Work Text:
The creaking of the faucet, and the hiss of running water as steam swirls and billows in the enclosed space. A fragrant, floral smell fills the air as Spamton squeezes bubble mix out of an overly fancy container and into the bathtub. Spamton breathes in as the room fills with hazy warmth, feeling his shoulders droop in relaxation. He shrugs out of his clothes, lights a candle, pours himself a glass of red wine which he balances carefully on the side of the tub. Another creak, and the tap drizzles to a halt. There’s nothing but the quiet sloshing of water as Spamton crawls into the tub. He sighs, leaning his head back against the side and taking his wine glass between his fingers.
This was the life he’d missed.
How long had it been? How many frigid nights alone, paranoid and hungry and not even allowed the privilege of washing himself? How many people, friends, had walked past that dumpster and not even considered helping him? Just another piece of trash, undeserving of love and comfort?
But look at him now! He’s lounging like a big shot, living the life he deserved, the life that was so cruelly ripped from him! This is how it ought to be, how it used to be – warm water, sharp fruity goodness on his tongue, lathered in bubbles and wholly relaxed. This is like paradise. All he’d ever wanted was to feel clean.
Small, plastic hands reach up to card through wiry hair as he sinks down into the soothing water, submerged up to his nose. He massages simple, pleasing circles into his scalp, allowing the stiffness from the hair gel to seep away. Black, curly locks peppered with white fall to frame his face, the persistent dirt from decades in the dumpster coming loose. It would take some work to get himself properly clean, what with the build-up, odd stains around his body. This was a start, at least. As Spamton drifts further away into a state of complete relaxation, his mind begins to wander. He imagines he’s back in some nameless hotel in Cyber City – they all blend into one when you stay in so many.
He imagines a presence behind him in the water, leaning backwards into it as hands larger than his own rake lovingly through his hair, across his shoulders, then cheekily down his back. Spamton shudders, pausing to take a large gulp of wine, then closes his eyes and settles back into place. Warm hands squeezing his bare hips, a familiar glowing smile, soft whispered words of pure adoration. His heart aches. He’d missed this. Spamton groans into the imagined touch, heat pooling in his stomach, snaking his fingers under the water until –
There’s a loud knock at the door.
Spamton startles, nearly jumping a foot out of the bath, then goes dramatically limp as he throws his head back into a groan – this time of annoyance.
He feels lighter when he gets out of the bath, his muscles moving easier as he grabs a silky crimson robe from the hook on the door. He grumbles to himself as he fiddles with the tie-string, marching over to the bedroom door and swinging it open with the force of an old man about to yell at kids on his lawn. The corridor is completely silent – not a single soul. Spamton braces his hands on the doorframe and leans out, squinting suspiciously both ways down the hall. Nobody. Spamton huffs, annoyed at whatever prankster decided to interrupt his pleasant bath time.
With folded arms, Spamton steps further out into the hallway with the intention to start yelling at whoever had escaped into their room. Something hitting his foot takes him by surprise, and he curses as he nearly trips over the item left at his doorstep. Spamton stares daggers into the offending object like its just killed his entire family, his face soon twisting into confusion as he realises it’s a gift. Someone’s left a gift outside his door, wrapped neatly with red crepe paper and tied with a yellow ribbon. Spamton’s face changes again – despite his limited facial expressions, he manages to convey a stone-cold frown very well. He crouches, picking up the item and testing its weight in his hands. It’s light, and the paper crinkles audibly under his touch. He takes one last glance around the corridor, and then he saunters back inside, clicking the door shut behind him.
Spamton is not used to receiving gifts. Spamton isn’t used to receiving anything, not anymore. Back in his big shot days, sure – he’d get meaningless fan mail every week. But this was different, this was deliberate, meaningful, and after over a decade of nobody even caring enough to give him scraps or a warm bed…
He hadn’t even opened it yet. He didn’t even know who it was from. It could be a prank, for all he knows. He’d always hated gifts in general – he knows that deals benefit both sides, and nobody gives anything without expecting something in return. Which means this person – whoever they were – they wanted something from him. His heart beats erratically as he places the gift box down on the edge of his bed. This was already too much, too overwhelming. He could put it back outside, forget about it. He could throw it in the trash.
Spamton doesn’t do either of these things. Instead, he circles the bed like he’s a wary dog unsure of another creature, his eyes never leaving the gift as he paces around it, giving the entire bed a wide berth. He feels sweat drip from his forehead, clasping his hands together to fidget with his fingertips. Eventually he swallows hard, shaking his head and striding over to the coffee machine in the corner of his room. His favourite yellow mug from the studio is here – it clacks as he shoves it under the machine, watching it spurt out hot liquid. Once he’s satisfied with his drink, he turns to lean casually against the counter, swirling the dark coffee in the mug, his eyes still fixed on the present atop his bed.
The room suddenly feels dizzyingly small. With a deep inhale, Spamton downs his drink in one movement, slamming the mug back onto the counter. He wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his bathrobe, ripping open the closet doors and tearing out the first items he sees. A dark green, funky button-up with yellow leaf patterns, a pair of suspenders, brown corduroys and a pair of dress shoes to match. Then Spamton’s out the door, slamming it hard and leaving the gift behind.
-
The town is sleepy, this morning. People offer small smiles and polite waves to Tenna as he passes them by on the main street. He scans the street, rather familiar by now, for a suitable shop to enter. The music store, maybe? No… that didn’t seem quite right – and besides, it isn’t even open this early. The other popular store on this street is a patchwork house, simply titled “Shop.” Tenna hums, intrigued. He hadn’t been inside it, yet – wasn’t even sure what kind of goods they sold. It didn’t look like a grocery store. Clothes, maybe?
‘Tenna!’ Someone yells from the distance. He startles, whipping his head around to locate the source of the sound. Immediately, his screen brightens as he spots Susie and Kris, making their way towards him. Tenna stretches his arm above his head in an over-enthusiastic wave.
‘Hello, my superstars! What a lovely surprise!’ Tenna crouches, allowing Susie to shoot straight into his arms for a bone crushing hug. He stands, swings her around in a circle before setting her down again. Susie lets out a scratchy laugh, planting a noogie on the top of his head. Tenna straightens again, sending a little salute Kris’s way, who’s standing a small ways off with their hands in their pockets. They nod, the corners of their mouth turning up slightly.
‘Thought we’d come check on you. See how you’re, uh, adjusting, and everything.’ Susie explains.
‘Aww, Susie! How considerate! How kind!’ Tenna clasps his hands together joyously, and then his expression flickers into a frown. ‘Hold on… what are you doing here! Aren’t you supposed to be in school?’ He scolds, with all the authority of a wet kitten.
‘Hey, technically we are!’ Susie offers a sly grin, at which Tenna’s disapproving frown gets deeper. ‘We were heading for Seam’s, actually.’
‘Seam’s… oh, is that this delightful little shop here?’ Tenna gestures to the building behind them. ‘What a coincidence! I was just about to have a nosy, myself.’
‘Well, c’mon then.’ Susie walks past him, grabbing Tenna’s wrist as she goes and dragging him through the door – Kris trailing not far behind.
Stepping into Seam’s shop feels like being transported to a whole different era. Tenna looks around at the eccentric selection of items. Shiny and strange trinkets, potions in intricate glass jars. Jewellery, crystals, dice. Woven windcatchers, multicoloured feathers. The shop is dimly lit only by candlelight. Incense scented like old books fills the room with a glittery, purple haze. It’s magical.
‘Woah…’ Tenna gasps, at a loss for words.
‘Ah, such high praise for my humble little shop…’ Seam mumbles from behind the counter, a calming smile on their wise face.
‘Is this your fine establishment?’ Tenna asks, a practiced professional lilt to his voice.
‘That it is, lad. The name’s Seam. Feel free to look around. Or don’t… Hahah.’
‘Yes! Of course!’ Tenna shuffles over to a wooden shelf, conscious of his height in the small space and aware of the very fragile ornaments. The shelf is lined with fancy jars, containing a random mix of spotted marbles. He inspects them with great detail, having never seen anything like this before. From the corner of his screen, Tenna sees Kris shuffle over to the counter, dropping a sharp black object into the shopkeep’s palm.
‘Looking for something?’ Susie saunters up beside Tenna, hands relaxed behind her head.
‘Ah, not… particularly? I’m uh, well! I’m looking for a gift…’ Tenna admits sheepishly.
‘A gift, huh? Wait, lemme guess. For Spamton, yeah?’
‘Whuh – huh??’ Tenna flushes bright red. He brings a hand up to hide his flustered face, almost knocking a shelf with his elbow in his hurry. ‘What! What makes you say that, my dear! For HIM!? How preposterous!’
‘C’mooooon,’ Susie nudges him. ‘It’s, like, obvious.’
‘Ohh, alright, alright…’ Tenna deflates. ‘I just! I’m struggling to figure out what kind of thing he would like.’
‘Why don’t you just ask him?’ Susie suggests.
‘N-no, no! I couldn’t! I…’ Tenna flounders. Susie raises an eyebrow. ‘I’m worried I’m… scary.’
‘Scary? You?’ Susie scoffs, folding her arms.
‘I feel like you’re insulting me somehow, but I haven’t quite figured out how…’
‘No, dude. You’re, like, the most approachable guy I know. Real friendly face.’ Susie reassures him.
‘R-really? Me? Even after I…’
‘Dude,’ Susie repeats, patting his shoulder – or as close to it as she can reach. ‘We’re over that. It’s cool. Nobody hates you. You know what I think this is about?’
Tenna tilts his head, a worried crease in his eyebrows.
‘I think you’re scared of him.’
Tenna goes unusually silent. Caught red-handed.
‘C’mon, Tenna. You knew the guy better than anyone, right?’
‘I’m not… sure I knew him at all.’
‘I could get Kris to talk to him for you?’
‘No!’ Tenna jolts, whacking his head against the ceiling, voice a little too loud. He waves his hands frantically in front of him, sweat beading at his forehead. ‘No. Don’t do that. Haha.’
‘Alright,’ Susie plucks a shiny blue crystal from the shelf, flecked with black. ‘How about this?’
‘Erm…’ Tenna peers at it. ‘It’s lovely! But I don’t think he’d – ‘
‘See,’ Susie punches his arm playfully. ‘You do know him.’
‘Susie, we have to go now.’ Kris calls from across the room, like they don’t have a choice.
‘Oh damn – Kris! Wait up! Jeez, they always walk off without waiting for me – um, bye, Tenna! See you later!’ Susie throws over her shoulder, and then she’s gone.
‘What’re you buying then, love?’ Seam’s rasping voice distracts Tenna from staring after them.
‘Erm – I don’t know? It’s all really lovely, truly! Is it alright if I come back another time?’ Tenna replies.
‘Course it is. I’ll still be here when you make up your mind. Or not… Hahah.’
-
It feels a little odd, rude almost, coming out of a shop like that empty-handed. Frustrating, too, that he still hadn’t found something nice for Spamton. It’s a genius idea in his mind – an easy way into conversation when they bump into each other on the street. He was getting sick of awkward mutual avoidance every time they spotted each other. Before he can even think about where to try next, several more voices call to him. Gosh, he really was popular, wasn’t he? The attention makes him blush – especially from the Addisons – four of which are practically sprinting down the path to get to him.
‘Good morning, Mr. Tenna, sir!’ Blue enthuses, in their best sales voice.
They circle him like hungry sharks as he moves to sit down on a bench in the plaza. Immediately, two of them climb onto the seat beside him. One leans over the backrest with a friendly touch to the shoulder, and the other crawls into his lap.
‘Ah – erm, hello, small fellows! Can I help you?’ Tenna replies, expecting either something about his new show, or be to advertised to. Apparently, he looked like an easy target, and the Addisons were notorious for their boldness.
‘We heard.’ Pink starts, clasping their hands together politely.
‘That you were looking for a gift!’ Orange continues, pressing a finger to Tenna’s arm.
‘So we were wondering if you’d have a look at our wares…’ Yellow offers.
‘We’re sure to have something tailored to your needs!’ Blue finishes.
‘Well, yes, aren’t you all a little too well-informed! I am indeed looking for a gift,’ Tenna brightens. ‘Perhaps you could help me out. Say, you all know Spamton, don’t you? There’s certainly a, um, resemblance…’
All four customer-service smiles drop instantly. Tenna’s heart falls like a rock, fearing he’d said something wrong.
‘I-I’m sorry! Did I – ‘
‘Yes, of course we know Spamton!’ Yellow’s smile is plastered back onto their face a little too artificially, their voice laced with forced enthusiasm.
‘Ah, how wonderful! I never really knew what he was like, before he came to the studio, you know. He never really talked about you…’
‘Ahh, he was nothing special, really…’ Pink informs him, sounding bitter. ‘Tried real hard, that guy, but we all know how he ended up…’
‘He wasn’t that bad, guys… don’t you miss him?’ Orange’s voice is small.
‘Thought he was too good for us, didn’t he? Once he left us for you…’ Pink continues. ‘Honestly, what did you see in him? You’re better off with us!’
‘Didn’t he leave you too?’ Blue interjects. ‘He’s not really worth your time.’
‘I – hold on – I’m sorry. Rewind. You said something about how he ended up. What does that mean?’ Tenna swallows his irritation.
‘Well, you know…’
‘No. I don’t.’ Tenna’s voice lowers dangerously.
‘Living in the garbage. Homeless. Y’know.’
Tenna stands up harshly, knocking one of them off of his lap and startling the others with his sudden imposing height. He presses his claws into his own palm, jaw set in a tense line.
‘I’m sorry – you KNEW he was – and you didn’t, didn’t help him? At all?’ Tenna’s furious. ‘What the HELL is wrong with you?’
Tenna’s yelling, now. People are staring. He kicks the bench, hard, leaving a visible dent on its surface. The Addisons are scattered on the floor, tense, braced for an impact they were sure was imminent. Tenna’s chest heaves with ragged breaths, violent impulses surging through him. No, no. He couldn’t do this, not here. Not in public.
‘I think I’ll shop somewhere else,’ Tenna spits through gritted teeth. His grips his wrist, his tremor worse with anger. His smile is unnaturally wide and fake. ‘And maybe re-think those ad slots while I’m at it, hm?’
‘W-wait, Tenna, sir!’ Orange scrambles from the floor, but he’s already walking away, his strides too big for any of them to catch up.
-
Tenna stands outside Spamton’s door, gripping a small gift box in nervous hands. He ended up going back to Seam’s shop and purchasing a pretty accessory. His head can’t stop swimming with the information that Spamton was homeless. He was living in a dumpster, and Tenna just let him go. Let him live like that. Tenna could have found him, helped him, but he didn’t. He was just like those Addisons.
He raises his fist to the door, considers knocking. Beats himself up for being too much of a coward, and then leaves it outside on the floor, hoping Spamton’s not in there to hear his shaky sigh. The previous box was gone. That has to be a good sign, right?
-
Spamton doesn’t really know where he’s going. He’s just walking, anywhere, taking in the freedom to go wherever he wants to. He strides past the TV Studio on autopilot, taking to the back streets and exploring some of the smaller, quaint shops – and it occurs to Spamton that he feels good. The paranoia hadn’t left him, exactly. Yet the longer he stayed here the easier it was to convince himself that he was safe here – and some part of himself had begun to believe that the noise in his head was only that – noise. He had a gorgeous room, stylish clothes. He had washed hair and a renewed vigour to his ambition. He had plans to open up a shop of his own. He had friends. But that’s just the thing – Spamton hadn’t earned this.
Spamton had never particularly cared whether his actions were good or bad, simply doing whatever was of benefit to him, made him the most money, fame. He was hot shit, and he knew it. It kept him going. The only thing Spamton found unwelcome about this town was that his conscience, a quiet voice in the back of his mind, would tell him that he wasn’t a good person. Usually, Spamton found it easy to shove down these thoughts into the deepest recesses of his mind and lock them away. It concerned him that it was becoming harder and harder to do. What was he doing, getting all soft and mushy like that CRT? Clearly, it was all his fault. He’d always found this kind of emotional stuff pointless and stupid. He was a big shot, after all. Big shots didn’t get vulnerable. Big shots were… were… they were hungry.
Spamton was hungry. His stomach growls angrily at him, and for a long while he just keeps walking. He was used to the uncomfortable sensation by now, decades of malnutrition allowed him to simply tune out the pain and mild nausea. This works successfully for the next five minutes until Spamton walks past a bakery on his side-street adventure, and the mouth-watering smell of fresh goods wafts from the door. Spamton stops walking. His stomach growls again, louder. He squeezes his eyes shut, lost in some internal battle – remembers that he has the means to eat now. He can eat whenever he wants. He’s allowed to eat. He can swallow his pride, accept the help. Even if that’s difficult. Even if he hasn’t earned it, or can’t pay it back. It’s okay now. He knows that.
The bakery is small, and pleasantly warm. It’s a narrow building, with two delicate iron tables painted deep blue, pressed up against the floral wallpaper. On each table, there’s a single daisy in a coloured glass jar. Spamton squeezes past them, sauntering up to the counter. He peers into the glass display case at their selection of goodies.
‘Good morning, sir!’ There’s a Ponman behind the counter wearing a pink apron. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Gimme one of those [[HOT TO GO!]],’ Spamton presses a finger to the glass, pointing at a chocolate-filled croissant. ‘And a [[freshly-brewed!]] coffee – hold the milk and sugar.’
Spamton sits down with his second coffee of the morning and a steaming pastry on a plate. He bites into the gooey croissant, closing his eyes and revelling in the rich, melt-in-your-mouth goodness. He can see out of the window from his seat, and he gazes at all the passer-bys as he eats – really takes his time eating, no longer worried that it might get taken away. He had this little game he liked to play while he people-watched – guessing at the kind of things that they would like to buy. Based on the way they dressed, or talked, or the way they held themselves. He spends twenty minutes like this, allowing himself the simple pleasure of just enjoying the morning. The stress of the gift from earlier had completely slipped his mind.
His peace, however, doesn’t last. A familiar figure strides past the window, and Spamton’s serenity shatters like glass. His heart spikes. Before he can process what he’s doing, he’s scattering pennies across the table for his food and scampering out of the bakery. Skidding onto the street wildly, wide eyes and frantic thoughts. The figure on the pavement stops, turns.
‘Oh My What Do We Have Here?’
‘Y-you…!’ Spamton jabs an accusatory finger in Queen’s direction. She’s staring down at him casually, one hand on her hip and the other holding a can of soda with a twirly straw.
‘My Visual Input Cannot Process What Kind Of Creature This Is, Commencing Educated Guess: This Is A Rat’ Queen grins down at him condescendingly, in a way that suggests she knows exactly who he is.
‘Who’re you callin’ a rat, you oversized [[NEW LAPTOP MODELS IN STOCK NOW!!]]?’ Spamton is sweating now, feeling his breakfast churning dangerously in his stomach, threatening to come back up. The urge to run away and the urge to confront her clash, locking into a paralysis that results in him just standing there dumbly, hackles raised.
‘You Are: Spamton G Spamton Correct? I Remember When You Tried To Take Over My Mansion Wow Good Times,’ Queen takes a step towards him, a loud sip from her soda. ‘How Did You Like My Free Pool Sorry About That BTW (Not Really)’
‘You never told me [[Why wait? Buy now!]],’ Spamton’s skin itches. He brings his hands up to scratch at his upper arms. ‘If you hadn’t – if it wasn’t for you I’d still have it [[bigger and better than ever!]] We had a deal, and you broke it! I don’t ever want to see your [[Screen Repairs]] again, you – !’
‘Okay Sorry But You Literally Ran Out Here To Talk To Me LMAO; And Also To Be Fair You Were Being Really Annoying With That Praying Thing In My Basement’ Queen sloshes her soda around like she’d rather be holding a wine glass.
‘And You Were Spouting Nonsense And Killing My Whole Vibe And Also: Impersonating My Butler So Like,’ Queen turns, her back to Spamton as she stares up at the castle in the distance, as if lost in some old memory. ‘I Can See My Room From Here Which One Is Yours Mail Boy’
‘WHAT do you know about what I was going through down there?’ Spamton is seething now, his glasses fuzzing over with static as he stands his ground. ‘You’re [[the one, the king of only]] who couldn’t see the truth, couldn’t see [[H E A V E N]]! Didn’t believe me!’
Spamton is pacing, pulling at his hair, staring at the ground.
‘Well guess what, it was all true – all true – all true – ‘ His voice starts to skip like a broken record, as it often does when his sanity is clinging on by its last thread. When he’s scaring himself.
‘Okay Like Sorry You Went Through All That I Guess? I Mean When You Were Around You Were Helpful With Maintanance And Stuff So I Really Did Appreciate – ‘
‘YOU HAVE n0< RIGHT TO TELL ME YOU CARED ABOUT ME! YOU [[Used cars]] ME, LIKE EVERYONE ELSE!’ His head jerks backwards unnaturally in a painful glitch that leaves him gasping. Still, he staggers towards her, ever persistent. His voice is low and fuzzy with noise as he continues, occasionally broken up by a maniacal little giggle, on the verge of a complete meltdown.
‘You never appreciated anyone but yourself! And that’s the thing, you know. I’ve [[Spare Change]]. But you, you haven’t changed at all, you diabolical woman!’
Queen rounds on him suddenly, and the movement makes Spamton flinch, fall onto the pavement. She opens her mouth to speak, but seems to reconsider when she sees the garbled mess of colours and broken pixels before her.
‘Oh Ew Do You Like: Need Help’ Queen frowns, lowering an eyebrow as she crouches in front of him.
‘nOT from y0u<!’ Spamton’s warped voice rings out through the interference. He plants his hands firmly on the floor, struggling to get up. His hand phases briefly through the pavement, causing him to smash his chin against the ground.
‘Okay Well We Can Talk Again When You Fix Your Technical Difficulties Toodles’
‘WAIT!’ Spamton calls, anger bubbling through the confusing static goop that currently makes up his brain, stifling himself. Everything hurts. ‘I WASN’T DONE [[CHAT ROOM]] WITH YOU! GET [[BACK BUTTON]] HERE!’
-
Tenna is with Lanino when he hears the commotion from the side street. Naturally curious, and wanting to ensure nobody is hurt, Tenna stands a few feet away and watches the whole thing unfold. He could stop this whole thing, intervene, but he finds himself glued to the spot. What’s this about Queen’s mansion? The basement? Is that really what Spamton left him for? Is that what Tenna let Spamton leave him for? Anxiety twists in his gut. So many people here have treated Spamton with such hostility, and it makes something ugly and protective flare up inside Tenna.
And yet… as much as Tenna loved him, (when did he start loving him?) he was aware that Spamton wasn’t exactly the most innocent person. Tenna didn’t know what had happened, what he’d done in all their years apart. It twists his gut even more to think that maybe the hostility towards him could be justified. Would it be so terrible to love someone like that? Yet he had his reputation to uphold…
Tenna’s so lost in this new information that he flinches when Spamton walks directly into him.
‘Oh! Sorry there!’ Tenna instinctively reaches down, gently taking Spamton’s shoulders and separating them slightly. ‘Haha, I wasn’t watching where I was going!’
It’s only then that Tenna actually looks down, freezing up when he realises who had walked into him. Oh god, what does he say?! What does he do?! Spamton, who up until now had been in some instinctual fight or flight, looks up to meet Tenna’s screen. He’s still glitching. It looks painful, and concern creases Tenna’s brow. He remembers small hands helping him out of the snow, fixing him, staying beside him when he’d never felt more scared. He should thank him. He should apologise, a thousand unspoken words – and he doesn’t know where to start.
‘Your hair looks different…!’ Tenna points out, immediately berating himself for his stupidity. It was true, though – Spamton had left his room without his usual hairspray, and it looked fluffy and inviting as it fell down to frame his face. Tenna’s fingers itch with the urge to touch it. ‘Are you, um… do you want me to, talk to Queen for you?’
Part of him just wants to hear the whole story. Wants to know if Spamton’s as bad as he’s made out to be. Wants to defend him. Even after all these years of hurt, and betrayal – all Tenna wanted was the truth. No matter what that truth turned out to be, Tenna finds himself wanting to forgive him. He hopes that he can.
‘NO!’ Spamton warbles. Breathing’s a bit easier now. Tenna’s hands on his shoulders are grounding. He’s just being nice, Spamton thinks to himself. He would do this for anybody. ‘I don’t need – don’t need you to [[Ready, fight!]] my battles for me, I can [[50% off door handles]] myself!’
Before Tenna can boldly offer to walk him home, Spamton glitches so hard that he phases through Tenna’s hands. Then he’s walking quickly down the street, away from him. Tenna could catch up with him easily, and every part of his body is screaming at him to go after him. Don’t let him leave you again. Not when he needs you most. Yet something tells him that there would be another chance – so reluctantly, Tenna lets him go.
-
There are more gifts outside Spamton’s door. God, make it stop. All he wants is to get back into the bath, feel bliss wash over him. He squeezes his eyes shut until the world stops spinning, then crouches to inspect the boxes. All of them are wrapped in gaudy colours and a ribbon, and not a single one has a label attached. Embarrassment prickles at the corners of his mind – how many people had walked by today and seen this? Hastily, he gathers the boxes up in his arms, fumbling with the door handle and practically falling inside his room. He places them carefully onto the end of his bed with the others, the mattress dipping as he perches precariously next to them, narrowing his eyes. As if one of them was going to lean over and bite him.
Spamton shoves a cigarette in his mouth to stop him from grinding his teeth together. They’re only presents. Stop being so damn stupid. It takes five minutes before he reaches out with a sweaty palm to tug one of the boxes into his lap. He smooths over the wrapping paper, listening to the crinkle as he picks at it – then rips it off as one might do with a band-aid.
It’s a key-chain. A cheap keychain, like one you’d get from one of those gacha ball machines where you put a coin in and turn the dial around. Spamton huffs, holding it up to his face and inspecting the rubber text on it – Castle Town. Obviously, this was from the tourist gift shop downtown. He places it beside him, picks up the next gift. He finds that the simple, repetitive act of peeling off the paper is therapeutic. A second yellow coffee mug. One of those fidget toys that clicks when you press it in. A neon green slime hand – Spamton huffs in amusement, immediately flinging it upwards and getting it stuck on the ceiling. Well, shit. That’ll come down sometime in next five years.
Spamton scoffs – he’s above all of this cheap crap and quite frankly, he’s offended. Yet the fact that somebody had clearly done this to get his attention sticks with him, and all of these are so ridiculously corny that they could only be from one person. And that doesn’t make him feel anything at all. No way.
There’s one more gift. It’s wrapped a lot fancier than the previous ones, in brown pinstriped paper with a shiny golden bow. Spamton rips it open to reveal a simple black jewellery box, hums with genuine interest as he cracks it open. Sitting atop a plush, velvet cushion, is a stunning golden belt buckle in the shape of a raven. Spamton plucks it from the box, eyes wide, holding it up to the light and watching the way it glitters. It looks old, and expensive. He runs a finger along its ridges. Carefully, he reaches down and attaches the item to the belt that he’s wearing, stands up to inspect himself in the mirror. He loves it. How was he supposed to find something so gorgeous in return for this person? Should he even accept such a gift?
Spamton turns back around, noticing a folded piece of paper on the floor by the side of his bed. It must have fallen out of the wrapping paper and escaped his notice. He swallows audibly as he takes it from the ground, heart pounding as he opens it – dreading the confirmation of who he thinks all of this is from.
Dear Spamton,
Hello! I very sincerely hope that you like the gifts that I picked out for you! Maybe some of them were a little too silly for your taste… haha!
I’m sorry for I wanted to thank you for helping me out when I was broken, but it doesn’t feel quite right to do so through a letter. I’m just worried that I wouldn’t be able to find the words – and letters are more your style anyway, haha!
You can totally say no if you like, perhaps it’s a silly idea, but I would very much like to talk to you in person! So much has happened, and I miss you I was mad at you it would be nice to catch up. I’m in the Colour Café most evenings!
From
Mr. Ant Tenna
Tenna
Ant
The writing is wobbly and imperfect, a little lopsided. As if he'd struggled with the physical act of writing it, as if he'd struggled to control his hands.
Despite everything, Spamton smiles.