When one asked Drift what he loved the most about Crosshairs, he was always quick to answer, even if those who asked wouldn’t truly understand: his gaze.
Drift had always been aware that he was very attractive for a Cybertronian, both before and after his rebuild in Crystal City. No amount of swapped plating could replace his thick thighs, curvy hips, narrow waist, and “divine” lips (he wasn’t really sure about that last one, but many over his lifetime had called them so, and he was glad Crosshairs was not one of them). He had capitalized this to survive on the streets of Rodion for vorns, so he was used to mechons staring at him—thousands of slimy snakes slithering up his body, from his peds, alllllllll the way up his legs (it had taken far too long to keep from pressing them together in self defense), lingering on his aft, before finally skimming up his back/chest and (if they were in front of him) right to his lips. Never his eyes, because they might have to confront the fact that the frame they were about to brutalize belonged to a sentient being who wasn’t willing, never fully willing, only willing for the credits it took to get high, to survive. That might destroy their arousal. So, his lips. Only his lips.
Unfortunately for him, being “used to it” didn’t make it any easier—didn’t make it any better. These days Drift can barely look in a mirror without wanting to purge. It’s been easier since he’s arrived on Earth, though, because now when he gets like that, he apparently gets this look on his face that Crosshairs calls “green around the gills” (who knows where he got that expression from), and Crosshairs notices and takes them somewhere private and wraps him in as much of his living metal coat as he can, and things instantly get a bit easier. Like he can be in his own exocoating without wanting to rip it off. Crosshairs has seen those scars, too, and still calls him beautiful.
It’s different when Crosshairs calls him “beautiful”. Not like the filter gunk he used to service in Rodion. Because…because…
It’s simple, really.
When Crosshairs first met him, he looked him straight in the optics. His stare was the first one that didn’t leave him feeling used.
He didn’t doubt that Crosshairs found him attractive; after all, the other bot was the one who bashfully asked him if he didn’t mind if he self-serviced to the thought of him, for which Drift was both eternally touched and eternally grateful. Crosshairs’ gaze didn’t paw all over him like a disobedient pet. It didn’t make him feel like choking or drowning. Crosshairs’ gaze was one that flitted over his frame for an astrosecond before sliding to the other side of the room apologetically. Crosshairs’ eyes always met his own before anything else. Crosshairs’ saw him as a sentient being first and foremost and never as a commodity, even when they first met back when Drift was still a buymechon.
It was only natural, in the end, to fall as much in love with Crosshairs as the other had of him from the very beginning.
So when he and Crosshairs were tucked away in their bed for the night, and the green desperado pulled him oh so tight against him, Drift drew him closer without a flinch. And when their lips met over the scant centimeters between them, all Drift could think about was the many eons with and without his bondmate behind him, and the multitude of eons they had in front of them if Primus bade them well.
Crosshairs’ gaze made him feel safe, and those arms around him felt even better.
“ His gaze,” he always answers, and smiles with every atom of his being.