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It would be so much easier, Pharma supposed, if Tarn was cruel. If Tarn hurt him, or forced him. The T-cog situation may have been an unsavory deal, and one that Pharma hadn’t had much choice in. But everything else? It had grown and flourished, all on its own, a sweet, poisonous blossom with impossibly deep roots.
No coercion had driven Pharma to Tarn’s table for sumptuous meals, to his library to cherish words he’d long thought obliterated by war. No threat had driven him into Tarn’s willing arms. Into his bed, night after night.
It would have been so much simpler to never speak to or see Tarn outside of his monthly T-cog surgery. At first, that’s exactly what Pharma intended. At some point though-- Pharma shuddered to think how long ago it was-- his business-like correspondence with Tarn, about surgery appointments and quotas, began to evolve into real conversation. Conversation that grew and grew and twined through Pharma’s daily life. Ambulon and First Aid would’ve been horrified, not to mention hurt. They’d always been closer to each other than to Pharma-- who happily cultivated his image as a revered and feared authority figure-- but nonetheless made efforts to include him in meals and what little recreation they could manage. Pharma would always spurn their offers, saying he was too busy. Instead, with increasing frequency, he’d retreat to his own quarters to converse with Tarn instead. Tarn was a wonderfully intelligent and witty conversationalist: never boring, never awkward, just the right amount of interest in Pharma’s day to day life to make the jet feel valued, but not scrutinized. And, most importantly, Tarn was different. What did First Aid and Ambulon have to say that wasn’t more of the same tedious, frustrating slag they faced day in and day out at their understaffed, underfunded, and overworked facility?
Pharma’s resolve was already well worn by the time Tarn’s dinner invitations started. Even so he managed to rebuff them for a while yet-- politely, of course. Tarn never pressured him, never grew angry. He would only say, with a note of regret, ah, very well then. Perhaps next time.
Until, one day, Pharma said yes. He couldn’t remember exactly why he’d accepted. It must’ve been a particularly rough day: supplies running short, equipment malfunctioning, some amateur nurse botching this or that procedure. Enough to make him want to escape.
During their first meal, Pharma was nervous and short-tempered. Tarn’s seemingly endless patience never wavered, and the medic eventually relaxed. He had smiled. Laughed even. Real, sincere laughter, the kind that made his teeth show and the plating around his optics crinkle up. That evening he returned to Delphi only when he had to, his smile collapsing under the weight of obligation.
It didn’t take many of these of these dates for Pharma to realize that Tarn’s interests were more than strictly friendly. The Decepticon was courting him-- complete with romantic gestures and gifts. It was the kind of thing Pharma had always sneered at in stories, and scolded younger mechs for wasting time on. But now that that flavor of attention was directed at his own person, Pharma couldn’t help but feel... flattered. Beautiful. Special. Had another mech ever showered him with such indulgence? All Pharma’s memories of previous dalliances and failed attempts at relationships had involved himself as the pursuer. No one had ever wanted him intensely enough to take the initiative. No one had cared enough to learn to distill energon just the way he liked it best, to make sure his favorite song was playing as he walked into a room, to ask all the right questions that let him brag to his spark’s content, and then beam with genuine delight when he did.
So it shouldn’t have surprised Pharma when he was the one reluctant to part company, standing close enough to Tarn that their frames touched, basking in the subsonic vibration of his engines, and finally, reaching up to trace trembling fingers along the edges of Tarn’s mask.
Their first night together wasn’t something Pharma would ever forget-- for better or worse. Tarn had pampered him, worshipped him, made him feel like the most luscious, wanted, and desirable creature in the universe. He came so easily for Tarn, over and over again, before collapsing into his new lover’s arms utterly spent, satiated from his spark to his deepest struts.
And that was it. Pharma was lost. He returned to Tarn as often as he could without arousing too much suspicion. Each night was wildly different, but somehow exactly what he needed, every time. Some nights, Tarn was all too happy to kneel before Pharma’s darkest urges-- the ones he could never express to anyone else without fear of losing his medical credentials. Other nights, he was equally thrilled to ravish Pharma until the jet was a crying, fragged-out mess.
Then there were the nights like tonight, a numb aftershock in the wake of an exceptionally terrible day, when neither asked anything of the other except existence. These were the nights when Pharma felt the most vulnerable, at once blissfully happy and tortured by inevitability. Tarn’s arms curled more tightly around him-- carefully as always, as if Pharma were something delicate and precious. The jet shifted on the large, luxurious berth to twine his legs around Tarn’s. He buried his faceplates against heavy dark chest plating. How long had they been doing this? How long could it go on? The quota... the war... Every dalliance was treason, and Pharma would be executed if discovered.
How many of these encounters had he told himself would be the last?
“Pharma...” Tarn’s deep, soft voice, laced with concern, rumbled against the top of his helm.
“Hmm?” the jet murmured, not lifting his head.
Tarn said nothing further. Pharma felt a large purple hand wedge between their bodies to gently grasp one of his own. Fingers twined together, tender and desperate, and Pharma held on tightly. Tarn rubbed his thumb against the side of Pharma’s in a soothing cadence. The jet lulled near recharge until Tarn began to move the rest of his fingers. Touches so light, so fleeting, Pharma almost didn’t feel them. The barest hints of sensation-- but it was more than enough for Pharma’s sensitive medic hands. His ventilation hitched. He hadn’t thought that anyone remembered chirolinguistics after so many millennia of war. That intimate, subtle art of communication was something that Pharma had excelled at, long ago.
His fingers were dancing with Tarn’s before he could stop them. They spoke a rhythm of silent words-- ones that would never, ever leave his vocalizer, ones that damned him the moment they sprang unbidden into his processor: I love you.