Chapter Text
“Oh, Spa-a-mton~! You’ve got MAIL!”
A singsong, distinctly Tenna-esque voice muffles from outside the changing room. Spamton G. Spamton—resident Big Shot, businessman, and “ad-guy”—barely hears it over the mountain of paperwork surrounding him. He’s got about two seconds to straighten his back and blink out of his stupor before the door clicks open. “Oh, it’s so dark in here! No wonder you’re always so broody!”
“Yeah, yeah Tenna, laugh it up. It helps me focus.” He doesn’t even look up as he hears the TV approach his desk. Spamton gestures vaguely off to his side. “You can put whatever bill you got over there.” He hears Tenna tut before a sleek red envelope is shoved into his face.
“Now, now! I wouldn’t be delivering mail to my own mailman if it weren’t important! I believe,” Tenna starts, as Spamton grips the fragile envelope, “that you’ve just got your first FAN MAIL!”
Fan…mail…? He’d only made his debut recently!
His eyes widen as he stares down at the little message.
It's a violent hue of red, drastically different from the dazzling shade the duo usually wore onstage. There’s a strange, homemade quality to it, however: small divots and scratches pockmark the paper. Spamton could just barely make out the scrawled words up front. “Kindly check the attached love letter from me.” He stares, incredulously, before his eyes flick to Tenna’s screen. “Angel above, are all the TV World residents so old fashioned?”
“HEY! Don’t you call my Dark World old-fashioned! And besides, it’s from Cyber City. Not us.” Tenna leans forward even further, casting a shadow over Spamton’s desk. “Open it! I wanna see what they’ve written! Aw, Spammy’s first letter…”
“Alright, alright, cool your circuits. And knock it off with the pet name.” He tears open the envelope, revealing a folded white sheet. As he reaches to slide it out, something small shoots up his arm.
“AGH! SOMETHING’S ON ME! GET IT OFF!” Instinct took over and he was flailing around before he even knew it. He screeched as he felt small legs skitter wildly across his body. Tenna could only watch the scene helplessly, hands hovering. “WHAT THING?! W-WHERE?!”
Spamton felt the creature crawl down his arm, before settling on his hand. It had a neon pink, pixelated sheen, and seemed almost… cute? He abandoned that train of thought when he felt a sharp pinch and slapped it to the ground, where it lay curled. Motionless, it no longer glowed as it had moments ago. The mailman slumped in his chair, staring down, panting hard. He felt woozy. He shouldn’t be out-of-breath from that, should he…?
“Spamton? What was that?” He turned towards Tenna, only to be met with… oh.
Tenna leaned over him, arms propped on the desk. The dim light overhead framed his face like a halo. A soft, radiant glow emanated from his screen, displaying his poorly masked confusion. Concern tugged his mouth into a frown as he gazed downwards upon Spamton’s small form.
Heaven, was he beautiful.
And something was terribly, terribly wrong.
——————
Since the day he opened that letter, Spamton had begun noticing things. Not the mundane goings-on of the TV Time Studio, no. But Tenna… well, he started to see details about him that he hadn’t ever noticed.
He began feeling things he hadn’t ever felt before.
And it was everywhere. It was in the glances he and Tenna shared between broadcasts. The way the CRT’s antennae would shift subtly, depending on his mood. How he looked so excited to see him every day, no matter the time. How, even when exhausted, he still made the effort to throw a smile his way.
Oh, and of course, Tenna’s perfect physique didn’t help either. Spamton didn’t need to be infected with anything to notice that. Every flex of his arms, stretch of his shoulders, down to even the whirr of his gears was captivating. And those teeth! Spamton caught himself thinking about those a bit too much. None of it was helping at all.
He was falling deeply in love. More of a plunge, really. And it took all his willpower to hide it.
On top of his already overflowing workload and increasingly cryptic messages from his Benefactor, he now had to constantly fight himself to stay in line. This was his job. They were cohosts. Coworkers! Colleagues! Such a thing would be so, so unprofessional…
…But at the same time, Spamton had a feeling that this wouldn’t pass so easily. Not when his face would heat up every time the CRT called him an insufferable pet name. No, he had to face it head on. His plan: Ask Tenna out, get rejected, cry a little, and move on! It was flawless. There was no way the TV would give someone like him a chance.
Even if they did get along really nicely.
Even if they did rush over to the other’s office any time they could, which was not what Spamton was doing right now. This time, he had a mission!
Smoothing out the creases in his suit, he took some deep breaths to mask how winded he was. Sprinting down the hallway in dress shoes like a madman definitely earned him a few looks, but this plan needed to happen now. It was the only thing standing between Spamton and… well, everything, really. Money. Fame. Success. Presence. Freedom.
He knocked gently at the door. The cheerful TV Time! logo emblazoned on the front stared back.
“I’ll be out in just a moment!” Tenna chirped from the other side. There was a shuffling of papers and some not-so-enthusiastic grumbling.
“Tenna, it’s me. Whatever you’re doin’ now can wait. Lemme in.”
Suddenly, the door popped open and Spamton was standing face-to-face with the TV himself. “Oh, Spammy! Why didn’t you say it was you, I—come on in!” Tenna stepped aside to let him in, before shutting the door with a click. Spamton eased himself into the client’s chair, slouching. He was in this exact chair not even a year ago, nervously running his mouth trying to secure a deal with the TV Host. The walls had seemed so foreign then, displaying just how accomplished the host really was.
At some point, though, it shifted. What was once a proud display of achievement became, gradually, warm and inviting. Small keepsakes and awards lined the shelves, while photos of the crew and promotional posters hung proudly on the walls. The room just oozed with gaudy, Tenna-esque charm. Speaking of…
“So, Spamton! Something on your mind? You seem more stressed than usual, hah.” The TV had settled himself behind his desk, arms folded. Spamton straightened up. Was he really so obvious that Tenna, Chatterbox Supreme, was cutting to the chase instead of bantering? Oh, now he knew he had it bad.
“Ah, yeah. You could say that. I gotta question for ya.” When Tenna motioned to continue, he swallowed. Just get it over with. “So, you and I have grown real close during our partnership, and, uh…” he trailed off, unsure how to continue.
“Oh, Spammy, is this about you wanting a raise? You don’t have to flatter me! I’m—“
“No, NO! This isn’t about that!” Spamton huffed, eyes looking off to the side.
“Then what is it?” Tenna cocked his head, antennae wobbling with the movement. Cute. Too cute. Spamton clenched his teeth, curling his fists.
“I wanted to ask. If you were free. On Valentine’s Day.” He ground out.
“Oh,” said Tenna.