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It changes nothing, really.
Silverbolt still pushes himself too far; Air Raid still pushes others; Jetfire still follows close, making them stand still for a second so he can patch the pieces together. They still get called to fight and infiltrate and save and destroy, they still struggle with the slow-creeping awareness that they are going to lose the war -- still cling to each other in the oddest ways, love and worry translating into protectiveness and self-sacrifice and unauthorised weapons mods left in very specific places.
(Loss is not a matter of 'if', by then -- it's a matter of when, and how, and they're not letting each other go with any regrets.)
As far as they can tell, nobody beyond Command and their trine knows, and they're more than fine with it that way, both of them too private -- and a little wary of Air Raid's reaction if someone says something insensitive -- to want to share it with anyone else.
Things stay largely the same, in any case, save for the way sometimes one of the berths is occupied by two people curled close together, rather than three people each on their own.
In another universe they'd be allowed to fall in love at their leisure, but both are already accustomed to not getting what they want.
If you think about it, Silverbolt says, that sweet, tired humour lacing his voice, we already went slow, thanks to my endless reserves of emotional awareness.
Jetfire smiles, just a little, buries his face deeper into the crook of Silverbolt's neck. I don't know, I think it rather balances how I fell for you like a tank being dropped from the stratosphere.
Oh, that's just rubbish. The edge of Silverbolt's smile presses against the side of his head, tiny ghostly kisses coaxing his shoulders loose. You fell far more stylishly. Like a driller, maybe.
Jetfire laughs, then, deep enough his wings shake and Silverbolt responds in kind, quieter sounds he treasures more than anything. And there is why.
Ah, yes, agrees Silverbolt solemnly. Your astoundingly bad taste in comedians, among other things.
Says the mech cuddling a shuttle.
I like shuttles. There's this one delta with really pretty wings, Silverbolt says, voice lighter than Jetfire's ever heard it, wiggling down to nuzzle his cheek against Jetfire's chin. And he's very clever and very kind, and big enough to sleep on.
Sounds like a nerd, Jetfire says in his best Air Raid impersonation, and Silverbolt bursts into laughter, his head falling to rest against Jetfire's collar.
I'm trying to be sweet, here.
And I'm trying to distract you, Jetfire replies, pressing his forehead to the top of Silverbolt’s head. I think I’m doing a reasonable job.
I don't know about that, Silverbolt murmurs, optics dimming as he lets his weight rest on Jetfire fully.
Mm?
It's... Sometimes it seems as though I don't belong to myself, he says, the sounds more felt than heard, little vibrations travelling gently over Jetfire's plating. And that's fine. It's what is needed.
Jetfire feels his optics soften, something deep within his spark aching for the mech in his arms. But?
But whatever there is left... Silverbolt sighs, his left hand tracing whimsical little shapes over the glass of Jetfire's chestplate. Whatever is mine, is always thinking of you.
Jetfire exhales, offlines his optics as he pulls Silverbolt closer. Forever and a day, he promises, words soft against Silverbolt’s plating.
As long as it lasts, Silverbolt agrees, fingers threading with Jetfire’s own.
They need no more words, after that.
Jetfire doesn’t know exactly what Air Raid gets up to on the rare off-duty hours he disappears from their rooms, but this is less because of secrecy and more because he’d explicitly asked not to be informed of his shenanigans if he couldn’t bear to spare him the specifics. Air Raid had grinned, hip-checking him amicably and making some jibe or another about tough crowds and not appreciating his talents as a narrator, but had stopped his slightly mortifying play-by-plays ever since.
It means nothing, unfortunately, when the subject turns to Jetfire’s -- and, by association, Silverbolt’s -- own activities.
Well, well, well, Air Raid drawls, smirking over their morning rations. Took advantage of the empty room, did we?
Oh, definitely, Silverbolt agrees, optics already going over a datapad. The lack of snoring was a gift from above.
Air Raid’s wings flick down, just a bit haughtily. It’s a medical condition, and you know it.
So does half of Uraya.
Air Raid sighs loudly, points at Jetfire with his best disapproving look. You. If he’s still this much of a stick in the tailerons after a whole night together in a trinemate-free room, you are not doing your job properly.
And here I thought all that time at the Academy would amount to something, Jetfire deadpans, wings shifting into a rather smug configuration when Air Raid yields to laughter.
Primus, you’re such a pain when you’ve gotten some, Air Raid says, long-suffering and amused in a way they both know to read as absolute fondness. Whatever, be all sarcastic, go on and break my spark. Maybe that’ll convince Relay to kiss it better for me later. Silverbolt snorts, still multitasking refuelling, reading, and sassing at their trinemate, and Air Raid looks pointedly at Jetfire, as if confirming he’s witnessing the lengths of Silverbolt’s rudeness to him.
Jetfire nods, all solemn understanding save for the amused tilt to his wings, huffs a quiet little laugh as Air Raid nods back approvingly and flicks his smallest ration cube in his direction -- he hates sweet desserts, and Jetfire hates sharp flavours, so they trade on the days they happen to get a little extra on the mess. Remind me to change my mind on making you that null-ray.
Remind me to remind you I already said no, Silverbolt says dryly, fingers still scrolling down as he takes his own appallingly bitter energon, because he has terrible taste in fuel.
Later, whispers Air Raid conspiringly. We’ll lock him in a closet.
If I go down, I’m taking you with me, Silverbolt warns, finally looking up from his datapad to give them a stern look that doesn’t completely hide his amusement.
Counting on it, Air Raid grins, all self-satisfaction and sharp edges. Silverbolt’s only response is a roll of his optics, but his field is more relaxed than it’s been in cycles, quiet, steady affection coursing through it as deep as an ocean.
Jetfire thinks he can live with those terms, himself.