Chapter Text
They want to decorate him once he’s court musician, in much the same way Prowl is decorated. Well, not like the king’s decorations, there’s actually a very complicated and confusing system of cloth pertaining to rank, but Jazz’s decorations pertaining to his rank are awful. The stupid drapes are unamaneagable. He gets this whole complicated mess of strips of cloth, and thin silvery wire piercings.
It’s pretty, for a statue, but on a person, who needs to move? Yeah. He keeps catching his bow and viol on it, and it’s horrible and a weird weight to play with. It looks nice, at least, but Jazz can’t handle it. He thinks the king likes it, which is at least something, though, and the biggest reason he hasn’t complained in the last decaorn. Prowl had given him the longest, strangest look the first day he showed up in it to play, optics looking over Jazz in a way that made his tanks twist and his spark feel odd. Prowl was probably just confused by the utter ridiculousness of a Polyhexian in Praxian garments, and how uncomfortable he felt.
He goes back and forth about talking to Prowl about it, but it’s not like he can catch Prowl’s optics on the dais and casually mention he hates the very special and very expensive ceremonial outfit he gets. King Prowl. He can’t forget that.
So, mostly he lurks around the garden and waits for Prowl to show up, thankfully out of the heavy, tangling drapes. Prowl does show up after a few days, optics sparkling when he sees Jazz, and Jazz has to step back, bow politely.
“Hello, Jazz.” It’s just the resonance of the crystals, but Prowl’s voice is a low rumble in Jazz’s audials, humming in his plating for too long.
“My lord,” Jazz says, because that’s what the Councillors told him he could call the king as court musician, even if they can’t manage to keep the dislike of the situation out of their voices. Politically brilliant, terrible for them. Doesn’t matter.
“Is there something the matter?”
“Uh, yeah. The outfit. I look ridiculous.” Jazz ducks his helm, a little embarrassed, so he misses exactly when Prowl steps so close, looks up to Prowl a breath away, scrutinizing him.
“It has been the court outfit for generations, updated as fashions dictate.”
Right. So. That’s a no. It’s fine, really, and Jazz opens his mouth to say as much, but Prowl continues, voice so smooth and low Jazz hears it more as a singer’s notes than for the words for a moment.
“I don’t think you look ridiculous, I think you look, well. Not ridiculous, but your feelings are the most important ones here, so clearly the outfit needs to be updated.”
Jazz resets his visor, startled. “Just like that, my lord?”
Prowl arches an optic ridge, tilts the side of his mouth in a small uncertain smile. “Is there any reason why not?”
“No, or, you’re just gonna agree? No complaints?”
“I am aware I put you in a difficult position regarding the Councillors. It is the least I can do for you, given that. I owe you.”
Prowl says these things with such kingly earnestness, and it’s incomprehensible to hear him speak, standing so close, a bare movement from Jazz’s own frame, mouth a bare movement from Jazz’s mouth, optics bright sapphire and focused tight on Jazz, the sparkle of gold markings patterned across his face, beautiful and harsh, carved from ice, Jazz thinks, tucks snippets away for later, an old phrased song of sharp featured kings of snow and cold and bright noble things, but your words as delicate as snowflakes, my king my lord my Prowl, and Jazz fears they will melt just as easily.
“My lord,” Jazz mumbles, which is the nice thing about talking in a place where most everyone outranks him, or at least had outranked him, he can say my lord when he doesn’t know how to respond and most of the time it works, except Prowl frowns, gives Jazz some space he’s not sure he wanted.
“I’ve offended you.”
“Nah, wait, not that. Ya haven’t really.” Jazz doesn’t struggle to put his thoughts into words, just struggles for which words, processor full of thoughts.
“That’s just a big thing, you owing me, and what you’re staying and I’m not big enough for it.” Jazz laughs a bit. “Literally I’m not that big, an’ metaphorically I’m still just a musician. You shouldn’t be so accommodating.” Jazz smiles sheepishly.
“Oh, I shouldn’t be. You certainly have a tendency to tell me what I should and shouldn’t do.”
Jazz gulps. “Sorry, your majesty.” He hadn’t intended to offend Prowl- the king, and he apparently has, except, wait, Prowl’s optics sparkle, a hint of a smile. You’re teasing?”
“Er. Yes?” Prowl’s faceplates go faintly pink, and it’s incongruous with his elegance, not bad, just takes him from a statue of a king to a mech Jazz’s age and handsome in an approachable way, a touchable way, and damn if Jazz doesn’t want to touch him.
“I’m sorry, I should’ve made that clearer, I didn’t mean to worry you-“
“Nah, it’s fine.” Jazz smiles at him reassuringly, then wonders if he’s allowed to do that, but the way Prowl relaxes makes him think it’s fine.
“Thank you,” Prowl says. “I don't really get to… relax around most bots.” His doorwings stiffen and he looks down. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be…” Jazz can see him shift into another persona, the Kingly one, cool and regal.
“No, it’s fine. Really!” Jazz likes the Prowl who isn’t king, who is just a bot with a careful smile and awkward wings.
“You can tease me, I’ll tease you? Or. Is that okay?”
Hope is wide on Prowl’s face, shut down quick, but it occurs to Jazz that being king this young is pretty lonely. It also occurs to him that this is the exact same thoughts he was having as a younger bot crushing on the unattainable Prince Prowl, except this Prowl and Jazz’s imaginings really only share a name and look, and that’s not what’s happening here.
“You… oh. I’d like that. Yes.”
“Right.” Jazz feels like giggling. “I mean, I’m not gonna do it in front of the court or anything, just. In private?”
“Of course.” Prowl’s doorwings are twitching slightly, adorably.
“Actually, I was wondering. You can play for me? In my quarters?”
Jazz swallows hard, reminds himself that the king of Praxus is not hitting on him, that he’s just.
“As court musician, I mean.” Prowl blushes brighter. It’s cute.
“We can go right now? I got some fun songs to play?”
“That sounds lovely.”
A mech could think some really stupid slag with Prowl looking at him and saying ‘lovely’ with that whole intense vibe he’s got going on. Not Jazz though. He’s better than that.
“I’ll go pick up my viol?”
Prowl nods. “I’ll receive you in my chambers. And.” He pauses, awkwardly. “You could play your cytar instead? I haven’t heard it.”
“As my king wishes,” Jazz says, saluting stupidly and leaving before he can be stupider. He doesn’t know what his problem is. Prowl seems happy to talk like they’re just two mechs when they’re alone, Jazz thinks as he lifts his cytar, but that doesn’t mean Jazz can forget who they are in relation to each other. This isn’t a ballad Jazz sings, and that’s not how it works.
There’s a councilor outside of Prowl’s door, obviously just leaving, and Jazz makes as nice of a bow as he can with his cytar strapped over his front. The councilor glares, poisonously. Jazz figured this was what Prowl was aiming for with his politics and appointing Jazz, but it’s still kinda scary. At least Prowl will protect him.
Jazz wonders when he became the kind of mech who can rely on the king to protect him. It’s weird.
Equally weird is the nods the guards give him letting him in, like he’s Prowl’s bonded, not just the mech playing for him.
The rooms are massive. Jazz supposed that makes sense, but just what’s Prowl’s ‘room’ is easily twice the size of any apartment Jazz has lived in. The whole place is gorgeous, decorates lavishly, becoming increasingly more minimalist as it approaches where Prowl actually sleeps. The door is open a crack.
“Your majesty?” Jazz tries to be quiet, but it still echoes in crystal.
“Jazz? Come in.”
Spark pounding, Jazz steps into the room.
It’s not what he’s expecting. Prowl isn’t what he’s expecting. It’s mostly empty, crystals the only real decoration, and beyond the berth, there’s a desk and nothing else. Prowl is at the desk, doing what looks to be paperwork, but his doorwings perk when Jazz comes in.
“Hi.” Jazz waves, and Prowl smiles at him like worthy of a song, like sunrise, like a whole song cycle about the simple in his left cheek and the way it’s small and careful and handsome.
Because Prowl is his king, and yeah. Write songs about the king. Normal.
“You brought your cytar.”
“Yep. I can play anything you want, or..”
Prowl yawns, marking something with his stylus and turning fully to Jazz.
“Play anything you think I might like? You can sit down…”
Prowl’s optics wander the room and come to the same conclusion as Jazz. “On my berth? I won’t be too long.”
Oh Primus. Sure. Jazz can play this soo cool. He is so cool. The berth is firm and covered with pillows and Jazz carefully sits on the edge. He should’ve polished for this except then it would leave stains on the nice berth and argh. Deep vents. Just play whatever.
Jazz strums idly, warming up, tuning, letting notes fall until they start to stick, tugging a melody out of the air, and Prowl seems to like it, if the way his doorwings follow the music is any indication.
Jazz keeps playing nothing in particular, weaving in a few old rhythms, and slowly his spark beat evens out, the situation becoming more familiar. Prowl too is starting to relax, wings dropping and yawns more frequent, and Jazz should probably play less easy music if he’s gonna fall asleep to it, but maybe Prowl wants to fall asleep, that’s why he asked for Jazz? Not at his desk though, surely, and from the way he’s leaned over it, vents even…
“Your majesty,” Jazz asks tentatively, and when there’s no response he tries again. “Prowl? Prowl!”
Prowl jolts awake, dropping his stylus.
“What? What. Oh.”
“You, uh, fell asleep?”
Prowl onlines his optics blearily, rubbing at them. “It seems I did..” he stands, a little dizzily, pushing the work into a semblance of order. “Your plating was beautiful, I suppose it lulled me off..”
“Oh, sorry about that-“
“No.It was what I needed.” Prowl’s voice is firm. “I appreciate it. I appreciate you.”
Jazz tightens his grip on his cytar so he doesn’t drop it. It’s a lot to hear. “I’m really nothing special, just improv, really.”
Prowl had said he could speak freely though.
“I am really good at improv, though. It’s how I got my name.”
“Right. Jazz music. And you are very good.”
Prowl looking at him, Prowl complimenting him, intense and gorgeous.
“I’ll show you how sometime, if you want?”
Prowl’s doorwings flick, and Jazz has been around Praxians enough to decipher it as happiness, excitement, something more he can’t grasp.
“Nothing would make me happier.” Jazz thinks he might actually mean that. Prowl strides confidently over to the berth beside him. And sits next to him. The berth dips slightly under his weight, and Jazz has to balance to avoid leaning into him. Jazz isn’t entirely sure he’s venting.
“Your Majesty…?“
“Prowl. Please. When we’re alone, call me Prowl?”
“…what do you want right now, Prowl?”
Prowl looks firmly down, doorwings flat against his back.
“Could you stay until I fall asleep?” Prowl’s voice is nervous. “Your playing is. Very soothing.”
Distantly, many vorns ago, Jazz’s younger self is screaming and throwing a party.
“No problem, Prowl.”
The grateful look Prowl gives him is enough to fall in love with.