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It was a testament to the way Jazz had taught him the beauty of a simple step pattern of a terran dance that long after he was gone, it remained ingrained in his processor.
(1-2-3, pause, 5-6-7, pause)
Centuries had passed on Earth and still those steadying hands left imprints over his entire frame long after their time together had been severed so abruptly, long after the mech he loved so dearly returned back to the Allspark, long after the mecha that were left had scattered around the globe to hide as the Decepticons took over the planet.
Salsa had been a favorite of his partner's to dance to, among so many others. It was bright and joyful and romantic, like Jazz was. So they did.
It had been in their nights full of spinning and smiling, hand in hand, where Prowl had felt alive, free. It was where he had admired the way the mech moved those hips to a melody that was both too fast and slow enough to leave them breathless, flushed and happy by the end of it. Jazz had asked him to feel rather than follow protocol, to hold him close, to follow and lead as words and beats he'd only been acquainted to by name became a part of their shared habsuites.
With Jazz, Prowl learned how to follow the careful steps on how to love someone. It had gotten easier as time went on to lead with his spark, to trust. But now...he was alone, a coward, reclusive and lingering in a place that was not home; not when his light, his Sun, was gone.
The scars trailing over Prowl's spark opened again and again as memories of his first real dance partner, his love, his beautiful and brilliant and mischievous Jazz, flooded back through his processor, and he let them now. It just hurt too much not to.
So for the tiny scrap of comfort it brought him at sunset and on sleepless nights in the wastelands, for the facimile of hope it brought him that Jazz could be waiting for him, someday, he fought and survived and killed.
Prowl knew only he was to blame. So he would tear apart whoever he could find until there was nothing left.