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When they were dancing, Prowl thought they looked as beautiful as the art Sunstreaker had made before the war. When they weren’t fighting or being so horribly, accidentally hurtful to each other, they were possibly the most wonderful thing the tactician had ever seen. Bluestreak was radiant when he was happy and Sunstreaker was lighter, unburdened by the weights the war had dropped on his shoulders. In their own way, his sparkling and the yellow Twin were as perfectly matched for each other as he and Jazz—if they could just manage to move past their differing opinions on the war.
Even if Bluestreak didn’t realize it, Prowl could see the love he held for Sunstreaker as clearly as if it had been sketched out on a datapad.
He pulled himself out of his musings when he felt a familiar weight settle around his waist. He gave Jazz a smile and returned the gesture.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” the saboteur asked.
“Indeed. I wish they could be so happy together all the time.”
“Bluestreak deserves to be happy.”
Prowl sighed. “We all deserve to be happy after so long.”