatron’s as they stood side by side in the quiet aftermath of a long day. The sun dipped low behind the ruins of Iacon, casting amber light across the broken metal and dust.

Megatron didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Nor did he didn’t flinch. Instead, he let out a quiet ex-vent, sharp edges dulled by the warmth of the setting sun. Then—without a word—he entwined their fingers, claws careful not to pierce. It wasn’t much. Just the touch of two worn hands, but it said everything.

The warlord leaned ever so slightly, brushing their shoulders together.

Optimus turned his helm, soft optics catching the faintest curve of a smirk on Megatron’s mouth. “You’re not as terrifying when you’re quiet like this.”

Megatron snorted. “Don’t get used to it.”

“I won’t,” Optimus murmured, pressing a kiss to Megatron’s temple. “But I’ll still cherish it.”

Never speak an odd number of words when those he loves are in danger.

Avoid mentioning his comrades names to anyone outside of his high command when possible.

Must finish any conversation (specifically the last sentence) with Ultra Magnus on an even syllable count, or he’ll dream of the dead again.

Never walk away from an injured comrade in medbay without tapping his fingers in mirrored sequence: Left-right-right-left.

If he says someone’s name, he must say it again in his mind or else it "doesn’t protect them."

Each rule has a history. Each is linked to a memory, a failure, or a death.

A coping mechanism born of grief, guilt, and loss.

He blames himself for what was never truly in his control.

Optimus Prime is a mech who takes responsibility for everything. He doesn’t make excuses. He doesn’t delegate guilt. He drowns himself quietly.

Autobots die? It was his fault for leading them.

Civilians suffer? His failure to end the war fast enough.

Megatron? Optimus wasn’t persuasive enough.

He draws links between his actions and outcomes, not because it’s rational, but because it’s the only way he can keep from drowning in uncertainty.

Optimus was forged (literally and metaphorically)to endure. To be noble. Steady. A leader that does not fall.

He doesn’t scream. He doesn’t break down in front of others. He doesn’t run from pain, he internalizes it.

But internalized pain has to go somewhere.

When you don't allow yourself to cry, rage, or grieve openly, the mind finds quieter, colder ways to express fear. Rituals. Fixations. Small rules. Thought patterns that carry the illusion of control.

He sees them as necessary safeguards. Quiet mechanisms to prevent the next catastrophe. At least, that’s what he thinks.

Optimus knows what his name means to others. He knows how many bots went into battle under his command and never returned.

And deep down, he wonders, 'Was my hope worth their lives?'

He can’t bring them back. But he can ensure their sacrifice had shape. That their loss wasn’t for nothing. Each “rule” becomes a tether to a life lost. A grim totem. A piece of meaning salvaged as remembrance.