#both ends

—

Dropmix’s words hung in the air. I’ve fragged up.

It felt like stepping off a cliff blindfolded, hoping for solid ground. But the silence that met him wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t even anger. It was hollow just like everything else about Jeopardy was right now. He didn’t know what he was expecting, he didn’t know what the admission was meant to fix. He didn’t know why he said it.

But it was the only thing he could think to say.

Jeopardy didn’t move. Not a twitch. Not even the subtle motor shiver of someone holding back emotion. Just stillness. Jaw clenched painfully tight, hands balled into firm fists. He was preparing himself for something, a blow, a lie, maybe even stinging words. But he didn’t let Dropmix see what.

He didn’t tremble like Theremin used to when tried to contain his anger. This was Jeopardy. Painfully collected until things bubbled up and spilled from him, who kept his thoughts to himself in fear he would be a burden. Whose anger when left to fester would turn on himself. Waiting for him to burst and yell was not how he should be approached, because he wasn’t Theremin.

They had been caught in a battle not of words, not of pride or even beliefs, but rather self preservation. They had both retreated into what they knew was safe and planned on remaining there until it was safe to emerge. But Jeopardy was smart—always has been, even though he is blind to it. He had moved his pieces and pinned the gladiator in checkmate without him realizing it.

And now he either bowed out or died fighting a losing battle.

Dropmix had lost.

The dark mech took a step back, now no longer in arms reach of the young medic before him. The temptation to reach out and make Jeopardy cave was gone. He tensed, looking over Jeopardy once more before he schooled himself and swallowed his pride.

His fists curled and uncurled, his eyes dropped to the floor and he sucked in a breath. Whatever was left of his mask was lowered and Dropmix huffed quietly, a sound too soft to be a sigh, too sharp to be anything like relief.

“I don’t know what to say,” he admitted, quieter than he would have liked, yet it was still deafening in the silence that had settled over them. He could feel Jeopardy’s eyes on him, unsure and defensive, unreadable. The admission sat heavy in the air, felt sour against his tongue.

The pitiful truth sat between them for a moment before Dropmix dared to speak again, the stinging words that Jeopardy had hissed rolled around his mind. The medic was upset, upset that he had cared and trusted the gladiator. Because Dropmix had lied.

Words boiled in his gut, coiled painfully in his chest and clawed at his throat, things he longed to say. Syllables that his tongue could not form. Truths that he refused to admit because that would be weakness, it would be letting others see his faults and impurity.

“I…” The dark gladiator clenched his jaw and looked up at Jeopardy, light blue eyes filled with a storm of emotions. There was anger, so much of it, and vile, seething hatred, but none of it was directed at Dropmix. None of it was ever directed at anyone else but Jeopardy himself, not even when he had every right to be mad.

It made Dropmix’s spark ache.

Losing Jeopardy wouldn't be losing Theremin all over again, it would be losing something different and new, but just as cherished. Dropmix couldn’t go through that loss again, lose someone that is his. It would destroy him, he knew it. He couldn’t go back to how it was before Jeopardy, not without losing his own sanity or self.

He sucked in a sharp breath, eyes cast downward again, hands idle by his sides, “Jeopardy, I… I need you.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. Not elegant. Not calculated. Not like him. It wasn’t twisted into anything that would benefit himself. Not clever or deceiving. He would gain no upper hand from this.

It was just raw. Ugly. Unfiltered.

And true.

It was pathetic, really, so easy to twist. Jeopardy could twist it against Dropmix, he’s that attachment to his benefit and have what old pitmasters would call an attack dog. He could control Dropmix with it. Or, Dropmix himself could twist it, lure Jeopardy in and keep him for himself, make sure he never dared to leave—

The gladiator tightened his fists, shame welling in his mind as he forced battle programs to silence themselves. He already was at the mercy of Jeopardy, fighting would not lead to victory.

Dropmix didn’t dare to look up and see the medic’s reaction.

But he didn’t have to. The silence that followed wasn't empty—it was dense. Heavy with something raw and jagged. Like grief before the wailing starts.

Then Jeopardy made a sound. Soft. Wrong.

A broken, choked inhale—just a breath, but it caught like something tearing.

He still didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His whole frame was too still, too stiff. Like if he moved even slightly, something inside would crack open and never close again.

Dropmix lifted his gaze slowly, jaw clenched tight, dull teeth grinding together in such a way it was painful.

Jeopardy’s hands were shaking.

He was staring at the ground, light optics wide and dim and glassy. His breath was uneven, plates trembling and flaring for just a moment only to press back down. The medic’s expression twitched. His mouth opened, closed. Opened again.

“You lied,” he said. Barely audible. His voice frayed like it was being pulled through broken glass. It was quiet, quiet enough that had Dropmix been playing music in his coms he may have missed it.

“That—just that—” His vents hitched again, and his fists curled like they might keep him from flying apart.

“That’s not… not fair, Dropmix—” he exhaled sharply, then folded in on himself, a tremor rippling through his frame. “Stop… stop saying stuff you don-don’t mean.”

Dropmix flinched.

He fought the urge to step forward, that wasn’t his place, not now. He would not twist Jeopardy’s hand that way, make him succumb to that need to be held. But it hurt to simply stand and watch as the medic’s plates quivered and his voice cracked with static.

Words swelled in his chest but died in his throat, his mouth felt dry, tongue heavy. Anything that came to mind didn’t seem like enough or they spun his feelings into something else, something usable. The safest option was to manipulate and lie, to reach and give Jeopardy what he so badly wanted—what he needed.

The gladiator almost did it, he almost reached out, to show Jeopardy he cared through force. But Dropmix tensed, his own plates trembling under his armor as he restrained himself. His spark ached, pain rolled through his chest, demanding attention. Jeopardy was wrong.

“I did mean it,” he said softly, voice low and rough, like it scraped on its way out. His fists curled and uncurled again, he kept them at his sides despite the need to reach out.

But Jeopardy shook his head, slow and hollow. “You don’t.” His voice cracked like brittle glass in an explosion. Static popping the syllables and vocalizer stimming with useless clicks in an attempt to comfort itself. “You say- say things like they’re easy. Like… like they don’t stick. But they- they do. They stay. They dig in.”

He wasn’t yelling. Jeopardy didn’t yell.

But the edges of his voice were fraying, piece by piece, and his frame was starting to tremble in earnest. His vents rasped unevenly like his body couldn’t decide whether to keep holding itself together or finally let go. A low whine escaped the medic, engine ticking idly.

“I—I believed you. Even when you smiled and acted like it was nothing, I still—” his voice failed again, cut off with static and clicks. His hand reached up, aborted the motion halfway, and dropped limply to his side like he’d forgotten what he was trying to do.

“I loved you. But you lied. You lied and… made- made me feel like… like I was worth something and- and trustworthy,” Jeopardy whispered, not looking at him. His voice was frail, warping at the edges. “Like maybe I wasn’t a burden. Like maybe I mattered.”

Dropmix took half a step forward, arm reaching out before he tensed up and dropped it by his side. His spark ached, sharp pain curling around it, tightening his chest. His plates flared under his armor, vents hissing.

“I—Jeopardy, you do—”

“Don’t,” Jeopardy hissed, sudden and sharp. But it wasn’t anger. It was terror. Panic.

The young medic was shaking now, vents uneven and plating trembling. He shook his head, stepping back, shoulders hunching to curl into himself. His arms finally raised, crossing over his chest in a mock hug, an attempt to comfort himself no doubt. “Just- stop! Please… please stop.”

Dropmix froze. He didn’t dare to move, not when Jeopardy sounded so broken—broken in a way that Theremin would never let himself be. But Jeopardy would. It stung just as much though. The medic’s voice was a shatter-glass tremor, his armor felt too bright in the sterile light, too small, too fragile.

The gladiator fought himself for a moment, chewing on words that bubbled up his throat until he found some suitable ones. Leaving the rest to be buried—the ones that begged for Jeopardy to stay, or demanded and threatened.

“I’m not lying,” Dropmix said, quieter now. It wasn’t a protest, just a truth laid bare. “I didn’t- I never lied about that. About...”

He paused, the words catching in his throat, they clawed their way out though, a truth that left him vulnerable and exposed, “I’m not lying about caring for you.”

But Jeopardy shook his head again, slower this time, like each motion took effort. His arms wrapped tighter around himself, his frame drawing in as if trying to disappear into itself, his engine whined and voice clicked.

“You are.” His voice cracked so hard on the last syllable it came out strangled. “You have to be.”

He finally looked up.

There was no fire in his optics—just something broken. Something flickering and dim, washed out by exhaustion.

“Because if you meant it… if you actually meant all that slag about needing me—then why does it still hurt this much?”

The words sunk their teeth into the dark mech’s spark, clawed deep into his chest.

Dropmix stepped forward before he could stop himself. Jeopardy tensed, flinched away without moving his feet, like even the air between them burned. Still, Dropmix didn’t touch him. He just let the silence breathe a second longer.

When the gladiator spoke again it was rough, more controlled than previously but raw, his eyes lingered on the floor, “If I didn’t care why would I be trying to stop you from leaving?”

That did it.

The last thread holding Jeopardy together snapped like overstretched wire.

His mouth twisted like something sour had been forced onto his tongue. His optics widened—he took in Dropmix’s face like he was seeing it for the first time, like all the anger and grief and want had been scrubbed clean, leaving something raw and unfinished beneath.

Then—he moved.

Not away.

Forward.

His knees gave out at the same time his vents hitched—sharp and high and wet. A noise caught between a gasp and a sob, and then Jeopardy folded, crumpling in on himself like a building too damaged to stay upright.

Dropmix almost went down with him, almost reached forward to catch his fall. He didn’t, he just watched as the medic collapsed.

He hit the ground hard, plating scraping the floor, but didn’t seem to notice. One hand braced on the cold tile, the other slammed into his own chest like he could punch the pain out.

“I can’t—” The word came out strangled, shredded at the edges. “I can’t, Dropmix—I tried—I tried to just—push it down, I tried to wait it- it out. To be quiet, and small, and good enough—”

Dropmix’s spark clenched so tight it felt like he couldn’t breathe. He almost reached forward again, he was close, so close to bridging that gap. But he faltered and waited. Let his own guilt settle deep in his chest.

He caused this. Dropmix hurt Jeopardy enough to break him.

Despite himself he knelt in front of the crumbling medic, jaw clenched tight as he looked over the other.

Jeopardy was trembling—violently now. His vents rattled, and his helm was bowed so low that his vocalizer nearly hit his knees. His optics were lit, but unfocused. Frantic. Vocalizer clicking uselessly.

“I don’t want to need you,” he said, voice cracking, breaking wide open. “But I do. And I hate it—I hate that I trusted you, I hate that I let myself think I wasn’t disposable, that I deserved this, that maybe—maybe—you saw something in me that—!”

“I do,” Dropmix said immediately. Quiet, but firm.

Jeopardy squeezed his eyes shut. As if saying it again would kill him. A low whine emoted from his engine.

“You can’t,” he whispered. He sucked in a shaky breath, fingers curling and digging into his own armor as if they had claws. “You- you can’t because… because you lied. Because I fell for it, I- I believed I deserved it, that I was… was worthy of it. I let that poor-poor mech die! I left him to die!”

A broken sob escaped the young medic, fingers scraping and against his paint as he clutched his chest, over his spark. A whine followed, plates flaring in distress as his body shook. “I killed them! I left! Left just like- like… like Triton left me!”

Jeopardy’s voice cracked apart on that name—Triton—like a wound being torn back open, old and rotted beneath the scar. His optics squeezed shut and the noise that ripped from his throat wasn’t a sob, it was a malfunction. A desperate static-tinged scream pitched too quiet to be heard but loud enough to feel—like pressure behind the helm, like the inside of his mind collapsing in on itself.

He wasn’t speaking anymore. He was spiraling.

“I left them! I did—I did, I could have gone back, I should have gone back, I should’ve tried—!” His hands clutched harder over his spark, clawing with blunt fingers like he could dig out the guilt, rip it free before it swallowed him whole. “But I was- you were—I thought… I wanted it! I wanted you to- to love me! I didn’t—I didn’t want to lose you! I was—I was so selfish!”

The medic's vents were misfiring, fluttering with the onset of panic. The noise pouring from him wasn’t crying—not really. It was collapse. Too raw to name. Too violent to categorize. The kind of grief that twisted in on itself and bloomed into panic so thick it overrode everything else—reason, thought, even survival. Just pain. Pain, looping and looping until it broke something essential.

Dropmix watched it happen like he was watching a dam burst in slow motion.

“Jeopardy—” he said, and his voice cracked—pathetic.

The medic didn’t hear him. Couldn’t. He was gone in it now, sinking beneath whatever old guilt had finally risen high enough to drown him.

“I left,” Jeopardy rasped again, voice warping with static as his frame jolted with each rattled sob. “I left because I wanted… I wanted you! But it was all- all a lie! But I still—I left and I—Dropmix I was supposed to save him! That’s all I was meant to do and I left! I walked away, I let it happen, I—Primus, I let him—!”

His vents gave a harsh stutter, then seized—a full stall, his body too locked to keep up.

And Dropmix moved.

He didn’t think, didn’t plan—there was no calculating this. Just action. Because if Dropmix didn’t do this, didn’t stop whatever had sunk its claws into Jeopardy he was sure the medic would unravel, break beyond repair.

The large mech had already let him suffer alone long enough.

He reached forward carefully, one knee still planted on the ground, and set a hand on Jeopardy’s upper arm—light pressure, enough to be felt, enough to ground.

“Hey—hey,” Dropmix said, firm now, rough, trying to cut through the collapse with something solid. “Breathe—Jeopardy, you have to vent, please, you’re overheating—”

“I deserve to!” Jeopardy snarled through his sobs, the scream so sharp it cut Dropmix straight across the chest. “I deserve this! It’s not- it’s not fair! You don’t—stop saying that! You don’t get it! I should have—You’re not a- a medic. You never were.”

Dropmix froze. No instinctive rebuttal. No smooth denial. No clever misdirection.

Because the kid wasn’t wrong.

And for the first time, the silence that followed wasn't just pain—it was exposure. Vulnerability cracking wide open, not just on Jeopardy's side, but his own. He pulled his hand back from Jeopardy’s arm, setting it in his own lap.

“Your Pitborn… gladiator… just—” Jeopardy cut himself off, clenching his jaw tightly and flinching, like he had said too much. He shook harder, if at all possible, and braced himself for a moment, tensing up. A few seconds passed and he dared to open his eyes, to breathe and let out a small whine, “You're just playing… playing dress up.”

Dropmix’s chest tightened so fiercely it felt like his spark was being crushed under a steel vise. The truth in Jeopardy’s words landed like a hammer—he wasn’t just exposed, he was stripped bare. No masks, no armor, no lies left to hide behind.

He swallowed hard, voice barely above a rasp. “I’m not playing.”

Jeopardy’s gaze sharpened, pain flickering beneath the hurt like a dying ember. He gasped wetly for air, shaking as he tried to form words. Nothing came out but static for a moment, unintelligent noises escaping the medic and causing him to whine. He shook his head, “You lied about it. You- you said you trusted me.”

It wasn’t an accusation. It was a plea. A broken thing, cradled in grief and disbelief, trembling in the palm of his hand like a dying spark.

Dropmix didn’t flinch. He didn’t retreat. But he didn’t defend himself either—despite the rising urge to claim his innocence, to lie and manipulate to gain Jeopardy’s adoration again.

Because he had lied.

And it tasted like rust on his tongue now, thick and acrid, clinging to the back of his throat no matter how many times he tried to swallow it down.

“I know,” Dropmix said, finally. His voice was steady in a way it hadn’t been since this conversation started—but only because the weight of the lie was heavier than any fear of saying it aloud. “I didn’t… I didn’t know how to tell you the truth.”

The dark mech sat for a moment, a storm of emotions rolling through his chest and he tried to wrangle the thoughts into words, into something worth saying. “I didn’t want you to…”

Dropmix didn’t know what to say, he didn’t know why he had been so caught up in lying. He just wanted control, to have leverage, to make sure that Jeopardy wouldn’t leave. Because if someone as caring and wonderful as Jeopardy—who was everything Dropmix was not—couldn’t love him, who could? He had lied because telling the truth would be letting him in and that meant losing him, like how he lost Theremin.

Because he was pathetic, incapable, outdated. Dropmix didn’t want Jeopardy to see through the cracks and witness his failures, see where he fell short. He would be disgusted with his weakness, revolted by his true colors and leave. That Jeopardy voice would join Theremin’s in his head, whispering his shortcomings and insignificance. Or twist it against him, use it to control Dropmix instead of the other way around.

That's what it boiled down to, he wanted control because he knew he had none, not anymore.

The truth stung.

The dark mech huffed, eyes diverted, clawless and blunt hands sitting limply in his lap, jaw clenched tightly. He let the words claw up his throat, let them fight their way to the surface—because Jeopardy was going to leave regardless of what he said, “I was… scared.”

Jeopardy didn’t move. His hand had stilled against his chest, fingers half-sunk into the thin seams of his own armor, holding himself together with nothing more than desperation and fragility.

The silence between them deepened.

Dropmix leaned forward slowly, not to touch—but to be closer. Closer to the shatterpoint he had helped create. Closer to the truth that had cracked both of them open.

He didn’t speak again, not yet. There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t sound like apology or excuse. So instead, he let the silence speak for him. Let Jeopardy breathe—if only barely.

The medic’s optics flicked up, just once, like he was checking if Dropmix had vanished. Like maybe if he looked fast enough, he’d catch the lie leaving again before it could twist into something worse.

But the gladiator hadn’t moved. His optics were dim but steady, his frame still as stone, only the faintest tremble in his vents betraying how hard he was working to stay grounded. His jaw flexed once, twice—like words were still trying to form, but his spark hadn’t given them permission yet.

And then, Jeopardy exhaled. Just one breath. Shaky. Uneven.

But it was a breath.

Dropmix didn’t respond. Didn’t move. He just watched that tiny shift like it was the first break in a storm—too early to mean safety, but not too late to hope.

Jeopardy’s optics fluttered closed. His hand didn’t move from his spark. It trembled, pulsing with a rhythm that wasn’t entirely healthy, like his systems were running on fumes and panic. But he wasn’t clawing anymore. Wasn’t sobbing. Not yet calm—but no longer spiraling fast enough to destroy himself.

The dark mech looked down at his hands, declawed and blunt, laying limply in his lap. His chest still ached, spark whirring against his plates. The pressure that had gathered in him had lessened, not disappeared, but eased. Unspoken words still ate at his mind though, at his spark. The greedy need to dominate, to turn around and take back what he had said, to prove himself. It would be so easy to mold it, to lie and make Jeopardy stay.

The words lingered in his mind, promising Jeopardy’s loyalty. Pressing against him until he felt like he would suffocate under their pressure.

Dropmix kept his head lowered, arching into himself and took a breath of his own, shrinking in submission, beating his mind into compliance. He didn’t look up, his voice was quiet, strained, weak by every definition, but real. He stopped fighting to hide the way his words formed, the odd pronunciation of the accent that tied him to his birthplace, the pits. “I never meant… to care about you. It was never my intention to get attached or… or anything.”

Jeopardy made a noise, broken and weak.

Dropmix closed his eye for a moment, jaw clenching as he shook his head, “I’m not sure when it happened, it wasn’t all at once, but at some point I… I realized I started to mean what I said. But at that point I had already been lying and I… I didn’t know how to tell you the truth.”

Jeopardy stayed quiet.

That silence stretched long and thin, like wire pulled taut across a battlefield. His frame wasn’t trembling as violently anymore, but there was no calm to be found in him either. Just a stillness edged with exhaustion. A silence that didn’t trust, didn’t forgive—but hadn’t walked away yet.

The gladiator kept his head lowered, shoving down battle programs that tried to rear up, to defend himself, to shield himself with lies. To gain control again. Dropmix sat in silence, dwelling on thoughts and the lack of music. Things felt hollow without it, but real, realer than things had felt in a while.

It was nice.

“Please… Jeopardy, don’t leave.” He hated how his voice almost cracked, how weak and small and desperate he was. But Dropmix finally dared to look up.

Jeopardy’s head barely lifted, optics flickering like a failing signal, catching Dropmix’s words as if they were fragile transmissions sent through static. His breath hitched, small and uneven, like a dying star trying to burn just a little longer before the collapse.

Dropmix’s spark slammed painfully against his chest, a sharp reminder that this was no longer just about words or pride—it was about holding something precious together, even if it was breaking.

The medic’s expression contorted, fracturing and crumbling. Jeopardy sucked in a desperate gasp, shaking starting to intensify again, more violent than before, breaths ragged and unsure. His pale optics wide with a mix of emotions, too many for Dropmix to bother naming. The younger mech’s playing trembled and pressed into himself as a pitiful whine escaped him.

“I don’t- don’t… I don’t want to,” Jeopardy whispered, voice ragged and thin, barely a thread of sound, but it was there. The words hung between them like a fragile promise, trembling but alive. He shook his head and let out a small cry, “Please—Dropmix I can’t—Primus, I was gonna—I don’t want to go. But I- I can’t stay here. Not-Not like this.”

Dropmix didn’t breathe.

For a long, terrible moment, he just sat there, watching Jeopardy shatter all over again—not violently this time, but quietly. Like a star fading out instead of exploding. Like something sacred dying in silence.

He couldn’t answer that—not right away, but he wanted to.

Primus, he wanted to.

Instead, he moved slowly, like anything faster might break what little Jeopardy had left. Dropmix reached out—not to touch this time—but to offer. A hand, open-palmed, held between them in the space where too much had been said and not enough had ever been explained.

He kept his gaze low, not pressing, not begging, not demanding.

Just… offering.

Jeopardy stared like he was waiting for a trap to spring.

Dropmix didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. The hand stayed open between them, palm up, steady despite the tremble in his own shoulders.

He didn’t dare look Jeopardy in the eye. Couldn’t. If he saw the accusation there—or worse, the hurt—he’d lose his grip. On this moment. On himself.

Still, he waited.

A long second. Then another. And—

Fingers. Just the barest touch. Feather-light. Like Jeopardy wasn’t sure if he was allowed. Like even now, after everything had been carved out and spilled between them, he was bracing for this to be another manipulation. Another lie.

Dropmix’s spark twisted, low and sick. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t dare.

The contact lingered. Tentative. Fragile.

And then—

The medic’s hand settled into his.

Fully. Shaking. Light as anything—but real.

The weight of Jeopardy’s hand in his own felt like nothing and everything all at once.

It was light, trembling—like it might disappear again if Dropmix blinked too fast. But there was intent in it. Hesitation, sure. Pain. But intent. A choice.

Stay.

That single word echoed louder in his mind than anything else had in cycles. It didn’t mean forgiveness. Didn’t mean absolution. But it meant Jeopardy hadn’t walked away. Not yet.

Dropmix’s other hand twitched where it rested against his own leg. He hesitated, unsure. He didn’t want to push. Didn’t want to take more than was being given. Not this time. Not anymore.

But—

Jeopardy was still shaking.

And he was still falling apart too.

So slowly, carefully, he reached out again. This time he didn’t aim for the medic’s arm, didn’t go for his back or shoulder.

He reached for him.

Dropmix shifted forward, just enough to close the distance—and wrapped his arms around Jeopardy’s trembling frame.

It wasn’t tight, wasn’t forceful. It was steady. Arms around shoulders and chest and sides, his own frame curling inward like he was trying to shield them both. Like if he just held on hard enough, maybe they wouldn’t break again.

Jeopardy stiffened instantly.

But he didn’t pull away.

He sagged, slowly, like a dying thing letting itself be carried. And then he was moving—not on purpose, not deliberately—but melting. Into him.

Dropmix let out a sound he didn’t know he was holding, something between a sigh and a tremble and a sob, though he’d never admit to it. His head dropped slightly, forehead ghosting over the top of Jeopardy’s helm. His hands tightened fractionally.

The smaller mech curled in closer.

And there it was.