N/A: Implied Cyclonus/Tailgate. Ficlet. Death. Would recommend only reading if you're caught up to #20.

Inspired by some Snee art that I can't seem to find.

(I honestly have not read much past this part, I will one day hopefully catch up...)

A little hand rose up. Cyclonus was drawn to it, servo sliding to the smaller arm. Tailgate grasped the air. A shift at the wrist was all the smaller bot needed to touch the other.

Smaller fingers stretched. Touched. His face, his cheek, over the scars. The red glow of optics dimmed in their cast upon Tailgate's hand and the azure light on the other side appeared stronger than it really was. Not that he could tell anymore.

Cyclonus felt the trembling before he saw it.

"Here," he vocalized, guiding that wrist up again when it started to falter. His claws clinked against Tailgate's metal with the urge to squeeze or grab, never let go, even if he dented him. It took some strength to speak again. "I'm right here."

The edges of Tailgate's optic visor fizzed and blurred. Everything was colorless shadows and moving blobs. Cyclonus looked nothing more than a dark cloud before him, held together by a heavy weight in his center, ready to unleash and then vanish in the winds.

The minibot began weeping silently, shoulders shaking, faceplate pointed down at nothing, not even the vague shapes in his failing vision.

"Tailgate," Cyclonus said.

It wouldn't surprise him if the smaller bot suddenly lost his hearing and vocalizer function too.

"Tailgate," he tried again, louder this time.

The mini took a steadying ventilation but kept his helm down. Did he hear him? Cyclonus used his other servo to brush against white plating, to tilt that gaze up. Look at me.

He wanted to see the glow of life, treasure it, wishing so desperately to keep it alive within him if only as a memory of a silly blue visor.

Only a moment later did that visor fizzle with tears again, soundless sobs rattling his worn out frame. Cyclonus did not spare the processor power considering his actions anymore. Not when it came to Tailgate.

He held him close.

Even when the crying stopped and he couldn't feel his warmth anymore, little hand cold and limp in his own, he did not let go.