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Anyone else would have tried to take the words back as soon as they were out of his mouth.
Rodimus wasn't anyone else, and he continued to stare cooly at Thunderclash. "Last time I checked, making a sparkling together didn't count towards the conjunx ritus," he went on. "Seems like a damn stupid reason to do it."
Thunderclash covered his hurt quickly. "I had thought..." He blinked, trailing off. "No. We haven't really taken those steps, have we? Not really."
It was an excuse, and they both knew it. There were other couples on the Lost Light who'd been through less together that had still formalized their bond. This was Thunderclash being gallant and self sacrificing in the face of Rodimus' demands that things be done his way, and his way alone.
Rodimus really hated that. Thunderclash had no business being that damn easy to push around. It it were coming from anyone else, Rodimus would have rightfully called it a base manipulation.
But that wasn't how Thunderclash worked. No. The bastard really was just that self sacrificing. It would never even occur to him to do anything else.
Just like it would never occur to him to demand his due from Rodimus.
Their relationship was never supposed to be this.
It was never supposed to even be a relationship at all. Thunderclash, snooty bastard that he was, had called it The Arrangement back then. No strings, no commitment, just a way to let off steam.
And Thunderclash had wormed his way under Rodimus' plating. And Rodimus had let him, inch by fragging inch, until they'd be seen together in public, until he'd caught himself actually smiling at Thunderclash, until-
Until Rodimus had caught sight of the little blue star in the corona of Thunderclash's spark.
Thunderclash had a right to expect and demand things from Rodimus. The bastard was just too damn nice to actually do that. He wouldn't go any further than Rodimus allowed.
And in that moment, as he felt the energon in his lines boil with the indignity of it, Rodimus knew Thunderclash had given him just enough rope to hang himself with.
Thunderclash would not demand what was his right, so Rodimus would have to do it for him.
This, he thought, was going to suck so much.
Four acts. Proving love, loyalty, devotion, and courage. Proving he wanted and was worthy of Thunderclash.
Which Rodimus was, damn it. Which he did.
Frag it. And frag him, too. Rodimus could do this. He'd do it in front of the whole damn universe.
A great deal of shanix started to change hands, fortunes won and lost, as Rodimus began performing his Acts. Not necessarily in front of the whole universe, but doing them in Swerve's was damn near the same thing.
Some were easier than others.
And of course, Thunderclash -- the bastard -- set him the most difficult one he could.
"Name our son."
Rodimus would have rather gone swimming with Whirl's pet scraplets. Names didn't just happen like that in Nyon. They happened organically, granted by the world around them, suggested by personality and action.
Or they were a nickname that stuck, which was why he'd been Hot Rod.
Rodimus set the sparkling on the table in front of him. He had Thunderclash's jaw and Rodimus' optics, and the sparkling stared at Rodimus with the sort of solemnity only the very young could manage.
Name our son.
Of course Thunderclash would ask that.
Rodimus ran a finger along that familiar jawline in miniature, down the steep nasal ridge, finally tweaking the sensor crest that swooped gracefully across the front of his helm, a mirror of Rodimus' own.
"Ramiel of the Lost Light."
Thunderclash did him the favor of punching the first mech who said the kid could always change it later.