The war had taken much from them. More than either of them dared to put into words.

Optimus and Ratchet stood on the edge of the ruined battlefield, watching the last remnants of Dark Energon pulse and writhe like a living wound in Cybertron’s shattered remains. It was a poison, a corruption that had claimed so much—and they had vowed to destroy it.

But as the vile energy crackled and flared, it twisted, coiling into a shape they knew all too well. A form both familiar and impossible.

The one they lost. The one whose absence had hollowed their sparks. The one whose name neither of them could speak without the weight of grief crushing down upon them.

For the first time in centuries, Ratchet ran. Not walked. Not rushed. He sprinted—his old joints protesting, his optics burning, his servos trembling as he crashed into them, pulling them into a crushing embrace. His vents hitched, his whole frame shaking.

“You’re here—Primus, you’re here,” Ratchet choked out, his voice unsteady, raw.

And then—

Optimus moved.

Not with measured steps. Not with disbelief. Full throttle.

One moment, he stood frozen. The next, he charged.

The weight of a Prime, a leader, a warrior, a friend—it all came crashing down in a blur of red and blue as Optimus slammed into them, his massive arms wrapping around them with unrelenting force. The sheer impact might have sent a lesser bot toppling, but neither he nor they cared.

His vents stuttered. His field shook with something raw, something ancient—something undeniably real. His grip was tight, as if letting go would undo the miracle before him. His helm pressed against theirs, his frame trembling, every ounce of his warrior’s discipline shattered.

For the first time in eons—

Optimus Prime was not the Prime.

He was just Optimus.

And he was holding onto the one thing he had once thought lost to the void.

Because against all odds, against the cruelty of fate itself—

They had come home.