Work Text:
"Ah Ah Ah Ah"
Damn it.
"Ah Ah Ah Ah"
Damn it.
"Ah Ah Ah Ah"
God damn it.
"Ah Ah Ah Ah"
God fucking DAMN IT!
"Ah Ah Ah Ah"
FUCK! This just had to happen to him, didn't it? On tonight of all nights, when he had been doing so well all week without so much as a peep from his brain or his nervous system or whatever the fuck was wrong with him, the one night he'd been looking forward to, when he could go out for drinks with Tenna and Toriel and her boyfriend, and play pretend for a night like he wasn't the biggest fucking retard on the face of the Earth that everyone in town knew!
One night. One night, that was all he asked for. One night where he could finally leave his house without worrying about having an outburst in public. One night where he wasn't cramped up and camped out in his room waiting for an episode that would never come. One night for one guy to finally remember what it was like to be normal again, to be young again, without the constant threat of mentality looming over him like a tidal wave. Silence all week and not a symptom to be seen. A promise, even, of going outside and reentering society for one night. Maybe even slowly reintegrate if things were looking up, and stayed up for this long. Who else could have earned that right?
NOT HIM, OBVIOUSLY.
"Ah Ah Ah Ah"
Tenna came through the front door, shutting it tight behind him and beelining for their bedroom. Spamton squirmed in his arms, mouth open in a mantra that had been going on for about 10 minutes now. This was actually pretty tame compared to all his other episodes. But the timing was what made it so much worse. God must have thought this was the funniest thing that could have ever happened to him, and maybe if Spamton were in politer company, and not in a restaurant filled to the brim with fucking strangers, he might have seen it that way.
But not right now. Right now he was pissed, mortified, worried about the following days to come, where he'd inevitably be holing himself up in his room again, waiting for whatever disease that addled his brain to pass until he wasn't barking vocal tics left and right like some fucking animal.
"Ah Ah Ah Ah"
It wasn't a fair comparison. He knew it wasn't. He couldn't fucking care less. It was true. He looked like some mortally wounded animal, or some science experiment, or one of those videos you'd see on YouTube of some poor deer that had caught some mental disease and could barely tell its ass from its own head as it walked around in circles, completely out to lunch.
He saw the comments. He saw the looks on people's faces. Poor thing. Nature is so cruel. Do you think I could catch that?
Well, Spamton wasn't some fucking animal, okay? This was a non-problem, one he had been dealing with his entire life, UNTIL NOW, where he'd somehow completely lost control on how to behave himself, so could everyone stop treating this like it was some big fucking deal?! This wasn't anything new! He'd stepped off-camera and into quieter rooms to deal with this dozens of times.
Walked dozens of circles, made dozens of indents on his fingers, knocked dozens of knocks on his head, speaking to himself in a language that didn't make sense, eyes focused on something that couldn't be seen, in there for God knows how long until whatever it was wore itself out and he was a normal fucking guy again! Why change that?! Why draw attention to it?! That did absolutely nothing in the long run except remind people how sorry they felt for themselves and make Spamton into some kind of fucking spectacle when he didn't even ask for this stupid disease in the first place!
"Ah. Ah. Ahhhh. Ah."
Tenna didn't respond, pressed Spamton's mouth into the plush of his jacket, rocked back and forth and waited out his episode with him. Didn't say a word. Just how it should have been.
"Ah. Ah. Ah. Ten. Ah."
Tenna pulled him back to look at him, resting Spamton against his arms like he had the body of a newborn baby.
"Ah. Ah. Ah. C. Cah. Cah. Cah...ouch."
"No," Tenna softly shook his head. "You'll wake our daughter up."
Spamton relieved the tension in his shoulders. Thank God for Tenna. He didn't say it often, much less think it but thank God for him.
Spamton had wanted to go to the couch to feel normal. To simulate some semblance of publicity, of being outside, of showing everyone he was fine, while he had his vocal tic. Snow's room was right in the hallway, one of the first rooms you walked past when you went deeper into the house, perfectly in view to come out into the living room and see her dad having a one man slumber party with his eyes wide open. Not pretty for anyone.
Tenna knew better, though. Tenna wasn't just anybody else. Anybody else would have nodded, said okay, and brought him over just for him to keeping "ah"ing.
No. Tenna was not like that. Tenna knew Spamton wasn't well. Knew that he needed stability. Consistency. Knew that just bringing him to a different location wouldn't have made a difference in the world, and probably would have agitated Spamton more. Because that was not what Spamton wanted.
Spamton wanted to pretend. Pretend that he had a handle on things. Prove to himself that he could control whatever was wrong with him, and that people didn't need to fucking worry over him. If it had been anybody else, he knew they would have just assumed he asked for it because he wanted to make himself feel better. That he was just some dumb animal in a catatonic state that couldn't tell his ass from his head.
Spamton knew. Spatom was completely 100% lucid everytime he had spells like these. Maybe that was the worst part, he thought, of having these spells in the first place. People talked about how when it came to tics or episodes, they were things they couldn't control. Just something they had to stand by and watch while everyone gathered around for a glance at the show.
Spamton knew. The entire time these things happened, he was entirely aware of his surroundings, of the people around him. There was no white noise, no dulling of his senses that made it hard to make things make sense. Just a crystal sharp clarity, a feeling that he could stop any time he wanted to, like it was just one button press away and then he'd be all back to normal.
And yet. He found himself. Not wanting to. He thought.
He was tired. Tired of hiding who he was, of playing pretend, sitting by, complacent in being "the good kind of sick", the kind that knew that some things were to be kept private, the kind that sat on his tics and bottled it up, up, up until it inevitably couldn't be bottled up anymore and it exploded on him, or on other people, or some part of the world that left a metaphorical erosion in the place where he once stood, a permanent landmark made in the Earth that people could gather around and talk about.
He'd played that role for so long. Spent all that time sitting on his tics, laughing along with people who would toss him if they knew, bearing down on people who couldn't control it. Reminding them that as long as they were like this, they had no place at the table in society.
And that wasn't fair. That wasn't right. Spamton had control over what came out of his mouth, and every time, a pinpoint of pain would stab him in the body, in his feet, his hands, like something itching to get out, desperate to break free, like he was possessed by some sort of demon just bubbling under the surface of his skin, eager to puppet his body around and cause chaos.
What if he didn't have that control? What, then? What, then, would people think of him? Would they throw him out? Would they look away? Cry out and flinch away, like they'd come into contact with a disease that had transmitted through touch, and was already slowly working its away into their own nervous systems? Of course they would. Why would anyone be any different? They all knew this game they would play, and though Spamton once had control, just the thought of letting it out felt so good. Felt so free. No more hiding. No more looking around at all these fake feelings, of waiting for the other shoe to drop. Now, it was honest. Now, it was real. Now, he knew what to expect.
Now, it was equal.
...but, Tenna was. Tenna was different. Tenna was like him. Someone who was sick of society, of hiding his sickness away because it was disgusting, horrible to look at, coated in mucus and waiting to absorb anyone who got too close. But Tenna had a reason. Tenna, who was a showman with a desperate need to be liked, mimed the personality of one because it benefitted him. It benefitted him in the long run, got him revenue, known by name, a chance to truly be free without leaving the cage. It benefitted other people, too, created jobs, forged connections, made memories that were special to those who wanted. And Spamton admired him for that.
Because Tenna got it. Tenna understood the world was cruel. Understood why he had to do what he had to do. Didn't put on a mask for the sake of a fake face, of doing it because he cared about how people saw how he viewed others. He wasn't playing their game. Wasn't participating in some unspoken rule of being likable for the sake of personal gain. Of being inherently better than someone else. More well-adjusted. Cruelty, of saying "I'm like you. I'm not one of those freaks that needs to sleep outside because they can't hold a job. I'm not one of those people. I'm normal! We're normal. And everytime someone looks at us, they can be reminded of just how much they lost. Because they deserved it. Because they were the something wrong."
No. When Tenna put on a mask, he put it on because it was to make others see. To feel seen. Tenna had a temper, there was no secret about that. He was bossy, he could be rude, he was fussy, incredibly picky, had the needs akin to a conserved brat that reeked of upper class and didn't know any other world, and could have people do horrible things in the name of making things better, or at least beneficial in his mind.
And he let people know about it. He let people know there was something wrong with him, that it was intertwined with his show biz personality. That his little funny facade wasn't all it was cracked up to be. That those concave clefts you'd saw in the surface were just only the pieces of the whole collage.
And that...that was okay.
That it was okay to have something wrong with you. That it was okay to be sick, and that it wasn't something anyone had to hide. Some people got sick. Some people got sick forever. Tenna was proof of that. That you could lie sick, and dying, and still live.
Because at the end of the day, it was just that. Being sick. Not anything good, not anything bad.
And the world kept on turning.
Spamton came down from his train of thought, the pressing urge to stim still there, but no longer strong enough that it overrided his need to perform. That crystal clarity was still there but it was...less now. Less sharp. More sensory.
"You alright?" Tenna murmured, staring down at him blankly, like this was just another ordinary day. Like this was just something to get done.
Spamton nodded, keeping his hands at his side. "Yeah." He locked gazes with Tenna for a long moment, before promptly saying the word "Kiss?"
Tenna scoffed, keeping Spamton's back perched against his arm. "Kiss 'what'?"
"Kiss...my ass?" Spamton tried.
Tenna exhaled through his nose. "Funny." And he leaned in and kissed Spamton anyway.
And the world kept on turning.