Chapter Text
It was hard times. And to make it worse, it was winter again, far, far too soon.
The winds were picking up, ready to scour the land clean of scraggly crystals and leave it barren. Threading through the desolation were the empty energon riverbeds. Flashy silver, stained iridescent from the fuel that left with the rising of the wind and cold. The chemical remnants of flowing fuel kept the silver river beds hot, so much so that heat shimmered the air above them.
Along those energon riverbeds was a railroad. And on that railroad were a scattering of settlements, little clusters around the stations, shrinking every year as mechs scattered and got desperate and died.
Jazz was a waiter in the little fuel depo at one of the stations. It was a good gig, steady, and during slow periods, he could bring out his lyre and sing and try to coax some life into the despondent mechs that lingered around, waiting for the train that would bring back the Prime from the underworld. When Optimus was back, the energon rivers would finally flow, and it would once again be a time of plenty.
There wasn’t much work to do since there wasn’t much fuel, and it gave Jazz plenty of time to work on his music which was good because that was how he was going to fix it. The seasons were all in disorder, all mismatched, with the winters too long and punishing and the summers too short and scalding. The riverbeds were dry so long that they were starting to crack and decay, brittle like a decomposing frame, and that was making the summertime deluges harder to handle. A balance needed to be brought back to it all.
And he was going to do it with the Song he was working on.
He was settled at his place on a barstool. The mechs around him were listless, the kind of motionless that came with trying to conserve fuel. A couple of them had their helms tilted his way as they listened to him play.
It wasn’t the Song. Jazz was stuck there. So he was settled at the bar and strumming his lyre and singing any little ditty he remembered from his childhood before his creator, a Muse, had wandered off and left him to fend for himself.
It was something to pass the time. And then the door swung open, and a new mech scurried in. Jazz lazily glanced in their direction, visor drawn by the noise and flurry of movement, and then he stilled.
The new mech wore a tattered cloak. He was quick to claim a corner, and he curled the edges of the fabric around him. He unsubspaced a small heater, and started to fiddle with it. Jazz heard him curse quietly.
The new mech was very attractive. Jazz shouldn’t being staring like this, but he couldn’t get himself to pull away from admiring the sharp cut of the new mech’s cheek, the icy blue of his optics, the bright splash of red that was his chevron. His harsh scowl only added to the allure.
“You gonna talk to him?”
Jazz startled then huffed out a laugh. The stool next to him had been empty then suddenly it wasn’t. Bumblebee, messenger of the gods, patron of travelers, and Jazz’s friend, had popped in.
“Think so,” Jazz replied. Even in the tattered cloak, the new mech cut a fine figure, and something in Jazz was aching to talk to him.
“It’s not gonna go well,” Bumblebee advised. “I know this one. He’s not gonna go for it.”
“Bee, please,” Jazz said. “You know me. Ain’t nobody I can’t charm.”
Bee snorted. “Go ahead then lover boy,” and when Jazz got up to do just that, he heard Bee mutter, “I’m going to enjoy this.”
Prowl hated this stupid little thing, but he needed it. He had such high fuel requirements. But by outsourcing his heating needs to this heater and his cloak, he could delegate more fuel to his processor. The heater could run on slop too unrefined for mechs. In theory.
In reality, the piece of slag barely worked.
He got the little heater to run, and his joints loosened and eased with the little cloud of heat it was producing. Then he saw a flash of red, silver, black, and that sneering smile, and Starscream, leader of the Fates, knocked the heater, turning it off again, and then he vanished. Prowl gritted his denta.
One of these days, he was going to lose his temper at the Fates, and face all the consequences that came with doing that. Today though, he just tried again.
He got the little heater running again and huddled around it. When he was warm, he’d see if this little train station had any fuel for him. If not, he’d have to go foraging again. If he had to go forgoing again, he needed his servos dethawed.
He sighed in relief as the heat began to penetrate. He did not have many small joys in his life, but the slow thaw of his frame after a plunge through the blistering winter was very much one of them.
So of course his small joy was interrupted by a nuisance.
He heard the shifting of pedes and looked up.
“Come home with me?” the (admittably handsome) mech asked, hopeful, and Prowl stared, flabbergasted.
Jazz was better than this. He was!
He had the reputation as a charmer for reason. He knew the song and dance. He liked mechs, liked it all.
But when he met those optics, all that went flying out the window, and he blurted out the first thing on his processor, the thing he wanted from this mech, the bald faced, far too intense truth. And then he had to suppress a cringe as the mech’s face twisted in confusion. Behind him, Bee laughed.
It was, admit-ably, not his best line. Was in fact one of his worst. But it was one of those lines where it was going to work if he fully committed to it. He fidgeting, clutching his lyre, and forced himself to relax.
“I- who are you?” the mech asked.
Well, in for a penny in for a pound.
“The mech who’s going to bond to you,” Jazz said, and it came out musical, but he hadn’t intended that. It just came out like a song, and it had a touch of that reverberation, the one he got when he was working on the Song and he was on the right track, and as embarrassing (too earnest, too forward, too real in a way that Jazz had never felt before) as this whole interaction had been so far, Jazz felt a strut deep sense of rightness. “I’m Jazz.”
“Prowl,” the mech responded, and Jazz thought it was a good name, one that suited him. “Are you… are you always like this?”
“Nah,” Jazz said. “But hey, it’s not every day I met someone like you.”
“Someone like me,” Prowl repeated, dubious. “You- This is the first time we have spoken. You don’t know me. This is absurd.”
“I know you’re strong,” Jazz said. He saw the cloak, painstakingly maintained, and the little heater. There were the little scuffs of soil and scratches in his paint that told him that this was someone who able and willing to go out into the plains. Mechs didn’t do that unless they knew what they were doing and knew they could get a real benefit from it. “Resourceful. A real survivor. I know you’re handsome and at least willing to tolerate a little nonsense from a smitten musician like me. And I know that I wanna know a whole lot more about you.”
That got Jazz a little flicker of a doorwing, a slight widening of optics, and then his gaze dropped away from Jazz.
“Of course you’re a musician,” Prowl muttered, so low that Jazz wasn’t sure he was supposed to hear it. “Who else would propose to a stranger like this.”
His gaze snapped back to Jazz’s.
“Conjunxing,” he said, louder, intentional.
Jazz felt his smile curl up a little more.
Prowl looked around at the drab, rundown train station. “This hardly seems the place for it,” he said, and it was mocking, a little condescending, but it didn’t cover the playful edge in his voice, the brightness in those shiny, blue optics. “Who will buy the crest ornaments? Times being what they are. ”
Jazz leaned in. “Oh you know.” He idly plucked a string on his lyre. “Think I’m just gonna have to sing a song so sweet that the river beds will break their banks for me, reveal all their shiny precious metals, and fashion a crest ornament worthy enough for you.”
“What about a proper conjunxing feast? Who will be responsible for that?.”
“I’ll sing my song. And all the crystals are gonna sing along. They’ll crack open and reveal all the energon we could possibly need, and that will be our feast.”
Prowl’s mouth twitched.
“And the conjunxing berth?”
“Well I have that in the back room,” Jazz admitted, and Prowl snorted. Then he quickly smothered his smile, but Jazz saw it, and it was beautiful.
“Actually,” Jazz shifted. He was having a hard time remembering that there were others in the room. They were very close together, in a bubble of their own. Intimate enough for another confession. “It’s how I’m gonna fix it.”
“Fix what?”
“What’s wrong with the seasons.”
“With a song?” Prowl was deadpan, unconvinced, like he didn’t believe that this wasn’t a continuation of their little game.
“Yes.”
“Sing it then.”
“It’s not finished yet.”
But he was going to lose Prowl if he did not comply. Prowl’s faceplate was a mask of skepticism and intrigue. He was willing to play along with Jazz, but Jazz did not want to risk him turning away, bored with the game, or worse, still doubtful on what Jazz was saying. He meant it all.
He held his lyre properly. And then he started to sing.
He felt it. That tug deep inside him. It reminded him of his creator. It reminded him of when he saw Bee use his power. When Optimus called the energon back into the river. A deep, fundamental, wild magic, gift and provenance of the gods. His voice reverberated, buoyed up with that strange, wonderful, terrible power. It filled the room, echoed in his struts. Mechs were looking at him, but he only had optics for one.
He stopped playing, letting his voice carrying the melody. Something bright and warm was folded in on itself in his palm, and when he was done, there was a little crystal settled in his servo. He offered it to Prowl.
Prowl was wide opticked. There was no more playful, annoyed tolerance. He took the crystal gently, admiring it.
“How did you…”
“I’m not sure,” Jazz admitted. “But it’s not done yet.”
“But it could- it made this, and-”
“When it’s done, it’s gonna work, spring will come again and we’ll always have energon to drink, and good times and -” he stopped. There was a lot he wanted. He had big dreams for the future, ways in which it could be much better the dismal prospects of the present.
Beyond all his thoughts of spring and times of plenty, he was stuck on the thought that all that would be so much nicer if he had this mech with him.
Prowl was still staring at the crystal. “Those are some big promises.”
“It’ll work.”
Finally, Prowl pulled his gaze away from the crystal so that he could look at Jazz, something swirling in those icy blue optics. “I believe you should finish that song then.”
Prowl did not conjunx the handsome stranger because he was not an idiot. He was not going to conjunx someone he just met. No matter how handsome they were. Or talented.
But he stayed. While Jazz worked, what little work there was for him, Prowl alternated between staring at him and staring at the crystal. It was not fuel, but this particular crystal tended to mark decent energon deposits, and it felt like a promise. Despite the absurdity, a part of Prowl believed or at least wanted to believe in what Jazz had told him.
It was, after all this time, something that had a chance of fixing things. Prowl had spent vorns and vorns and vorns trying to organize mechs, trying to facilitate the creation of better energon storage, trying to keep mechs disciplined in the face of the winter famine, but it never worked. It broke down, the energon went bad, mechs got greedy, mechs got scared and scattered. He’d stopped trying when he noticed just how often the Trine of Fates were there to sabotage his efforts. Then he switched to just focusing on himself.
But that, all his previous efforts, that was reactive. Jazz might be able to actually fix the problem at its core. That was worth sticking around for. That and nothing else.
He did not remotely understand why Jazz had flirted with him in such an outrageous manner. It did not make any sense. Prowl should listen to his own logic, admit to himself that it was most likely a cruel prank, but instead, he found himself believing that it was genuine.
Not that it mattered. Prowl was not a fool and getting involved with that musician was going to be foolish. So he would not do that. He had lived long enough and learned his lesson on that it was best to rely only on himself.
But that did not mean that he was opposed to spending time with Jazz. That was something completely different, totally innocent of any complications. He found that Jazz was an entertaining conversational partner, talented with his servos, and capable of making beauty, and all of that was appreciated during this time of waiting.
During a particularly invigorating conversation, when they were talking, side by side, pressed together with an amount of (warm and delightful) contact that surprised Prowl as much as it contented him, he saw a flash of Thunderscracker? Skywarp? pointing at him and laughing.
Then.
The distant whistle of a train. At this, everyone, who had been listless and starving, scrabbled up. The train was finally coming. It was very late, but it was finally here.
This train was something special, elegant and decorated with platinum filigree so it gleamed and glittered and seemed to glow like moonlight. A transport so beautiful it could not have been created by mortal hands.
It stopped at their little station. It was stopping at every station at once. Prowl had seen this train at the start of every summer, no matter where he was, and now Prowl waited, held in tight anticipation like everyone else. The doors hissed open.
And Optimus Prime stepped back into the land of mortals.
As was tradition, everyone got fantastically, amazingly blazed out of their minds. They were ready to gorge themselves after so long scrimping.
It was just nice to be warm. It always startled Prowl, just how fast the land rejuvenated. No more howling winter winds, bitter acid rains, thunderous super cells that blacked out the sky. It was warm, the energon rivers were flowing again, crystals glowing, and Prowl had enough to eat.
It was easy to be outside, not a test of survival. Prowl didn’t know how it had happened but he laying on a blanket, cozying up to Jazz without any excuse of cold to justify it. Their helms were touching as they stared up at the stars.
Prowl was hazy from high-grade. They were talking about… constellations, ones they knew, ones they were making up on the spot, ridiculous things, the type only sloshed processors like theirs could find funny.
It was good. And in a small moment of clarity, he realized that he was in very deep trouble.
He did not cave. Optimus was there, fussing over mechs, giving everyone energon, doing his best to raise their spirits, and Jazz was right there with him, more than ready to celebrate and party and bring joy when joy had been so scarce for so long.
When he watched Jazz dance, he did not cave. When they woke up tangled together underneath a table, helms pounding from the previous night’s revelry, he did not cave. When Jazz brought him his favorite mineral blend, the product of weeks of effort and scrounging and trading on his end, Prowl did not cave. When Jazz went on impassioned speech on what he thought the future could be, something beautiful, and even though his optimism made Prowl want to roll his optics, a part of him could not help but be drawn into what Jazz was saying. But even then, Prowl did not cave.
But one morning, when their need for summer was not quite so sharp and desperate, when they were cleaning the station, he watched Jazz idly start the dishes, cleaning the cubes so they would be ready for the next party. Prowl, holding a broom and attempting to sweep, was not moving, was just staring at the handsome line of Jazz’s faceplate, the way he smiled slightly as he hummed something low and sweet, his easy, confident motion as he made something as basic as cleaning look beautiful.
The broom snapped in Prowl’s servos.
“Fine,” he said, wretchedly. He marched up to Jazz, who had started and turned to look at Prowl quizzically, and even that goofy look was enough to send affection bubbling through his spark. “You win.”
And he reached for Jazz’s cheeks, pulling him in a long and desperate kiss.
Jazz was in a great mood.
He had enjoyed the start of summer, but that was nothing compared to how he felt now. Because now his friendship with Prowl had blossomed into something romantic, and all the impulses he had kept locked up could be released.
He could not stopping touching Prowl. It was servos caressing his plating, placing kisses against his lips, cheek, helm, grabbing his tiny waist, holding his servo, hugging him constantly. The magnets in his servos were drawn to Prowl, and he did not care to resist it.
Prowl, for all that he blustered about being annoyed that he had fallen for Jazz in return, leaned into every touch, and Jazz had felt his spark spin and spin and spin, so utterly content to have his affection returned. The summer stretched on, full of warm nights cuddled under the stars, and dancing and laughter and drink and kissing.
Just as he thought that this slice of a perfect life was going to last forever, the train came again.
This time, instead of anticipation, there was only dread.
“It’s too soon,” Jazz said, and Prowl was holding his servo, tight. “He came for him too soon. We didn’t-”
The train came to a stop, and Megatronus, lord of the underworld, stepped out.
Optimus Prime, far from his affability and general kind demeanor, looked utterly furious. The air was charged with the power of gods. “You’re early,” the Prime spat, full of venom. His fists were clenched.
The lord of the underworld grinned, something full of teeth. “I missed ya,” he rumbled in return.
And with that, the Prime was gone. And he took summer with him.
The liveliness bled out of the land. The energon river beds dried and cracked. It immediately got cold and bitter. Mechs retreated to the station, and Jazz was quick to bring Prowl a blanket. Together, they huddled, somber.
He had to finish the song. He had too. Everything was all wrong. Winter shouldn’t be so long and punishing. He needed to write his song and make it so that the lord of the underworld would no longer stifle his consort.
He could feel Prowl starting to shiver and cuddled closer, trying to help. Prowl had high fuel requirements, and he prioritized his processor over frame function. So he got cold and stiff very easily. He had been fine in summer, but a quiet misery was settling over him. They both knew that winter was once again, going to drag on. The Prime would be late.
Prowl hugged him, burying his face in Jazz’s neck to warm his faceplate. Jazz had every incentive to finish the Song as quickly as he could.
He started immediately, buckling down. His job was neglected. He dug into his music. He dug into the old stories. His creator and then later his friend, Bumblebee, had told him stories of the gods.
The winter stretched. He only surfaced enough from his focus to eat whatever Prowl put in front of him. He felt Prowl settle with him, felt him kiss Jazz’s helm or murmur words of encouragement, and so Jazz thought and worked and tried to pin the magic and power of the gods into a tune.
Megatronus and Optimus Prime. Their relationship dictated the seasons. Half the year, the Prime spent in the land of mortals, the other half with his consort in the underworld.
He knew the Song was not his entirely original creation. Bee was familiar with it. He knew it was associated with the king of the underworld and his consort. He knew they were why the seasons were all wrong, why the wind was so strong, why the times were so hard.
Megatronus with his tight grip on the Prime, dragging him to the underworld while ignoring the Prime’s rage. The Prime, so concerned about the mortals, missing the surface so much, that he did not see the emotional chasm between him and his consort.
The gods had forgotten the song of their love, but Jazz had found it, or at least most of it. He could return it to them, and then everything would be fixed.
He felt the progress. The Song was a molten heat in his throat at he sang, and it was enough for him to justify a break. He pulled himself and looked around.
The station was a bit of a mess. The windows had been barricaded, but he could see where parts of the building had snapped off. In the gaps, he saw the build up of acid snow. Must have been a storm, and it was little embarrassing that he hadn’t even noticed.
He didn’t see Prowl, but he did see Bumblebee, settled at the bar. There was a strange expression on his face.
“Hey Bee,” Jazz said, joining him. “Have you seen Prowl anywhere?”
Bee’s mouth wavered. “You were pretty locked in there.”
“Yeah!” Jazz said, grinning. “Can you feel it? I swear I almost got it.”
“You weren’t hearing anything anyone said to you,” Bee said. Jazz’s smiled faltered.
“Yeah, but you know me. It happens sometimes. Where’s Prowl?”
Bee didn’t anything.
Jazz’s smile was gone. “Bee. Where’s Prowl?”
It felt strange to stay.
Prowl had been on the move for so long, There were other places that he had tried to stay, but then things broke down, mechs panicked, and it had always been safer for him to move.
But he was staying. Because of Jazz. Because he trusted Jazz, and despite how illogical it was, he believed in Jazz. It went against everything he was, everything he learned, but he believed in Jazz and his vision of the future. And that made it impossible to leave.
He needed to stay and be with Jazz.
Winter was still hard. There was not enough fuel. Energon did not keep well. Storing it in large amounts increased the risk of spoilage. And the harsh, winter storms ravaged their storage facilities anyway. He had seen Starscream loosen a bolt right before a storage facility caved in on itself.
So he was still hungry, and he was still cold. But he had Jazz, and that kept the worst of the misery at bay. It was nice, having someone to cuddle, someone to rub heat back into his frozen joints.
But Jazz was busy. He was working on his Song, and Prowl could hardly distract him from that, not when that was the only thing that could actually fix the messed up seasons.
That was good for the future. But in the present, they needed to eat.
Prowl eyed their rations then looked outside to check the weather. There was going to be a big storm, and while they had enough for a little while, if this storm was as bad as mechs were saying that it was going to be, then they needed more.
Prowl knew how to forage. He was good with crystals, and knew how to find natural deposits that lingered, even after the Prime left.
He checked the weather. He checked the conditions. There was enough time for a small foraging expedition. He could be back long before the storm hit.
So he went to Jazz, hunched over his lyre.
“Jazz,” he said. Jazz did not respond. His visor was locked on his fingers. He was mumbling under his breath, playing a series of chords, and Prowl did not want to interrupt.
“We need more fuel.”
Jazz did not react. Prowl sighed, but it was still fond. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Jazz’s helm. “I will try to get us some more. I will be back soon. It’s going to storm.”
No response. Prowl nuzzled his helm before moving away. When he went to leave the room, he turned. Jazz still did not acknowledge him, but Prowl still waved, and then went to gather up his things. There wasn’t much to time, and he needed to be quick.
“Bee,” Jazz pleaded. “Where’s Prowl?”
Prowl’s foraging had gone well. His satchel was filling up. He kept an eye on the sky, on the bulging clouds. They were dark and the wind was stirring, but he had enough to make it home before it broke.
He finished emptying this last energy deposit. He wanted more, but as the sky started to rumbled, he decided that it was time to turn around.
The wind picked up. A flurry of acid snow went past his optics. He picked up his pace, and tried to ignore the worry gnawing at his spark.
And then, the sky erupted.
What had been a flurry, became a deluge. The temperature plunged, and Prowl’s joints seized. He ignored it, only focused on not losing his way. He was not far. So long as he didn’t panic, so long as he kept his bearing, he would be alright.
He forced his frame forward, holding tight to his cloak. He focused on the next step, even as the acid bit into what little exposed plating he had. The cloak was enough to keep him moving. It was not enough to keep him comfortable
He had had been foolish. He should have turned around sooner, but beating himself over past foolishness was not going to keep him alive now. He would make it back to the train station, and this would just be yet another close call. It was not as if something similar had not happened to him before.
But then. In the swirling acid snow, he saw Starscream, leader of the Fates, and his fuel tank seized. He started to run.
“No, no,” Prowl muttered through half frozen lips. Something grabbed his cloak. It was not the wind. It was something physical and cruel, and Prowl held on tight, but he was not stronger than fate. The cloak was ripped over. Starscream tossed it to the wind, and Prowl watched in despair as the cloak was ferried away, consumed by the storm.
Starscream gave him a mocking wave then vanished, and Prowl gritted his teeth in rage. His time to make it home had halved. He ran. The acid snow was building up around his pedes, slowing his frantic pace.
“Stop!” Prowl shouted as servos landed between his doorwings and pushed. He fell face first into the snow. It was so cold. His joints were stiffening.
If he stayed here, he would die. He scrambled up, servo absentmindedly scraping at the ice building up in his seams. His joints shrieked as he forced himself to move.
In his audibles, he heard mocking laughter, and he was full of hate for the Fates. He kept moving, and made it far enough that he thought that they had had their fun and would stop.
Then one of the Fates was beside him, leg outstretched to trip him. All he could hear was the howling of the wind and the laughter, and his spark was spinning so fast, and so, so afraid.
It was harder to force his frame up. But he had to. He wanted to live. He would not run, but he could stumble forward. It was so cold that it burned. His engine was hiccuping. His vision was blurry, though he did not know if that was because his optics were failing or because of the all encompassing snow whirling around him.
Another shove. Prowl could not force his frame all the way up, but he could crawl. So he did. The cold was making him brittle. It hurt. The cold icy pinpricks ate away at any semblance of feeling he had. He forced a stiff hand forward, clawing at the ground and pulling himself forward.
He needed help. He was so cold. He was not going to get out of here by himself.
But he was no longer alone. He had Jazz.
“Ja-” Prowl coughed hard. His shuddering was slowing down, and he had just enough cognitive function left to realize how bad that was. “Jazz!”
He forced his helm up, and his spark leapt at the site of approaching pedes. But what was one set of pedes turned into three pairs. It was not Jazz coming to save him, it was the Fates. They were not leaving this time, no longer content to briefly hassle him before going on their way.
“It won’t be long now, Prowl!” Starscream said. He kicked a nearby crystal and a deluge of snow fell on Prowl.
“No- no!” He could still make it out of this. It was so cold. He could- He was going to-
“Jazz!” he called out, and it was so quiet even he could barely hear it. “Jazz!”
“Lover boy isn’t here,” Starscream crooned. “But don’t be worried. It would be long now.”
Prowl could barely move. He tried, but his frame was no longer obeying his command. He tried, but he was tired and he was cold and he hurt.
He stared ahead, begging for a miracle, and met the bright red optics of the lord of the underworld instead.