Chapter Text
[Excerpt from a folded sheet of looseleaf paper, titled 11/14/22:] Vox, god of sound – ironically, he is often depicted as having no voice of his own. The god of music, song, and the moving power of speech, he was a powerful figure in the district of Kaon some hundreds of years ago, and worship of him is still localized largely in that area, although efforts at radio-based missionary efforts have had some effect globally. Taking an etic perspective, I’d posit that his legend was inspired by the echo, that voice that…
Megatron’s life used to be quiet.
It was all Rodimus’s fault, really; his college years had been blissfully peaceful and uneventful until the redhead had dropped into his life, interrogating him about his research on minor gods and following him around until Megatron had, reluctant as he is to admit it, grown fond of the younger man. Rodimus was alright. It was more than he could say about the rest of the people that had followed Rodimus into his daily life, his apartment, and seemingly every social gathering he’d been dragged to in the last month.
He stared down the latest invader, arms crossed. Soundwave stares back up at him from behind his sunglasses, unperturbed.
“I wasn’t expecting you here,” he says as he gestures at the protestors setting up around him, the sun rising over the Academy buildings, the empty stage they’ve begun filling up with signs.
“Soundwave: Rodimus’s plus one,” Soundwave says, tilting his head slightly. Megatron huffs.
“What Soundwave means to say,” Rodimus interjects, leaning out from behind the man in question, “is that he heard you were giving a speech today and he got curious.” He beams, and makes some incomprehensible gesture that ends in him slapping Soundwave’s shoulder with one gloved hand. “Isn’t that right, Soundwave?”
Soundwave doesn’t say anything in response, but Rodimus continues to grin unrepentantly up at Megatron, other hand planted firmly on his hip. Megatron sighs, but he gives Soundwave a long, searching look. He can’t see much behind the man’s sunglasses, but Megatron can guess from the defiant tilt of his chin that Soundwave is meeting his eyes without flinching. Megatron holds his gaze for one second, two, and then looks away, satisfied.
“You’ll do,” Megatron says, gruffly. Rodimus looks at him, and then Soundwave, head whipping back and forth between the two of them in confusion. “Come with me, we need extra hands setting up.” Soundwave falls into step behind him easily enough, while Rodimus turns on his heels and walks backwards to face both of them.
“He’s always like this,” he complains. “Last time I showed up, I had to hold up the end of a banner that said “Students Against Functionalism” for hours.” He considers this for a moment, visibly thinking, and turns back to Megatron. “Hey, Megs, what is functionalism?”
Megatron groans. He’s used to this.
“Is he always like this?” Megatron asks Soundwave, ignoring Rodimus completely. Rodimus pouts. Honestly.
“Affirmative,” Soundwave answers. He pauses. “Term: unknown. Soundwave: would also like a definition.”
“You two can’t just ignore politics,” Megatron says, scandalized. He glares at them both. Rodimus looks sheepish. Soundwave stares back at him, meeting his gaze with ease. “Here, hold this,” Megatron says, and drops an entire speaker in Soundwave’s arms without waiting for permission. “I’m not scheduled to speak for an hour. You’re both getting caught up on basic political literacy if I have to beat it into you.”
–
Rodimus manages to ditch fifteen minutes in, but Soundwave gazes intently at Megatron as he gives his best overview of Cybertronian politics. It's hard to tell what Soundwave thinks through the barrier of his mask and sunglasses, but it's hard to miss how his face turns to follow him every time he moves. It’s, well. Almost overwhelming. Megatron’s accustomed to people listening when he speaks, by now, is used to the power his words can hold over others, but when Soundwave responds to him with a simple “Megatron: spoke well,” it feels important. Weighted. He’s not sure when he started valuing Soundwave’s opinion this highly; perhaps when they traded opinions about music and poetry at one of Rodimus’s incessant social gatherings, or perhaps it was just now, when Megatron first realized what it was like to be fixed by the sheer heaviness of his gaze.
Soundwave looks at him the same way as Megatron gives the speech he had written and rehearsed for the occasion, as powerfully as he can deliver it, and even though Megatron can read even less of Soundwave’s face from the distance of the stage, he swears he can feel Soundwave listening. Can feel the suffocating weight of his attention on him through the full event. It stays with him, that feeling – the knowledge that Soundwave turns at the sound of his voice, like a sunflower reaching for the sun.
Soundwave becomes a familiar presence in the crowd at rallies, meetings, and protests where Megatron plans to speak; even tagging silently along behind him beforehand. Megatron suspects he should be annoyed – would be, usually, but Soundwave’s presence is unobtrusive (at least when his… friends? children? aren’t with him.) Besides, Megatron is used to working in worse conditions than the Academy, is too familiar with need and risk to ever turn down an extra body at a protest. It’s almost a good luck charm for him now, Soundwave telling him Megatron: will speak well before he goes on stage. He has the oddest feeling that he performs better, somehow, after talking to Soundwave; like the crowd responds better, like he thinks faster on his feet, like he’s giving the best possible version of the speech he meant to give.
He asks Rodimus, later, as the man curls up on his couch uninvited again, why Soundwave keeps coming back to the rallies. Rodimus just laughs at him.
“Same reason I am, dumbass,” Rodimus says. “Cause he likes you.”
“Huh,” Megatron says. His brain attempts to wrap itself around this concept a few times, but no, the words are still equally incomprehensible to him.
“Well, he likes your speeches,” Rodimus amends, looking thoughtful for once. “He gets like this, sometimes, for public speakers. Hasn’t for ages though, not since Zeta Prime gave that one address or whatever. I don’t really pay attention to this stuff, but if Soundwave keeps coming to listen then you must be a hell of a speaker, y’know?”
Since Megatron doesn’t, in fact, know, he opts instead to lie down on what couch space is left and offers a noncommittal grunt. He doesn’t mean to settle in for a nap, but he’s already drifting off to sleep as Rodimus tucks his chin into the space between Megatron’s shoulder and head. Zeta Prime, hm? Must be the Address on the Launch of Ark I. He should ask Soundwave about it, he thinks, he didn’t know the man was a history buff, and it's the last thought he has before he falls into a warm, easy sleep.
“Old man,” Rodimus mutters, affectionately, and runs his fingers through Megatron’s hair. May the sun walk with you, he whispers, and Megatron smiles a little, reflexively, even in sleep, unaware that the sun is holding him in its arms.
–
He doesn’t get to bring up Zeta’s rhetorical strategies the next time he sees Soundwave as he’d been hoping to, unfortunately, because he’d seen fit to bring an annoyance along with him.
“Is this him? Don’t answer, I can see Rodimus’s favor all over him,” said the annoyance in question, peering skeptically up at Megatron through his designer sunglasses. It was almost uncanny how put together he was – the creases in his suit were perfectly straight, his outfit was perfectly color-coordinated, and the wings on his eyeliner were perfectly symmetrical.
“Who is this, now?” Megatron starts to ask Soundwave, who was standing a polite foot or so behind the stranger, but he’s interrupted by a perfectly manicured hand stretched out in his general direction. Megatron considers staring at the stranger until he retracts it. It’s tempting, but Soundwave would probably be disappointed in him if he did.
He shakes the hand. The stranger smirks.
“It’s Starscream, thank you,” he says, in a haughty, high-pitched tone that instantly puts Megatron on edge. “No need to introduce yourself, darling, I’ve heard more than enough about you.”
The stranger scans Megatron with zero pretense, a long lingering look up and down his frame, from head to toe. Megatron keeps his chin up and his eye contact defiant; he knows what he looks like here in his small student protest group, is used to the scrutiny. He’s the other half of Optimus-and-Megatron, after all, the lesser half, the one who left the tiresome work of rebuilding what they’d torn apart with words and protests and speeches to his partner and left the limelight for a useless degree in the study of gods and men. He’s heard enough accusations of wasting his momentum, his potential, here in college and here at the tiny group he runs as a student, and he’s learned to meet them with shoulders set and a determined stare.
Starscream says none of that. Instead he nods, slowly, and says, “A bit naive, perhaps, but you’ll do,” and turns easily to Soundwave… and Rodimus, who’d managed to appear without warning again. “I know neither of you have kept up with politics,” Starscream says, haughtily, and Rodimus rolls his eyes at him. “Really, Soundwave. I keep hearing that you’ve been attending these events, and I can’t imagine why.”
“Megatron: speaks well,” Soundwave says with the tiniest sliver of blush visible between his glasses and mask. Starscream smirks, looking entirely like he’d expected the answer and just wanted to hear Soundwave say it. It’s the same thing Rodimus had told him, but hearing it makes something warm flutter in Megatron’s chest all the same.
“And you,” Starscream says, turning around and pointing a finger at Megatron, eyes narrowed. Megatron struggles not to fumble his clipboard; having Starscream’s full attention on him is unexpectedly terrifying. Heavy, in the way that he can always feel Soundwave’s eyes on him from across the room. “I’m appointing myself your P.R. manager. What group is this again?”
“Cybertronian Student Coalition,” Megatron answers, purely on reflex. He has definitely lost any semblance of control over this conversation.
“Ugh, students,” Starscream says, and plucks the clipboard from Megatron’s hands. He starts flipping through it while Megatron tries to figure out how to stand without anything to hide behind. “I suppose I’ll have to get enrolled.” Rodimus snickers, and Megatron straightens, almost reflexively.
“You don’t have to do that,” Megatron says, and at Starscream’s raised eyebrow adds a firm, “Take a month. If I’ve decided you’ve earned the position, then we can see about making it official.” Starscream, unexpectedly, smiles widely, and offers Megatron a broad wink.
“Oh, look, the man does have a backbone. Good. Hold onto that, or I might be coming for your position next,” he says, and chuckles. The laugh is not particularly reassuring. The line’s delivered like a joke, but Megatron has a sinking feeling that he’s serious.
“Are you done posturing yet, Screamer?” Rodimus interrupts imperiously, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. Starscream turns his attention to the younger man, and Megatron’s shoulders relax the second he’s looked away. “I know you have to be the sexiest person at this protest rally or whatever, but Meg’s speech is in a couple minutes and me and Soundwave have to grab seats before they fill up.”
“Fine,” Starscream sighs, waving a hand magnanimously. “It’ll take me more than a few minutes to see what I’m working with, in any case. I’m good, but I’m not that good.”
“Whatever,” Rodimus says, making a rude gesture. “Didn’t need your permission anyway.” He bounds over to where the two of them are standing, and Megatron bends down to touch their foreheads together without having to be prompted. It’s a familiar ritual now, one that Rodimus has insisted on repeating each time they part. The familiar warmth sinks into his gut as Rodimus says the words, and Megatron hums, contentedly, as Rodimus pulls back. He turns back to Starscream to find him staring incredulously at the two of them. Rodimus seems to have noticed as well – he’s scowling back at the man, arms crossed defensively. Megatron squints at him, perplexed, and looks back over to Starscream, a question in his eyes.
“If you were hoping for my blessing,” Starscream says, archly, “you’re not going to get it, you know.” Megatron blinks.
“No one’s getting married here,” he says, with all the patience of an overworked daycare supervisor. Next to him, Rodimus makes a slightly concerning choking noise.
“Why would that– did neither of you tell him?” Starscream screeches, throwing his hands up in exasperation. Soundwave gives him an unreadable look from behind his glasses. Next to Megatron, Rodimus is completely doubled over with some kind of coughing fit.
“Told me what?” Megatron asks, frowning. The other three jump in to speak at the same time, voices overlapping.
“Don’t worry about it, darling.”
“Answer: nothing of importance.”
“Oh wow, Megs, look at the time! Soundwave and I had better be going now, c’mon Soundwave–”
“Rodimus: correct,” Soundwave agrees, seriously, and reaches out. Megatron, confused, clasps wrists with him, and Soundwave pulls them together, close enough that he can tap their foreheads together for just a second.
“Megatron: will speak well,” he declares, meeting Megatron’s eyes behind his sunglasses, and the words settle heavy in the back of his throat. Megatron stares at him, and wonders when he’d learned to tell that Soundwave was smiling under the mask.
“...thanks,” Megatron says, like he always does, and just like that, Rodimus pulls Soundwave away, chattering all the while.
“A lot of people would kill for what you have, you know,” Starscream says idly, watching Soundwave and Rodimus walk away. Megatron thinks about this for a second, follows his gaze and thinks about lonely mornings suddenly filled with Rodimus’s bright cheer and sunny smile, Soundwave’s easy trust and calm presence, all the places he goes while he carries that warmth with him – the one that hasn’t left since the first time Rodimus pulled him into a hug and he realized, all of a sudden, that he’d been so terribly, terribly lonely since, well. Since he’d left Optimus behind.
Megatron hums a noncommittal affirmative. Starscream, beside him, rolls his eyes theatrically behind his designer sunglasses.
“Our Soundwave, enamored with a fool who won’t even use his words,” he sighs, and without any other warning, gives Megatron an abrupt shove towards the direction of the stage. “Get on with it, old man.”
–
Megatron will never really understand what happened that evening – the sound difficulties, he knows; cornered the technicians later to find out why they’d started panicking when he began to talk into the mic on their biggest event of the semester, knew which equipment needed to be replaced and when; but none of that really explained why, when he had set the mic aside, his words had rung as loud and clear through the crowd as they always had, all on their own.
It was probably the acoustics, Starscream will suggest later, with a strange little smirk on his face, and Soundwave will laugh at that, throat hoarse from disuse, and Megatron will shrug and take it for the best explanation he will ever get.