Chapter Text
Spamton wakes up feeling better rested than he has in years. He feels warmer than he ever has in his bed at Queen’s mansion, more comfortable than the cold emptiness of his apartment could ever allow. Brain still half-asleep, he snuggles further into the solid weight that he’s currently pressed into, seeking to chase back the sleep that he had been dragged out of. That is, until said weight moves.
With a yelp, Spamton sits bolt upright, suddenly remembering what exactly he’s sleeping against. Sure enough, Tenna’s face is staring sheepishly back at him from below, as the CRT lies on his back and looks up at the salesman. Spamton feels his traitorous face heat up as he recalls his behaviour from what he assumes was this morning, and knows the blush is ever more evident on his snow-white skin.
“What the [[FUCK]] Tenna?!” He immediately goes on the offensive, and Ant’s face changes from a bashful smile to an over-the-top pout of offence in an instant (one which Spamton definitely doesn’t think is cute, thank you very much—And hey, the good news is, he’s not sleep-deprived anymore, considering all those weird and not-at-all true thoughts he previously had when tired-drunk have disappeared).
“Mind the censors!” Tenna scolds, sitting up himself, and woah hey why is Spamton practically straddling his lap how did he end up here. “And why are you getting angry at me??”
“I- Well, I-” Spamton tries to speak, but is now sufficiently flustered by his proximity to Tenna (no doubt because he’s so embarrassed at such an unprofessional position. Yep, Spamton G. Spamton, the type of person to get uncomfortable by unprofessionalism, that definitely sounds like him), and all that comes out instead is “[[Hot Singles In Your Area!]] agh- just, hold on a sec-” He awkwardly scrambles off and away from Ant in an attempt to put any sort of reasonable distance between them, pointedly looking away from the CRT’s screen and the smug smile that he knows is there. Spamton catches sight of Tenna’s tail flicking in the air, and how an extension-cord can look self-satisfied he’ll never know—But what he does know is that it’s bloody annoying.
Once he’s happy with the amount of space between the two, he takes a deep breath, runs his hand through his sleep-mussed hair, and begins again.
“I have an excuse for my… behaviour,” He rightly points out, turning to face Ant with what he hopes is an intimidating look on his face. “You on the other hand-”
“Hey, that’s not fair, I was helping you!” Tenna interrupts, crossing his arms in a frankly childish display. “You asked me to- to hold you, I was just doing what you asked!”
“Why??” Spamton asks, incredulity and exasperation evident in his voice. “I was drunk with sleep-deprivation, obviously any requests I had wouldn’t have been reasonable!”
“Well, that’s just it, isn’t it?” Tenna says, freeing his arms to grab hold of the end of his tail and fiddle with it. “You were so tired you looked like you were going to faint, and I- I mean, it seemed to help. I didn’t think it was that big of a deal…” He starts to shrink slightly halfway through his explanation, looking away from Spamton in a way that makes the salesman feel like a jerk. But really, ‘not that big of a deal?’ Of course it was a big deal! They had- cuddled (ew), in a very non-platonic nor business-partners way! Angel, what will Spamton’s benefactor think…?
Spamton groans, putting his head in his hands and willing the flush to get off his fucking face.
“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t think…” Ant says, after a few beats of silence, voice small and quiet, and Spamton suddenly feels very, very guilty.
“It’s not your fault, Tens,” Spamton sighs, looking back at the decidedly smaller Tenna to make sure the TV knows Spamton means it. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” And it was true, he hadn’t—It was all Spamton’s fault for letting himself be in such a weak position in the first place. If only he was able to sleep fucking normally-
“Why were you even that tired in the first place?” Ant asks him as if reading his mind, still quiet but not sounding completely dejected anymore. “A healthy sleep schedule is really important for a Darkner of any age.” Hah, don’t I fucking know it, Spamton thinks inwardly, fighting off the urge to let out a self-deprecating chuckle.
“I know, I know, I just…” Well, there’s clearly no way of hiding it now. But Angel above if this negatively impacts Spamton’s career in any way someone isn’t making it out alive. “I get really bad insomnia sometimes, is all. This was the first time I slept in nine days.”
“Nine DAYS?!” Tenna yelps, reaching out his hands and hovering them close to Spamton as if he’s in danger of collapsing at any second. “How are you even functioning?”
“[Don’t get your knickers in a twist], Tenna, I can go way longer without sleep than TV World Darkners,” Spamton says, swatting Ant’s hands away with a roll of his eyes. “Though, I’ll admit, that was one of the longest times I’ve ever gone without it. Hence the, uh, [Snuggle Bugs, The Cutest Kind!]” He winces at that particular choice of soundbite (it was from an old commercial, okay?! Not his fucking fault he’s a stupid Addison), before sighing again and dragging his hand down his face.
“Oh,” Ant relents, relaxing slightly, but still looking at Spamton concernedly. “How often does it happen?”
“Often enough for me to be used to it by now,” Spamton admits, leaning back into the couch to look up at Tenna more comfortably. “It’s handy sometimes, for [Burning The Midnight Oil?]. Still annoying as heck though.”
“I can imagine. Sleep deprivation is a common form of torture, after all,” Tenna says, in his infomercial voice, before glancing away from Spamton awkwardly. “And nothing helps?”
“Nope,” Spamton answers, popping the ‘p’, before looking away too and fighting back another blush. “Until uh, you know, you, that is…”
“Ah, I see…” Tenna says, failing to not sound flattered, and Spamton scoffs.
“You don’t have to sound so chuffed about it, y’know.” He mocks, raising his eyebrow so the CRT knows he’s teasing him, and Tenna’s screen immediately turns pink as he puts both his hands up defensively.
“I’m not!” He insists, like he’s outraged by the idea, but Spamton can see how he’s trying not to grow in size. They fall silent once more, Spamton stewing in his own dread, before Tenna poses the obvious question. “But, well, I mean, if you’ve found something that works finally, why not… just… do it?”
“Not a chance, [Buckaroo],” Spamton shuts down the idea immediately, forcing confidence and a suaveness into his voice that he doesn’t feel. He even throws in a cheery wink for good measure, grinning to himself at the way it makes Tenna’s antennae straighten. “Spamton G. Spamton doesn’t do cuddling; That was a [One-Time Exclusive] [Limited Time Offer] only.”
“Oh…” Tenna says again, and the disappointment in his voice makes Spamton do a momentary double-take. Sure, he knows Tenna enjoys touch and hugs—The way he’s constantly patting the shoulders of employees and ruffling various Darkner’s hair proves that enough—But Spamton didn’t think he’d wanna do that kinda stuff with him specifically, especially not frequently. After all, in most of TV World’s eyes, Spamton is still just a mailman. He’ll grow and become big eventually, his benefactor will see to it, but underneath it all, he’ll still be the same old sleazy, hack salesman from Cyber City. He’s got the charm, the ideas, but that’s about it—He’s needed someone bigger than him to help him every step of the way so far. At first it was the Addisons, then his benefactor, and now, Tenna himself. So the idea that the Lord of Screens would harbour anything but a mild curiosity for him was utterly laughable.
That must be it, then, Spamton realises suddenly. Tenna thinks of all his employees as his own little pets—Hell, the only ones he can really call friends are the Weather Duo, and even then, that’s pushing it. That’s all Spamton is to him; All he should be to him.
Still, something about this feels… different. Spamton glances at Tenna’s now even more shrunken than ever form, at how he’s only a head or so taller than the little salesman himself, and something in his chest area suddenly constricts painfully at the sight.
“Welp, gotta say, I did really need that,” He says, wanting to break the silence and hopefully change the subject to something more light-hearted and less ant-sized. He stretches his back out casually with a faux-yawn, drawing Ant’s attention to him. “How long was I out for, anyway?” Tenna perks up at the question, seeming to realise he’s being given an out here.
“Um, around 28 hours, I think.” The TV responds, tapping the bottom corner of his CRT head in thought, and Spamton feels his words like an ice-cold bucket of water to the face.
“28 HOURS???” He yells, sitting up properly in pure panic, and Tenna recoils slightly at the sheer volume of his voice. No wonder he felt so refreshed!
“…Yes?” Ant says, like it’s fine, like Spamton’s somehow being unreasonable. “You fell asleep at around nine yesterday morning, and it’s the staff’s lunchbreak now. Like I said, you seemed really tired, so I sort of just let you sleep while we finished the day yesterday and started today’s show. I covered the mail segment for you this morning, there wasn’t that much to read out.”
“Are you [[CHA-CHING!]]-ing me?!” Spamton shouts in a mixture of disbelief and exasperation, catching himself with a censor when he remembers he doesn’t particularly wanna piss of Tenna right now, especially after basically rejecting him. “I missed 28 HOURS of valuable airtime?!”
“Kris played video games practically all day yesterday, so you only really missed this morning,” Tenna says matter-of-factly, like that makes it any better, and at Spamton’s still-incredulous glare, he puts his hands on his hips like a 1950’s housewife. “You were midway to collapse Spam, what did you expect me to do?”
“I don’t know, maybe not let me sleep for over a day??” Spamton says, throwing out his arms. “I could’ve missed something important, like a gameshow, or- or an advertisement, we didn’t even get a chance to go over today’s schedule together yesterday, I had no idea what could’ve been going on-” The sound of laughter cuts him off, and he turns to glare more at the currently doubled-over CRT.
“S-Sorry, I just-” Ant chokes out when he sees the offence on the salesman’s face, shoulders still shaking slightly. He grows steadily as he laughs, and Spamton feels a small (and deeply buried) part of himself sigh with relief at the sight. “Gosh, I didn’t know you enjoyed your job so much, Spamton! Scared to miss even a few hours, huh?”
“WHAT no that’s- that’s not-” Spamton splutters out, face reddening considerably. “It’s not that, it’s just important- I mean, I have an image to maintain-”
“Awww, it’s okay Spammy~” Tenna purrs, and Spamton doesn’t think he means it to sound so sultry but it fucking does. “There’s nothing wrong with liking working with me so much, you should’ve said something sooner!” He pokes Spamton in the ribs playfully, which just makes Spamton feel even warmer in the face.
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it, Cathode!” He snaps, fighting off another poke, and no that’s not a whining tone in his voice shut up. “Ugh, you know what, screw you—I'm getting ready to work. You better not have cut my segments in today’s script!” He hops up off of the couch, ignoring the adorable childish giggles coming from the TV host behind him. Checking himself over, he sighs at the creases his impromptu slumber left in his suit.
“Don’t worry, I didn’t write you out,” Ant reassures him when he’s recovered from his laughter, standing up himself and walking past Spamton to lean on the wall beside the dressing room door. “I planned to just improv your parts myself if you slept past them.” Spamton huffs in response and rolls his eyes—Ant and his improv, he thinks, then frowns internally at the fondness of it.
“How are you so okay with this, by the way?” He asks, slightly suspiciously, as he joins Ant by the door. “I thought your whole motto is [[TV Time waits for no-one!]]” He shakes his hands in the air mockingly as he plays Tenna’s own voice back to him, having heard the television host say the phrase enough to his other employees to have it easily recorded into his system.
“It was,” Tenna says with a sly smile, clasping his hands behind his back mischievously in a way that puts Spamton instantly on edge. “I changed it.”
“You changed it.” Spamton deadpanned back. He crosses his arms casually, deciding not to leave the room just yet, and instead see where Ant’s going with this. He feels vaguely like he’s a part of one of Tenna’s comedy sets, waiting for the punchline to come.
“Yep.” The CRT confirms, nodding happily.
“To what?” Spamton asks dubiously, and Tenna’s smile widens into a grin which gives Spamton the distinct feeling that he’s been led into a trap.
“To ‘TV Time waits for no-one except cute, red-blazered mailmen!’” He sing-songs, leaning down to ruffle Spamton’s hair with his stupid, shit-eating grin, and Spamton growls as he ducks away from Ant’s gloved hand. Tenna laughs at him before flinging open the door and walking out, leaving Spamton to scramble to catch up to his much-taller co-host. The mailman curses himself for the hot flush that crawls up his neck at his boss’ fucking annoying antics, shoving the feeling down as they make their way to Spamton’s dressing room for him to change. He’s gonna have to work extra hard today, to make up for the lost time—He can only hope his benefactor didn’t call him while he was sleeping.
Suddenly, he feels much less well-rested than he felt when waking up in Tenna’s arms, and he fights back another sigh at the day he has ahead of him.
***
After the less-than ideal start, the rest of the day went surprisingly well for Spamton. Turns out, running on over a day’s straight worth of sleep after being unable to get any rest for so long is the equivalent of taking a shot of battery acid. He feels wired in the greatest way possible all day long, which is only enhanced by Tenna’s own obvious giddiness. They get some side-eyes from various Pippinses and Shadowguys as they trade jokes and act like giggly fools together, and Elnina even works up the courage to ask the co-hosts to tone it down slightly while on air—Apparently, they were speaking too “erratically” (and that’s a direct quote, folks!) for the live-audience teleprompter to keep up. Spamton performed so well today that even the ratings for his advertisements bumped up slightly, enhanced by the way he actually acted like an Addison for once—Manic gestures, wide grin and mile-a-minute words and all. Even his benefactor congratulated him, when they called him for the first time in a week; After they told him to get it together and to stop leaning on his boss so much, of course.
Anyway, the point he’s trying to make is, he had possibly one of the best days of his entire career at TV Time Studios today, and it was all because he got a good night’s (or rather day’s) sleep.
Which makes the fact that he’s lying awake now, after trying to drop off for a good four hours, all the more bitter.
It’s not like being unable to sleep is an unusual occurrence; It does normally take him a while. If he had to hazard a guess, he’d say he usually falls asleep at around 3am—Not ideal, per se, but it does mean he gets around five hours of kip most nights, six if he wants to chance Tenna being in a good enough mood to not mind if Spamton gets to the studio late. For a Cyber World native, that’s more than enough to be energised for the day ahead.
However.
Spamton got a full night’s sleep last night, more even, by sleeping with Ant. And after doing that, and knowing that he had been invited to do so again if he so wished by the big man himself, it feels even harder to lie here in the dark, waiting to fall asleep naturally.
He’s in his room at the studio tonight—mainly ‘cause it turns out Tens did actually have some paperwork for him to do that he held off on giving him because of his sleep-deprived state—and knowing that Ant’s room is only just a few hallways away from his own is fucking torture. Sure, he’s not exactly tired right now, not in the normal sense at least, but he still needs sleep. The last thing he wants to do is enter another cycle of insomnia, where he just gets even more exhausted with each passing sleepless night. And Spamton can already tell it’s gonna be one of those nights again this time ‘round—Can sense it by the way his brain is buzzing, even as his eyelids and limbs start feeling heavier the longer he lies there.
He doesn’t know what it was exactly about—well, for lack of a better, less embarrassing word—cuddling Tenna that sent him right to sleep the other day, but the thought of doing the same thing again makes his chest ache a little. It's at least worth another try, right? He knows that he told Ant there’s no way in Hell it would happen again, but he’s sure the CRT won’t mind him changing his mind, judging from his reaction to Spamton asking him to hold him last time. Plus, maybe if he’s lucky, Spamton can get in and out without waking Ant up—Sleep beside him for a few hours and then leave before the day starts. As much as it makes him feel like a bit of a creep thinking about it, it’d be worth it to avoid stroking the TV host’s already inflated ego. Also, the salesman does have an image to maintain—He's a raunchy, sleazy-but-charming Big Shot, the last type of person to enjoy cuddling. Cuddling is for soft-hearted, soppy, domestic (ew) Darkners, those content with their average, picket-fence little lives; Ones that fade into obscurity with smiles on their faces, ‘cause they never have any ambitions greater than finding the one and getting married and starting a family. Spamton’s better than that, he’s BIGGER than that, dorky TV presenters be damned. Still, if it’s for sleep...
He remembers the words of his benefactor—Stop depending on the Lord of Screens so much—and scoffs loudly in the silent room. He doesn’t depend on Tenna! If anything, he’s playing the trusting CRT for a fool. Spamton’s got Ant wrapped around his pinky finger, and all it took was a few award-winning smiles and charming winks. Heck, at this point, he could probably ask the TV for anything and Ant’d fold like a wet cardboard box. He’s even letting Spamton co-host some of the programmes with him on his precious TV Time, seemingly unbothered by the fact that Spamton’s only been working with him for a few months (“You’ve got a natural charm—Perfect for TV!” Ant had gushed when first propositioning the idea to Spamton, and the salesman feels himself smile uncontrollably just thinking about it), and if that isn’t a testament to Spamton’s stellar manipulation skills, he doesn’t know what is. So, it’s not like he’s depending on Tenna to help him sleep, really—He's just found yet another use for the clingy, insecure television. Plus, it’s not like it would become a regular thing; Just for when Spamton can’t sleep at all. If it was a normal night, where he would be able to fall asleep eventually even if it took him a couple hours, he wouldn’t even be considering going to Tenna.
Mind made up, and pointedly refusing to dwell on the eagerness to his movements, he tosses off his blankets and jumps out of bed. He takes the time to pull on his old, beaten-up sneakers (relics from his failing Addison days—He only wears his Oxfords out now, but keeps his sneakers for lounging alone), not wanting to walk around the studio in just his socks. He also pulls on his only sweater, a soft, cotton red one given to him by Yellow years go, which still manages to be incredibly comfortable. He can’t be bothered to change out of anything else; He finds his yellow drawstring shorts the most comfortable to sleep in anyway, and it’s not like anyone is gonna be up to see him (no, he’s not gonna comment on the fact that his sleepwear conveniently matches TV Time’s main colour scheme, shut up).
Now comes the difficult task of navigating through the halls of the studio in the dark. Luckily for Spamton, the accommodation rooms are all in the same area—Which includes the dressing rooms, Spamton’s bedroom, and the breakroom. Spamton got his own room when he first started working for Tenna, as much of his job as the mailman and the face for the ads was reviewing scripts, looking at contracts for promotions and signing waivers. Ant had told him that as a part of the production efforts for the broadcasts, it would be easier to have a place to stay in the actual building, instead of driving back to Cyber City late every night, and considering he usually got home at around four in the morning—which only left him with two hours before he had to start driving back again—Spamton was inclined to agree. However, he had been surprised when he was also assigned his own dressing room after signing on as a co-host, and Tenna’d had to explain that it was for make-up and dressing to have easy access to his person. Which makes sense now in hindsight, but Spamton had grumbled about having to split up his belongings at first, and “what was the point when he already had a freaking room?”
It doesn’t much matter now anyway, ‘cause at this point Spamton spends more time with Tenna in both his office and his dressing room (in a very non-weird way, he swears!) than he ever does in his own. Even the other staff knows that they’ll find the salesman wherever the CRT is and vice versa. He’s not sure when exactly they became so inseparable, and doesn’t really wanna think about it too hard ‘lest he starts feeling things, but one benefit it does have is that he now knows the way to Tenna’s room like the back of his hand. It still takes way longer than usual to get there though, both because he’s inching carefully through the darkness (yes, he knows that there’s walkway lights—they're tuned very low when it’s nighttime and he’s not chancing it, okay?! He’s had enough of tripping over his average-size-thank-you-kindly legs on normal circumstances, he’s not gonna up the likelihood like an idiot!), and because he has to avoid some Pippinses on the way—Turns out there’s still staff working this late (who knew? Not him), and he doesn’t particularly wanna be spotted heading to Tenna’s bedroom at 2am in his pyjamas. There are already enough rumours floating around from Ant’s obvious favouritism of him, rumours which Spamton is currently taking extreme measures to make sure Tenna never catches wind of, and he does not want to add fuel to that rapidly growing wildfire. Thank Angel the television’s too old-fashioned to know how to use Facebook, that’s for sure. It was a struggle even just teaching him how to use AIM on the mobile phone Spamton had gifted him, and they’re still working on what email is together. Annoying in terms of Spamton’s goal of modernising the studio, handy in terms of making sure his sensitive boss never even hears the word ‘#tennaton’ ever. And he means ever. Which unfortunately means he has to duck and cover into various supply closets and unassigned dressing rooms along the way.
As such, by the time he actually makes it to Tenna’s dressing room, he’s half starting to wonder if sleep is worth this much hassle. Welp, I’m here now, he thinks, pressing his fists into his stomach in a futile attempt to stave off the butterflies fluttering there. Might as well do this thing.
He has a split, heart-stopping second of remembering door locks exist, in which he panics because oh shit if Tenna locks his doors I’m gonna have to walk all the way back and STILL not get any sleep, before breathing a sigh of relief when the handle turns without stopping. He will have to have a talk with Tenna about safety and security in the morning though.
As quietly as possible, Spamton creaks the door open and peeks inside. The room is dark, but he can still make out the faint outline of the room—The dresser with the lights around the mirror that are currently switched off, Tenna’s rack of beloved outfits and costumes that he’s used in previous shows, and finally, the couch pushed discreetly against the wall which currently holds the large form of one sleeping CRT.
Spamton never really did understand why he got a bedroom while Tenna just chose to sleep in his dressing room. Being the King of his own world, it’s likely something to do with the fact that Ant gets enough sustenance from entertaining the Lightners—his main and only purpose in this world—than he ever could from actually sleeping, but that he still needs somewhere to power off and pass the time as he waits for his staff to get their forty-winks in. Still, as a physical Darkner, what makes Ant so different from his other staff? Don’t they also get energy from catering to the Lightners? Why do they need sleep, but Tenna doesn’t?
The salesman had tried asking Ant these kinds of questions, back when they first partnered together, but the TV host had just shrugged with an amused smile on his face and said he didn’t really understand it either. The fact that even Tenna, Lord of the Screens and one of the most powerful beings amidst all of the Dark Worlds, still doesn’t know the extent of his own powers and abilities makes Spamton’s head spin.
Anyway, the point is, Spamton knows that technically Tens isn’t exactly sleeping right now—He's moreso just powered-off. One benefit this has for Spamton is that it means Ant probably isn’t gonna wake up if the little salesman wriggles his way in beside him. Hopefully. If he’s lucky.
Creeping forward slowly and carefully while keeping his eyes glued on Tenna’s sleeping form (no he’s not nervous about Tenna waking up and spotting him—Why would he be nervous?? It’s not like the desperate TV would reject him or whatever, if anything, he’d beg Spamton to stay. He’s not having trouble breathing, you are!), Spamton gets close enough to hear the soft, faint whirring of Ant’s internal fans. Already, he feels the tension in his muscles relax at the sound, and he lets out a (definitely not fond) sigh as he looks at the CRT spread over the couch. He’s sleeping on his back, one arm resting on his stomach as the other dangles off the side of the sofa, fingers brushing the ground. His fifteen-foot form takes up the whole couch, despite the fact that the piece of furniture is already massive in comparison to a normal-sized Darkner. Spamton knows from experience that he himself has to scramble and struggle to get up and sit on the Tenna-sized couch, damned stupid short little legs unsuited for the scale that is Ant’s default size. He knows that Ant shrinks himself down several feet during the day, for the benefit of his staff, yet he still towers over the former Addison. Now, in this form, Spamton’s pretty sure he could fit his whole body on Tenna’s chest comfortably, and the idea makes his face flush slightly.
Deciding he’s had enough of staring at Tenna in the dark whilst the TV sleeps like a weirdo, he hesitantly approaches the CRT. Not wanting to risk the possibility of waking Ant by climbing onto his torso, he instead climbs up by Tenna’s side and sits on the edge of the cushion, his legs dangling over the TV’s hanging arm. This close to Ant, the warmth of his inner mechanics wash over Spamton’s body, and he gives up on being careful. He lies down and snuggles into Ant’s side, grabbing the CRT’s arm and moving it so that it wraps securely over and around Spamton’s body. Apparently sub-consciously, considering his screen remains black, Tenna shifts to face the mailman more, tightening his hold on Spamton’s body. The salesman startles for a second, before calming once he sees Ant’s still asleep. He huffs lightly, grabbing the front of Tenna’s shirt (which he apparently sleeps in, alongside his usual black dress pants, the freak) and using it to pull himself up closer to Ant’s face. He then tucks his head underneath Ant’s own, pressing his face into Tenna’s neck to inhale that same comforting smell of ozone. This means nothing, he thinks, even as his whole body relaxes to fit perfectly against the CRT’s. He closes his eyes as Ant’s warmth and cosiness surrounds him completely, already feeling the friendly tug of sleep pulling him under, and he sighs softly one more time before succumbing to its welcome embrace.
***
Tenna powers on at the usual time—6am on the dot. Yes, the studio day only officially starts at 8am, but there’s nothing wrong with being an early riser, if you ask him! The early bird gets the worm, as they say, and boy, do birds like worms. Ready to start the day, he clicks on his screen, only to startle when he feels an unfamiliar weight against his side. He looks down, fully prepared to jump up and start screaming depending on what he finds there, except- Oh. Oh!
The TV host immediately struggles not to grow in size when he sees the small, adorable form that’s tucked into his side. Spamton’s fast asleep, the feathers peeking out of the neckline of his casual sweater puffing up slightly with every inhale, and gosh- is he cooing?
He slaps a hand to his screen to stop the flower threatening to bloom out of his nose, not wanting to risk waking his co-host up. But he’s just so gosh darn CUTE, can you really blame him? Spamton clearly must’ve snuck in Tenna’s dressing room last night, unable to sleep and looking for comfort, despite telling Tenna yesterday that he didn’t like cuddles. Doesn’t like cuddles, my foot! The CRT thinks with a giggle, unable to suppress his grin at the sweet way in which Spamton is currently clutching his shirt in his sleep. It had been a welcome surprise to see that different, much clingier side to Tenna’s moody little mailman three days ago—The quiet, tired, but still undeniably darling way he had asked Tenna to hold him still making the television blush just thinking about it. He’ll admit, he had felt rather glooby when Spammy had told him it was a one-time exception, but now he knows for sure that Spamton was lying. I mean, who doesn’t like CUDDLES?!
Suddenly, Spamton shuffles slightly in his sleep, rubbing his face against Tenna’s collarbone like a cat, and Ant feels almost light-headed with giddiness. He giggles again, and moves to rest his screen on the salesman’s fluffy hair. He listens to Spamton breathe, in and out, in and out, feeling insanely happy in the presence of his perfect, sweet, snuggly little mailman. Though Tenna knows better than to call Spamton that to his face!
It feels an awful shame to get up now, not when he could wake Spammy doing so. And Spamton did say that he doesn’t get a lot of sleep usually—What right does Tenna have to make him miss out on a couple more hours of potential rest? The busy little salesman clearly needs it.
Mind made up, Tenna hums into Spamton’s hair, bringing up his other arm to stroke his feathers. Spamton whines softly in response, shuffling again as if to snuggle impossibly closer into Tenna, and the television host feels his heart swell impossibly more.
Scratch that early bird thing, he thinks happily. Worms are gross, anyway. Too wiggly, and they don’t have feathers—Which is a major design flaw, in Tenna’s professional and very experienced opinion. Yes, he’s not quite sure why he ever found appeal in early mornings, not when laying here with his favourite employee wrapped in his arms is an option.
Quickly, and slightly guiltily, Tenna presses a kiss into Spamton’s hair—his own little secret—and Spamton sighs softly in his arms, sounding more content and sweet than Tenna has ever heard him. The TV host really could get used to this.