That younger Megatron had never let anyone in. Even if he drew inspiration from Deadlock's ferocity and conviction, even if they had shared an intimacy, Megatron had never allowed himself to be vulnerable. After he had lost that close friend in Terminus, there had been no one else. Even Ultra Magnus had not been privy to his innermost thoughts. His quiet grief, his sparse vulnerability. The great weight of grief not just for his victims but for himself and for everything he could have been that weighed on his spark had never been fully bared. There had been glimpses of it, when Ravage had died. Nothing like this, though.

Never like this. Megatron could bear many tortures, but to have happiness, comradeship, a real chance of doing something good held in front of him before he began a slow descent into oblivion felt more crushing than any other pain in Megatron's long, long life.

As Drift touched him, Megatron sank. He didn't let himself drop to the floor, but he reached out, holding onto Drift as if he might anchor himself to the other mech in a desperate effort to avoid being crushed. The squeeze of Drift's hand reminded him that he was not alone. Even if Drift despised him, rightfully, he was still here. Megatron turned himself more fully towards the other, face drawn and weary. More so than Drift has ever seen him, most likely. His hand closed around one of Drift's and squeezed in return. He didn't have words. What could he say to this other mech, also grieving and alone? Apologize? His spark hummed within his chassis.

As vulnerable as Megatron has allowed himself to be tonight, he didn't know if he could stomach taking another step.