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Spamton paced slowly around the cluttered backstage area, weaving between wires, crates, and forgotten props. The muffled sound of the audience laughing at some joke echoed from the stage, where Tenna was still in the middle of his set. Spamton had no idea what the joke was—he wasn’t really paying attention. He was just waiting for it to be over.
He’d never done anything like this before. A real TV show? With cameras and stage lights and people sitting quietly in rows? Spamton had been on the news a couple of times. He’d popped up in some viral videos too—most of them chaotic, glitchy messes—but never a polished, studio-produced show like this. That was Tenna’s world. Tenna was good at the "spotlight" kind of fame.
Spamton was pretty sure Tenna didn’t even know how to record an online video. The guy probably thought TikTok was a clock brand. Spamton smirked to himself at the thought, then sighed and sat down on a nearby folding chair.
Beside him stood the tall lighting rig, surrounded by a tangle of cables and colored gels. Mike was there, adjusting a few of the switches and dials like he actually knew what he was doing. As a few of the overhead lights flickered and dimmed, Spamton squinted toward him.
"Mike." Or at least, a Mike.
The first time Spamton had ever seen Mike, he’d been short, round, and had an endless stream of jokes. Nonstop chatter. Like a walking punchline. Another time, he’d seen Mike looking sleek and feline, like some sort of techno-cat, lounging across a desk and purring into a mic. And now? Now Mike was tall. Towering, even. Wearing a long coat and a cowboy hat, like he’d just walked out of a spaghetti western.
Was it the same Mike? Were there multiple Mikes? Spamton had long since stopped trying to figure it out.
He shrugged. “Whatever,” he muttered under his breath, watching the last of the stage lights shut off.
Footsteps echoed behind the curtain. Tenna emerged, wiping a bit of makeup off his cheek with the back of his hand. His eyes landed on Spamton, and instantly his grin widened—bright and effortless. He crossed the room quickly, still buzzing with post-show energy.
“Spamton,” he said, voice low and warm, like the name meant more than just a greeting.
Without warning, Tenna leaned down and pressed his forehead gently against Spamton’s, a soft, fleeting gesture that felt way too intimate for the middle of a backstage filled with cables, lights, and possibly multiple Mikes.
Spamton huffed and gave him a light shove, pushing Tenna’s head away—not hard, just enough. His face turned slightly pink. He wasn’t used to this kind of affection, especially not in public, or semi-public, or whatever backstage counted as.
No one knew they were together. At least, no one was supposed to. Only Mike did—or maybe all the Mikes did, assuming they were separate people. That thought just made Spamton's head hurt.
Still, even with the embarrassment heating his face, he didn’t move away from Tenna. Not really. He stayed seated, shoulders relaxed, eyes darting around to make sure no one else had seen.
“Good show,” he muttered.
Tenna just beamed wider.
They made their way to the large, brightly colored room Tenna called home—a space that looked like a cross between a child’s dream and a game show set. Neon lights shaped like stars blinked lazily from the corners, and one wall was entirely covered in posters, stickers, and scrawled writing in marker. It was loud, chaotic, and warm in a way Spamton would never admit he found comforting.
As soon as the door shut behind them, Spamton wandered over to the vanity mirror on the far side of the room. He didn’t say anything—just grabbed one of the wipe pads from the cluttered counter and began rubbing at his face. The thick makeup came off in smudges, revealing his pale, uneven skin underneath. It always felt like erasing a character, like peeling off the mask that people expected him to wear.
Tenna, without a word, drifted into the adjoining kitchen area—probably to make himself something to eat. He was always moving after a show, still riding the energy. Spamton didn’t follow. He wasn’t hungry, not for food anyway.
He rubbed a hand against his now bare face, staring at his reflection in the mirror with a flat, unreadable expression. Without the layers of color, the exaggerated lines and artificial shine, he felt exposed. Raw. Old. Honestly, he thought he looked ten years older without it—like the years he tried to bury under glitter and eyeliner were finally catching up to him.
And then he froze.
The thought had come too quickly, too easily. That familiar sinking feeling settled in his gut before he could stop it.
There it is again. The dysmorphia. Always lurking, always waiting for a quiet moment to whisper things he didn’t want to hear.
He hated thinking about it. He tried not to. Pretended it wasn’t there most days. He’d gotten good at it, too—jokes, lights, distractions, filters, masks. It helped. Most of the time.
Tenna didn’t know. Of course he didn’t. Spamton had never told him. Why would he? What would he even say?
The only person who had ever known was Blue. And that felt like a lifetime ago.
Spamton’s jaw tightened as the name stirred something cold in his chest. Blue. His old friend. The one who used to understand, or at least try to. The one who stayed, for a little while, when the others didn’t. Before the rest of the Addisons turned their backs on him. Before everything changed.
He shook his head hard, as if the motion could knock the thoughts loose. Don’t think about Blue. Don’t think about them. Don’t think about any of it.
He tore his eyes away from the mirror, unable to stand his own reflection any longer. The face looking back at him didn’t feel like his.
He stood, crossed the room in a few small, dragging steps, and sat down on the edge of Tenna’s bed. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight, the soft blankets cool against his fingers.
Behind him, the mirror reflected a chair, a table, a cluttered counter. But not him.
He was glad for that.
Tenna stepped into the bedroom half of the room, balancing two mismatched plates in his hands. The light from the old TV flickered off the silverware as he carefully handed one to Spamton. Tenna’s own plate was piled high with what looked like a classic family dinner—mashed potatoes with gravy, a couple of oversized meatloaf slices, and steamed vegetables stacked like they belonged in a commercial. Spamton’s was more minimal, almost plain by comparison: small portions, cut into little bites, simple textures. Tenna never said anything about it, never questioned it. He just… adapted.
Spamton accepted the plate wordlessly, giving Tenna a short glance before picking at the food with his fork. He ate in silence, chewing slowly as he watched the TV screen flicker from the foot of the bed. It was playing one of those old drama shows—grainy visuals, stilted acting, and the kind of fake crying that made Spamton roll his eyes. It had to be at least thirty years old, but Tenna always found comfort in outdated stuff. Whether it was fashion, tech, or media, he clung to the past like it was a security blanket.
Spamton sighed through his nose, half-focused on the screen.
He seriously needed to teach Tenna how to use newer tech. The guy had a whole vintage VHS collection, but hadn’t once used a streaming service without accidentally starting five shows at once. Still, Spamton didn’t really mind it. Not as much as he pretended to. There was something… sweet about it. Honest. Tenna liked what he liked, and he didn’t apologize for it.
The minutes passed quietly, broken only by the soft clink of Spamton’s fork against the plate and the occasional exaggerated line from the TV. Tenna had settled down beside him, lounging sideways with one leg hanging off the bed, tail flicking rhythmically like a lazy metronome.
Eventually, Tenna broke the silence.
“So,” he said casually, but there was a note of hope just under the surface. “Have you decided to join my show yet?”
Spamton had already finished eating. His empty plate sat beside him on the bed, fork resting neatly on top. He didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked toward Tenna, who was trying to look nonchalant but clearly couldn’t hide the way his tail swished a little faster, or the eager way he leaned in just slightly, like a kid waiting for a surprise.
Spamton bit his lip, hesitating. “I’m still thinking about it…” he said slowly, choosing each word with care. “Y’know… going on TV like that, I have to be careful. One wrong step and my whole sales career could be over…”
It came out smooth, almost practiced.
A lie.
Not a big one, but still a lie.
He knew that wasn’t really the reason. Not the full one, anyway. The truth sat heavier, deeper, in a place he didn’t like poking at. The truth was, he wasn’t worried about one wrong step.
He was scared.
Scared of being seen again—really seen. Not just through a screen or in glitchy old videos, but on a stage, live, where every expression, every word, every twitch was real and inescapable. Where he couldn’t hide behind flashy edits or cheap jokes. Where he couldn’t glitch out and disappear when it got too overwhelming.
Scared of what people would say. Of what they’d remember. Of who he used to be, and whether that was all they’d ever see.
Tenna didn’t press him, not right away. He just hummed softly, nodding like he understood more than he was letting on. The old TV kept playing in the background—two characters yelling at each other in a dramatic hospital scene—and for a moment, neither of them said anything.
Then Tenna reached over and gently took Spamton’s empty plate from his side, stacking it on top of his own. “Okay,” he said, his voice easy, casual. “Just let me know if you change your mind. No pressure.”
Spamton glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.
Tenna was smiling, but it was that soft kind of smile—the one that didn’t demand anything, just waited patiently, like he was giving Spamton the space to figure it out on his own. And somehow, that made the fear a little less sharp.
Only a little.
But it was enough to sit with.
Tenna had stepped out of the room a few minutes ago, muttering something about needing to talk to Mike. The door clicked softly shut behind him, leaving the bedroom in a comfortable kind of quiet—just the hum of the old TV, now showing static, and the occasional creak of the bedframe as Spamton shifted.
He sat there for a bit, absently running his fingers over the blanket. The dim glow from the neon wall lights reflected faintly in the vanity mirror, painting the walls in soft hues of blue and pink. Despite himself, Spamton found the colors calming. Tenna’s room always had this odd effect on him—it wasn’t clean or organized, but it was lived-in, warm, full of life. A strange contrast to his own quarters in Queen’s castle.
When Tenna came back, the door opened quietly. He gave Spamton a tired but content smile, as if the conversation with Mike hadn’t been anything serious. He didn’t say anything, just started getting ready for bed—coat tossed onto the back of a chair, boots kicked into a corner, the tall silhouette of his figure softening under the low light.
Spamton changed too, slipping out of his more formal clothes and into something simple and soft, borrowed from a drawer Tenna insisted on letting him use. They didn’t make a big show of it. It was casual, easy. Like they’d done it a hundred times before.
Soon enough, the room was dimmed, the TV off, and the two of them lay curled up beneath a patchwork quilt that looked like it had been around longer than either of them. Spamton nestled close to Tenna, resting his head against the other's chest, where he could hear the slow, rhythmic beat of his heart.
He liked this. He wouldn’t admit it out loud—too vulnerable, too real—but he liked being around Tenna at bedtime.
During the day, things were loud, fast, unpredictable. There were always people talking, deals to make, appearances to maintain. Even in Queen’s castle, with his own assigned room, he rarely felt truly at ease. The room Queen gave him was small, pristine, and just a little too sterile. The furniture was expensive, sure, but impersonal. It felt more like a display set than a place to rest.
But here? With Tenna?
It felt like he could exhale.
There was something grounding about Tenna’s presence—how he always left the nightlight on, even though he never admitted why. How he didn’t fidget or toss and turn. How he never minded if Spamton needed to pull the blanket over his head for a while or roll away and then back again.
Spamton shifted slightly, curling a little tighter, his wiry frame tucked neatly against Tenna’s side. He felt the slow rise and fall of Tenna’s breathing, steady and calm.
His eyes fluttered shut.
For once, his thoughts weren’t buzzing. There was no pressure to be entertaining, no fear of a sudden camera turning on, no cold silence of an empty room waiting to swallow him whole.
Just quiet.
Just warmth.
Just Tenna.
And before long, Spamton drifted off, the softest of smiles tugging at the corner of his mouth, hidden in the folds of the blanket.
.
.
.
Spamton stirred awake slowly, the quiet warmth of the bed still wrapped around him like a cocoon. For a moment, everything felt soft, familiar—until he noticed something strange.
There was… a sensation. A gentle, almost ticklish touch along his stomach. Confused, his half-asleep mind tried to make sense of it.
Was the blanket bunched up weird?
Then he realized: those weren’t folds of fabric.
Those were hands.
Actual hands.
In an instant, the comfort shattered. His whole body jolted upright, tense like a wire pulled too tight. The hands—warm and careful a second ago—vanished in a flash, retreating as if burned. He could still feel the phantom weight of them under his shirt.
Across from him, Tenna sat frozen, eyes wide. Embarrassment and guilt clashed in his expression, his own hands now held close to his chest as if unsure whether to hide them or offer them again.
“I—I didn’t mean to startle you…” Tenna stammered, voice cracking just slightly. “I was—I thought you were still asleep, and you just looked so… adorable, I—” He trailed off, visibly folding in on himself, tail curling tightly around one leg. He looked genuinely shaken, like he didn’t know whether to apologize or disappear.
Spamton was breathing hard, shallow gasps rattling in his throat. His eyes darted around the room like he needed to find a quick exit—even though he knew he was safe.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want Tenna’s touch.
That wasn’t it at all.
He wanted to be close. Trusted Tenna. Loved waking up next to him, in a way he wasn’t used to admitting, even silently.
But something about waking up like that—his body being touched without his awareness—had sent a shock through him. A wave of shame, of not feeling right in his skin. His body, already something he had complicated feelings about, had betrayed him by being the center of attention.
It was his dysmorphia again. It always crept up at the worst times.
Tenna reached out hesitantly, like one wrong move might send Spamton bolting from the bed entirely. “D-Did I… did I trigger something?” he asked, his voice small. “I didn’t think—I mean, I thought you’d be okay with it, but if I crossed a line—” He stopped himself, hand halfway between them, eyes searching Spamton’s face for an answer.
Spamton forced himself to focus, to take a breath, even if it hitched. His heart was pounding in his ears, but he understood why Tenna was scared. If Spamton had been through something traumatic, if this had been the result of some deep wound, then Tenna’s touch could have ripped it open without meaning to.
But it wasn’t that.
It was just… him.
His own tangled, irrational thoughts. His discomfort with his body. His hyper-awareness of how he looked, how he felt, how wrong he sometimes believed he was under the skin. A battle no one else could see.
He shook his head slowly, trembling, but certain. “No… no, you didn’t trigger anything like that,” he managed, voice low and raw. “It’s not you. It’s just… me. My brain doing its usual glitch routine…”
Tenna still looked unsure. “Are you sure? I can sleep on the couch, or—”
“No,” Spamton said quickly, louder than he meant to. He blinked, then added more softly, “I don’t want you to go. I just… I need a minute, that’s all.”
Tenna’s hand hovered, then dropped gently onto the bed between them. Not touching Spamton, just there. A gesture of closeness without pressure.
“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Tenna said again. “I just thought… you looked peaceful. And I wanted to be close. I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.”
Spamton looked at him, finally meeting his eyes. There was no judgment there. Just concern. Patience.
“I know,” Spamton said after a pause. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I just… I need to work on my stuff.”
They sat in the quiet for a while, the early morning light starting to peek through the neon-drenched windows.
Eventually, Spamton leaned slightly to the side, resting his shoulder against Tenna’s arm.
Not fully ready to be held.
But ready to stay.
And Tenna, without a word, just stayed with him.