The slide of their palms is nice, warmth and comfort that he so desperately wants to cling to right now. It bolsters Drift, and a small part of him realizes that this may be be harder for him to say than it will be for Wing to accept. The jet, the knight, had been ready enough to sacrifice himself in the first place.

"Wing." He ex-vents, the slivers of his optics fixed on their clasped hands, telling his tanks to calm that churning thing they seem to insist on doing. "The battle. You...._{...you didn't make it}."