-Windows-

There was something to be said of Sunstreaker’s paintings. Even back on Cybertron, they were some of the most sought after works of art. Coveted by many of the higher class Cybertronians before the war began, several stories were told of the yellow mech’s paintings. Sunstreaker himself could recall times when he’d heard his paintings described as windows into worlds unseen by any other, windows that many wished they could open and climb through. He’d thought of the description as utter nonsense.

His paintings were just paintings.

Sometimes the paintings would have a message of emotion, drawn from the way he felt. There were paintings that were inspired by old literature, scenes from text that were brought to life through his art. There were times when his artwork was nothing more than a few splashes of paint here and there with some unique pattern that made it irresistable to those who so coveted simple art. Sunstreaker never understood why anyone would think of his paintings as windows to anything.

Even now, on Earth, he heard his work called soulful, enrapturing, and again, windows into the artist’s soul. He looked at his art and saw nothing more than what he’d put there: shapes, colors, and, on occasion, a story or a feeling. There was nothing else there. Just paint.

These days, Sunstreaker didn’t get a lot of time to paint. What with the war still going on, constant battles with the Decepticons interrupting otherwise dull days of patrol and missions to help the humans, he rarely got to sit down with a canvas and paint. He’d occasionally get something finished and toss it aside to work on something else, but it was a great deal less than what he used to do. Several pieces became few, became one or two far too quickly. He’d take what time he had when he was inspired, but even then, projects he’d started would go unfinished; the motivation cut in half, then lost when battles called to him.

It was just the way life went.

Sunstreaker sat in his room, blank canvas in front of him, paintbrush in hand. Today, he was going to paint. The door behind him was locked, access codes initiated to keep all from bothering him; the only one he would allow access was Sideswipe and that was only becaue he was his twin and the only one who knew to be quiet while he was painting. There were to be no disruptions, no questions, no mindless chattering to keep him from working. Today, he was going to start and finish something, even if it took him the whole day.

He’d borrowed some music from Blaster to work by; he’d always worked better with music playing in the background. As he started the first track of the mix the communications officer had given him, he looked at the canvas, studying the blank white face of it for a moment. He picked up his paintbrush, dipped it gently into one of the containers of paint that he’d gotten through the humans, a deep, rich shade of red, and touched the brush to the canvas.

Time went by, the beat of the drums in the background giving rhythm to Sunstreaker’s thoughts as his brush moved with the soft notes of the saxophone accompanying the beat. The piano’s quick notes in between the bars gave the whole piece an unique sound. Each instrument in the piece gave it’s own to the music, just as each stroke of the brush gave it’s own to the mech’s painting. It had been a favorite technique of Sunstreaker’s back in the Golden Age of Cybertron; music giving birth to art, art giving vision to music.

The door to the room opened, access codes initiated by the only other one allowed inside. Sideswipe stepped in, took one look at the canvas his brother sat in front of, and went to sit on the edge of Sunstreaker’s berth, watching and listening. He didn’t say a word, didn’t try to get his brother’s attention through any means, save for sending him a supportive wave through the bond they shared as twins. It was all that needed to pass between them.

Finally, Sunstreaker set down his brush and sat back, optics running over the painting in front of him. Air cycled heavily through his systems in emulation of a human sigh. Sideswipe slipped off the berth and approached his twin from behind, slowly putting his arms around Sunstreaker’s shoulders in a brotherly embrace. His own optics ran over the painting and he gave an approving smile.

“This is different from your usual paintings,” he told his brother.

“I needed to branch out,” Sunstreaker replied. “Take a new angle. Finish something worthwhile.”

Sideswipe gave a small sigh. “It looks good.”

Sunstreaker nodded, reaching up to take his twin’s hand as he studied the Sideswipe painted onto the canvas. The painted twin looked back with soft blue optics that glowed with a life previously unthinkable in a piece of art. Shadows in the painting made it look as if it was the real thing. It captured the image of Sideswipe impeccably, bringing to light every side of the red twin: the side that Sunstreaker saw, the side that the other Autobots saw, the side that only showed when the twins were together.

“I’ve never seen you do a portrait before,” Sideswipe said.

“It’s not a portrait,” Sunstreaker replied, running his thumb over his brother’s knuckles. “It’s a window into my world.”

-Fin-