Time to stop dreaming, then, Drift. Wing might not be laughing right now, as they hug, but it's something else in that category of things he has wished for for far too long.

He closes his optics, letting himself breathe in the scent of Drift, his warm engine, the remade body a mix of scents both familiar and new--the kind of new he achingly wants to make familiar. Us, indeed. "You should go," he says, but, at least for a moment, he doesn't move his hands from where they've come to rest around the other's sleek waist.