Skyfire had long since accepted the silence.

The war had stolen many things from him, but nothing hurt more than losing Starscream—not just physically, but the bond they once shared. A connection that had once been filled with laughter, curiosity, and warmth had been severed, locked away by the very mech he had loved. It was as if Starscream had taken a blade to their bond and forced it shut, leaving Skyfire adrift in an ocean of silence where there was once light.

He told himself he understood. He had to understand. Starscream had chosen his path with the Decepticons, and Skyfire had chosen his own. But understanding did nothing to ease the ache.

He had thought the bond was gone entirely.

Until it wasn't.

The first time it reopened had been a shock. A flash of pain, white-hot and unbearable, burning through his very spark. He had collapsed to his knees, clutching at his chest as static-filled emotions flooded his mind—fear, desperation, agony. And just as suddenly as it had come, it was gone, slammed shut like a cell door locking him out again.

It had happened again. And again. And again.

Every time, it was the same. The bond flared to life in a moment of stress, of pain, of desperation. And each time, Skyfire felt the phantom echoes of fists meeting metal, of energon dripping onto the floor, of sharp, scathing words cutting deeper than any blade.

Starscream never said a word.

And Skyfire couldn't do anything but wait in the dark. He wanted to go to him. But he couldn’t.

Because if Skyfire could feel him—Starscream could feel him.

And there was no reaction.

No response.

No flicker of acknowledgment. Skyfire pressed a hand over his spark, as if he could hold it together, keep it from fracturing any further.

And then, just as suddenly as it had opened, the bond snapped shut.

Silence returned.

But it was worse than before.

So much worse.

“Why won’t you just call for me?” Sky rasped and then he curled in on himself.