It was the sort of pitch blackness that occurs in the early morning, after the moon has set and before the sun has begun to rise; the stars bright and cold overhead. Distant, they offered little light and no warmth to the pair sitting on the mountaintop in the cold morning. Neither, however, was paying attention to the stars. Their focus was on the very close, very alive planet around them—and upon one another.

"This is the second home you've lost," the smaller figure spoke with a hushed reverence, as though breaking the stillness of the pre-darn quiet might break it.

Softly glowing blue optics turned towards his smaller friend, casting a faint light on his form, as Optimus turned his head to regard his companion. Of course, size mattered little—few of his companions, Optimus found, were as tall as he, in recent vorns. The Prime's gaze soon strayed to the dark-shrouded land spread before them, and it was a moment before he replied with a similarly quiet tone. "And the first you've lost, my friend. I am sorry," he spoke with true regret and sorrow of the sort rarely expressed with such sincere openness.

His companion touched his arm lightly, his hand small on Optimus' arm. He paid it little mind; few of his friends, lately, had been as small as he was. "It's not your fault, big guy." He let his hand drop though, knowing that the Prime would not let go of his burden of guilt. It was part of Optimus' personality; it was just the type of mech he was, to take responsibility. In part, it was what made him such a great leader. He wouldn't be Optimus if he didn't care so deeply.

They sat silently together, watching the world pass them by, when finally Optimus spoke. "They are waiting for us," he said, though did not move from his comfortable sprawl, legs stretched out and relaxed before him. Nor did his companion move from his own position of comfort, legs folded with his back against a boulder. Contemplatively watching the way the edge of the sky had lightened to a pale gray, he nodded slowly. "Yeah, I know."

More silence; a comfortable, understanding sort of silence, the type between close friends who do not need to speak to feel comfortable in one another's company. This wasn't a time for words, both knew without ever having to consult the other, and so they remained quiet, taking the time to reminisce.

Optimus thought of the great tragedies of the last decade. For all the friends they'd made, all the good that had been done, equally they had lose friends and evil had been wrought. Too many lost; he took a few moments to cycle memory-clips of their faces across his processor, taking the time to remember them as they deserved. He tried to do so as often as he could, but so many had fallen…yes, he could understand, when he thought of the losses, why some of their number were so reluctant to make friends among the humans, and why so many of the humans were wary yet of becoming true friends with the Autobots.

It was hurtful, but Optimus understood. The thing about developing relationships with organics was that, as vivid and full of life and love and emotion as they were, they were just so tragically fragile. They lived hard and fast—oh, some of them, they lived so much more than many cybertonians Optimus had known!—but they paid for such rich, vivid liveliness with their brevity of life. So short, so delicate. Humans, he decided, were like small meteors burning up in the atmosphere—humans called them shooting stars. Optimus loved that about the humans. They romanticized things, and romanticism was something that Cybertron had lost long ago, if they'd ever had it to begin with.

Shooting stars, and humans, were quick. You had to keep an optic out for them, or you might miss them entirely—and they were too amazing to miss entirely. Bright, quick, energetic. Always burning with great vibrancy, great energy, moving with a purpose like they had to get somewhere and get there quickly. So much energy—but such hot fires burn fast, and so do humans and shooting stars. They burn themselves out, he thought with unease at the thought of his human friends. They just burn themselves away until their bodies can't go any more—even though their souls, their sparks, kept telling them they could.

Yes, Optimus could understand the reluctance to grow close to something so fiery and quick and brief as a human—but those who had could never regret it. Bumblebee, himself, Ironhide—they would never regret their friendships with the humans. The energy and love and vitality of the humans was catching. Optimus had not seen such life and love from his Weapon Specialist in vorns, and Bumblebee was achingly, heartbreakingly joyous whenever Sam was near. Their short-lived friends, Optimus mused, gave far more to their Autobot friends in joy, love, and life than they could ever take away with grief and sorrow.

His companion's thoughts were vastly different from Optimus. He remembered instead the joys of friendships, the great changes that had been wrought in earth's society and in his own life in the last decade. There was heartache, but he would not change things. Things could have gone better, but not without his friends. No fate, he felt, could have been worse than to simply never have had any of this happen—even with all of the violence, change, and upheaval he'd undergone in the last decade. Sitting here, with his close friend, he felt deep inside that it was worth it, even this next looming tragedy. Losing a home was terrible. It was wrong, and miserable, and on many levels he was enraged over it.

But being angry wasn't going to change anything. It wouldn't make things better, it wouldn't win acceptance or love or a home. It would only make things worse, and make him bitter. He'd seen the results of bitterness in Megatron, in Barricade's eyes. No, he wanted nothing of bitterness in his life. That left only acceptance and sorrow. Sorrow for the loss of a home, for the loss of a family and many great friends, for the loss of security and safety.

At the same time, though, this was a chance to gain an entirely new type of home, a new type of family and new friends. They wanted him as much as he wanted them—and he wasn't welcome here. None of them were, anymore. The humans had lost too much and gained too little; they did not want the Autobots, and so, the Autobots would go—and he with them.

Optimus shifted finally, looking down to his companion to find him deep in thought. A gentle touch gained the other's attention, and their gazes locked briefly. "We should go, they will not like to wait."

He made a soft, faintly amused noise. "They will wait. I want to watch one last sunrise."

A sunrise. Optimus turned his head to the East and sat with his friend on this planet so unlike his dead home and thought of how he was now losing another home. The sun rose slowly above the horizon, bathing the lush Earth in its golden brilliance. It lit the snow-capped mountains like gold, gilded the dew-covered leaves and grass of the plants with copper and platinum, let water droplets glisten like diamonds atop emeralds. The mountaintops were lit, the valleys cast into shadow, and the morning sky shone gold and orange and purple, clouds catching the light and casting deep purple-blue shadows in the sky. Around them, the planet came to life with birdsong, with chattering squirrels and animals moving in the underbrush; the first birds flew overhead, wings flashing in the morning light.

The Earth bloomed with energy and sound and lush, rich life, and, as the sun moved towards its place in the sky, Optimus Prime stood and took his dear friend to his shoulder. They stood, for once a part of the landscape and not distant from it, just for a minute longer. Then, they turned from the Earth and returned to the stars.

Earth was home no more. But a new home was waiting for them there—third star to the left, straight on until morning.