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Swerve’s was in full swing—blaring old war ballads and flashing mood lights that someone had set to “Romance Mode” by accident. The bar gleamed in obnoxious pink and gold, casting halos around every drink and every bot unlucky enough to be caught in its glow.
Tailgate didn’t seem to mind.
He was perched atop a barstool, both peds kicking idly against the stool’s base, optics wide and sparkling as he watched Whirl and Cyclonus.
They stood at opposite ends of the bar. Both glaring at each other over the tops of their respective drinks. Both holding gifts.
Tailgate swayed slightly, a dreamy smile on his face. “This is the best night of my life.”
Cyclonus, who looked like he’d rather eat a live grenade than be standing here, held out a small, intricately folded data pad. His expression was grim. His optics fixed on Tailgate with the intensity of someone about to recite a death sentence.
“This is for you,” he said, voice as flat as a dead planet.
Tailgate gasped. “For me?”
Cyclonus nodded stiffly. “Yes. I composed… a poem.”
Whirl let out a single, sharp, derisive cackle. “A poem? Oh, sure. Can’t wait to hear the epic of Cyclonus the Dark and Brooding.”
Cyclonus’s fists clenched. “It’s an elegy.”
“Oh good,” Whirl drawled, tossing his own gift—a haphazardly welded hunk of metal shaped like a gun, with ‘TG <3’ spray-painted on the side—onto the bar. “I got you a weapon. You know. In case he bores you to death.”
Cyclonus’s optics flared.
Tailgate picked up the gun with both hands, beaming. “Oh my Primus, it’s so… shiny!”
Whirl shoved Cyclonus aside and leaned in, his helm inches from Tailgate’s. “Yeah, well, that’s not all it is. I also made you this—” He produced a crumpled paper napkin and unfolded it with dramatic flair. “A drawing of us, hangin’ out. See, that’s you, and that’s me, and that’s Cyclonus getting shot into the sun.”
Cyclonus’s jaw visibly twitched. “You are a walking disaster.”
Whirl batted his optic shutters. “And you are a boring, old, spark-draining—”
Swerve appeared behind them with a tray of drinks. “So, uh… what’s this? A double date?”
Both Cyclonus and Whirl snapped to attention, shouting at the same time:
“NO.”
Tailgate swung his legs back and forth, cheeks glowing bright. “Not yet!”
Cyclonus and Whirl both turned to look at him.
“What?” Tailgate said, feigning innocence. “Oh, nothing. I just love my gifts! Both of them!” He lifted the gun in one hand and the data pad in the other, waving them around like victory trophies.
Behind him, Swerve gave Cyclonus a sympathetic look.
Whirl punched the counter, making both drinks jump. “You know what? Screw it. I’ll write a poem too. And it’s gonna be the best poem you’ve ever heard.”
Tailgate clasped both servos together under his chin. “You would write a poem for me?”
Whirl pointed a claw at Cyclonus. “Better than his.”
Cyclonus smirked. “Oh, please. Your poetry probably reads like a death threat.”
“Oh yeah? Well, your poetry probably reads like a cry for help!”
Tailgate grinned. This was perfect. Or… wasn’t it?
Tailgate lay flat on his berth, staring at the ceiling as if it held the answer to all of his problems.
It didn’t.
The ceiling was the same blank, gray alloy as always. The only difference now was that it was covered in gifts. Hastily scrawled notes from Whirl, some of them spelling Tailgate’s name wrong but covered in little hearts anyway. A blade Cyclonus had sharpened himself, wrapped in a black cloth. A jar full of old bolts Whirl said were “lucky” (Tailgate wasn’t sure where they came from, and that was a bit worrying).
And there, resting right on the shelf above his berth, was Cyclonus’s data pad. The one with the poem.
Tailgate chewed at his bottom lip, feeling the edge of a grin form despite himself. It was stupid. Ridiculous, even. How could he, the smallest, weakest, most forgettable bot on the ship, be the one that Whirl and Cyclonus were fighting over? Tailgate rolled onto his side, glancing at the blade. Cyclonus had given it to him earlier, his expression tense, optics averted.
“I thought… you might need protection,” he’d said, handing it over like it weighed more than the entirety of Cybertron. “In case Whirl tries anything.”
Tailgate had taken it with both hands, cradling it like it was made of glass. “You made this for me?”
Cyclonus had nodded, stiff as a board. “Yes.”
“And you don’t think I can protect myself?”
Cyclonus had blinked, his entire frame going rigid. “That’s not what I—”
Tailgate had laughed. “I love it! It’s so shiny!”
The relief on Cyclonus’s face had been almost… sad.
Now, Tailgate picked up the blade, running a digit along the edge. Cyclonus had etched tiny patterns into the hilt. His patterns. His own marks. His own private language, given to him. Tailgate set it down quickly, face burning. Because… yeah. Cyclonus cared. A lot. And he didn’t hide it well, but he also didn’t know how to say it. So he gave gifts that meant something. Heavy things. Dangerous things.
Whirl, on the other hand—
Tailgate rolled onto his back again, glancing up at the bundle of crumpled notes hanging by magnets above his head. Whirl’s gifts were loud, obnoxious, and a little unhinged. Like the spray-painted gun. Like the drawing of Cyclonus getting shot into the sun. Like the one he’d handed Tailgate right before he’d stormed off:
“You’re tiny and dumb, but also kind of hot. Or whatever.”
Tailgate pressed his lips together, trying not to giggle. This was the most attention he’d ever gotten in his life. Cyclonus’s gruff, intense focus. Whirl’s wild, manic grin, always looking back to see if Tailgate was watching him. And he was.
Because for the first time, he was the center of the room. The one both of them wanted. The one both of them fought over.
And yeah, okay, so maybe he was playing them a little. Smiling wider than necessary when Whirl handed him a crudely sculpted metal heart. Gushing about Cyclonus’s poems like he didn’t notice how Cyclonus’s shoulders tensed, like he was bracing himself for rejection. Maybe he was… leading them on.
Because deep down, he knew Whirl and Cyclonus weren’t just fighting over him. They were fighting with each other. For each other. And that scared him. Because what if one day, they figured that out? What if they realized he was the third wheel?
Tailgate rolled onto his front, hiding his face in his arms. The berth creaked beneath him, too big and too empty. Maybe that was why he was doing it. Because for once, he was the one in the spotlight. He was the one getting the gifts, the attention, the affection. And if he kept smiling and batting his optics and acting like he was completely oblivious… Maybe he could keep it a little longer. Maybe he could keep them a little longer.
Tailgate was playing a dangerous game. He knew it. Could feel it in the way his spark pulsed too fast and too heavy beneath his chestplate, each beat a reminder of the lies he’d been telling. Lies about his past. Lies about his strength. Lies about being the hero he’d convinced them all he was.
Cyclonus knew. Cyclonus always knew. How he was still pursuing him despite everything was beyond Tailgate. Maybe it was pity. Maybe it was desperation. Maybe it was something else that Tailgate was too afraid to name.
But Whirl?
Tailgate swallowed hard, pulling his knees up to his chest. What about Whirl?
Whirl, who looked at him like he was something sharp and shining, like a blade in the sun.
Whirl, who threw himself into the thick of things with reckless abandon, grinning through it all as if the chaos was the only thing holding him together.
Whirl, who would find out the truth eventually.
Not if. When. When Whirl found out he was a fraud. When he realized that the Great and Powerful Tailgate was nothing more than a helpless, clueless little mech who didn’t know anything about anything.
Tailgate shuddered, curling tighter, vents hitching. The ache in his spark was like a slow, creeping rot. He pressed his forehead against his knees and tried to breathe through it.
Cyclonus moved down the hallway like a stormfront—shoulders set, fists clenched, optics burning beneath his furrowed brow. Each footfall echoed like a hammer strike.
Ahead of him, Whirl moved faster, stalking down the corridor with wings angled sharply back, claws flexing in barely restrained agitation.
“Come back here,” Cyclonus barked, voice cold and clipped. “We need to talk.”
“Stop following me!” Whirl snarled, lengthening his strides. His claws scraped against the wall, leaving shallow gouges behind.
Cyclonus’s jaw clenched, a muscle in his cheek twitching. “This can’t go on.”
Whirl’s wings twitched. “What can’t? You being an overbearing pain in my aft? Thought that was your whole personality.”
“Our rivalry is making us both look like Neanderthals,” Cyclonus said, ignoring the dig. “We need to find a solution before one of us crosses a line.”
Whirl stopped abruptly. He swung around to face Cyclonus, wings flared and optic blazing, chest heaving as though he’d been running a marathon. His claws folded across his chest, curling inward. Defensive.
“You want a solution?” Whirl said, his voice dripping acid. “Fine. I’ll humor you. Not that it’ll do any good.”
Cyclonus stepped closer, too close, the space between them charged and crackling. Whirl’s optic narrowed. Cyclonus’s optics glinted like embers, and for a moment, the hallway felt too small for both of them.
“Talk,” Whirl said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “I’m listening.”
“We have to make him choose,” Cyclonus said, voice low and firm. The words fell heavy between them, like a gavel striking metal.
“Yeah?” Whirl’s optic flickered, the red glow dimming slightly. “And then what?”
“Then we will know for certain.” Cyclonus’s expression remained stern, but his optics were too sharp, too bright. Like he was trying to convince himself as much as Whirl.
Whirl crossed his arms, claws tapping against his armor with a faint, metallic clink. The idea of an end to the fighting—of a definitive choice—struck him somewhere deep and unpleasant. Like a bad weld that wouldn’t hold.
Because as much as Cyclonus infuriated him, as much as he hated how the guy looked down on him like he was some unhinged, useless wreck…
It was fun.
It was thrilling.
Watching Cyclonus’s face twist in jealousy when Whirl shoved another “gift” into Tailgate’s hands. Watching him grit his teeth when Whirl would slink up beside Tailgate, draping an arm over his shoulders with that smug, crooked grin.
It was like a game. The only game Whirl ever felt he was winning.
And if they made Tailgate choose, then it would be over. And Cyclonus would go back to ignoring him.
Whirl swallowed, vents hitching. “...Yeah,” he said, voice too casual. “That doesn’t sound as fun.”
Cyclonus stiffened. His shoulders tightened, plating pulling taut over his frame.
Because he felt it too—the sudden, unexpected loss of what had become the center of his daily routine. Whirl’s constant needling, his obnoxious pranks, the way he always seemed to be there, always looking at him.
Whirl had forced him to step up. To try. To go above and beyond for Tailgate. The way Whirl did, with that manic, reckless, all-or-nothing desperation Cyclonus couldn’t understand but found himself… drawn to.
Without it, what would he do? Just stand around, waiting to be chosen? Or worse—rejected?
Cyclonus’s optics darkened, his jaw clenched. “I… regrettably agree.”
A silence fell over them, thick and heavy, tinged with something they couldn’t name. They stood too close, shoulders squared but unmoving. The air felt charged, like a live wire dangling between them.
Whirl shifted first, crossing his arms tighter, claws drumming against his forearm. “I think I know what this means, but…” He let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “That would make this whole…” He gestured vaguely with a claw, the motion erratic and uncertain. “Thing. Really awkward.”
Cyclonus held his gaze, and for a fraction of a second, his expression softened. The lines of his face eased, and his optics dropped to Whirl’s mouth.
“Yes,” Cyclonus murmured, voice almost too soft. “I believe it would.”
Neither of them moved. Neither of them breathed.
And then Whirl laughed again, too loud, too forced, throwing his head back to shatter the moment like a hammer through glass.
“Yeah, well,” he said, pushing past Cyclonus and starting down the hall, wings flared. “Good luck with that. I gotta go… do literally anything else.”
Cyclonus stayed rooted in place, the echo of Whirl’s laugh hanging heavy in the air.
Because he knew what it meant, too.
Tailgate stood on the edge of a platform, visor narrowed, hands on his hips. The maintenance drone sputtered and coughed, sparking faintly as it wheezed along the railing. Tailgate huffed and kicked it lightly with one pede.
“C’mon, ya lousy piece of junk,” he muttered. “Just cooperate for once.”
It was a good distraction. Something to keep his mind off the storm in his spark—the gnawing guilt of leading on two of the most intense mechs on the ship. The two mechs who had been at each other’s throats since the first gift he’d batted his optics over. His face burned at the memory. Cyclonus’s dark, aching optics. Whirl’s unhinged grin. The weight of their attention, heavy and warm and a little too much.
Tailgate’s hands trembled. “What am I doing?” he whispered.
The answer came in the form of heavy footsteps.
Two sets.
Tailgate’s shoulders went rigid as he slowly turned around. Cyclonus and Whirl stood in the entryway, side by side, optics blazing. Their frames were tense, their postures rigid, and they weren’t looking at each other—they were looking at him.
“Oh, good,” Tailgate said, crossing his arms, fighting to keep his voice steady. “The idiots have arrived.”
Cyclonus’s optics narrowed. “Tailgate.”
Whirl’s claws flexed, wings flicking behind him. “We need to talk.”
Tailgate snorted. “No, you need to talk—to each other.”
Cyclonus stepped forward, looming over him, but Tailgate didn’t flinch. “You have to choose,” Cyclonus said, voice deep and calm, like he was delivering a judgment. “This game has gone on long enough.”
Tailgate raised a brow. “You think this is a game?”
“Isn’t it?” Whirl snapped, claws twitching. “You’ve been running us around in circles, acting all oblivious and cute while we’re over here fighting over you like fragging idiots.”
“Yeah, you are idiots,” Tailgate said flatly. “Both of you.”
Cyclonus stiffened, his fists clenching at his sides. “That’s not fair.”
“No, you know what’s not fair?” Tailgate snapped, optic ridges drawing together. “Me sitting here, watching you two fight over me like it’s some kind of competition when it’s so obvious you’re both in love with each other!”
The room went silent.
Whirl’s optic flickered, wings folding tight against his back. “What?”
“You heard me,” Tailgate said, voice firm, hands on his hips. “You’re in love with each other. Or at least really, really into each other. And you’re too stubborn and dense to admit it.”
Cyclonus’s optics widened, his jaw tightening. “Tailgate, that’s not—”
“Oh, don’t even start,” Tailgate interrupted, throwing up his hands. “Cyclonus, you’re staring at Whirl more than you stare at me. And Whirl, you keep flirting with Cyclonus even when I’m not around. So either you two want to kill each other, or you want to jump each other’s frames. And since you haven’t thrown each other out the airlock yet, I’m betting it’s the second one.”
Cyclonus and Whirl exchanged a look—awkward, uncomfortable, tense. But neither of them denied it.
Tailgate folded his arms, tapping a pede impatiently. “So, what? You two come here to make me choose? Fine. I choose both.”
Cyclonus blinked. “What?”
Whirl’s jaw dropped. “Huh?”
“Yeah, both.” Tailgate huffed, crossing his arms tighter. “You’re both idiots. You’re both in love with each other. And I’m in love with both of you. So why don’t we stop pretending it’s some big, tragic, impossible love triangle and just be a throuple or whatever?”
Cyclonus’s mouth opened and closed. He stared at Tailgate, then at Whirl, then back to Tailgate. “That’s… not how it works.”
“Why not?” Tailgate shot back, chin lifting defiantly. “Who says it can’t work like that? You two are already acting like a couple. You just need to kiss and admit it already.”
Whirl’s optic darted to Cyclonus, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “I… don’t want to kiss him.”
“You’re such a liar,” Tailgate said, rolling his optics. “And you.” He jabbed a digit at Cyclonus’s chest. “You didn’t get that sword for me. You got it so you could show off to Whirl. Admit it.”
Cyclonus bristled, helm dipping as he tried to glare down at Tailgate. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh yeah?” Tailgate leaned in, optics blazing. “Then why are you blushing?”
Cyclonus’s faceplates heated, a dull glow pooling beneath his cheeks.
Whirl let out a bark of laughter, folding his arms behind his head. “Primus, this is priceless. You’re right, Tailgate. He totally wants me.”
“I do not,” Cyclonus snapped, wings flaring. “You’re unbearable.”
“Uh-huh.” Whirl’s grin widened. “But you’re into it.”
Tailgate stepped back, arms crossing again as he watched the two of them circle each other, tension sparking like live wires.
“So?” he said, voice softening. “Are we gonna do this or not?”
Whirl and Cyclonus both stopped, staring at him. Then at each other. Then at him again.
Cyclonus let out a long, shuddering vent. “I… don’t know how this works.”
“Me neither,” Whirl muttered. “But… maybe we can figure it out?”
Tailgate’s smile softened. “Yeah. Together.”
And when Cyclonus and Whirl both moved closer, standing on either side of him, Tailgate’s spark fluttered in his chest, the fear and guilt easing as the weight of their presence pressed in, warm and steady.
This might actually work.