[Consortium] Blabbermouth
Nov. 22nd, 2021 07:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: This piece takes place the furthest in the future from other stories in the series, and contains spoilers about some of the relationships further on in the series.
Title: Blabbermouth
Series: The Prime’s Consorts
Characters: Sideswipe/Sunstreaker/Bluestreak, Original Character(s)
Rating: K+
Description: While attending one of Optimus’ political parties, Bluestreak spies a face from his past that Sideswipe and Sunstreaker feel deserves more than a few choice words. Spire won’t know what hit him.
If Sideswipe hadn’t been paying so much attention to Bluestreak’s frame language, he might have missed the subtle stiffening of Blue’s armor, or the way his sensory wings shifted closer to his back. Sideswipe knows it isn’t because of the crowd or the music. This isn’t the first time he and Blue have attended one of these functions at Sunstreaker’s side.
It has to be something else.
Sideswipe glances through the crowd, matching designations to faces included in the dossier Prowl handed out before they all arrived at this shindig. Prowl insists they be informed of the major players for every political function they have to attend, especially the ones where Optimus is the specific mech-of-the-hour.
Even the Consort-adjacent folks.
It’s really not fair that Wheeljack gets to skip these things. But then, he and Starscream are still on the side of keeping things discreet, and having the two of them making moon optics at each other is pretty much the opposite of that.
Sideswipe can’t see any faces that might be the sort to cause trouble, so he follows Bluestreak’s line of sight instead. Blue keeps sneaking glances at one mech who is on the fringes of the crowd, his white and grey armor visibly polished, and the arched sensory panels identifying him as Praxus-sparked.
Hmm.
Sideswipe curses internally. He should have realized that being in Praxus for Optimus’ first major political meet-and-greet would have some kind of effect on both Prowl and Bluestreak. Prowl seems to be fine, but he’s also within arm’s reach of Optimus, and has a poker-face made of marble. Bluestreak, by contrast, wears his spark on his chassis.
Sideswipe taps Sunstreaker across the bond, and when his twin looks up, Sideswipe tilts his head toward Bluestreak. He raises his orbital ridges pointedly. Sunstreaker’s optics narrow, but he immediately turns and gives Bluestreak a closer look.
Sunny’s confusion morphs into realization, the blank mask of indifference softening with worry. He nods, takes Bluestreak’s elbow, and quietly murmurs something that encourages Bluestreak to come with them to the edge of the crowd where a tall, ornate column provides the perfect cover for a semi-private conversation.
“What am I missing?” Bluestreak asks, vocals pitched low. He tries to look, but Sunstreaker and Sideswipe have him boxed in, hidden from the crowd of sycophants and political snobs.
“That Praxian in white and grey,” Sideswipe starts, leaning out from behind the column at the perfect angle which allows him to see the stranger, but keeps Bluestreak in his peripheral vision. “You keep staring at him. Who is he?”
Bluestreak presses his lips together, shoulders squaring, but it’s not enough to hide the brief flash of panic in his field. “He doesn’t matter. He’s not on Prowl’s list.”
“Because he’s not important to Optimus.” Sunstreaker’s got the bossy tone Sideswipe doesn’t. It softens as he takes Bluestreak’s arm and gives it a gentle squeeze. “You know him. Don’t you?”
Bluestreak squirms.
Sideswipe pushes his field against their partner’s, radiating affection and warmth in hope it’ll be a comfort. “Is he dangerous? Should we be warning the others?” He considers the protocol Prowl handed out.
He’s to notify Prowl first, and then Chromia, and together, they would tell Sideswipe what to do next. He’s supposed to let one of Chromia’s people handle it, but Sideswipe’s no soft-plate. He can protect himself, Sunstreaker, and Bluestreak if need be.
“No, it’s not like that.” Bluestreak sighs, his sensory panels drifting downward, his armor slicking tighter to his protoform. “Spire’s just some aft I used to go to school with. He kind of made my life miserable after Prowl got nominated to be Consort.”
Sunstreaker’s engine thrums. “Miserable how?” He inches out from their meager cover, opposite from Sideswipe, and glares hotly in the mech’s direction.
“Easy, Sunny. He’s just a bully. No need to cause an incident.” Bluestreak brushes a kiss over Sunstreaker’s cheek, daring to soothe ruffled armor. “I’m fine, I promise. I just didn’t expect to see him here. Though I really should have.”
“Why?” Sideswipe leans against the column. He folds his arms as he calculates. Spire looks like the kind of mech Sideswipe hates -- rich and snobby and chock full of self-importance.
Bluestreak scowls, his optics darkening to a stormy blue. “His caretaker, Taper, is on the city council. He’s one of the six city-state representatives, but you’d think he runs Praxus by the way he talks about himself.”
“Hmm,” Sunstreaker says.
“Lucky for us he’s here then.” Sideswipe grins. Taper’s a designation he recognizes. It’s on Prowl’s dossier, and yeah, technically, Taper is a bigwig in Praxus. But he’s not so important Sideswipe’s afraid of rattling the cage.
Bluestreak draws himself up straight, sensory panels flicking out. “No.”
Sideswipe looks at Sunstreaker, who looks right back at him, but it’s Sideswipe who says, “Yes.”
“We can’t cause an incident here!” Bluestreak hisses, grabbing both of their elbows firmly, as if they’re about to go marching back into the fray and plant a pair of blows on Spire’s too-large chin.
“I just wanna talk to him,” Sideswipe says.
“I know better than to embarrass Prime,” Sunstreaker adds with a sniff.
Bluestreak huffs. He wavers, a cacophony of emotions in his field, jaw set as he catches sight of Spire, and his grip loosens.
“Only one of you then,” he says. “But don’t cause a scene, or make Optimus look bad, or make Prowl mad at me.”
Sideswipe slides his arm free and takes Bluestreak’s hand in his, bending over to feather a kiss across Bluestreak’s knuckles. “Blue, sweetspark, the prettiest Praxian I know, have I ever done any of the aforementioned things?”
“The last? Quite frequently.” Bluestreak snorts.
“Fair,” Sideswipe concedes.
“I’ll stay.” Sunstreaker curves his arm around Bluestreak’s waist, tucking Bluestreak close to his side. “Come on. Prowl’s looking for us.”
Sideswipe glances at the clump of Prime and Consorts further into the ballroom, and sure enough, Prowl has climbed a small dais, and he’s scanning the gathered crowd with a frown. Two seconds later, Sideswipe’s comm pings, and judging by the look on Bluestreak’s and Sunstreaker’s faces -- theirs has, too.
“No collateral damage. Promise,” Sideswipe says with a wink and another chaste kiss.
He dives into the crowd before Bluestreak can protest any further.
Sunstreaker has Very Important Duties as a Consort, and it’s best Bluestreak is as far from this as possible. Which means Sideswipe is relatively free to introduce himself and take matters into his own hands.
Spire is easy to find, but Sideswipe doesn’t head directly for him. He meanders in the mech’s direction, pausing to admire some art, to weave in and out of a few empty conversations, until he edges into Spire’s periphery. How he plays this depends on how much attention Spire’s been paying to Optimus Prime and his Consorts and their retinue.
Spire’s perusing one of the tables laden with treats when Sideswipe sidles up next to him, plate in hand, idly filling it with a few of the delicacies. He makes a face over the selection, though he is sure all of them are absolutely delicious.
“I know,” Spire says with a sad little sigh. “The selection this year is paltry compared to what the last Prime offered. Optimus Prime hasn’t the experience of his predecessor.”
“He hasn’t had the title long,” Sideswipe agrees, putting a touch of lofty commentary into his tone.
Spire snorts. “Long enough to completely bollox it, if you ask me.” He glances at Sideswipe, does something of a double take, and then they’re at the end of the table, and Spire pauses, turning to face Sideswipe. “The name’s Spire. And you are…?”
“Sideswipe.” He pops a treat into his mouth, smiling around the rust dust now dotting his lips. “I’m a fan of fancy parties. Who could resist all the free food?”
Though ‘party’ isn’t quite an apt term. This soiree is meant for Optimus to introduce himself to the Praxian leaders, along with allowing them to meet his Consorts. He’s had to attend one in every major city-state in Cybertron since his ascension. When it comes to occasions of high importance, this particular engagement was top of the list for who’s-who.
Spire tips his head back and laughs, and Sideswipe inwardly cringes. It sounds so fake. “Party is an apt way to describe it,” he says. “Everyone knows the Prime is just here to show off his Consorts. Especially his Praxian one.”
Sideswipe sidles up beside Spire and follows his gaze to where Prowl is visible on the dais, close enough to Optimus to make no mistake of their presumed intimacy. “If I had ten pretty sparkmates, I’d probably want to show them off, too.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a bit like being proud of your buymechs, isn’t it?” Spire asks, lowering his vocals so they aren’t overheard, but everything about the way he looks at Sideswipe suggests he’s testing the oil.
Hah. He must not be that important or smart if he doesn’t recognize Sideswipe for Sunstreaker’s twin. It’s not like it’s a secret.
Sideswipe makes a non-committal noise. “What do you mean?”
Spire shrugs and a smirk curves the corner of his lips. “From what I know about Prowl, he’s good on his knees.” Spire’s quiet snicker builds a gentle rage in Sideswipe’s belly. “I’d bet all the creds in my account it’s the same for all of them.”
Thank Primus Sunstreaker isn’t here right now.
“Is that right?” Sideswipe nonchalantly pops another one of the goodies into his mouth.
Spire gnaws on something chewy and sparkly, his gaze focused on Prowl. “Everyone knows he was only nominated because he’s used to bending over for whoever will get him higher up the ladder.” He snorts, and his sensory panels arch high -- arrogantly attempting to show them off. “That brother of his isn’t much different.”
“Brother?” Sideswipe echoes. He performs a system check to soften the rage, folding it into a tight datapacket that he’ll unpack later -- preferably in the practice arena or the target range.
Spire leans in toward Sideswipe, conspiratorial, grinning. He nods his head in Bluestreak’s direction, and he’s too close for Sideswipe not to catch the thinnest trickle of envy-slash-loathing in Spire’s field. “Got himself in Prime’s good graces since his brother’s such a good spikesucker. Now he’s found himself a Consort to seal the deal.”
Bluestreak, standing next to Sunstreaker, is all radiant smiles, one of Sunstreaker’s arms still hooked around his waist. They’re both beautiful and bright, and Sideswipe wants nothing more than to walk up there and sweep them both off their feet. He wants to kiss them.
And Spire is worth less than the grit stuck to the bottom of their feet.
“I know Optimus Prime allows his Consorts to have other romantic partners,” Sideswipe says. “One of them even has a conjunx.”
Spire scratches his cheek. “I guess? I don’t really pay attention to the rest. I’m Praxian after all.” He twitches his sensory panels pointedly, and Sideswipe pretends to admire their less-than-immaculate polish.
Sunny would’ve done a better job. There’s a streak through the gray, uneven lines.
“You think they should have nominated someone else?” Sideswipe asks, trying to sound genuinely curious instead of interrogating. Not that it’s hard. Spire is an easy mark.
“I think they could have done a lot better than Prowl,” Spire says with a barely hidden scowl. “And Bluestreak certainly isn’t good enough for a Consort.”
Sideswipe rolls a goodie around his fingers, but doesn’t eat it. “Why not?”
“I went to school with him, you know,” Spire says, with the kind of arrogant set to his shoulders that makes Sideswipe want to hit him. “He was as useless then as he is now, always relying on his brother’s influence to get anywhere. Looks like he hasn’t changed one bit.”
“Mmm,” says Sideswipe.
Not that Spire needs any encouragement.
Spire could also stand to make up his damn mind. Does he think the Consort position is worthless or is he jealous he wasn’t picked for it? Or is one because of the other?
Probably that last bit.
“Maybe that’s part of it,” Spire says with a huff. “Prowl brings in his brother to entice the Prime to listen to him. Maybe they frag the Prime together. What do you think?”
Sideswipe cycles a ventilation and says, carefully, “You really think Prowl would use his kin like that?”
If he doesn’t end this soon, he’s not going to be able to keep his promise to Bluestreak. He’s going to rip Spire apart, and then it’ll be an Incident.
He quietly pings Sunstreaker instead.
Spire shrugs and pops another candy into his mouth, turning away from staring hatefully at Bluestreak to throw Sideswipe a grin. “Who knows? I don’t put anything past either of them.” He leans in now, a swagger in the way he leers at Sideswipe. “As for me, I actually have taste.”
“You wouldn’t be talking about me, would you?” Sideswipe asks, optical ridges drawn upward in curiosity. He tries to cant himself in a way that would be enticing, but accidentally so.
Spire’s glossa flicks across his lips. “Maybe I am,” he drawls. “What brings you here anyway? Politics? Business? Private security maybe?”
“He’s with me.”
Always one with the dramatic timing, that’s Sunstreaker. Sideswipe doesn’t bother to hide his grin as he waves at Sunstreaker behind Spire and says, “Sunny! There you are! I thought I’d lost you in the crowd, bro.”
He sashays past Spire who’s looking at them both now, frame stiff, armor tight, panels in a high arch. He looks pale, or well, paler since his face is already a ghastly white. Too many finishing layers which is a cheap, if effective, method of hiding one’s facial emotions.
“I turned around and you were gone,” Sunstreaker says, but his gaze is a burning thing of hatred, fire behind his optics as he stares at Spire. “Who’s your friend?”
“This is Spire,” Sideswipe purrs as he locks his arm around Sunstreaker’s and snuggles against his twin’s side. “He was just telling me all about Prowl and Bluestreak and their many, many talents. He went to school with Bluestreak. Did you know that?”
Sunstreaker lifts his chin, and Sideswipe loves him so much in that moment because no one does a threat-of-death-and-dismemberment stare like Sunny does. “Bluestreak might have mentioned him once or twice.”
“Now that I think about it, you’re right.” Sideswipe pretends to gasp. “How lucky is this? We finally got to say hello to one of Bluestreak’s classmates.” He pats Sunstreaker on the chassis. “Spire, I’d like you to meet my spark-twin, Sunstreaker.”
Spire’s mouth opens, closes, opens again. “Your… spark-twin,” he echoes, and there’s a faintness in his tone to match the dull clatter of his ventilations, stalling and starting up again.
“Oh, did I forget to mention that?” Sideswipe asks. “Silly me.” He taps his chin. “I kind of thought it was common knowledge, but I guess you didn’t get the memo.”
“Spire,” Sunstreaker says, like he’s tasting the designation and finding it sour on his glossa. “Taper is your caretaker, isn’t he?”
A thin whine ekes out of Spire’s chassis. “He is.”
“Taper,” Sideswipe echoes and snaps his fingers as if he’s suddenly had an epiphany. Any mech with half a processor could see it for the act it is, though he won’t give Spire that much credit. “Isn’t he the mech Optimus has a private audience with tonight?”
“Sounds about right,” Sunstreaker says. “It’s right after Optimus’ speech, though Prowl would know better. He’s the one who makes the schedule.”
Sideswipe taps his chin thoughtfully. “Now that I think about it, I distinctly remember Prowl mentioning the designation Taper. What a small world.”
“Yes.” Sunstreaker’s tone lacks the cheerful hyperbole of Sideswipe’s, and he looks down his nasal ridge at Spire, despite Spire being taller than both of them. “Small world, small party, small social circles.”
“You should have said so sooner!” Sideswipe says with a bigger grin and a friendly patto Spire’s shoulder that is a shade too gentle to leave a mark, but only just. “I can’t wait to tell Optimus. He’ll be thrilled.”
Spire shrinks into himself, optics bleaching of color.
Sunstreaker hums, but it sounds more like the deep rumble of an angry engine. “He says we need more friends.”
“Yep. Sure did.” Sideswipe plants his hands on his hips and leans forward, orbital ridges raised, everything in his posture screaming friendliness to anyone who might be watching.
He’d promised Bluestreak after all.
“What do you think, Spire? Do you think your caretaker would be happy if you made friends with us?” Sideswipe asks.
Spire makes a strangled noise like he’s having trouble activating his vocalizer, despite how much he’d dominated the conversation earlier. Maybe the voltaic cat has a grip on his glossa.
“He might even be proud,” Sunstreaker says.
“Raised you in his image, I’ll bet,” Sideswipe adds and nods firmly, crossing his arms over his chassis. “He and Optimus are going to have a lot to talk about.”
Sunstreaker shifts, glancing in the vague direction of the dais. “I should go find him.”
Spire freezes, his armor clamped tight, the buffet plate rattling in his grip. Sideswipe’s a little worried one of those “subpar” treats are going to bounce to the floor.
“I’ll bet Blue’s missing us, too,” Sideswipe says with a sigh of performative regret. He chances a glance, and sure enough, Blue is frowning in their direction, half-worried and half-delighted. Like he can’t decide if he’s grateful they’re standing up for them, or furious they might cause a scene. Probably a bit of both honestly.
Sideswipe wriggles his fingers at Bluestreak before he turns back to Spire with a too-wide smile. “It was nice meeting you, Spire. Say hello to your caretaker for us.”
“Yes,” says Sunny through a smile that is better suited for a Sharkticon, all denta and no grin. “I’m so glad to finally put a face to a designation.”
Spire moves like an automaton, all jerky motion and stilted half-bows. “Yes, sir.”
They leave him like that, looking as though he might purge all over the floor, and thread back through the crowd to where Bluestreak anxiously waits. Relief rolls over his armor as they return, and Spire is visibly unharmed in their wake. Sideswipe would very much like to go back and rip off Spire’s arms, and tear out his glossa, and send him back to his caretaker in pieces.
This, however, is not the Pit. He is not a gladiator. And now, he has to fight with his words.
“What did you do?” Bluestreak asks.
Sunstreaker cups his cheek and pulls him in for a kiss -- gentle, chaste, no glossa per Prowl’s explicit orders about public displays of affection. “Nothing,” he promises with the sweetest smile Sunny’s ever given anyone who wasn’t Sideswipe. “I have to go find Prowl and Optimus. Save me a dance?”
“The first one I’m allowed to have,” Blue promises with a nuzzle, and then Sunstreaker’s gone, leaving Bluestreak to turn that impressive investigative gaze of his upon Sideswipe.
Seriously, it nearly rivals Prowl’s own.
And it’s very unfair that Sideswipe is the one on the receiving end of that penetrating stare when Sunny hadn’t gotten anything more than a nuzzle and a promise.
“What?” Sideswipe sidles up beside Bluestreak and pulls him into an embrace. He tries to lean in for some affection, but Bluestreak neatly avoids the gesture and stares at him.
“He’s in one piece,” Sideswipe says, indignant.
“Physically maybe, but I know you have a way of words. What did you do?” Bluestreak asks.
Sideswipe snorts and pinches a cable in Bluestreak’s side, making him startle in that cute way he does where his sensory panels flutter and his fans whirr. “Don’t feel sorry for him, sweetspark. He’s a hypocritical waste of space.”
Bluestreak makes a non-committal noise and looks past him, optics narrowed. Sideswipe follows his gaze, finding Spire finally away from the buffet table, and approaching a mech Prowl’s dossier had identified as Taper. Probably trying to get his side of the story in before it’s too late.
Given that Sunstreaker is on his way to give Prowl a heads-up, it was too late the moment Spire opened his fragging mouth.
Good riddance.
“I don’t pity him at all,” Bluestreak says after a moment, turning his attention back to Sideswipe. “He made my life the Pit up until the day Prowl sent for me. I just don’t want anything to fall back on either of you.”
Sideswipe presses a kiss to Bluestreak’s cheek because he can, and pulls Bluestreak toward the nearest buffet table, far from where Spire and his caretaker are in a heated discussion. “It’s cute of you to worry, but never fear dearspark, we didn’t say a single thing that wasn’t true.” He drags his fingers over his chassis. “Cross my spark.”
“Every time you say that, a part of me turns into my brother, and I get immediately suspicious,” Bluestreak says, but there’s fondness in the way he smiles, presses a kiss to Sideswipe’s cheek, and turns his attention to the buffet. “So tell me what’s good.”
Sideswipe grins and scoops up a plate for each of them. He honestly can’t remember what happened to the other one he had. “Dunno. Was too focused on getting Spire to make a fool of himself. Guess you’ll just have to help me taste them all.”
He winks.
Bluestreak rolls his optics. “One of everything then.” He starts to fill up the plate while Sideswipe plucks from the containers Bluestreak avoids. Their hands bump a few times, and Bluestreak looks over at him with a smile.
“Thanks, by the way,” he murmurs. “You two didn’t have to do that, but you did, and…” He pauses, draws in a heavy vent. “Just, you know, thanks.”
Sideswipe bumps shoulders with him. “For you, the moon,” he says. “I can’t promise both, but I’d at least be able to snag one of them.”
Bluestreak laughs, and it’s a damn sight better than that painful anxiety from earlier. Whatever the consequences, Sideswipe will suffer them.
It’s worth it for the shine of Bluestreak’s smile. And he knows Sunny will agree with him one-hundred percent.
***
Title: Blabbermouth
Series: The Prime’s Consorts
Characters: Sideswipe/Sunstreaker/Bluestreak, Original Character(s)
Rating: K+
Description: While attending one of Optimus’ political parties, Bluestreak spies a face from his past that Sideswipe and Sunstreaker feel deserves more than a few choice words. Spire won’t know what hit him.
If Sideswipe hadn’t been paying so much attention to Bluestreak’s frame language, he might have missed the subtle stiffening of Blue’s armor, or the way his sensory wings shifted closer to his back. Sideswipe knows it isn’t because of the crowd or the music. This isn’t the first time he and Blue have attended one of these functions at Sunstreaker’s side.
It has to be something else.
Sideswipe glances through the crowd, matching designations to faces included in the dossier Prowl handed out before they all arrived at this shindig. Prowl insists they be informed of the major players for every political function they have to attend, especially the ones where Optimus is the specific mech-of-the-hour.
Even the Consort-adjacent folks.
It’s really not fair that Wheeljack gets to skip these things. But then, he and Starscream are still on the side of keeping things discreet, and having the two of them making moon optics at each other is pretty much the opposite of that.
Sideswipe can’t see any faces that might be the sort to cause trouble, so he follows Bluestreak’s line of sight instead. Blue keeps sneaking glances at one mech who is on the fringes of the crowd, his white and grey armor visibly polished, and the arched sensory panels identifying him as Praxus-sparked.
Hmm.
Sideswipe curses internally. He should have realized that being in Praxus for Optimus’ first major political meet-and-greet would have some kind of effect on both Prowl and Bluestreak. Prowl seems to be fine, but he’s also within arm’s reach of Optimus, and has a poker-face made of marble. Bluestreak, by contrast, wears his spark on his chassis.
Sideswipe taps Sunstreaker across the bond, and when his twin looks up, Sideswipe tilts his head toward Bluestreak. He raises his orbital ridges pointedly. Sunstreaker’s optics narrow, but he immediately turns and gives Bluestreak a closer look.
Sunny’s confusion morphs into realization, the blank mask of indifference softening with worry. He nods, takes Bluestreak’s elbow, and quietly murmurs something that encourages Bluestreak to come with them to the edge of the crowd where a tall, ornate column provides the perfect cover for a semi-private conversation.
“What am I missing?” Bluestreak asks, vocals pitched low. He tries to look, but Sunstreaker and Sideswipe have him boxed in, hidden from the crowd of sycophants and political snobs.
“That Praxian in white and grey,” Sideswipe starts, leaning out from behind the column at the perfect angle which allows him to see the stranger, but keeps Bluestreak in his peripheral vision. “You keep staring at him. Who is he?”
Bluestreak presses his lips together, shoulders squaring, but it’s not enough to hide the brief flash of panic in his field. “He doesn’t matter. He’s not on Prowl’s list.”
“Because he’s not important to Optimus.” Sunstreaker’s got the bossy tone Sideswipe doesn’t. It softens as he takes Bluestreak’s arm and gives it a gentle squeeze. “You know him. Don’t you?”
Bluestreak squirms.
Sideswipe pushes his field against their partner’s, radiating affection and warmth in hope it’ll be a comfort. “Is he dangerous? Should we be warning the others?” He considers the protocol Prowl handed out.
He’s to notify Prowl first, and then Chromia, and together, they would tell Sideswipe what to do next. He’s supposed to let one of Chromia’s people handle it, but Sideswipe’s no soft-plate. He can protect himself, Sunstreaker, and Bluestreak if need be.
“No, it’s not like that.” Bluestreak sighs, his sensory panels drifting downward, his armor slicking tighter to his protoform. “Spire’s just some aft I used to go to school with. He kind of made my life miserable after Prowl got nominated to be Consort.”
Sunstreaker’s engine thrums. “Miserable how?” He inches out from their meager cover, opposite from Sideswipe, and glares hotly in the mech’s direction.
“Easy, Sunny. He’s just a bully. No need to cause an incident.” Bluestreak brushes a kiss over Sunstreaker’s cheek, daring to soothe ruffled armor. “I’m fine, I promise. I just didn’t expect to see him here. Though I really should have.”
“Why?” Sideswipe leans against the column. He folds his arms as he calculates. Spire looks like the kind of mech Sideswipe hates -- rich and snobby and chock full of self-importance.
Bluestreak scowls, his optics darkening to a stormy blue. “His caretaker, Taper, is on the city council. He’s one of the six city-state representatives, but you’d think he runs Praxus by the way he talks about himself.”
“Hmm,” Sunstreaker says.
“Lucky for us he’s here then.” Sideswipe grins. Taper’s a designation he recognizes. It’s on Prowl’s dossier, and yeah, technically, Taper is a bigwig in Praxus. But he’s not so important Sideswipe’s afraid of rattling the cage.
Bluestreak draws himself up straight, sensory panels flicking out. “No.”
Sideswipe looks at Sunstreaker, who looks right back at him, but it’s Sideswipe who says, “Yes.”
“We can’t cause an incident here!” Bluestreak hisses, grabbing both of their elbows firmly, as if they’re about to go marching back into the fray and plant a pair of blows on Spire’s too-large chin.
“I just wanna talk to him,” Sideswipe says.
“I know better than to embarrass Prime,” Sunstreaker adds with a sniff.
Bluestreak huffs. He wavers, a cacophony of emotions in his field, jaw set as he catches sight of Spire, and his grip loosens.
“Only one of you then,” he says. “But don’t cause a scene, or make Optimus look bad, or make Prowl mad at me.”
Sideswipe slides his arm free and takes Bluestreak’s hand in his, bending over to feather a kiss across Bluestreak’s knuckles. “Blue, sweetspark, the prettiest Praxian I know, have I ever done any of the aforementioned things?”
“The last? Quite frequently.” Bluestreak snorts.
“Fair,” Sideswipe concedes.
“I’ll stay.” Sunstreaker curves his arm around Bluestreak’s waist, tucking Bluestreak close to his side. “Come on. Prowl’s looking for us.”
Sideswipe glances at the clump of Prime and Consorts further into the ballroom, and sure enough, Prowl has climbed a small dais, and he’s scanning the gathered crowd with a frown. Two seconds later, Sideswipe’s comm pings, and judging by the look on Bluestreak’s and Sunstreaker’s faces -- theirs has, too.
“No collateral damage. Promise,” Sideswipe says with a wink and another chaste kiss.
He dives into the crowd before Bluestreak can protest any further.
Sunstreaker has Very Important Duties as a Consort, and it’s best Bluestreak is as far from this as possible. Which means Sideswipe is relatively free to introduce himself and take matters into his own hands.
Spire is easy to find, but Sideswipe doesn’t head directly for him. He meanders in the mech’s direction, pausing to admire some art, to weave in and out of a few empty conversations, until he edges into Spire’s periphery. How he plays this depends on how much attention Spire’s been paying to Optimus Prime and his Consorts and their retinue.
Spire’s perusing one of the tables laden with treats when Sideswipe sidles up next to him, plate in hand, idly filling it with a few of the delicacies. He makes a face over the selection, though he is sure all of them are absolutely delicious.
“I know,” Spire says with a sad little sigh. “The selection this year is paltry compared to what the last Prime offered. Optimus Prime hasn’t the experience of his predecessor.”
“He hasn’t had the title long,” Sideswipe agrees, putting a touch of lofty commentary into his tone.
Spire snorts. “Long enough to completely bollox it, if you ask me.” He glances at Sideswipe, does something of a double take, and then they’re at the end of the table, and Spire pauses, turning to face Sideswipe. “The name’s Spire. And you are…?”
“Sideswipe.” He pops a treat into his mouth, smiling around the rust dust now dotting his lips. “I’m a fan of fancy parties. Who could resist all the free food?”
Though ‘party’ isn’t quite an apt term. This soiree is meant for Optimus to introduce himself to the Praxian leaders, along with allowing them to meet his Consorts. He’s had to attend one in every major city-state in Cybertron since his ascension. When it comes to occasions of high importance, this particular engagement was top of the list for who’s-who.
Spire tips his head back and laughs, and Sideswipe inwardly cringes. It sounds so fake. “Party is an apt way to describe it,” he says. “Everyone knows the Prime is just here to show off his Consorts. Especially his Praxian one.”
Sideswipe sidles up beside Spire and follows his gaze to where Prowl is visible on the dais, close enough to Optimus to make no mistake of their presumed intimacy. “If I had ten pretty sparkmates, I’d probably want to show them off, too.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a bit like being proud of your buymechs, isn’t it?” Spire asks, lowering his vocals so they aren’t overheard, but everything about the way he looks at Sideswipe suggests he’s testing the oil.
Hah. He must not be that important or smart if he doesn’t recognize Sideswipe for Sunstreaker’s twin. It’s not like it’s a secret.
Sideswipe makes a non-committal noise. “What do you mean?”
Spire shrugs and a smirk curves the corner of his lips. “From what I know about Prowl, he’s good on his knees.” Spire’s quiet snicker builds a gentle rage in Sideswipe’s belly. “I’d bet all the creds in my account it’s the same for all of them.”
Thank Primus Sunstreaker isn’t here right now.
“Is that right?” Sideswipe nonchalantly pops another one of the goodies into his mouth.
Spire gnaws on something chewy and sparkly, his gaze focused on Prowl. “Everyone knows he was only nominated because he’s used to bending over for whoever will get him higher up the ladder.” He snorts, and his sensory panels arch high -- arrogantly attempting to show them off. “That brother of his isn’t much different.”
“Brother?” Sideswipe echoes. He performs a system check to soften the rage, folding it into a tight datapacket that he’ll unpack later -- preferably in the practice arena or the target range.
Spire leans in toward Sideswipe, conspiratorial, grinning. He nods his head in Bluestreak’s direction, and he’s too close for Sideswipe not to catch the thinnest trickle of envy-slash-loathing in Spire’s field. “Got himself in Prime’s good graces since his brother’s such a good spikesucker. Now he’s found himself a Consort to seal the deal.”
Bluestreak, standing next to Sunstreaker, is all radiant smiles, one of Sunstreaker’s arms still hooked around his waist. They’re both beautiful and bright, and Sideswipe wants nothing more than to walk up there and sweep them both off their feet. He wants to kiss them.
And Spire is worth less than the grit stuck to the bottom of their feet.
“I know Optimus Prime allows his Consorts to have other romantic partners,” Sideswipe says. “One of them even has a conjunx.”
Spire scratches his cheek. “I guess? I don’t really pay attention to the rest. I’m Praxian after all.” He twitches his sensory panels pointedly, and Sideswipe pretends to admire their less-than-immaculate polish.
Sunny would’ve done a better job. There’s a streak through the gray, uneven lines.
“You think they should have nominated someone else?” Sideswipe asks, trying to sound genuinely curious instead of interrogating. Not that it’s hard. Spire is an easy mark.
“I think they could have done a lot better than Prowl,” Spire says with a barely hidden scowl. “And Bluestreak certainly isn’t good enough for a Consort.”
Sideswipe rolls a goodie around his fingers, but doesn’t eat it. “Why not?”
“I went to school with him, you know,” Spire says, with the kind of arrogant set to his shoulders that makes Sideswipe want to hit him. “He was as useless then as he is now, always relying on his brother’s influence to get anywhere. Looks like he hasn’t changed one bit.”
“Mmm,” says Sideswipe.
Not that Spire needs any encouragement.
Spire could also stand to make up his damn mind. Does he think the Consort position is worthless or is he jealous he wasn’t picked for it? Or is one because of the other?
Probably that last bit.
“Maybe that’s part of it,” Spire says with a huff. “Prowl brings in his brother to entice the Prime to listen to him. Maybe they frag the Prime together. What do you think?”
Sideswipe cycles a ventilation and says, carefully, “You really think Prowl would use his kin like that?”
If he doesn’t end this soon, he’s not going to be able to keep his promise to Bluestreak. He’s going to rip Spire apart, and then it’ll be an Incident.
He quietly pings Sunstreaker instead.
Spire shrugs and pops another candy into his mouth, turning away from staring hatefully at Bluestreak to throw Sideswipe a grin. “Who knows? I don’t put anything past either of them.” He leans in now, a swagger in the way he leers at Sideswipe. “As for me, I actually have taste.”
“You wouldn’t be talking about me, would you?” Sideswipe asks, optical ridges drawn upward in curiosity. He tries to cant himself in a way that would be enticing, but accidentally so.
Spire’s glossa flicks across his lips. “Maybe I am,” he drawls. “What brings you here anyway? Politics? Business? Private security maybe?”
“He’s with me.”
Always one with the dramatic timing, that’s Sunstreaker. Sideswipe doesn’t bother to hide his grin as he waves at Sunstreaker behind Spire and says, “Sunny! There you are! I thought I’d lost you in the crowd, bro.”
He sashays past Spire who’s looking at them both now, frame stiff, armor tight, panels in a high arch. He looks pale, or well, paler since his face is already a ghastly white. Too many finishing layers which is a cheap, if effective, method of hiding one’s facial emotions.
“I turned around and you were gone,” Sunstreaker says, but his gaze is a burning thing of hatred, fire behind his optics as he stares at Spire. “Who’s your friend?”
“This is Spire,” Sideswipe purrs as he locks his arm around Sunstreaker’s and snuggles against his twin’s side. “He was just telling me all about Prowl and Bluestreak and their many, many talents. He went to school with Bluestreak. Did you know that?”
Sunstreaker lifts his chin, and Sideswipe loves him so much in that moment because no one does a threat-of-death-and-dismemberment stare like Sunny does. “Bluestreak might have mentioned him once or twice.”
“Now that I think about it, you’re right.” Sideswipe pretends to gasp. “How lucky is this? We finally got to say hello to one of Bluestreak’s classmates.” He pats Sunstreaker on the chassis. “Spire, I’d like you to meet my spark-twin, Sunstreaker.”
Spire’s mouth opens, closes, opens again. “Your… spark-twin,” he echoes, and there’s a faintness in his tone to match the dull clatter of his ventilations, stalling and starting up again.
“Oh, did I forget to mention that?” Sideswipe asks. “Silly me.” He taps his chin. “I kind of thought it was common knowledge, but I guess you didn’t get the memo.”
“Spire,” Sunstreaker says, like he’s tasting the designation and finding it sour on his glossa. “Taper is your caretaker, isn’t he?”
A thin whine ekes out of Spire’s chassis. “He is.”
“Taper,” Sideswipe echoes and snaps his fingers as if he’s suddenly had an epiphany. Any mech with half a processor could see it for the act it is, though he won’t give Spire that much credit. “Isn’t he the mech Optimus has a private audience with tonight?”
“Sounds about right,” Sunstreaker says. “It’s right after Optimus’ speech, though Prowl would know better. He’s the one who makes the schedule.”
Sideswipe taps his chin thoughtfully. “Now that I think about it, I distinctly remember Prowl mentioning the designation Taper. What a small world.”
“Yes.” Sunstreaker’s tone lacks the cheerful hyperbole of Sideswipe’s, and he looks down his nasal ridge at Spire, despite Spire being taller than both of them. “Small world, small party, small social circles.”
“You should have said so sooner!” Sideswipe says with a bigger grin and a friendly patto Spire’s shoulder that is a shade too gentle to leave a mark, but only just. “I can’t wait to tell Optimus. He’ll be thrilled.”
Spire shrinks into himself, optics bleaching of color.
Sunstreaker hums, but it sounds more like the deep rumble of an angry engine. “He says we need more friends.”
“Yep. Sure did.” Sideswipe plants his hands on his hips and leans forward, orbital ridges raised, everything in his posture screaming friendliness to anyone who might be watching.
He’d promised Bluestreak after all.
“What do you think, Spire? Do you think your caretaker would be happy if you made friends with us?” Sideswipe asks.
Spire makes a strangled noise like he’s having trouble activating his vocalizer, despite how much he’d dominated the conversation earlier. Maybe the voltaic cat has a grip on his glossa.
“He might even be proud,” Sunstreaker says.
“Raised you in his image, I’ll bet,” Sideswipe adds and nods firmly, crossing his arms over his chassis. “He and Optimus are going to have a lot to talk about.”
Sunstreaker shifts, glancing in the vague direction of the dais. “I should go find him.”
Spire freezes, his armor clamped tight, the buffet plate rattling in his grip. Sideswipe’s a little worried one of those “subpar” treats are going to bounce to the floor.
“I’ll bet Blue’s missing us, too,” Sideswipe says with a sigh of performative regret. He chances a glance, and sure enough, Blue is frowning in their direction, half-worried and half-delighted. Like he can’t decide if he’s grateful they’re standing up for them, or furious they might cause a scene. Probably a bit of both honestly.
Sideswipe wriggles his fingers at Bluestreak before he turns back to Spire with a too-wide smile. “It was nice meeting you, Spire. Say hello to your caretaker for us.”
“Yes,” says Sunny through a smile that is better suited for a Sharkticon, all denta and no grin. “I’m so glad to finally put a face to a designation.”
Spire moves like an automaton, all jerky motion and stilted half-bows. “Yes, sir.”
They leave him like that, looking as though he might purge all over the floor, and thread back through the crowd to where Bluestreak anxiously waits. Relief rolls over his armor as they return, and Spire is visibly unharmed in their wake. Sideswipe would very much like to go back and rip off Spire’s arms, and tear out his glossa, and send him back to his caretaker in pieces.
This, however, is not the Pit. He is not a gladiator. And now, he has to fight with his words.
“What did you do?” Bluestreak asks.
Sunstreaker cups his cheek and pulls him in for a kiss -- gentle, chaste, no glossa per Prowl’s explicit orders about public displays of affection. “Nothing,” he promises with the sweetest smile Sunny’s ever given anyone who wasn’t Sideswipe. “I have to go find Prowl and Optimus. Save me a dance?”
“The first one I’m allowed to have,” Blue promises with a nuzzle, and then Sunstreaker’s gone, leaving Bluestreak to turn that impressive investigative gaze of his upon Sideswipe.
Seriously, it nearly rivals Prowl’s own.
And it’s very unfair that Sideswipe is the one on the receiving end of that penetrating stare when Sunny hadn’t gotten anything more than a nuzzle and a promise.
“What?” Sideswipe sidles up beside Bluestreak and pulls him into an embrace. He tries to lean in for some affection, but Bluestreak neatly avoids the gesture and stares at him.
“He’s in one piece,” Sideswipe says, indignant.
“Physically maybe, but I know you have a way of words. What did you do?” Bluestreak asks.
Sideswipe snorts and pinches a cable in Bluestreak’s side, making him startle in that cute way he does where his sensory panels flutter and his fans whirr. “Don’t feel sorry for him, sweetspark. He’s a hypocritical waste of space.”
Bluestreak makes a non-committal noise and looks past him, optics narrowed. Sideswipe follows his gaze, finding Spire finally away from the buffet table, and approaching a mech Prowl’s dossier had identified as Taper. Probably trying to get his side of the story in before it’s too late.
Given that Sunstreaker is on his way to give Prowl a heads-up, it was too late the moment Spire opened his fragging mouth.
Good riddance.
“I don’t pity him at all,” Bluestreak says after a moment, turning his attention back to Sideswipe. “He made my life the Pit up until the day Prowl sent for me. I just don’t want anything to fall back on either of you.”
Sideswipe presses a kiss to Bluestreak’s cheek because he can, and pulls Bluestreak toward the nearest buffet table, far from where Spire and his caretaker are in a heated discussion. “It’s cute of you to worry, but never fear dearspark, we didn’t say a single thing that wasn’t true.” He drags his fingers over his chassis. “Cross my spark.”
“Every time you say that, a part of me turns into my brother, and I get immediately suspicious,” Bluestreak says, but there’s fondness in the way he smiles, presses a kiss to Sideswipe’s cheek, and turns his attention to the buffet. “So tell me what’s good.”
Sideswipe grins and scoops up a plate for each of them. He honestly can’t remember what happened to the other one he had. “Dunno. Was too focused on getting Spire to make a fool of himself. Guess you’ll just have to help me taste them all.”
He winks.
Bluestreak rolls his optics. “One of everything then.” He starts to fill up the plate while Sideswipe plucks from the containers Bluestreak avoids. Their hands bump a few times, and Bluestreak looks over at him with a smile.
“Thanks, by the way,” he murmurs. “You two didn’t have to do that, but you did, and…” He pauses, draws in a heavy vent. “Just, you know, thanks.”
Sideswipe bumps shoulders with him. “For you, the moon,” he says. “I can’t promise both, but I’d at least be able to snag one of them.”
Bluestreak laughs, and it’s a damn sight better than that painful anxiety from earlier. Whatever the consequences, Sideswipe will suffer them.
It’s worth it for the shine of Bluestreak’s smile. And he knows Sunny will agree with him one-hundred percent.
