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Tracks hasn't spoken to Raoul in two weeks and he's about to go mad from it.
It's his own fault, really; Perceptor presented him with the tiniest comm device he'd ever seen at least a month prior with a knowing smile, and Tracks– well. Tracks didn't give it to the intended recipient. Which really that's Perceptor's fault, smiling at him like there's anything to smile about, like he and his– the human–too clinical, too distant, his human always but what if–as if he and Raoul are something that they aren't.
And maybe they are. Tracks has rarely been one for interpersonal relationships, what with so few understanding his standards let alone meeting them without tossing around the words ‘high maintenance’ and ‘unbearably vain’ as if it's a crime to care about one's appearance. But unlike every mech he's ever met, Raoul just…tolerates it. Most mechs tire of his completely valid complaints by the third sentence, and this human…this human just listens.
More than that, Raoul almost seems to encourage Tracks’...less than ideal personality, to quote Hoist, which who is he to talk. It seems as if every other week he'll hop in Sparkplug’s truck just to come visit him and–and rotate his tires, or give him a new coat of wax, or buff out scratches so small that not even his optics caught them. He’ll spend hours spoiling Tracks with so much attention and care that it threatens to overwhelm him just by thinking about it, Primus help him.
If he's being entirely honest to himself and all of the anxieties that refuse to be purged from his processor, he doesn't understand the appeal. For all that he deserves such attention and acknowledgement, it's…rare to find someone else who agrees with him. Even Mirage, as good a friend as he is, needs a break from Tracks at times. But this single human has decided within less than a decade that he's not only worthy of being a friend but also worthy of such care and it’s wonderful and fulfilling but it’s also the most confusing thing he’s ever coped with. Which is to say nothing of how affectionate his hum–friend is with him.
He doesn't fully know where he and Raoul stand in their odd little friendship. From what Tracks knows of humans it's not exactly common to kiss your friends, at least not in this part of the world, especially not within the same ‘gender’, such an absurd concept, and not for as long as Raoul kisses him. Pit, when he happens to catch any of the programs that play on Teletraan I it seems like humans haven’t even figured out that it’s okay for other ‘races’ to be seen together. Which admittedly Cybertronian society hasn’t exactly made it there either, if race really is as much of a one to one comparison to frames as Beachcomber has suggested.
But whenever he circles back to familiar logic loops involving whatever he has with Raoul, he has to remind himself that he’s what their scientists would consider an outlier variable added to this complex equation–he needs to stop spending so much time around the scientists, Primus. Being Cybertronian, human societal standards matter little to him, so it's entirely possible that Raoul is just…affectionate, and would be with any friend he was allowed to be if it weren't for societal expectation. From what Tracks has seen of his Bop Crew Poplock can be cagey about physical affection, and while Rocksteady seems more welcoming of it he’s also more cautious. Bebop is the most affectionate of them all, but that seems to be ‘acceptable’ in public because she’s a woman, and Tracks has given himself so many processor aches trying to understand the absurd concept of gender and the ways in which it dictates everything humans do.
But no amount of processor aches or circular logic trees helps his current problem–namely that Megatron threw an overcharged fit in New York two weeks ago and ripped through the local infrastructure like acid rain through steelsilk before collapsing and ‘allowing’ Soundwave to drag his sorry aft back to his sunken rustheap of a base, leaving the entire state dark. Power had been the most pressing issue, solved a lot faster there than it would’ve been in most other states, or so Sparkplug said. Indeed, most of the state was up and running again within a few days after an impressive rush of resources and people that made the human mechanic shake his head, muttering under his breath about differing disaster relief responses.
The trouble was the phone lines, more specifically the phone lines for people who weren’t rich, famous, or politically inclined. Given the area Raoul’s apartment is in and his general disdain for anything he calls ‘uptown’–save for Tracks himself and he doesn’t know how he’s meant to feel about that–it’s likely that he’ll be one of the last brought out of the blackout. Tracks hopes he has heat at the very least, heat, power, and water. It certainly didn’t help that the east coast was slammed with what Sparkplug calls a nor’easter, and everything had shuddered to a necessary, infuriating stop. He really, desperately hopes that Raoul has everything he needs.
And thanks to Megatron's megablunder, all Autobots have been confined to their various bases and safe houses for a week and a half, because as it turns out Starscream is a very effective leader when he's not currently being strangled, electrocuted, or otherwise beaten into the ground. His ruthless schedule of aerial raids have them firmly pinned while his ground troops have barely been held off by the Protectobots and Swoop, the only Dinobot that managed to make it off the island. Tracks doesn't even want to think of the energon they've gotten away with by now, nor the havoc that they've absolutely been wreaking on any Autobot allies. Honestly, Megatron can't resume control fast enough.
It's those less than desirable circumstances that have led to the recc room being packed full and thumping every night this week, somewhere half between a club and a cafe. Which is to say extraordinarily irritating no matter what one wanted, especially if what one wanted was solitude. But Tracks has spent another full day twisting himself into knots over his missing friend and there’s nowhere else for him to go to brood that isn’t his quarters or the training room. And given that currently anyone in the training room risks being hurled into a fight with whichever frontline fighter is currently scaling the walls…he’ll take the aggravating press of mechs over an extended, annoying fight. At least for now.
Within ten minutes of finding a seat, however, Tracks is fairly certain he’d prefer cracking helms to whatever the pit he’s bearing witness to instead. There’s a fight going on over the music, Jazz and Blaster good-naturedly blaring similar songs that nonetheless grate on his poor audials, which is to say nothing of the nearly shouted conversations all around him. Even the tucked away corner he found for himself is loud, though bearable enough for him to enjoy his energon and the rare burst of actual flavor Raoul had found for him in the form of copper shavings. He refused to say where exactly he had found them but it doesn’t matter, in the end; just being thought about Raoul knowing his favorite additives and seeking them out sets his spark to spinning faster.
Tracks is only alone for a few more minutes when the chair across from him is pulled out, Mirage’s cloaking disappearing a moment later. It’s unlike him to keep it up within the Ark, but given the current state of his shadow, Tracks can understand the extra layer of defense. He hooks his pede under the chair that Lancer abandoned to curl up in Greenlight’s lap for Hound, frowning as the smaller mech doesn’t even look up. Worse than he’d heard, then.
“Not your usual scene, Speed Racer,” Mirage notes with a smile that barely hints at the level of exhaustion he must be feeling. Tracks still hasn’t figured out the reference; Raoul promised to see if his cousin still had the ‘tapes’, but there’s been no luck so far. “Why the cold field, hmm? Or am I still not allowed to ask?”
Ah yes. The other reason why Tracks has been avoiding the cafe/club/whatever the pit Jazz feels like calling it next week: Mirage has been almost unbearably nosy with no away missions sending him into the heart of enemy territory. And apparently when SpecOps agents can’t make it into the field they instead turn all of their skill in manipulation and persistence into harassing their very weary and beleaguered friends.
Admittedly given how frequently Mirage has put up with his own woes lately, perhaps Tracks could stand to, as Sparkplug says, ‘throw him a bone’. “It’s Raoul.”
Mirage gives him a Look. It’s a Look Tracks is unfortunately very familiar with. “Yes, and?” When is it not, his face says, and he gently taps his leg with his pede under the table. “Oh don’t give me that, sweets, you haven’t seen him in over two chords! Of course it’s Raoul. What I’m asking is what about him?”
Tracks looks at his drink and contemplates chugging the rest of it (a dreadful waste of a rare good cube, and rude besides) to make an escape or simply submitting to the inevitable teasing. Given how pent up his friend is, he may well chase him throughout the entire Ark just to get a hint of gossip, and he really has been...trying his patience, he knows. Mirage has far more of it than most mechs give him credit for, but their last four conversations have still nearly ending in fights because Mirage refuses to see reason, and he of course claims that Tracks is the one being stubborn.
“What we are, mostly–kindly reset that expression, gorgeous, it does your face a disservice,” Tracks says, cutting Mirage’s interruption off with practiced ease, “and also if he’s warm. Safe. If he’ll come back, once all this is done, or if…”
Or if this is it. For a year and a half now Raoul has seen him several times a month at the very least, not to mention that their first meeting had left them in close quarters for nearly two weeks afterwards fixing all of the cars the Decepticons had mangled into an army. As time has passed his visits have grown more frequent, most often becoming an entire weekend spent together every couple weeks, and it’s been wonderful, amazing, and also absolutely agonizing because alright, yes, fine, he has a crush and it’s a crush on an organic and plenty of mechs have been making their opinions known about that but they just don’t understand how wonderful of an organic Raoul is. Or they’re all just dreadful jealous fools. Could be either, and Tracks’ shanix is on the latter.
Ultimately his crush is his problem; Raoul has never given him any sort of sign that he feels the same and seeing him so much, feeling his gentle hands all over his plating, being absolutely buried in affection and care–it’s been difficult to keep his spark to himself, to put it simply. But if this amount of time apart continues, if it possibly becomes even a full month without contact if the weather continues in its current patterns as Carly says is likely, Tracks doesn’t know if Raoul ever will come back. He’s been here before, though with far less emotions on the line. Mechs get close as friends or partners, see who he is, try to meet his needs, and realize he isn’t worth it.
Tracks doesn’t know what he’ll do when Raoul realizes he isn’t worth it.
“Tracks.” There’s a servo over his, squeezing tight enough to flash a warning over his HUD and pull him out of the fifth logic tree loop of the day. “Don’t think I missed all that. Talk to me, dearspark.”
“I think I’m going to lose him,” he says, and it feels like his firewalls have been breached as the rest of his fears pour out of his mouth like acid after a bad flux. “I know I’m high maintenance, I know I’m…I know I’m too much for most mechs and organics and whatever else exists, and I’m worried…I’m worried he’s going to realize that I’m not worth it.”
The teasing lilt to Mirage’s derma is entirely gone now. Tracks is relieved that he managed to keep his voice quiet, at least; he’s damn sure he couldn’t handle Ratchet coming over to check on him, and the medic is only a few tables over.
Mirage carefully extracts his arm from around Hound’s shoulders with a quiet murmur to the smaller mech before squeezing both of Tracks’ servos in his own. “Tracks. Gorgeous. Sweetspark. Raoul is never going to get enough of you, I can promise you that. After all–”
“Don’t say it.”
“–he’s utterly besotted with you, dear.” Dammit all.
He yanks his servos free and Mirage lets him go, tucking Hound into his side once more. “We are not having this conversation again, Mirage.”
“What conversation?” he asks, a challenge running through his tone. “The conversation about why you’re acting like you shattered your windshield again or the conversation about why your human loves you so much it makes him stupid?”
“He is not stupid!” Tracks snaps, gaining the attention of several tables and causing Hound’s shoulders to tighten. Mirage meets his optics across the table and they both force their shoulders to loosen, setting it aside until everyone has gone back to minding everyone else’s business.
Hound slides a container of bismuth crisps onto the table, a peace offering, and they all take another minute to vent. “I know he isn’t stupid, sweets, that’s not what this is about,” Mirage says, leaning a little further into Hound’s personal space, getting a little bit more reassurance for both of them. “Do you think I am? You think after all these vorn I don’t know what love looks like on anyone, mech or otherwise?”
“I’m saying you care about me, darling, and you want me happy. And you forget I know you– you’re a romantic even on your worst days, and you want me…you want me to think that I deserve this–”
“You do deserve it, sweets, so jot that down,” Mirage interrupts, his field finally starting to prickle with the irritation that always comes with this fight. “And are we forgetting what happened the last time Raoul visited?”
Tracks restrains the urge to groan if only to keep Jazz from swinging by the table; the amount of glances he’s giving them is already too much for comfort. “I’ve told you at least ten times now, Mirage, that was completely platonic.”
“Oh yes,” Mirage murmurs into his cube to try and hide the smile on his derma, the pretty, petty bastard, “because calling a mech babe and kissing him full on the derma is so platonic.”
“You kiss your friends all the time,” Tracks snips with a rush of his vents to show just how irritating Mirage is being, “and Raoul uses nicknames, it’s just what he does!”
Hound, who’s spent the last three hours dead silent and practically welded to Mirage’s side after his disastrous scouting trip, finally looks up. “I feel like there’s a difference between Primetime or Robocop or…Bumblebee, what does he–?”
“Ororo,” a voice answers from the general direction of Optimus’s bulk crammed into a table that’s almost comically small for him. Full confirmation that SpecOps will know every detail of their conversation whether Mirage spills or not. Lovely. “Herbie. Bugbot, buzzer, bumble, and about fifty more.”
“You see? There’s a difference between those and babe. A-at least to me,” Hound finishes in a flustered rush as Tracks turns his glare on him.
Mirage sits up just a little bit straighter, smoothly giving Hound some cover as he meets Tracks glare for glare. He winces and forces himself to lower his fluffed out plating; the scout hadn’t deserved that, especially after the day he’s had. “I’m sorry, Hound. Why don’t we move on?”
Mirage’s derma twist into a frown, but Hound is nodding fast enough to make his optics glitch, so Tracks knows it’s as good as over. He takes a deep sip of his energon, trying to resettle his field, his plating, his processor, and maybe his entire functioning while he’s at it. The room is less cacophonous now, Blaster sitting with Beachcomber and Perceptor with a fondly exasperated look on his face as the latest Jem song comes to a slamming end, a collaboration with the Misfits that Jazz has been raving about for weeks.
Ah, that explains the temporary ceasefire. The only way to get Jazz really, truly angry (aside from taking potshots at Prowl or Bumblebee) is interrupting his Jem time, especially since Tracks is pretty certain this release dropped as a teaser track in New York first, and given his own current grievances with the state and its communications–it’s no surprise that Blaster stood down.
“Hey y’all, it’s Jammin’ Jan J. J. here and this is Radical Radio Hour KJN 98 sending out hot new tunes for your freezing cold New York City night. That was the latest and greatest from Jem and the Holograms and The Misfits, Click Clash, a special preview of their new record brought to you by yours truly!”
“Great song!” Jazz says, loud enough to start a fight if anyone was stupid enough to challenge him about his favorite human band. “Would only be better without the Misfits tacked on.”
“I dunno, Jazz,” someone pipes up, forgetting rule number one of being around him and continuing to function in peace, “I kinda liked the clash part.”
Jazz’s visor gives a brief flicker as Prowl reaches across the table without even looking to swipe his cube of energon before it can become a projectile. “Well!” he chirps, bright and sunny, “Lucky for you it ain't illegal to be wrong, mech!”
Hound runs his vents with relief as Mirage stifles a laugh. The only thing worse than being trapped in the Ark is being trapped in the Ark when the head of SpecOps is out for blood, so Tracks can hardly blame them. Blaster’s started up his music again but kept it quieter seemingly for Perceptor's benefit if that wince is anything to go off of, which means they can hear the DJ continue chattering over the radio. Some of the other Autobots look irritated by it, but Tracks isn’t the only one who listens closer, eager to catch another glimpse into human life.
“Right now I got a guy here with me who made it all the way down to the station with a request!” the DJ says with a laugh, “Honestly I only let him in because he brought a pizza with him. And because he’s a friend of my li’l bro, dad, I know you’re listening, no I did not let a random man into the building to murder me.”
Sparkplug laughs at that, reaching over from where he’s sat with Ratchet and Wheeljack to ruffle Spike and Carly’s hair. It makes sense, Tracks supposes, given that organics, or at least humans, seem to be ‘born’ with very few defenses online. Of course a mentor, or a parent rather, would worry. Of course a child would try and offer reassurance whenever possible, no matter how old they become. It seems to be the very nature of human care.
He’s so distracted by his thoughts slipping into wondering about humans for the thousandth time that he nearly misses the DJ’s next question. “So, what's your name?”
“You know my name,” her guest says, and Tracks’ spark nearly gutters to a stop.
That’s.
That was.
It’s Raoul on the radio, he’d know his voice anywhere, and apparently he’s not the only one given that he can feel everyone’s optics on him. Mirage sits up straighter, his plating flaring out like he’s daring anyone to say a word toward him, but Tracks can’t even focus to tell him to calm down, not when he’s hanging onto every word coming out of Jazz’s speakers. Primus but he’s missed that voice.
“Hey li’l bro, if you’re listening? Next time you hang out with this one you tell him not to be such a narbo, okay?”
A laugh, bright and sunny and Tracks is glad Ratchet is so nearby because suddenly he feels like his spark might go supernova just from hearing it. “Fine, fine. Hey New York City, I’m Raoul! Lotta you know me, lotta you don’t. Hope everyone’s staying warm and not hiking two miles in waist-deep snow to deliver pizza to a mouthy DJ.”
“I’m sorry, waist-deep?? Since when?”
“Haven’t looked out the window lately, huh?”
There’s a pause in the chatter that Tracks assumes is J. J. going to look out the studio windows, which gives him a moment to glance around the room. About half the mechs are still looking their way, but between Mirage’s posturing and the overall tone of Raoul’s visit, it sounds like they’ll be spared any further attention.
“Oh boy, I’ve got a fun walk home in my future tonight, folks!” Jan says, pulling his attention back to the radio.
His audials pick up a quiet sound, the noise Raoul makes when he doesn’t like something and he intends to fix it. “Your show ends at midnight, right? I’ll swing back by the station, make sure you get home safe.” It’s gruff and half-muttered and so very Raoul that Tracks can feel a stupid smile spreading across his face. It’s almost embarrassing how much of a hold on his spark this one human has, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Aw, guess you aren’t such a narbo after all! Anyway, getting to the heart of your message,” Jan leads in with a little bit of mischief in her voice, “you had a song request? What’s the occasion?”
Another easy, warm laugh. If he closed his optics he could probably almost picture Raoul at the crook in his frame where his intake meets his shoulder, right where he’s meant to be, but he’s clearly already given everyone more than enough ammunition tonight. “I’m just…missing someone.”
Missing someone. He tells his spark to calm down, tries to remind himself that Raoul could be missing literally anyone after two solid weeks of no communication, but his spark keeps spinning tighter and tighter. It isn’t him. Tracks knows it isn’t him. But Primus help him, he wants it to be him. He wants Raoul to miss him as much as he misses Raoul, wants to be on his friend’s mind every second of every day because he can’t help but be selfish when it comes to his human.
“Oh I love these requests, they’re always just the sweetest thing!” J.J. all but squeals with delight. “What’s the song?”
“I Just Called To Say I Love You by Stevie Wonder.”
Tracks takes a measured sip of his energon, giving Mirage a Look over the rim of his cube as his spark positively cracks apart. It doesn’t help that his friend just gives him a Look right back, as if the fact that Raoul loves someone else could ever be good news.
“Oooh, so it’s a girl~” Jan coos, and he can just picture the exasperation on Raoul’s face. He hates being teased. “How long have you been together now?”
Hound is looking at him with a level of sympathy that Tracks has no idea how to process, especially not with how his spark is aching. A human, one human in a population of over four billion, one human who hates being teased and hates not having a project on hand to tinker with, who likes his coffee black and sludgy, who loves stupid movies because they make anyone laugh, and Tracks just has to live with the fact that he knows all of that now.
He knows Raoul’s favorite food, huevos estrellados en chile verde but only if his abuelo makes it, any sort of food from anyone else that ‘actually knows how to season their food, dammit’ and burgers from anyone that doesn't, knows that when he drinks he drinks like he’s got ‘a hollow leg’ but hates the taste, knows that he quit smoking five years back but still struggles with cravings even now. He knows how scared Raoul is to slide back into old habits and fall back into debt, sees how hard he works everyday when he has something to work for, feels the sheer elation he experiences whenever he gets behind the wheel of a car capable of absolutely flying down the road.
A human that hasn’t spoken to him in two weeks and has probably realized how much better his life was for it because now he has a girl, a girl that Tracks has never even met, and he’s lost him without even getting the chance to hold on tight.
“‘Bout nine months now,” Raoul says somewhere far away, and the naming of it–the time, acknowledging when it began, this piece of his favorite human’s life that he never even knew–
Tracks has known Raoul for a year and a half, not even the cycling of an optic for a Cybertronian, barely a drop in the bucket even for a human, and his very code has already been rewritten so firmly that he doesn’t know how he’ll survive when he’s gone. There’s a part of his processor that will never, ever let Raoul go, even though Raoul has a girl, has had a girl for nine months that he never once mentioned to him.
Mirage is frowning now, pretty face twisted somewhere between genuine upset and protective frustration, which means Tracks will need to make sure to keep between him and Raoul the next time he visits. He sees Jazz shifting uneasily on his pedes out of the corner of his optic, looking like he’s not sure if he should switch the station or keep it on 98, and he shakes his helm. Even if what comes next absolutely breaks his spark, he wants to hear him. Tracks wants every last bit of Raoul that he can have before reality comes crashing down around him.
“And?” J. J. continues on, sounding completely invested in what she clearly considers the pinnacle of romance. “What’s her name?”
Of all the things he won’t ever be ready for, hearing the name of the woman that’s stolen his human’s heart away tops the list, just barely over ‘Megatron and Optimus are hooking up on the regular’ and ‘deep blue pigments can no longer be manufactured’. But if he wants to keep a place in Raoul’s life, even just a tiny little space carved out for himself, Tracks knows he has to know this woman and do his best to do right by them both. The room has of course gone silent, most of the mechs looking their way if not outright staring. Slaggers.
Raoul coughs, clearing his throat the way he does when he’s embarrassed but making himself see it through. “Her name is Tracks.”
His engine backfires, loud and harsh in the silence of the room; thankfully the sound and spectacle of Powerglide choking on his energon takes some of the optics off of him and the meltdown that he is absolutely about to have. Jazz’s mouth falls open so wide that Tracks would be surprised the radio isn’t crackling with feedback from it if he could focus on anything other than the fact that Raoul said his name. Mirage is staring right at him, expression slowly morphing into a look of absolutely insufferable glee as Tracks feels his own field explode with joy.
“Why am I not surprised?” Jan teases, then says something that Tracks doesn’t hear over the sound of static crowding his audials because he’s Raoul’s girl. Mirage has been right and he is going to be absolutely unbearable but he– Raoul isn’t– Raoul loves him. “Well, hope your girl is listening now; you got a message you wanna send before I set this track playing?”
“Yeah,” Raoul says, his voice cutting through the white noise all around him. It’s soft and gentle, the way he gets when it’s just the two of them and he can just talk without having to keep up whatever mask humans expect someone like him to wear. “Tracks, babe, I hope you catch this–I figured my best chance was after the Jem release because of Jazz, yeah? I’m sorry I haven’t been able to call; been thinking about you non-stop, gorgeous, I promise. I’ll see you soon as I can get myself freed up, alright?”
Tracks has a servo resting on his chassis, pressing down against his spark and trying to keep it from feeling like it’s about to spin out of its casing. Ratchet leans over, covering his servo with his own just for a moment, tracking whatever reading he gets before clapping his shoulder and beaming at him. “Congrats, Tracks. Looks like you’ve got your human after all, huh?”
His human. His human.
“That is so sweet,” the DJ says, her voice mostly fritzing to nothing over the sound of his human his human his human, “well, I’ll make sure to play it one more time just before I sign off, too! Tracks, I hope you’re listening honey! Here comes one of Stevie Wonder’s best, just for you: I Just Called To Say I Love You!”
The music starts to play, and Tracks is finally cognizant of the rush of energon to his cheeks, the way he’s absolutely overheating. Mirage is half leant over him, prying open his vents manually to avoid whatever crash he was rocketing towards, and he tries to thank him. He’s pretty sure it comes out a pathetic garbled mess, but something tells him he’ll be forgiven. The song is beautiful, sweet and yearning and the lyrics–it's a love song, and no amount of self doubt can say otherwise.
Tracks barely stifles what may have been a whine or even a sob at the idea of Raoul loving him–Raoul, loving him!–so much that he walked all the way to a radio station two miles away in waist-deep snow just…just to make sure Tracks knows he loves him. Just to let him know that he’s still okay and missing him every day, no matter how high maintenance he is. Primus, he’s going to fall into a reboot, he just knows it. Mirage is rubbing his servos trying to help ground him, his derma ticked into a smile while Hound has finally begun to uncurl in his seat.
“How does it feel being an organic’s girl, Tracks?” Huffer asks, his tone just on the edge of hostile; it barely cuts through the way his vents and fans are still overclocking just to get him back to normal temperatures.
“It's not like he could've said anything else,” Prowl interjects as Mirage bristles with indignation, sharp and to the point. “On this planet at this time? He would be putting his life at risk.”
Apparently that’s enough to discourage anyone else from talking. Or it could be the way Jazz is smiling at everyone with just a little bit too much denta present, just enough of a threat to make anyone else who takes issues with mech and organic relationships to back off. Given that he’s a friend of Bumblebee’s, their resident xenomorph-fragger, it makes enough sense.
The song is coming to a slow, sweet end when Blaster catches his optics across the room, flashing him a quick grin and giving him a thumbs up as he gestures at his tape deck; he recorded it, then, and will have it on a data stick as soon as he’s got a chance to convert it. The thought makes him smile like an idiot, but Mirage is smiling at him too, happier for him than he is smug, and maybe. Maybe Tracks finally found someone who will stay.
“Once again that was I Just Called To Say I Love You by Stevie Wonder. Next up to follow this lovely theme is Nothing's Gonna Change My Love For You," she says, then clears her throat. “And Tracks, hon, I hope you're listening, and if you are? You put a ring on that boy right now, you hear me?” A new song croons out of the speaker, and the room fills with applause.
Hound is running his vents in a deep, steady pattern that his frame absolutely does not require, trying his level best to keep from laughing, only staying upright by one of Mirage’s arms wrapped firmly around his waist; Mirage himself has gone back to looking smugger than Starscream when he’s covered in yellow paint transfers, which means Tracks is never going to live down all of their late night, early morning, noon-time, afternoon, or mid-morning conversations about how Raoul could never possibly love him.
Tracks resigns himself to it in order to try and ignore how flushed he feels at the various hoots and hollers around the room and, the worst of all, genuine congratulations from more than a few mechs. Primus he thinks he really is going to offline from it. Really his friend is owed at least a little smugness, he figures, even if he will maintain that nothing Raoul did was really outside the realm of platonic affection, if only to keep his pride.
“So, Tracks,” Mirage finally purrs, disrupting Tracks' thoughts before taking a long sip of engex to hide his smile, “do you think he meant that platonically?”