Chapter Text
Holy fuck, Spamton wanted to die.
His little episode in front of the cafe was… something, to say the least. Spamton was not usually someone who lost his composure—but for that moment, on a brisk February afternoon, he’d well and truly let the mask slip. Knees against slightly wet pavement, gripping his now gravel-dusted sandwich like his life depended on it, all he could do was kneel on the concrete in the overcast chill and wait for death to take him.
…Or Tenna could find him while he was a sobbing mess. That too.
The last thing he remembered before now was sharp, nauseating humiliation. Of course Tenna had to see him like this. Of course he had to be the person to rush to his side! As if he needed to be infantilized any further…
It had to be the shock that made him black out, he figured; Spamton was also not easily startled, and it must’ve been that in the fear-filled haze he’d entered, a mere tap on the shoulder was enough to nearly give him a heart attack. Ignoring that Tenna’s tapping was more like a firm pat, of course.
When he came to, he found himself laid gently on one of the couches in Tenna’s office. A decorative cushion had been slipped under his head on its reverse side, and the blanket that once covered the back rest was now lovingly draped over his smaller frame; although the sudden softness confused Spamton, he let himself sink into the makeshift pillow and squishy couch cushions, almost purring like a cat. Something about whatever happened had totally drained him, and he barely had the energy to roll over; a certain weight settled in his chest that could only be described as hollow and unfeeling, sorrow wetting his eyes as he laid down.
It took him a good minute to even remember what landed him here, and when he finally recalled, his guts twisted uncomfortably and he instinctively curled up further into himself. A groan escaped his lips as he pulled his knees in as close as he could; hell was Tenna’s problem, bringing him in here like some sort of sick animal? He wasn't either one of those things! He was a grown-ass man who could fend for himself!
…The fuzzy feeling buried beneath all the dread seemed to suggest a different answer. Spamton indulged in the feeling for a moment, soaking it up like the sun’s rays—but when his usual instincts kicked back in, his stomach churned at the thought of being pampered like this again. Forget Tenna’s problem; if he was going to let himself submit, he clearly had screws loose in his own head!
Even still, though, he found himself curious as to what the cathode was up to. Probably humming to himself while proofing the ad reads or something, like the sweet little angel he was…
Asshole. He had no right to be that adorable; not even the privilege! Honestly, he should file a report to HR for indecency with the way Tenna’s gap moe mannerisms were making him feel. Did he even use gap moe right? The unofficial TV Time forums seemed to really like that phrase recently, and he thought he could glean the meaning of it well enough, but…
Bah, who gave a shit? What mattered was that Tenna needed to stop tempting Spamton’s hand—or rather, his lips—and do his work normally like a normal person!
…That wasn't fair to him, though, was it? He was whimsical like that. Prided himself on it, even! It was times like these that made Spamton curse their wildly clashing, nigh-incompatible presentations of autism; one would think they’d be doomed by their feelings on being touched alone, and yet here they were, dating for eight months. Back home in Cyber City, there were plenty of advertisements for dating sites that insisted opposites could still find love together, but Spamton never thought he’d be with someone this different from him, let alone want to be with someone so different. To try to mold Tenna into something more like him...
Would he even be the same person Spamton loved anymore? It sanded down everything that made Tenna unique, made him genuine and lovable, like a piece of plain white bread without its crust or chocolate hazelnut spread. If Spamton had ever let himself do that to him, he’d never forgive himself—not to mention how grody it felt to force Tenna to mask. He was supposed to be someone Tenna could be safe around; who he could truly be himself with, without any of the acting or the trying to pretend like he didn't have neurodiversities. Did the mere thought make him unworthy of Tenna’s love?
…Alright, this was getting ridiculous. Something about that whole ordeal at the cafe must've really stunted his inhibition, huh? Suddenly falling back into the waking world, eyes heavy and body unusually calm, Spamton rolled over and pulled himself up into sitting position, peering over the couch’s back rest to observe Tenna. Hilariously, he was doing exactly as Spamton guessed—humming to himself while looking over the ad reads, Spamton recognized the crinkles from shoving them haphazardly into his laptop bag—and it didn’t take much for him to be distracted, judging from the look he was now giving Spamton. There went his peace and quiet.
“…Spammy?” Tenna muttered, as if surprised. He got up from his office chair and slowly made his way to the couch Spamton laid on, leaning on top of the back rest to smile at his beloved.
“Finally back with us, I see.”
“Uh, yeah, guess so,” Spamton supposed in response, before gesturing at the arrangement he’d found himself in. “What’s the deal with… all o’ this?”
“Oh, you mean being snug as a bug in a rug? You weren’t looking so good earlier, so… I got you tucked into bed. You’re a real angel when you’re asleep, you know that?”
At hearing those words, Spamton choked on his own saliva, making an indescribable whimper-like noise that only served to fluster him more. That did not just come from his vocal chords. Nope. He didn’t react like that at all. Not. One. Bit.
He was not, as Tenna put it, snug as a bug in a rug! He was… he was… fuck, he had no comeback! This was exactly why Tenna wrote the jokes in the scripts, not him!
“You sure have a knack for proving me wrong, don't you?” Tenna teased as he watched Spamton flounder, giggling just a little. “That might be the least angelic thing I've seen from you in a while.”
“Shut up!” Spamton yelled, in a tone that was as tumultuous as his emotional state.
Tenna’s eyebrows (or rather, the upper edges of his screen) rose as Spamton laid back down, throwing the sheets over his head and shutting his eyes with a grumble. He was used to being teased, and used to having this sort of reaction, but he really wasn’t in the mood for banter right now. Maybe if he wasn’t grappling with what it meant to be a man in love, he might’ve taken it better—but for now, he really just wanted to curl up and die.
“…Was that too much?” Tenna asked tenderly, nothing more than a slightly muffled voice at this point.
A shadow was cast over what little light shone through the minky, TV Time-branded blanket, and Spamton knew he was being doted on; Tenna never seemed to know when to leave well enough alone, insisting (even if wordlessly) he could fix everything, even if he truly couldn’t. Honestly, the guy needed a therapist, but acknowledging that meant acknowledging Spamton also needed a therapist, and he didn’t exactly feel like facing those demons when he already craved sweet release.
“Yeah, [Read] the goddamn room,” he bit in response. “You knew enough t’know I [Wasn’t] at my best, so what made ya think…?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I just thought, you know, maybe it’d make you laugh…”
“‘Ppreciate it, but ya gotta use that [Noggin] o’ yours sometimes, Tens.”
“Sorry…”
“Stop apologizin’. Now, uh, s’about time I got back to—”
“Oh no you don’t!”
As Spamton threw the blanket off of him and tried to get up from the couch, large hands gripped his shoulders and restrained him, pinning him to the back rest and holding him there. Jesus Christ, what was the issue now…? He had work to do! He needed to get back to his office and—
“You’re not seriously saying you’re putting pedal to the metal after that tear-jerker during lunch, are you?”
“How else is your show [Gonna] hit viewer projections?”
“With a healthy, well-rested co-host!” Tenna cried, his grip intensifying. “If you think I'm letting you go back to work in your state, you’re horribly mistaken!”
Ugh. He really wasn't going to let up on that, was he? Guess there wasn't anything Spamton could do about it except bend to his will. Continuing to push it might anger Tenna, and boy, nobody liked Tenna when he was angry…
“Aight, fine, [You] win,” Spamton conceded with a sigh. “You expect me to keep sleepin’ the day away or somethin’? [I] ain’t gonna be able t’sleep all night if I do [That], Tens.”
“Oh… um… I didn't… think of that,” Tenna admitted. “Maybe you’d like being my advisor for the afternoon? There’s only a few hours left in our shifts, and I was going to use the computer, so…”
“Advisor, ‘ey? So what, [I] get t’watch ya do my work?”
“No, no! Though, if you wouldn't mind helping me send some e-mails, I would appreciate it a lot.”
As Tenna’s screen flickered—lord, how bright was it that he could tell from behind?—he patted Spamton’s shoulders and relinquished his hold on his partner, diverting his attention to getting his office chair set up at the computer desk for Spamton. That fact alone spoke volumes about how seriously Tenna was taking the whole thing; he never liked other people sitting in his favourite chair, or in his spot, for that matter. Spamton half-expected him to swap the chairs so Tenna got his good chair at the computer, but when all that followed was an arm motion beckoning him closer, Spamton cautiously pulled himself up from the couch and stumbled towards the back of the office.
Wow, was he ever still out of it. A strange, sorrowful weight carved through his chest and mind, fatiguing him in even the simplest tasks; it wasn't that he felt weak, though, just… sleepy. Unusually sleepy, despite the caffeine flowing through his veins. Honestly, a nap sounded amazing right now—but he had no time to slack off. Tenna needed his assistance, and if he could help it, he was going to get some of his own tasks done too.
Pulling out the luxurious-looking chair to sit in (it really was as comfortable as it looked, god damn), Spamton used his feet to shuffle up close next to Tenna, who was still logging in and getting Outlook open. It seemed like he’d been doing better with computers recently, and for that, Spamton was proud; he’d lost count of how many hours he’d wasted trying to teach Tenna how to open a ZIP file, or how to connect to dial-up internet. Sure, Windows 98 had a bit of a learning curve to it compared to older versions, but Tenna was outright bad with technology newer than, Spamton didn't know, 1992? So the fact he was finally picking up what Spamton had been laying down for months was a relief.
When Spamton caught a glimpse of the desktop wallpaper, his heart twinged just a tad, caught off guard. Tenna hadn't been taught how to personalize the damn thing, so when he noticed it was set to a photo of the two of them on New Year’s Eve, grinning so brightly he was shocked the photo wasn't overexposed and embracing each other before a display of fireworks, he found himself struck by nostalgia when he least expected it.
Good god, just how hammered were they that night? In what other circumstance would Spamton let himself be cradled in Tenna’s arms like a fucking toddler?! Before he knew it, his face was a bright red—and its glow cast onto the CRT monitor, drawing Tenna’s attention. Fuck.
“Aww, come on Spammy, it’s not that embarrassing!” he teased, smiling as he booped Spamton’s nose. Oh, this guy knew. Asshole.
“That was such a fun night! How could I not want to look at it every time I use this dang thing?”
“We’re alone in this office, [You] can say damn,” Spamton sighed. “Just didn't think ya had the know-how t’set a [New] background.”
“Oh, I didn’t! I made a… Google search?” Tenna explained as he opened the command line and slowly picked away at the keyboard. Looked like he was using the cd command to go into Netscape’s installation directory and running the program by typing the full name of the EXE file—completely obsolete by this point. Did Tenna even realize? Did he think all those desktop shortcuts were just for show?
“Damn, didn’t [Know] ya had the know-how for that,” Spamton remarked, surprised. “I definitely didn’t teach [Ya] how t’do that.”
“That’s because Battat did! Said I could find more information on ratings that way, and… well, the rest is history! Or should I say, search history?”
“‘Course you’d turn it into [Some] cornball joke.”
“Is that not my job?”
“Look, it is, just…”
Spamton couldn't help but chuckle at the cheesy quip, face heating up uncomfortably as he did. Ohh, he truly did love Tenna for everything he was, even if it pissed him off or made him cringe…
“[Let’s] get workin’, why don't we?”
“Fine by me!”
With that, Tenna pulled further into the desk and stopped bantering, tabbing into Outlook to start his afternoon tasks proper.
Sitting with Tenna in silence, knees pulled up on the seat of his chair as he watched his partner click away at electronic forms and slowly peck at the keyboard to write emails, Spamton felt… soothed. He wasn't the kind to think of himself as little or dependent on others, but in that moment, he found himself in catharsis. Like drinking warm milk before going to bed.
Like sitting with his older brothers while they carried on with their workdays, in the days before Spamton entered the world of advertising, being cared for and taught how to sell a product by example. Oh, for things to be that simple once more…
Maybe, even if just for this moment, things were that simple again. He’d fallen quiet as he watched Tenna work, a completely uncharacteristic thing for him to be—he was one to keep talking, keep moving, keep up the neurotypical act—but somehow, he didn't mind it. Was this what it was like to have a meltdown? To need to recuperate for once in his life? To be given the space he needed to pull himself back together?
To be given the space to not be okay?
He didn't know. Perhaps, for once, that was alright. He’d already blown his image in front of all those people, so he could afford to let his guard down in private. Have a cheat day. Just him and Tenna, sitting together at the computer while Tenna worked, feeling… loved. They were sitting together, enjoying each other’s company, and yet neither of them were engaging with the other all that often—an arrangement that, in any other circumstance, with any other person, Spamton knew would make the both of them feel awkward and like they needed to fill the silence between them.
What did the autistic communities online call it again? Parallel play? Body doubling? Whatever it was, he… liked it. He wouldn’t mind more of this. Maybe, when he was feeling more like himself, they could arrange to work on their tasks in the same physical space together—but that wasn’t a question he felt like popping right now. He’d save it for a more ample time, when Tenna wasn’t busy playing caretaker for his sorry ass.
Spamton hummed contentedly and leaned towards Tenna, closing his eyes and allowing himself to sink into the CRT. Armrest be damned—image be damned—he was going to allow himself to snuggle in, even if only for a moment. When his head hit Tenna’s shoulder, he felt the other man jolt in his seat and tense up, but that tension quickly undid itself as Tenna calmed back down and leaned back in towards him.
“Did you want to move somewhere more comfortable?” Tenna asked as his screen flickered briefly. “You must still be sleepy, Spammy. I can tell.”
Spamton's cheeks went hot, but he was able to keep himself fairly composed in the face of embarrassment. This was a cheat day, remember? He was allowed to be vulnerable right now. He was allowed to be more tender.
“[I] mean, [If] ya wouldn't mind,” he answered in a low mumble, “but’cha got emails t’write still. Why don’tcha get [Those] finished up first?”
“I really should, shouldn't I…? Oh, but I wanted your help with one first.”
Tenna tabbed back into Outlook and clicked the button to draft a new email, a new window opening up for the task. Shooting an awkward, sheepish look at Spamton, he clicked into the recipient field and…
“…uh, what’s Pink’s email again?”
Fuck off. Of course.
“Uh… well, first off, I [Guess] there’s no gettin’ outta this one?” Spamton began, unamused.
“Unfortunately not. I don't want to air anything I don't understand. Especially when it’s something so… contentious, you know?”
“[Yeah], yeah, I get it, [Ya] don’t get the divorce business.”
“What is there to get? It’s promoting… hate and spite on the loveliest day of the year!”
“An’ there’s a [Market] for that! Not everyone’s head o’er heels for a bad bitch like you are!”
“A what?! S-Spammy, don’t call yourself that!”
“Relax, Tens, it just means I’m hot!”
“Do you need a fan, or—”
“ATTRACTIVE, Tens.”
“Oh! R-Right! It does mean that, doesn’t it…?”
Tenna chuckled awkwardly in the same way he would when the cameras were rolling, straightening his tie and clicking aimlessly in the new email window to presumably feign some semblance of composure. It was almost eerie how fast he could snap into showbiz mode—he could be tender one minute, but say the wrong thing and the act would come back on, and with it, the distance between him and his peers would lengthen. It made having honest, vulnerable conversations with Tenna difficult, but Spamton seemed to be the only one who could successfully break through the act, and he prided himself on it. Who else could say they had the Lord of Screens at their beck and call?
…Well, it wasn't entirely like that, but it was special regardless. Getting Tenna to pour his heart out was a tall task.
“You, uh, never told me what his email was, Spam,” Tenna finally muttered nonchalantly, as if it were a mere sidenote and not the current major task looming over the Valentine’s special’s production.
“[Right]. Think it’s… [email protected]?” Spamton answered, leaning over Tenna to type the address into the recipient field. When he pressed the Enter key, the address automatically changed to instead display Pink’s full name—a sign they had the right one.
Pink Addison…
“[God], what I wouldn't give t’wipe [That] surname off my docs.”
“Hey, nothing says you can’t be a Tenna one day!” Tenna smiled, taking back control of the keyboard as he picked at keys to write a brief greeting. He’d neglected to use capitalization, perhaps due to his inexperience with computers; Spamton shook his head and accepted that was something he’d have to correct before it got sent off.
…More importantly, did Tenna just suggest…?
“But, that’s your name,” Spamton fired back. “[Everyone] calls ya Tenna. Ain't much of a [Last] name now, is it?”
“It technically is!” Tenna replied, slightly defensive.
He paused to type more of his email—an unprofessional mess that was more word vomit than a proper request for… what, a meeting? Was that the end goal? Hopefully, they could just do it over the phone; Spamton barely remembered the last time he saw his brothers in person—and it was better that it stayed that way.
“Doesn't… doesn't everyone know that’s my last name?”
“Not [When] you’re usin’ it as your first,” Spamton told him bluntly, resisting the urge to start correcting Tenna’s hasty mistakes. “I mean, fuck, [I] sure don’t think about it that often.”
“Oh… but my point still stands! Spamton G. Tenna! Doesn't that sound sublime?”
Tenna swooned, and a flower petal or two popped forth from the tip of his nose. Jeez, what a sap.
“It sounds [Corny] is what it sounds like,” Spamton sarcastically remarked with a series of unwilling shrugs. Damn it, must've been waking up enough to start motor ticcing again.
Of course, he wasn't about to admit the idea of taking Tenna’s name made his heart soar. That was too vulnerable; he was already showing a side of himself to his partner that he preferred no one knew of.
“Like Spamton G. Spamton sounds any better!” Tenna playfully argued, a grin cracking through a brightly glowing screen—tells of honest euphoria. “Seriously, what were you thinking just repeating your first name twice?”
“Look, a [Man’s] gotta have a recognizable brand,” Spamton explained as he puffed his chest. Or tried, anyway; he was still too tired to fully sell the confidence.”[Ya] think Spamton Addison cuts it? No!”
“That’s why Spamton Tenna is… no, you need the G in there,” Tenna tried to insist, losing at his own game. “What’s that stand for, anyway? You never told me, and I’ve been wondering…”
“Huh? Never thought about it. Generosity, I [Guess]? Guh-Spamton?”
Tenna burst into laughter moments after the latter suggestion, doubling over in his seat and accidentally typing a bunch of mmmmmmms as he slammed the keyboard in his fit of humour. It couldn’t have seriously been that funny, but Spamton wasn’t about to complain.
After all, it let him see Tenna smile.
“Ahahaha, there’s no way!” he exclaimed jovially, gasping for air. “Seriously? Spamton Guh-Spamton Spamton?! You’re just repeating it three times?!”
“[Again]. Brand recognition, Tens,” Spamton smirked, stifling laughter of his own. Hard not to want to join Tenna in his uncontrollable giggling; the guy’s positivity had a habit of rubbing off on others easily.
“People, [They] pick up on patterns. Ya [Want] ‘em to buy somethin’, you gotta plant the seeds in ‘eir heads first!”
“Uh-huh. So it’s a marketing tactic, you say?”
“[When] you’re in a pinch, what’s [The] first name ya think of? If ya keep repeatin’ Spamton, they’ll think o’ Spamton! Spamton [G]. Spamton, number one [Rated] salesman o’ 1997! Ya see the vision?”
“I… I guess? Like how the show’s called Spamton and Tenna’s TV Time, but we call it TV Time on everything?”
“Ehh, not quite, [But]’cha got the right idea.”
Spamton waited for a response, but none came. Instead, Tenna took back to the computer, mashing Backspace to delete his accidental spam and continuing to draft out the email. It didn’t take long, though it did contain more small talk than Spamton thought was necessary so far; Tenna was a guy who tended to try to get friendly with others, and he wasn’t great at filtering it out of his professional work. Maybe it was because he didn’t have a whole lot of friends outside the studio. Spamton had a feeling that might’ve been why.
He knew Tenna’s feelings on Pink, though. This brand of small talk was just to stay on good terms. Couldn’t keep sponsors if he started getting short with them—and lord knew Tenna could get really, really grumpy with people he wasn’t fond of.
Eventually, Tenna finished writing and turned back towards Spamton, taking his cheek in his hand and caressing it gently. Tenna’s nose brushed against Spamton’s, and he lingered on the touch for a moment, nuzzling in further; the tip of his nose nearly poked Spamton’s eye, but he wasn’t too bothered, instead allowing himself to be nuzzled.
It was something they occasionally did while at home together—Tenna would pull Spamton close, and the two of them would snuggle while their noses hugged one another, brought together by an almost magnetic pull. Oftentimes, it ended with Spamton getting pollen in his eye when Tenna would inadvertently sprout a chrysanthemum from how loved he felt, but despite how it made him itch, he never tried to pull away when Tenna wanted to nuzzle. He never tried to separate, instead letting Tenna lead the way and set the timer. It was… comfortable this way, so why put a premature stop to a good thing? Why deprive himself of Tenna’s boundless affection?
He felt flustered—embarrassed, even—but the gesture placed a soothing weight on him that he didn’t want to let go of. Being as emotionally exhausted as he was, Spamton needed a pick-me-up if he thought he was getting through the rest of the day, and this was exactly the kind of goodwill that fit the bill. The warmth against the bridge of his nose was so comforting, he almost wanted to snuggle in further—
—and then that damn flower popped right into his eye. Thank god he had them closed this time.
“S-Sorry…!” Tenna cried, pulling away and nervously wringing his hands. “I—I didn’t mean it! It just—…”
“Nah, you’re good,” Spamton half-lied to assuage Tenna’s worries.
It wasn’t like he was pleased with getting a flower in his eye again—but he couldn’t deny that it made his heart pound a little harder in his chest. It was the most honest display of love Tenna could give, after all.
Just thinking about that embarrassed him deeply, though. It was a cheat day, sure, but that didn't make processing his feelings any easier—so he tried to think about something else, like…
“[You’re] done that email now?”
“Yeah, just need you to go over it… That alright?”
“Sure thing. Gimme that, and…”
Spamton tried to push Tenna out of the way—which wasn’t successful, mind you, Tenna was a CRT—and took his position at the keyboard, skimming over the contents of the email to check what was actually being said:
good afternoon! i’ve processed your ad for the valentine’s special, and you’re mostly good to go! there’s just one teensy snag i’d like to consult with you about. any chance we could meet up before the big day? my schedule is most free on the 13th, but let me know what works best for you! hope you’ve been well, by the way; i’ve heard it’s busy over there! careful not to get trampled by all the lovebirds downtown!
regards, mr. (ant) tenna
…Yeah, it could use some work.
“Okay, [First] off, ya gotta add some line breaks,” Spamton explained as he clicked around the email and hit the Enter key. “This is just… unreadable.”
“L-Look, I’m not that good with computers, okay?” Tenna tried to defend himself, frowning embarrassedly. “That’s why I have you around for this stuff.”
“[I] know. You’re lucky I [Enjoy] this kinda work.”
Spamton fell silent as he went through and painstakingly corrected the grammar in Tenna’s draft, sifting through the block of text swiftly by holding Ctrl and using the arrow keys. Being from Cyber World, Spamton was especially well-versed in computing; sure, he couldn't code, but he could get around Excel with ease. In this day and age, proficiency in spreadsheets was becoming more important—something even Tenna recognized, as he'd asked Spamton to keep track of certain budgets that way; word processor skill was less of a concern, but proved itself helpful enough that Spamton was granted his work laptop, making him the first of the studio’s employees to have one.
The email was already looking cleaner with just those simple changes. Leave it to the guy who literally was an email to save the day, ‘ey?
“…Aight, [That] should do it,” Spamton concluded, alternating between mashing the P key and Backspace while he thought of what to do next. He knew what needed to get done, but how was still up in the air. Skimming over the email once again, he highlighted the last few sentences in the body paragraph and deleted them, making it a barren, slightly soulless message that reeked of the average overly positive corporate manager.
“[Ya] just gotta clean up this small talk ‘ere. [Ain’t] a soul who cares to hear it, and I [Know] he certainly doesn't.”
“What? But isn’t that how you…?”
“If ya wanna sound like some gaudy schmuck, [Then] sure. He’ll see [Right] through it, though.”
“I am not gaudy! I am friendly! Know the difference!”
“[Yeah], an’ you’re bein’ friendly with a guy who probably wants t’see ya dead. Ya don’t [Gotta] pretend to like ‘im, Tens.”
“What, so you want me to go mask off then?”
“No! I'm just sayin’ you’re [Allowed] to be a li'l cold for once!”
Sighing, Spamton took back to the keyboard and made his own addition to the email, a short, hastily written addendum specifying what the problem in question was. He thought it slotted in fine—but Tenna seemed to disagree, reaching over for the keyboard from beside him.
“We would like to speak with you about the logistics of airing an ad about divorce on Valentine’s Day… Spammy, this sounds nothing like me,” Tenna said to himself as he deleted Spamton's much-needed addition to the email.
“At least let me write it in my own words.”
“Sure,” Spamton agreed, leaning back to allow Tenna more room. “[Just] make sure it’s in there to begin with.”
“That’s fine. One moment…”
It almost pissed Spamton off how slow Tenna was at typing. Sure, he didn't know how to type properly—he had never been taught, a failure on Spamton’s end—but it was like he was picking at a touchscreen, for God’s sake! Maybe if he gamified it, made Tenna sit in front of some shit like Mario Teaches Typing or Jumpstart Typing, he’d finally pick up the pace a little!
But that was expecting perhaps a little too much out of the CRT—it was a miracle he’d made it as far as he had. Why not celebrate the progress he had made, instead of berating him for what he still didn't know?
He could think about it later, shove it underneath the more pressing topic of his masculinity and come back to it in… say, a few months? Who knew, maybe Tenna would start using proper typing form by then! As long as he was getting the job done, though, it was fine for now—and he’d done exactly that, having created a much more compact message:
Good afternoon!
I’ve processed your ad for the Valentine’s special, and you’re mostly good to go! There’s just one teensy snag I’d like to consult with you about—I’m concerned about airing an ad promoting heartbreak for the occasion.
Any chance we could meet up before the big day? My schedule is most free on the 13th, but let me know what works best for you!
Regards,
Mr. (Ant) Tenna
Much better. It still might not impress Pink, but it was at least competent. Professional.
“See, Tens? [You] got it,” Spamton remarked with a smirk, taking hold of the mouse and clicking Send before Tenna had the opportunity to even begin fretting over the email. God knew how anxious he got; if he didn’t take hold of the situation now, Tenna would be sitting for at least half an hour reading the message over and over again. He’d seen it happen before—and he wasn’t allowing it to happen now.
“H-Hey! You didn’t even give me the chance to—”
“[Yeah], exactly. [You] and I would both be sittin’ ‘ere for an [Hour] if I let you give it ‘one last look-see,’” Spamton cut him off. “Now say the words, you know ‘em.”
“…Thanks, Spam,” Tenna conceded, looking away.
A petal fluttered from out of nowhere onto the computer desk, and Spamton smirked even wider. Even though he’d turned off his screen, Tenna couldn’t hide all the evidence of his gratitude; it flickered between powered states in tourettic fashion, eventually resurfacing with a face that tried to seem unbothered, but was plastered with a wobbly half-smile anyway. Seeming like a deer in headlights as he tried to recompose himself, he grabbed Spamton’s chin and quickly turned it towards him, leaning in quickly to plant a kiss on the bridge of his nose.
Asshole.
“Tens, if you’re tryin’a distract me from the hard facts, [You’re] doin’ a horrible job,” Spamton said as his face flashed warm.
“L-Look, I can try, okay?” Tenna pouted in response, covering his face. Why he did that when he had no eyes to cover was beyond Spamton, but hey, if it made the big guy feel better…
Or maybe he shouldn’t be calling him big guy. He’d already slipped on that front once or twice, and he’d seen the consequences of it in Tenna’s eating. Rework it into something else, like…
“Guy thinks he’s such a fuckin’ big shot,” Spamton blurted out under his breath. When he realized what he’d done, he swore loudly and curled up into himself, chair spinning away from Tenna before the armrest hit the end of the table and sent him back around to face his partner. What an embarrassing slip of the tongue.
“And what if I am?” Tenna teased, putting a hand on Spamton’s shoulder and giggling to himself. “You’re the one always saying you are—and if you’re a big shot, then I must be one too!”
“Shut up!” Spamton yelled, flustered. “[We’re] both big shots, how ‘bout that? ‘Cause clearly [I] ain’t the one—”
Ding! You’ve got mail!
The abnormally loud, computerized voice startled both Spamton and Tenna alike, and they turned their attention to the main Outlook window, which had brought itself back into focus; a new, orange-highlighted email had appeared at the top of the inbox, a reply from none other than Pink. Jesus Christ, did the guy sit on his ass between customers or something? So much for fighting tooth and nail to make a name for himself…
“…That was fast,” Tenna muttered in surprise, shooting a look at Spamton to presumably see his reaction. Not that it was very interesting—he was disgruntled, and definitely showing it. He was painfully aware of how his eyebrows had furrowed, how an unamused frown had made its new home on his face; he was never going to like hearing from his brother, especially Pink, but the swift response somehow pissed him off even more than if it had taken even half an hour.
Sighing, he watched as Tenna took control of the mouse and clicked the digital letter open:
yeah i have time on the 13th. you mind coming in the morning? anything before 12 works, just ring my cell when youre there. ask my sister for the number. address is on the addis website. thanks
“…Sister?” Tenna asked no one in particular. He made a face that mimicked furrowed eyebrows and stared at the email blankly, tilting his head after a moment of dumbfounded silence.
“Did you never… come out to your brothers or someth—”
“I DID! [DON’T] fuckin’ push it!”
The rage boiling in Spamton’s veins was more potent than anything he’d felt in a long, long time. Of course. Of course! Of course Pink would take the opportunity to misgender him, and in front of his partner no less! Why wouldn’t he? Bastard had no respect for him, or his identity, or all the work he’d put in to become himself! Oh, it incensed him so badly, he could…
Well, it started an episode of shrugging, that was for sure. Fuck right off with that shit.
“Oh, so he’s doing that on purpose,” Tenna figured, his voice suddenly dropping into a stern, displeased tone.
The air in the room suddenly became ten degrees warmer, and smoke began to billow faintly out of Tenna’s vents. He curled his hands into fists and gripped the mouse with concerning strength, clicking Reply and staring at the empty new window while taking slightly exaggerated deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself.
Tenna was mad.
“You know, Spammy, some people in this world don’t deserve kindness,” the CRT began after seething quietly. “Your brother—if he even deserves to be called that—is one of them.”
“Trust me, Tens, I’ve [Been] sayin’ this for years!” Spamton exclaimed, his cathartic mood immediately shot dead in Cyber City.
“[No] one wants t’listen to me, [But] it’s true! An’ Blue keeps sayin’ how oh, [Blood’s] thicker than water, but I don’t buy that shit [One] bit! God bless ‘im, but he can fuck right off with that!”
Oh, he’d show them. He’d get so big, reach Heaven through nothing but sheer guts and determination—and when his brothers eventually came begging for his financial assistance, he'd laugh. He’d laugh so hard he’d double over and lose his breath, spit on the ground they knelt on and tell them all no. Wouldn't that be divine, to flip the script on them?
“Honestly, the way he’s acting, I've half a mind to scrap the whole segment,” Tenna angrily admitted, pouting as he began to pluck away at the keyboard. God, he must've meant business if he was taking the time to use proper capitals this time.
“No, no, [Let] ‘im talk,” Spamton declared, adopting a look of determination. “Let ‘im chirp all he wants. He’ll [Learn] his lesson when we shut ‘im down face-to-face.”
“You’re… sure about this?” Tenna asked him hesitantly, turning to him and taking hold of his hand.
“If he's doing—” Tenna gestured to the computer— “this over email, I worry what he’ll do in person.”
“Oh [Believe] me, I'm used to this. It’ll be jus’ fine.”
Spamton wasn't about to admit he was terrified.
Not about being harmed, no—he feared his deadname coming out. He feared Pink would gleefully show off old photos of Spamton, from before he transitioned. He feared Tenna would meet [!@#$], the jaded, cynical saleswoman who did nothing more than waste space by existing; who once stood at the edge of her balcony, praying to whatever god existed to free her of her mortal shell, before discovering HRT and molting into Spamton. Did the possibility humiliate him? Anger him?
…No, the answer was much worse. It invalidated him. Emasculated him in such a horrific, intimate manner that he’d sooner slit his throat. What worse way to be made less of a man than to have those around you reminded what you really were? That you were hardcoded as a woman, merely mutilating yourself to be an imitation of the superior sex?
Suddenly, Spamton felt like he might throw up. Whether that was because he foolishly ingested the gravel stuck to his food or because he felt so ill at the notion of being outed further, he didn’t know—all he knew for sure was the taste of heartburn that slid down his throat as he swallowed back the nausea, gulping louder than he meant to and catching Tenna’s attention.
He had to hold it back. He had to look… tough. Competent. He could handle this. He could—
“…Spammy, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Spamton snapped, unbefitting of a calm and composed attitude.
Tenna recoiled slightly at the harsh words, uncomfortable silence lingering between them before he frowned and turned back to the computer. He began to fidget with his hands, and something in Spamton… sank when he laid eyes on it. A certain kind of dread—of being stuck between a rock and a hard place, slashing even those close to him with the dagger he brandished as a means of self-defence. Friend and foe alike fell victim to his standoff-ish behaviour when he felt threatened; he normally didn’t care, no, not even a little! But seeing Tenna react like that, after the beautiful, heartwarming time and affection they’d shared between each other even half an hour ago…
Spamton wanted to let his guard down so badly—to trust him with his most vulnerable self, in the face of meeting with his unaccepting brother once more—but he physically couldn’t. In this moment of time, he couldn’t let himself be anything less than a man. God knew it was only going to get worse as the day approached.
He waited for Tenna to say something, anything, to break the silence—but nothing came. The still air between them was deafening. All of this bullshit over a stupid ad about divorce jewelery… Who’d have thought? And here he was, being a fucking bitch to his partner over it. Yeah, sure, he might have objectively had his reasons, but it didn’t excuse this behavior!
And yet, all he could do was be a fucking bitch to the people around him. He couldn’t help it. His emotions always got the best of him in times like these.
Still, he should do something to fix this. Something, anything, to ease Tenna’s anxieties—to avoid trashing all the goodwill he’d been given throughout the day; to be there when Tenna struggled, much as Tenna was there for him. Spamton tried to will himself to patch things up properly, with a hug or something, but all he could muster (and barely, at that) was…
“…M’sorry.”