Chapter Text
It’s hard to sleep in Praxus. Jazz’s room in the outskirts of the palace is bigger than his old apartment in Polyhex, but it’s much more empty. Instead of nooks and corners, cozy poster plastered walls and records crammed into every inch of space, it’s just big and cold. And no decorations allowed, which is fair, Jazz will grudgingly admit, he’s lucky, he’s so lucky, gets shanix to play for the court, in front of the Obsidian King, even. He gets free energon, free lodging, free music, he’s lucky. Totally.
The room feels hollow, and the music he plays off the list of approved songs feels hollow and he kind of gets the impression that he’s a novelty more than anything else, and once the pizzazz of a fun exotic Polyhexian wears off, he’s gonna be out again. And he could, he could be more, do more, but not playing Praxian music from that primus damned list. And he can’t sleep.
The viol is his lightest instrument, and it’s sort of comforting to carry through the halls, a secure weight to consider and an observed reason to be wandering around this late, nodding politely at the other serving bots as they pass each other. Everything echoes here in this crystal palace, which is why Jazz can’t play in his rooms even without the feeling of falling when his back isn’t firmly against the wall, and Jazz goes deeper and deeper, encountering less and less bots as he goes. He’s just wandering aimlessly, head full of tunes and adaptations and scattered bits of melody he’s been collecting all day, and it occurs to him he doesn’t actually know where he is, never been here before. Yeah. He has no idea where he is.
Especially when he turns the corner and sees the crystals. That’s sorta misleading, the whole palace is full of crystals, built from them, adorned with them, but not like this, a whole garden of crystals towering over Jazz’s helm just in the hall, but when he considers it, the palace is big, and the walls beside him are rough, have been for awhile, losing decoration and becoming closer to the plain stone. Maybe this is a part that’s fallen into disrepair, and the crystals grew wild. He hasn’t seen anyone in joors. Jazz makes his way between them, into the heart of the garden.
He bumps against one with the viol, cringing at the hollow reverb of the viol and hoping he hasn’t knocked it too far out of tune, but then he’s not thinking about tuning, not when the crystal sings in perfect Bflat. Singing crystals, and Jazz had heard of them, obviously, had even visited Praxus originally in the hopes of playing with them, but he’s not expecting them here. Jazz raps his knuckles gently against the crystal, leans his helm onto it to feel the vibrations. Low and deep and pure, and Jazz grins so wide it almost hurts.
He just messes around with them for awhile, figuring out which crystals make which tones, the larger the crystal the lower in octave, and then carefully figuring out how to harmonize. His chrono ticks away, but Jazz doesn’t feel tired in the least, adrenaline humming in his lines along with the music.
He plays the first part of the pieces he’s been working on and off on, just to hear it, and then again, repeating, doubling, changing to reflect the crystal echoes, dueting with himself, playing quick staccato notes to hear them burst back at himself. The perfect crisp tones of Praxus, of the approved list, drain from his music, bow roaring raw across the strings, rosin rising in clouds, faster and faster and not caring if he drops notes, the music fast and burning and wild around him and Jazz loses himself in it, in the glorious messy flaring imperfection of music you can clap to, stomp to, sing along to in clashing perfect harmony, on and on, Jazz spinning, dancing, twirling himself and the viol between the crystals, swinging his bow in wild arcs that almost hit the crystals, a round of melody and harmony and echo roaring together, Jazz’s spark pounding in tune, up and up and up and-
Jazz slams into something, not a crystal, another mech, viol tumbling from his servos to hit the ground with a screeching clang, and Jazz grabs for it, cursing, servos stumbling as the music falters and becomes discordant, clashing, a mess of painful clanging noise, and Jazz’s visor is bleary onlining again, but yeah, he definitely just crashed into a Praxian who is currently collapsed, doorwings weird, Jazz can’t focus, but clearly in pain, and Jazz grabs his shoulder, knows how to deal with sensory overload.
“Hey,” he says, “Hey, I’m sorry, sorry, so sorry about that, cmon, look at me, deep vents, just focus on me, yeah, that’s it, there we go.” The echoes are fading, and the mech is looking better, is looking up gratefully. “Yeah, here we go. You okay?” The mech meets Jazz’s optics, Jazz’s hand still clasping his shoulder, and Jazz knows, Jazz figured out why his doorwings looked all weird, Jazz scrambles back, terror stiffening his frame as the fragging Obsidian King looks at him.
“Oh frag, frag,” and now he’s cursing in front of the King after he just assaulted him, he is dead, he is so dead. Frag.
“I apologize,” the King says, voice smooth and still distressed but calming, “I startled you. I appreciate your assistance.”
Jazz giggles slightly hysterically. “Uh. It’s fine? Your majesty?”
Maybe, just maybe, he’s not about to get dragged away by the guards and thrown in the dungeons and executed.
“Are you injured?”
The king rises to his pedes gracefully, lifting Jazz’s viol and bow and holding them out to him.
“Yeah, I’m, I’m okay. Sir. Thanks. Are you too, your, uh, your majesty?” Jazz takes his viol, tucks it under his arm after a quick appraisal. No strings broken, nothing chipped, should be fine but he’ll have to spend a bit tuning.
“I am well. My doorwings need a bit to recover, though.”
“Slag, I am so sorry about that, seriously.”
The king waves it aside, crystal wings flicking, and Jazz takes the opportunity to openly ogle them. They’re beautiful. The king isn’t. Or, that sounds really bad, but the king’s always been all painted in gold and wearing crystalline garments and draping, like a piece of the scenery even when he’s giving orders, and Jazz isn’t supposed to look at him, that’s against the rules, but what Jazz has seen of him has just been him decorated, and now he’s stripped of paint, somehow smaller even though he’s still bigger than Jazz, bare and younger. Jazz didn’t realize, somehow didn’t connect that the king was Jazz’s age. It’s weird.
“You’re fine. I interrupted you.”
“Uh,” Jazz says, because he’s not supposed to disagree with a king, but he’s also probably supposed to say no to that, so now he’s just standing awkwardly. His only consolation is that the king looks equally awkward.
“What were you playing? I’ve never heard it before. I’ve never heard anything like it before.”
“Oh. It’s just somethin’ I came up with, nothin’ special. Really. Your majesty.”
“You composed that? It was beautiful.”
The king sounds impressed. He steps forward, looking at Jazz with keen interest.
“Yeah? Not really composed, just sorta improvising against the crystals.”
“Can you play it again?”
Jazz winces. He can’t say no, he knows that, but he also really doesn't want to spend the time it will take to tune his viol, in front of an impatient king, and then play this late in the night. Jazz can see the king’s doorwings shifting, noticing that, and Jazz groans inwardly. “You don’t have to.”
Yeah, sure buddy I don’t have to.
“Truly,” the king says, and there’s real sincerity in his voice. “I’m not ordering you, I disturbed your peace. You have no need to honor my request.” Jazz swallows. He didn’t get executed for literally running into him and injuring him, so maybe, just maybe.
“...no? If that’s okay, your majesty?”
The king nods firmly. “Thank you. You are one of the court performers, correct?”
Holy slag, the king recognizes him, and maybe even in a good way. Jazz nods frantically.
“Yeah. Yep. Jazz. Of Iacon. That’s my name.”
The exhaustion has caught up with him, along with adrenaline still, so he’s twitchy and tired now, waiting nervously.
“Jazz of Iacon.” The king says it slowly, like he’s committing it to memory, and Jazz tries not to think about him changing his mind the next day and casually ordering him arrested with a wave of his hand. He wouldn’t do that. Jazz thinks. He’s heard he’s fair.
“Prowl.” Just that, like Jazz doesn’t know his name, but maybe not, because Jazz knows his name is Prowl, has heard it a thousand times in his short time at court, but never like this, never with the name and mech it belongs to stripped of formalities and adornments and titles, simple and plain and more fitting to the mech than any of the glitter ever could be. Jazz is pretty sure it’s treasonous to think like that, but he’s also pretty sure it’s true.
“May I make a request of you, Jazz?”
Even if he wasn’t king, the look in Prowl’s optics is intense and Jazz shivers under it.
“Sure. I mean, uh. Sure.” He doesn’t say that technically as king Prowl can request pretty much anything he likes of him.
“Would you mind playing your song for me tomorrow? At court.”
“Uh.” Jazz stares at the floor. The king frowns.
“This is a request .” His voice is firm. “If you do not wish to, or are uncomfortable in any way doing so, you may choose not to, and I swear to you there will be no negative repercussions.”
His doorwings flare behind him, and his voice echoes faintly against the crystals, deep and certain, and Jazz shivers. Jazz gets it, gets the Obsidian King thing, understands the grandeur of it and Prowl. It’s spellbinding, looking at Prowl’s doorwings.
“That’s not it at all,” Jazz says quickly, “I want to, I do, I’ve been wanting to play my own stuff the whole time I’ve been here, but.” He stops abruptly, and the king waves him to continue. “The approved list?” He doesn’t want a Councillor hissing at him for not playing the king’s approved songs.
“The what?”
Jazz hesitates, then forges ahead. Prowl’s been cool about it, he’s probably not gonna snap now.
“Your approved list of music?”
“Mine?” Prowl looks surprised, confused. “I never created such a thing.”
Oh no. Jazz fumbles in his plating, trying to find the list and not drop his viol and bow at the same time while Prowl looks increasingly concerned.
He brandishes it with a flourish, pressing it into the king’s servos.
“See! Not making it up.” He is not going to get in trouble for this. The king looks pissed, looking at it, but Jazz is standing his ground even if he gets thrown out for it.
“This was not created by me. I don’t even like most of these. Who..?”
If Jazz snitches on the Councillor, he’s going to get in trouble. If Jazz snitches on the Councillor to the king , though…
“One of your Councillors gave copies to me and all the entertainers. Gliscor. Councillor Gliscor. He said ya made it.”
Prowl’s optics narrow, and his mouth goes hard. “Ah. I appreciate you telling me.”
“No problem,” Jazz says, entirely uncertain of where to go from here.
“Will you play for me tomorrow?”
He looks angry, is angry, but his voice is calm and polite, and Jazz nods. “Yeah- yes. Yes, I can do that, your majesty.”
Prowl smiles. “Thank you. For your music. And the information.” He nods politely at Jazz, and it’s a clear dismissal, so Jazz bows as well he can with his bow and viol, and leaves. He still isn’t entirely sure where he is, but he manages to get back well enough.
In the morning, they have a new, much greater expanded list of approved songs that is closer to preferred genres, and Gliscor is glaring and sulky, and for once blissfully quiet. The court applauds when Jazz plays his song, and Jazz could swear the king winks at him.