Archive of Our Own

In a small shop, two streets down from his clinic, Rung walked through a myriad of shiny baubles and assorted finery. The natural light from outside filtered in through the windows and rebounded off trinkets. Above, the ceiling was splattered with the luminosity, and by looking down on himself, Rung realized that he had also not been spared of wearing spots.

Rung turned his hand over, watching the dots travel across it. He smiled. It was a nice effect. Just the sort of thing that drew people inside.

"We offer custom items if you'd like."

He looked up in surprise at the shopkeeper, a large green mech with a sharp gaze, and dipped his head. "Ah, no, that's alright. Thank you."

He barely had an idea on what to get, and to customize would just be a waste of money. At the keeper's nod, Rung walked to the first row to look at the premade items.

He gently picked at the various selections, hovering from one item and then to the next. Some were too bright and another was too large. This one had such a degree of complexity that he wondered how it would last, and yet another was so basic that it seemed to miss the entire point.

After a moment more of searching, he found something. It was a simple cuff of branching metal. It had no stones, and the color would compliment well enough. It wasn’t half as elaborate as what he regularly saw, but he thought it was nice. Understated. Clean. It would do, he thought. Just for today.

He took it over to the shopkeeper, feeling magnificently more silly as he drew closer, and the mech laughed as he turned it over. "Simple, but I take it that’s how he likes it. I could engrave something on it for you.”

Oh, that would be borderline ridiculous.

“No, thank you,” he murmured, and that was that. He walked out with a bag in hand and meandered down a path that was much more familiar. He relaxed immediately. People filled the streets, each taking advantage of the bright weather. Rung could hardly blame them. Who wanted to be inside on a day like this?

His spark swelled with a sudden spell of determination. Today would be a good day, and he was going to enjoy it to the fullest.

To the candy store!

But first-

He slipped into a quiet alcove and pulled the cuff out of the bag. He fastened it to the highest point of his forearm. It magnetized easily. He shook his arm. It didn’t slither off, as he might have expected.

That had been easy.

He dwaddled.

Rung had the keen sense that he was cheating at something.

He shouldn’t though, should he? Maybe the accessory was solely intended to be received from one’s conjunx, but by the end of the day, it was just a decorative piece. He was allowed that. Nothing wrong with buying your own jewelry. People did it all the time.

Even so, Rung fiddled with it indecisively. In his fussing, he caught sight of a mech unashamedly walking past him, proudly wearing a cuff that was positively eye-catching. He, or his conjunx, clearly had a lot of affection for one another and wanted people to know it.

It would be easy for him. There was no dishonesty. He had someone.

Rung stepped out of the alcove.

It was just for one day. No one would know what he had done- if anyone even cared to know. It wasn’t like he was going to present himself as paired off for the rest of his life, or even ever do this again. That wouldn’t be good at all.

This was just an experiment. A thought-exercise.

He would just have a nice day, doing his favorite things, and going to his favored places, and spend just a few kliks submerged in the thought of there being someone to go home to.

Harmless.

The idea had sounded pleasant when he had come up with it last week. One of his patients had regaled him with tales of their new paramore. From what he had heard, it sounded like the start of a healthy, genuine relationship. Rung was delighted for him, but it reminded him of his own standstill life. His career was fulfilling, but he felt bereft in other areas.

He wasn't depressed. Rung knew the source of his troubles, and it was something he never could address with the same ease that others seemed to have.

He was lonely.

It didn't have its claws hooked into him as much as it used to. He got by with distractions and having a socially demanding job, but Rung could never shake the undercurrent emotion. Too often, it reared its ugly head and demanded action.

Unfortunately, there wasn't a whole lot to be done about it. He sometimes dated when it became unbearable, but he could never get the mileage out of it that most experienced. In fact, Rung could count on one servo how many second dates he had been on. Then there were the hobby clubs. He had joined a good number of them, but many who attended were more focused on their interests than actually getting personable with people, and well, the clubs just never contacted him to inform him of schedule changes.

If there was anything that Rung was well versed in, then it was how to take a hint. He dove in and out of the candy store, and walked out with a bag full of popular items to refill his candy-dishes. From there, he had a short stop at a craft store, to pick up more glue, and then spent a while perusing an antique store where he rattled his head, trying to place where he had surely seen a particularly striking chair. Soon, he found himself sitting outside of an energon dispensary, tucked under an awning, with cool energon in hand. It wasn’t Maccadam’s, but it was crowded, and that was a plus in his book.

He settled into the ambiance and people-watched. Despite the crowd and lack of seating, nobody was tempted enough to sit with him. That was fine. In fact, on this day, it was more than fine- it was sensible. Today, they could plainly see that he was a taken mech, and so it was reasonable that nobody would waste their time getting to know him. He was probably just looking for a bit of time alone, anyway.

Rung swirled his energon, thinking distractedly of the fantasy- no, thought-exercise- he had composed for himself.

He could be at home with his conjunx now, but they needed some time apart. Not for any dramatic reasons, but only because it was just fine to spend a little time away from each other. Not all tasks needed to be a team-effort, and he was sure that his conjunx had much to do without Rung underpede.

When he got home, they could spend the rest of the evening together, regaling each other with tales of their day. Then they might huddle under a warm blanket for the night.

What a wonderful thing to look forward to.

He grimaced at his drink.

Reality wasn’t so easily ignored and with each feeling of excitement, came a crashing wave of disappointment. His imagination couldn't hold a candle to vorns of facts.

The fact that his list of contacts was solely comprised of his patients and his landlord.

The fact that his one genuine friend had turned out to be anything but.

The fact that it wasn't just that he never belonged with anyone, but he felt as though he didn't belong anywhere. Like a lid without a pot, or an uninvited guest.

He was fortunate to find an anchor in his occupation. If not for that, Rung would be in a sorry state indeed.

He stared moodily at his drink. His imagination hadn't done him any favors today.

He wasn’t surprised by this, but he had thought that he would be having more fun.

Rung left his seat with a walk in mind. Better to do that than to become mired in his stormy thoughts.

It helped. A little.

He passed through the community gardens and took to a more commercial district. Rung went into a datapad store and spent a long time browsing there. He then whiled away the day listening to street musicians, and looking over an obscene amount of footbridges. By which time, Rung had done all he could possibly want to do, but there was still light out, so he stayed and yet found more places to be. He followed groups of people to see where they might be headed, and explored places he had not been to in ages. It was an illuminating experience, and he was, overall, glad he went.

The sky dimmed, giving way to even more mechs spilling out, as nights in the city were just as lively as its day. He slowly trekked home, feeling fatigued in a way that had nothing to do with his exertion.

He paused just outside his door. The access panel lit up, readying itself to receive his pass codes.

Rung ran his servo over the cuff that he had nearly forgotten. He tuned his audials to his apartment. Did he hear music from inside or was that his neighbor?

There was a sliver of light escaping from under his door. He might have forgotten to turn off his lights, but perhaps he hadn't.

He sighed and commanded the door open. Rung threw his bags to the side with a lazy movement.

It was bright.

It was empty.

He tipped onto his couch gracelessly and planted his face deep in a corner.

It was fine.

-

Censere trotted up the stairs to the next level.

Eleven down. Just eight more to go for this building.

He could have easily taken the elevator, but he passed it by at each opportunity. Censere needed to go to every floor of the building and waiting around for a lift would take up too much time.

Today had not been his best and finishing early sounded like the perfect thing to do.

He didn't normally make these sorts of visitations. Instead, he should have been sequestered in his office, but this week hadn't been normal. The assessors were phenomenally understaffed and people were pulled from each department until the problem was resolved.

He had drawn the short straw.

Well, his friend Grey, had said he needed to get out more anyway. This should do.

Censere buzzed the first door he came to and pulled up the needed forms on his datapad. He didn't wait long. The door pulled open to reveal an unusually well-kept mech–particularly for this neighborhood. There wasn't a hint of the dents and chipped paint that half the tenants carried. The tell-tale marks of a more impoverished area.

He was greeted with a puzzled expression. It was a common look. Nobody ever expected him.

"Good evening. I'm Censere. I work with the Bureau of Demography.” Censere nodded his head in greeting, hoping that it came across as more personable. He had been told that his voice often struck people as distant. “Could I ask you a few questions? It will only take a minute.”

“Oh.” The door opened a little more and the mech gave a friendly smile. “Hello. Yes, of course.”

Wonderful. Censere didn’t waste time getting to it. “What is your name?”

“Rung.”

He poked at his datapad.

“Your place of origin?”

“...The Pious Pools.” The mech looked down at Censere’s pedes and made a slow trek back up to his face.

Censere adjusted his cloak with his free hand, hiding the light in its folds. It often distracted people. He could probably work quicker if he left it at home, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so.

“Your alt-mode?”

“Unknown.” The door swung open further and the mech, Rung, stepped aside. “Would you like to take this inside?”

Censere paused for a klik longer than could be considered polite. “No, thank you. It’s not much more, I assure you. Could you elaborate on your alt-mode?”

Rung leaned against the door. “It’s unidentifiable. I usually just put it down as miscellaneous, or as a birth-defect, on forms.”

Curious. Censere heeded the advice and tapped at his datapad further. He asked a few questions about the mech's living situation. How long he had been staying there and... "Does anyone else live here?"

"No," the bot said quietly.

Censere glanced up at the answer. He thought he had spied- yes, the mech was wearing a conjunx cuff. A liar then. Or a widower. It could be many things.

He looked away. It didn’t matter. It was none of his business. Censere just took the answers, he didn't dispute them.

"And what's your-"

“Would you like to come in for energon? I just stocked up on flavorings and I think I have every combination possible here.”

Censere stalled.

It was a tempting offer. And surprising. Aside from Grey, people simply didn’t invite him anywhere.

If there was an event, he was the last to know. If he tried to speak with his co-workers in a private setting, he was put off. There were always two unoccupied seats between him and the next person, even on an otherwise crowded train, and today, the last mech he interviewed had slammed the door in his face.

Granted, that last one could have well been due to the natural disinclination for government workers, but it happened often enough to make him think otherwise.

Censere wasn’t sure what it was about himself or if he just didn’t try hard enough, but he sometimes had the impression that he was someone to be avoided. He didn’t mind this, usually. If anything, it aligned with his own desires. Censere did like people, but even in the quietest surroundings, he went through most days feeling like he was aboard a very crowded bus, and any length of solitude didn’t bother him much.

Today, he found the offer refreshing. He was disappointed to say, “I’m sorry, but I cannot enter someone’s home.”

Work policy aside, he wouldn’t risk the trouble he could get into if the mech’s errant, and possibly less mild, conjunx walked in.

“Oh! I’m sorry! It’s just that it’s getting late and you must have been at this for a while. I thought you could use a break... Would you mind if I brought you something? Please.”

“I-” Something sat on his vocoder. The mech flashed a grin like he had just won a prize and took the opportunity to disappear.

Censere belatedly leaned through the doorway while keeping his pedes firmly planted to the spot. He spied a clean living area, save for a mess of paints and tools that laid in the middle of a table. “I’m quite fine...” he trailed off.

“How do you feel about copper?” Rung called from out of sight. Censere declined to answer, too torn over whether he should bring the mech back to the task at hand, so that he could finish the job, or play it out.

He fidgeted with his cloak. If he thought about it, he was due a short break anyway. It had been a long day. Further, if the chime of stirring utensils were any indication, refusing at this point would be beyond rude.

In short order, Rung returned with two mugs of warm energon. The fluid lazily swirled with fine grains of purple and gold. He took one with murmured thanks. Rung walked into the hall, to the opposite wall, and sat on the floor. “Will you join me?”

Censere looked down the hall. It was large. Empty.

“Nobody comes through here this time of day." Rung assured him. "Except you."

Censere slowly sank to the ground, knowledgeable of the fact that he was committed now and there would be no getting out of it.

“I forgot all about the census. How many homes do you visit a day?”

“...Hundreds.”

“You must meet some interesting people.”

Censere thought back to weeks past when he had been held at gunpoint for startling a band of drug manufacturers. Then yesterday he had been tackled by a positively ancient bot who had mistook him for an old comrade. “Sometimes.”

“How long have you been working there?”

“Vorns.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“It’s... work.” He used to enjoy it, but it was getting a little old now. The office wasn’t the same as it had been before. The agency was established long ago just for simple statistics, to make a basis for future projections and projects, but each new survey asked for details that were just a little more invasive, more personal. Voluntary submissions of surveys were no longer permissible, and home assessments were made mandatory.

Then there were the visitors. Lately, Censere had been noticing that there were more and more officials and military mechs coming and going from the office that should find no interest there. Sometimes, he wondered at the purpose of it all and if this was what he really should be doing with his time.

"So what do you enjoy?"

"I write. Sometimes." Censere stared over his glass, and was fascinated to find that Rung didn't look the other way.

Censere felt a little out-of-sorts. The situation he found himself in was unfamiliar, and the air, oddly amiable, for a perfect stranger. Interesting.

The bot surprised him with a noise of elation. “I write a little myself. What do you like to write about?”

“Histories. Biographies.” So many questions! Was he being interviewed himself? "And what is your... occupation?"

Rung's lip quirked. "Are you asking that because you're curious or because it's on the form?"

He looked away in embarrassment. "Both? I apologize, I did not expect this kind of conversation today."

Rung waved his free hand rapidly. "Oh no, I'm sorry if I've put you on the spot. I just… you surprised me. I don’t get many visitors. I wanted to welcome you."

"Well..." What did one say to something like that? Censere heated. "Thank you. You have made me feel quite welcome."

Rung beamed. "I'm glad to hear it." He leaned back against the wall. "I'm a psychiatrist, to answer your question."

An uncommon profession. There were certainly more of them than there used to be, but this was the first one he had come across in a while. "Do you like it?" Censere asked.

"Well, yes. It's not easy, but it can be very rewarding. Have you ever tried it? Therapy?"

"No."

"Have you thought about it?"

"Not really."

"Well, if you'd like, I can give you my business information, but as it stands, you're very welcome to come by for a friendly visit." Rung's outstretched pede lightly tapped at his. "Maybe you could show me some of your work?"

Censere stared at his pede and Rung's as though they were some alien appendages.

He had seen this sort of thing before. Between other people. Usually it included a table and a lot of giggling. This wasn’t something he had any experience with. Grey sprang flirtatious jokes on him from time to time, but it was hardly sincere.

Should he... reciprocate? Nevermind that Rung had started it, it would be too familiar, yes? The mech had a conjunx and Censere shouldn't try to be anything other than passingly courteous. Surely.

He turned to assess Rung's face, hoping to find a clue there. Some confirmation of his ideas.

The mech had taken to carefully nursing his energon. He wasn't paying Censere's dilema any mind. Oh. Yes. Rung had said something, hadn’t he? Something about visiting him here again.

He was waiting for a response.

"Thank you for the offer, but it's a busy time for me, and... I don't think it would be very appropriate."

"...Appropriate," Rung said, as if it were some new word to sample.

Censere didn't respond. Whatever was the right answer, he clearly missed it.

"Appropriate because of your job? I don't think I've ever heard of that extreme of class restrictions before. You can visit who you like. Whether you’re embarrassed about it is another matter."

"No, I just don't know your conjunx, and I wouldn't-"

"Conjunx?" Rung's brows shot clear off his face. "You think I have- I'm not conjunxed."

"My mistake," Censere said quickly, glancing at Rung's cuff to reaffirm that it was there. He couldn't help it, and he hadn't meant for it to be obvious. Rung caught on quickly.

He pulled at the band. "Oh. Is it this? Ah, I'm sorry, I had forgotten about it.” Rung yanked it off with a quick flourish and launched it into the open doorway with more force than it could have ever deserved. A clatter of noise sounded. He waved his hand. “I'm not with anyone. Honestly. I was just... trying things on today. Like glitter paint. You know it’s a terrible idea and it's not a good fit at all, but you try it anyway." He curled against his knees. "I'm not conjunxed."

Censere nodded, having nothing to say to that. He had the feeling that he had hit a sore spot.

The bot had completely dissipated all of his expectations. That's what he got for having them, he supposed.

"Are you?"

He blinked. "Pardon?"

"Are you with anyone?" Rung asked again. "The cuffs have become so popular that I forget that not everyone participates."

“Ah. No.”

A brow lifted. “Really?”

“Yes," he said, tapping down the urge to elaborate on his limited social life. It was probably too much information.

The bot’s mouth twitched back into a grin. Rung leaned a fraction toward him. “Are you interested in that sort of thing?”

Censere looked down as he processed several things very fast. He found himself remembering every silly rom-com he had seen and every idle observation he had made, and he couldn’t help but compare. If he were with Grey in this same situation, the mech would have started laughing at him long ago.

Looking away was a poor choice. His sight aligned perfectly with glossy leg plating, and that somehow only added to the extreme burden that his brain nodule was undergoing. With the amount of power running through his head, it was only natural that certain things gave away, such as his tightly wound EM field, his inclination to answer, and— most damningly— the first two digits of his servo.

He blinked and found himself sitting in a spilt cup of energon.

“-get a towel, just a moment!” Rung moved.

Censere leaned forward before he could parse a single thought and grabbed a fleeing wrist.

The bot stilled.

“It’s alright.”

“But your cloak is-”

“It is fine. It doesn’t stain.”

Rung paused. He nodded slowly and eased back. “Okay. That’s... good. Very handy.”

“I do still wash it though,” he added, self-consciously.

“...Of course.”

Rung made as though to pull away, but Censere twisted his hold to grasp at the hand. Rung froze.

“You are very strange,” Censere said.

The bot tilted his head in a way that immediately struck him as endearing.

He considered that that could be taken as very offensive to some people. “I mean, you’re unusual," he amended. "In a good way.”

"What makes you say that?”

Because Rung didn’t recoil from his servo, for starters. In fact, the mech only came closer and returned to his side.

There was also something that Censere would normally never bring up, but the desire for clarity burned too hot in his chest to ignore.

Here, now, the stranger-hood of the situation lended him a sort of bravery and frankness. Censere was unlikely to ever see this mech again, and a social misstep wouldn't ultimately mean much, leading him to answer, “Because I think- and please correct me if I’m wrong, but I feel like you’re flirting with me.”

A quiet descended on them. The muffled chatter of neighbors came to a hush,and the distant sounds of sirens and city life dulled.

Rung stared. His optics, brighter.

Oh no. He was wrong.

At least he found out. That had to count for something, yes? Still, perhaps he should extract himself quickly. If he spread out his cloak and ran, he might not even look that pathetic.

A grin wormed its way across Rung’s face. He whispered, as though sharing some great secret.

“I am flirting with you.”

Censere leaned back. He was surprised to find that the wall didn’t give out from behind him. Everything else felt like it had. The floor, for example.

Well, he thought. How about that?

But- “Why?”

Rung tilted to rest on Censere's side. The contact rose a thrill within him. "You're unusual. In a good way. Is flirting very strange for you?" The bot lifted himself off just as he had settled, like water on hot oil. "Is it too much?"

There was realistically, some threshold, somewhere, for what Censere could tolerate, but this wasn't it.

"No, no, it’s fine. I’m a little... out of practice.”

"...Would you like me to stop?"

Censere thought for only a moment and then shifted until he was the one leaning on the bot. Rung tottered at the weight. A field of wild, happy energy enveloped his own.

"I think we've hardly started."

And so they talked, and yes, flirted more. Granted, it wasn't much more. Censere had the impression that Rung was trying not to scare him off. That was fine by him. Censere was half afraid that if it went too far he would just find a way to embarrass himself.

They mostly talked about himself, but Censere managed to gather a few details about the mech. Rung liked to build miniatures, ships mostly, and he liked going out for energon almost every day. He was also familiar with a good editor, if Censere happened to be interested, and, importantly, Rung didn't usually flirt with visitors. Allegedly. Which meant that all this wasn't just borne of some quirk of personality.

Time slipped away from him and when Censere finally checked his chronometer, he was far beyond his standard break time. The early end to his day that he had hoped for, was now nothing more than smoke in the wind. He rose from the floor with a hasty apology.

“It’s alright,” Rung said. “Thank you for joining me for energon. You’re very welcome to stop by after work, if you’d like. I have a recipe or two that I’d like some thoughts on.”

He shook the very last drops of energon free of his cloak. “I’m sorry, but I must stop by the office when I’m done. But thank you.”

The antenna on Rung’s helm eased its way down. Censere was given a bright smile. “Anytime.”

He dallied, and fussed with his cloak more than it would ever need in its lifetime. There were things he wanted to know, that he had to know with that same burning passion that fueled his research, but the thing was, he wasn't entirely sure how to ask. He wished Rung were some ancient terminal, something that he could idly peruse, without any sort of judgement or expectation.

Rung waited near his doorway and didn't seem in a hurry to leave. Censere took that as the push he needed to plow ahead. "Are you... free tomorrow?" he asked.

Let it not be said that he left any avenue unexplored.

"I am after work. Do you want to meet somewhere?"

The vice around his spark loosened minutely. “I believe I would like to.”

Rung approached him. "Around where do you live?"

"North Tiers."

Rung made a thoughtful noise and rooted around in one of his side compartments. He pulled out a marker and held out his servo expectantly.

With an inkling of an idea, Censere gave him his own.

The marker glided across the top of his servo. "How does half past thirty sound?"

"Good."

MACCADAM’S

OLD OIL HOUSE

30:50

Rung paused for a moment and then continued with painstakingly precise strokes.

RUNG

Censere was sent a series of codes. “If something happens and you’re too busy, or if you just change your mind, please just call. I won’t be offended.”

“It won’t come to that.”

“But if it does, you’ll call?”

“...It’s only polite.”

Rung paused over his servo, his antenna perked to the sky. Censere was released and Rung put away his marker with a flourish and a smile. “I look forward to getting to know you. See you soon.”

Censere would have offered some reassurance that it definitely, one-hundred percent, was going to happen, but Rung suddenly stunned him by grabbing the door frame like it was some pole and rotated inside, all the while, shooting Censere with a parting wink that blasted a hole right through his brain nodule.

The door closed.

The hall, robbed of the luminescence, returned to its dim, worn state.

He walked away, leadenly, fearing of some security system of Rung’s that might catch him looking like the processor-dead idiot that he was.

He hid in the nearest stairwell.

Damn him, damn him damn him. What was he going to do? This was terrible. If he met up with that, he was going to be eaten alive.

He dialed Grey. He couldn’t just sit on this.

When Censere awoke the next morning, a cloud of worry and doubt descended upon him.

It turned the easiest tasks into challenging ones.

He dropped his best polishing rag into the dusty depths behind a desk. Then he forgot his work access-keys twice on the way out of his apartment, and just out the door, he nearly collided with a pedestrian that resulted in the mech leaping aside and muttering, "Primus, sorry, thought you were a runaway vehicle."

The feeling followed Censere onto the metro and through the door to work, all up until the end of his work day, so that by the time he had taken two steps away from the office, his head housed a fine nest of frazzled wires.

The thing was, Censere considered himself as a reasonably smart mech.

He kept his head down and clear of trouble. He was very good with maths and fine detail, and most importantly, he had a very excellent memory. Something that had served him very well throughout his life.

It was for this reason that Censere found the writing on the back of his servo very odd. He had there a note, written in pitch black ink, that listed a place, a time, and, he assumed, a missive to ring a doorbell.

When he first spotted it, during the sleepy cycles of the morning, he had the inkling that it had originated from Grey. It was something the mech might pull on him, and the only person that Censere could see approaching him close enough to try.

But then, Censere very clearly remembered Grey being frustratingly impossible to reach yesterday and again, today. Then there was the fact that the writing-style was too dissimilar to his friend. It was only later, after intense thought, that he recalled the phantom sensations of a soft tipped marker placing them down, but when he tried to put a face or a purpose behind it, he only vaguely remembered it coming from a very pushy bot who had bored him to death.

They had wanted to meet with him later, yes?

Yes. That was what it was.

Throughout his day, whenever he spotted the note on his hand—a thing he couldn't bring himself to scrub off—he continually replayed the event in his head, and with each passing thought he uncovered more.

Had he actually been bored and annoyed, or had the stress of work gotten to him?

Possibly. Censere didn’t have a typical day yesterday. He hadn't started the day thinking that he would run all over town, and that could have made the slightest things seem worse than what they actually were.

But even if so...

Censere walked down the street decisively.

A boring bot wasn’t one to brush off. If anything, it made his steps more sure—because, even though Censere hardly ever found himself with personal company, he was someone that was intrinsically interested in others. He enjoyed talking and learning about everyone. Literally everyone.

He wanted to know about a common street sweeper or courier just as intensely as any historical or high profile political figure. He liked learning about their lives and their hopes and loves, and felt that learning about them was the same as appreciating them. Often times, he sought out the most simple of people, who were too untalented and disadvantaged to make a mark more lasting than their date of birth and death. It was with these people that Censere felt this fear that if he didn't learn and appreciate them, nobody else would.

A boring bot who, strangely, wanted Censere's company sounded like just the sort of person he should meet.

Despite this mindset, Censere was filled with trepidation for the meeting and he wasn't sure why. He just feared, even more so than usual, that it wouldn't go well.

Censere stepped through the door of Maccadam's Old Oil House into a not-so-busy service area. His optics scanned the crowd for anyone recognizable and came up lacking. A booth, by the window, became his nesting spot of choice.

He waited.

Censere checked the time on his hand and then his chronometer. Bots steadily passed by his booth and the window. His audials filled with passing laughter and the head-turning chnk of stirring utensils. He idly observed the passing pedestrians and his optics were inexplicably drawn to a pair who had their arms tangled together, as close as a knot.

Something nameless stirred in his spark.

The kliks creeped by until they completely bypassed the agreed upon time.

The ring of a doorbell alerted him to a new customer and he looked up to see an orange mech. His spark leapt.

The bot, clearly of some variety of bulldozer, sat with a bunch of rowdy friends on a bench.

He stared down at his untouched energon with an air of resignation. This was well beyond the point of a simple delay.

Censere had been stood up.

He wasn’t surprised by this, but he didn’t expect it to be so disappointing.

With the cancellation, the inexplicable anxiety that had gripped him throughout the day uncoiled itself.

He flipped through his notes to see if there was anything he should possibly do while he was in the area. There was no point in wasting the rest of the day.

Censere came across a new addition to his logs. It seemed he had added someone, just yesterday, to his contact list.

Like a switch, he flipped his servo over to stare at the note on his hand with sudden clarity.

That’s what it had been about? He should call. There had been some talk about calling, hadn’t there? Yes, now the note made more sense. Censere was daft. He should have called before he left the office. Was it too late?

Censere placed the call anyway.

He waited but a moment before a charming voice greeted him over the line saying that they were Rung.

Oh yes, that's right. Rung. How could he have gotten so confused?

He spoke slow and cautious. Hello, yes, this is Censere. I believe you wanted to meet me for... something?

Censere... Cen- Oh. Oh! Oh my- I'm sorry, I was so busy at work I completely forgot we- hang on! It’s- Are you- ...Did you still want to meet?

Censere wasn’t sure if he himself had merely been forgotten or if the mech had changed his mind about meeting. In either case, he should probably feel offended, but instead he dared to hope.

...I do.

The line went silent.

Rung? Hello?

Yes! Yes, I’m on my way!

The bot did sound very earnest. Elation warmed him more than any amount of energon could. The time wasn’t wasted after all.

That’s good. Don’t get in a rush and get hurt. You wouldn’t believe how many hospitalizations happen that way.

Right. Sensible. Yes. Butit’skindoftoolate.

What?

What? Rung said distractedly. ...Are you at Maccadams right now?

I am. He thought for a moment. ...Would you like to meet half-way?

We could. Do you want to?

Sitting in his booth for any longer as he waited sounded terrible.

Yes. We’ll have a little more time that way.

They decided to meet on a street full of artisan shops, and chatted idly on the comms as they journeyed. Piece by piece, details started filling into the crevices of his mind. He remembered a bright smile and a gentle servo. Warm energon. A bit of jewelry.

Censere wasn’t sure if he would be able to recognize the mech among the congregation of busied shoppers, since he could only recall that he was looking for a mech roughly his size and possibly orange, but as it turned out, he needn’t have worried.

Rung stood out like a beacon, his plating brilliantly reflecting in the light. He smiled at Censere’s approach.

“Censere.”

“Rung.”

He crossed his arms. A very pertinent detail had come to mind. One which he could have only missed because he had deluded himself into thinking that this wasn't a strictly social meet and was for the sake of a mere interview.

Rung’s eyebrows raised up. It was hard to tell with so many bots around, but Censere thought he felt a hesitant poke from Rung’s field.

His voice pitched low, “You flirt, and then you don’t show. Is this normal behavior for you?”

Those same brows lowered with the force of a dropped anvil. “No! I was just busy and- and tired. I don’t get many social plans and I just- I don’t know- I’m sorry. I very much wanted to see you though.”

He hummed. “I think I should draw all over you too. Now that we know that you’ve a terrible memory.”

Rung’s squared his pauldrons and gamely pulled a marker free from a wrist compartment. He passed it to Censere. “Please do. Just write all over me. It’s only fair.”

Censere held the marker with solemnity.

He and Rung both had a penchant for writing, but he suspected that Rung had no idea what kind of trouble he had opened himself to. Censere had told Rung that he had three published biographies. He hadn’t spoken of the tens of thousands that would likely never see the light of day. Works too dull and fact-dense to be palatable for the public.

To say that Censere could get a little verbose, would be an understatement.

“By the time I’m finished there won’t be a bit of orange on you.”

“O-oh?”