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Self control was a beautiful skill to master.
Where each word found meaning, each movement deliberate. A state of perfection that little could say they were able to achieve. Knockout, naturally, found himself quite well versed in the art.
To maintain the shine of his plating he learnt a physical control, mastering the ability to side step passing mechs that threatened to chip his paint.
To express his well known charm, his sentences were structured with a trained precision.
This wasn’t to say he was never guilty of letting a bitter and unflattering comment hiss from his intake, but at least he could take pride in a fantastically impressive vocabulary to make up for it.
Emotions were the hardest to control. That much was clear from the frequent outbursts and displays of rage that echoed between the decepticon command on an almost daily basis. Even Knockout in his years of practice found himself victim to a shouting match or two.
But excitement? That’s where Knockout’s control thrived. Not from any sort of desire for a perceived stoicism but rather a matter of avoiding complete social suicide.
What could be so detrimental as to require so much focus?
Knockout didn’t like to make a habit of answering that question.
“Well doc, am I dying?”
Knockout’s gaze lingered on the shallow scratch in Breakdown’s shoulder, then glanced to Breakdown, then back to the scratch.
He sighed.
“No, but you definitely are lucky…” From a nearby table the medic retrieved a buffer, smoothing out the already barely noticeable scuff.
“Oh yeah?”
“Lucky no one has arrived with a serious injury while I deal with you getting a paper cut.”
A guilty grin spread across Breakdown’s face plate, laced with a certain pathetic nature that the mech knew made Knockout’s spark flutter.
“It hurt real bad! Better safe than sorry,” he replied, folding his hands together in his lap.
The whir of the buffer lasted barely a few minutes. It was a task that Breakdown could easily do himself, and yet here he was. A few months ago Knockout was practically begging the mech to let him treat his injuries rather than fighting through the pain and discomfort with brute force. Not once did he think he’d soon be finding the same mech on his doorstep like a sparkling with a scraped knee.
“My dear Breakdown,” Knockout began with a curl of amusement against his dermas. “If you were so desperate for my company you need only ask.”
With a gentleness reserved for not even the task of shining his own plating, Knockout brought his servos to the sides of Breakdown’s helm, moving to stand in front of him where he sat perched on a medical berth.
“I do understand how irresistible I can be.”
Those words pulled a wonderful chuckle from Breakdown. If it weren’t for the crackle that threatened to burst into an inferno within Knockout’s spark, he might have treasured the image for much longer.
It was Breakdown’s turn to move his servos. One rose to cover Knockout’s, digits absentmindedly tracing against knuckle joints.
“I guess I understand how you got the name Knockout, you really are one.”
“Ha! I wish that were the case.”
“Oh?”
Scrap.
Knockout’s audials flicked downwards before he could find a grasp on that oh so important self control. And by the quirk in his expression, Breakdown had noticed.
“How did you get your name then?” Breakdown questioned, that look of amusement quickly transferring to him instead.
It didn’t last long though, quickly replaced by disappointment when Knockout’s servos shot away from where they had grown so comfortable.
In record time the mech had found something else to do, organising something or other, a pile of paperwork that suddenly seemed so much more interesting.
“Oh it’s of no importance! Doesn’t even really make sense, the story would bore you,” Knockout stammered.
Control and charisma was one thing. Lying and not raising suspicion was another. Optimus Prime himself was probably better at deception than Knockout - the Decepticon - was. Knockout’s optics scanned the papers in his servos, searching for something that would somehow transport him away from this conversation all while being unable to take in any word.
“You always manage to make a story interesting.” For once Breakdown’s flattery did not feel so selfless. “But… if it’s too personal I get it.”
The shift in Breakdown’s voice took Knockout from his futile attempts at reading. He looked back, finding Breakdown still on the berth, his hands yet again clasped politely, looking all together far too sweet for a mech his size.
What a hypocrite he could be.
Here Knockout was speaking about Breakdown’s failures to resist temptation. Mocking how his gentle warrior would find any excuse to come play doctor and patient. Yet now, at one glance of the heavy blue plating, Knockout let his guard settle.
“It’s not that,” Knockout finally sighed, though idly continuing to pretend he was doing something with his mess of paperwork. “It’s just… embarrassing.”
A silence followed. Not tense in any expected way, but far from the comfortable moments of quiet the two had experienced with one another. It left only the rustling under Knockout’s fingers to drown out any creeping worries.
“Most people think I’m called Breakdown because i’m… good at breaking stuff.”
Breakdown began to speak, and Knockout stopped his movements, not quite giving him his full attention again but allowing one audial to twitch towards the other mech.
“But it’s not that. I used to be really paranoid, still am sometimes, but it’s getting better. Always felt like I was being watched, and I'd kinda freak out about it.”
Knockout couldn’t say he hadn’t noticed that Breakdown could be… jumpy. In their most private moments he always seemed so aware of himself, like he couldn’t quite let go. Knockout had even caught him stealing glances towards securely locked doors, or corners of the room where a camera might be stationed. He seemed to stare at inanimate objects as if waiting for something to happen.
It had never occurred to him that it could be such a big issue in Breakdown’s life. To Knockout, it was just another trait that had made Breakdown so wonderfully himself.
“I’d panic, and yell, sometimes at other mechs. I guess everyone kinda just started expecting me to… have a breakdown everyday. So that’s what they started calling me.”
Another silence threatened the air, but Knockout made the decision not to let it fester. He set down the papers, admittedly now somewhat better organised than before, and returned to his place in front of Breakdown.
His servos found the other mech’s, lifting them to cradle, to comfort, to hope to shine some appreciation towards Breakdown’s honesty.
Knockout’s words remained hesitant, but not from fear. Instead what seemed to hold him back was an old loathing that clung to his ego, one no self identifying master of self control could allow to influence his way of speaking to someone so important.
“I faint when I'm excited.”
Breakdown’s optics reset, his yellow glow meeting Knockout’s red rings for only a moment before the latter felt himself struggling to hold that contact.
“I ah- if my engines get too worked up I just power down quite suddenly, I’m not sure why,” Knockout continued. “I became quite well known for my dramatic collapses.”
“Why have I never seen that happen? Not that I want you to faint but…”
Right. This was so much more than an admission of a medical condition. He had been hiding so much of himself from Breakdown, from everyone. While what Breakdown kept pushed beneath the surface was largely for the sake of saving others from a troubling experience, this wasn’t the first time it occurred to Knockout that his efforts often deprived their relationship of some of the fun that could be had, all for the sake of his own dignity.
So many moments of shying away from public affection, fearing how his spark would pulse just from Breakdown’s touch. Fearing even in private what would happen if he let himself get too carried away. Kisses came with a mental timer and a disappointed twitch in Breakdown’s expression that Knockout tried to not study too hard.
“I keep it in check these days, don’t let myself get too enthusiastic. Don’t linger on the things that thrill me.” Despite his best efforts, something sorrowful bled into Knockout’s tone. He could only think to conclude with a simple “sorry,” to make up for his neglect.
Breakdown remained quiet, but nothing ever hardened in his expression like Knockout feared it would. His optics looked on, just as wide and loving as they had been when he had presented his scratched shoulder.
Finally, his intake opened again, pausing briefly at the beginning of a word as one servo found its place cupping Knockout’s faceplate. “I’d catch you, you know.”
Knockout couldn’t help but laugh, rolling optics so dramatically his helm moved with them.
“How romantic!”
“I’m serious. I don’t… I don’t want you to faint, but I don't want you to have to ignore the things you enjoy because you might fall… so I’d catch you.”
Such a simple promise, yet as soon as it hit Knockout’s audials he was coming undone at the seams.The characteristic smirk that stapled itself to Knockout’s teasing words was quick to sink, leaving dermas parted and shifting in search of something else to say. But nothing came.
Old memories flashed in his HUD, of scowling faces, bitter voices. Complaints that he had collapsed onto someone again and brought them down with him, leaving him to wake up in an unflattering crumpled heap of limbs on the ground.
But there was no such bitterness in Breakdown. Only a promise that made his engines hum to life in that oh so frustratingly familiar way.
He couldn’t let it continue to grow yet. Not now, not even after hearing such sweetness. But perhaps…
“Okay,” Knockout replied breathlessly.
────────
Self control was a hard skill to master.
But even more difficult it seemed, was letting it go.
The sparks of emotion would appear, would bubble to the surface, would claw and beg for their escape, and in an instant were shut down from habit and instinct.
It was terrifying.
Breakdown was beautiful, and that was terrifying. His laugh held a wonder that Knockout longed to listen to for decades without end, but with each grasp to hold it tighter, the terror of embarrassment took its place in his servos.
At least each time he tried to let go his spark seemed to pulse just a little more.
With each of Breakdown’s jokes Knockout’s laughter grew a little louder.
With every race won, Knockout allowed himself a slightly flashier celebration.
After a month he had hardly noticed how his vents began to overwork themselves, far too distracted by the enjoyment of the passionate conversations passing between himself and Breakdown.
Conversations similar to the one interrupted by the clatter of tools falling from the box in Breakdown’s arms.
“Uh- scrap! Knockout could you pick those up I can’t- reach-”
From his workbench Knockout watched with burning amusement as Breakdown fumbled with the box he had handed to him not a minute prior. Inside were all medical tools that Knockout could easily carry himself, but the collective weight, plus the height of the shelf they needed to go on made having Breakdown around so often quite handy.
Breakdown shifted the box from one part of his arm to the next, creating quite the display of clumsiness as he tried to manoeuvre a way to crouch down and pick it all up.
With a playful roll of his optics Knockout made his way over, quickly gathering the tools that thankfully already needed sterilising and dumping back in the box.
“I must say my dear, you’d make a terrible medic. Dropping tools is generally frowned upon when you’re opening up mechs to operate.”
Knockout’s tease made Breakdown chuckle, and that made Knockout’s audials flick ever so subtly.
The larger mech continued his task before speaking, sliding the box onto the high shelf with little effort.
“Well if we’re going there, you’d make a bad wrecker!” He rebutted.
Knockout gasped, placing a servo to his chassis in a way that could be taken as either mock offence or the usual Knockout dramatics.
“Me? A bad wrecker?”
“The worst! You’d get way too scratched up and dirty, you’d hate it too much to even try.”
“You know for a fact I can be perfectly brutal when I need to be.”
If it weren’t for Breakdown’s smug grin and the glint of mischief in Knockout’s eyes, the argument may have seemed genuine. Nevertheless Knockout leant towards Breakdown challengingly, servo’s coming to rest on his own hips.
“Brutality with a saw blade is very different to brutality with a hammer,” Breakdown added.
Beneath his words that laughter began to bubble, tinting his words with a stunning brightness.
“I may not be the best option but I am far from the worst!” Knockout continued.
“Maybe if you included the Autobots, but as far as Decepticons go I actually can’t think of anyone worse.”
“Oh, yes!” Knockout suddenly turned, arms folding together and helm pointing upwards like a spoiled sparkling. “Because Starscream would do such a better job in his last century custom stiletto heel struts!”
With that, a flurry of beautiful noise erupted from Breakdown. He laughed with all his chassis, all his being. The sound filled the medbay and clung to its walls until all that Knockout could begin to process was its frequencies.
His optics were squeezed shut, his smile as bright as his very spark.
It was warm. It was fantastic. It was exciting. It was far more than Knockout needed to join him in uncontrollable laughter.
“Oh no!” Breakdown exclaimed theatrically “they’re- they’re last century!” Each word glitched its way through Breakdown’s wheezing exvents, so rippled with static his vocaliser almost sounded damaged.
Knockout’s vents whirred loudly. His audials fluttered in rapid bursts. His optics glitched and flickered. But for once, he couldn’t bring himself to care.
“Oh! But- but they’re from the finest designer in Iacon!” Knockout managed to say through his giggles. “Perfect for a… wrecker-“
He might have had more to say if it weren’t for the fog overtaking his processor, followed by the sudden explosion of warnings flooding his HUD before he slipped away into nothingness.
────────
Knockout has lost track of the amount of times he had woken up on the floor.
The crick in his neck and the throbbing in his processor had after a while just become an expectation. Part of the experience. At some point he had at least learnt to stumble his way to a nearby wall but even that couldn’t stop the harsh throw of gravity.
This time however, he might as well have been floating.
The lights of the medbay were far too bright. That fact would never change. But the shapes of rough blue plating created quite the pretty scene to wake up to despite the harshness.
Strong servos clutched his back, arms hooked under his own, leaving his helm so comfortably rested against a shoulder that once sported a shallow scratch.
“You caught me,” Knockout mumbled against Breakdown’s plating while searching for some stability in his lifeless legs.
The action didn’t seem needed however. As soon as the medic spoke Breakdown began to slowly lower the two of them to the ground, letting Knockout’s body slump against him, his legs falling to sit tucked to one side.
“Always will,” Breakdown replied.
A minute or so passed as Knockout waited for the faint dizziness to settle, occasionally needing to dismiss warnings about a processor malfunction that he’d grown very used to seeing.
When some energy seemed to return to him in the form of nuzzling closer into Breakdown’s neck, the larger mech spoke up again. “You alright?” He questioned, bringing a servo to hold Knockout’s helm.
“Mhm…”
“Can you stand up?”
“Yes.”
“…do you want to?”
Knockout quietly laughed, humming “No,” against silver neck plating “if I’d known you would hold me like this I would have been fainting at every opportunity.”
Breakdown laughed again, the remnants of his breathtaking fit still showing through the faint crackle in his vocalizer.
“Just be careful, okay?… what if it, I don’t know, damages your processor?”
“The only damage I’ve ever received was to my plating, love.”
“I’d say that idea is equally as tragic.”
“Good thing I have a personal safety net then isn’t it?”
Knockout lifted his helm, and with a gentle clink, rested his forehead against Breakdown’s. There was certainty in his servos as they moved to trace up towards the shoulders of the arms that still clung to his back, not like he were some fragile thing, but like they wanted him there. There was a giddiness to the red mech’s smile, a vulnerability only a select few had ever seen.
“Your laugh is beautiful,” said Breakdown.
And for a moment Knockout considered how those words could come from any voice but his own. How he could be the subject of a sweetness deserved for none but the mech in front of him.
His reply had to be perfect, something to return such adoration in absolute clarity. Control of his sentence, control of his self.
But no such words came. No poem flowed how Knockout hoped it would. But for once, it didn’t seem to matter.
“Your’s too.”
Your’s is perfect, perhaps. Your’s is everything.
It didn’t matter. Knockout’s derma’s pressed to Breakdown’s, falling to an assuring display when words failed. The action would always speak what was needed.
And the act of affection so treasured would remain honest and reliable. Knockout was going to kiss Breakdown whenever the universe would allow it. Because they were safe, because they were close.
Because Breakdown would catch him.