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He wakes to a touch.
Or maybe he dreamt it. He can’t— he can’t see. Everything is horribly cold. He tries to spark life into his cathode, about the only source of heat he has, but the connection sputters and fails. No electrons, no light, no face, no sight.
He tries to move, to touch— and with that, comes the realization that the cold isn’t just numbing, but searing. He chokes and sputters as the pain jolts through his exposed shoulders, snow completing circuits where there shouldn’t be any.
“Hush, [[CATHODE]].”
There it is again. Sound and touch, this time. He’s— He’s not alone here.
That realization kicks the remaining air out of his chest. He tries to catch them, the touch against his chest, catch them and not let go, please don’t leave me h—
“Hold your [[HORSEPOWER OVER 650!]]!”
One of his twitches, he managed to slam his knee into the stranger, getting a few indignant huffs in response. He freezes, terrifyingly sure that he just scared them off. The fear bites almost as strong as the cold.
Until he hears — and feels — the stranger flop against his stomach and groan something uninteligible.
They doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.
Something about this feels familiar, but with his mind still racing, he can’t figure out what.
He tries to reach towards them with his antennae, only to realize he can’t feel one of them. Either the cold was getting to him already, or he was in a truly sorry state. Neither a good look for a TV presenter.
…Neither a good prognosis.
They don’t flinch away when he manages to tap against them. They smell of foam. Of foam and…
He smells of that godawful fucking cheap cologne he tried so bad to “make vanish” several times, only to have a fresh bottle mysteriously appear the next day.
“Sss— Sp—” His voice pops and turns into statec and a new wave of pain makes him seize up.
There’s a cold, porcelain hand patting his screen. “Correct.”
That’s not right.
Spamton was always the warmer one of them, fuzzy and soft and cute and— But that had to be him. None of his darkers would so casually be so close, and the Lightners smelled completely different. What happened? How did he turn so cold, why did he turn so cold, why was he here? Was he—
Angel above, he was going to freeze to death here with him. He had no fur to protect him anymore. He couldn’t let him do that. He couldn’t—
His voice betrays him, screen aching as he breaks into tears. “Pl— Don’t leave me.” It hurts. Everything hurts. He’s being so selfish and he hates himself for it, but he can’t stop. He begs, muffled and nonsensical pleas that repeat and tumble over each other until he can’t speak again.
He wishes he could continue. There was this movie Kris liked, where the hero has to sleep in the guts of his former steed to survive a cold night. He wishes he could tell Spamton that he’d be fine if he carved him open and pulled out all of his wires and settle in the empty cavity to stay warm, if it only meant he wouldn’t die alone. Abandoned.
But he can’t. He seizes again, wave of nausea coming over him with the feeling of his oil not quite flowing as it should.
“That’s not [[SCHEDULE PACKED WITH HITS—]], don’t worry.”
He feels arms wrap around his shoulders. Thoughts turning hazy and distant, despite everything, he chooses to believe him.