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His hands don't feel like his own.
Spamton stares blankly at them, outstretched in front of him. Clenching. Unclenching. Feeling alien, despite how clearly attached they are.
It's been progressing this past week. His feet. Legs. Organs. As the hours ticked by, the lack of sensation grew. No memory of the last time he ate, only a vague recollection of drinking something - which explained the pain tracing the inside of his skull.
A mind-numbing trek from point A to point B. Old habits die hard, supposedly, but Spamton's seemed to curl up limply; indulging in his usual 'hobbies' left him detached. Turning to overworking just resulted in Spamton staring blankly at the papers scattered about his desk, the lines of numbers and letters twisted about in his thoughts. Wasn't he better at this? Or was it just another does of reality he was confronting?
The slow build up culminated to his current situation: limp in bed, at 4pm. He's been awake since 10am, mind ruminating on failures. On unsavory things he doesn't want to revisit, but that innermost part of himself keeps replaying them slowly. Whispering to him. Convincing him.
His body aches. Twisted in this strange position - arm outstretched, other trying to closely follow, an empty stare towards both, as the rest of his body tries to turn the other way. It hurts. His hips are protesting, his shoulder joining the chorus, yet his lungs can barely handle breathing at the moment. It's all he can do to just focus on that, no matter how he itches to move.
From this angle, he can view the door without moving his head. Staring towards an escape from all of this. All he would have to do is dress, careful of the mess he made the night before, and just act normal. How hard was that, truly? He was used to the different faces he donned for convenience.
But the doorknob catches what little light there is in the room. Gleaming. Taunting. At times, it feels like the shadows etched along the shine, mocking with a barely contained smile. All he would have to do is move.
The door knob turns, the clicking causing Spamton to refocus on his surroundings - did Tenna knock? He always knocked. Is he that out if it? - as the opens to a familiar light peeking in. He catches the way Tenna pauses, shocked to see him in the bed. In this state. But the CRT immediately recovers, speaking quietly. Like Spamton's some stray to coax.
"Not feeling well?"
He doesn't respond. It's obvious, he knows it is, Tenna's just trying to soften how pathetic he looks. A flash of worry again, and Tenna doesn't try so carefully to hide it.
"I knew you were never an early bird, but this is a new record, Spam!"
It falls flat. Nervous never sounded good from Tenna, and he hears the strained inhale the TV takes.
A few more steps, and Tenna's sitting down by Spamton's bed. On the floor, leaning against the mattress, an obnoxious creaking as he faces him. Spamton's thankful (did he have the right?) that Tenna's at the edge of his vision like this. Hates the way his skin buzzes alight at the thought, yearning for just some contact. Something to feel real again, an acknowledgement.
"We'll do reruns today."
Great. Another issue to add to the list. Tenna frowns at Spamton's grimace.
"Don't." It's the first word out if his mouth in nearly a day. It clambers, scratching his throat along it's exit, making Spamton wonder if the memory of drinking something was another falsehood.
"Spammy-" Stern, in that pathetic way of his. Spamton suddenly wishes Tenna never stepped foot in here. How long would it take to get rid of that sympathetic gaze now?
"Not for me." There's more to it, but his throat doesn't want to work. The words are clawing out now, fighting to stay unheard, and Spamton obliges.
"This works for the both of us! I've been feeling… well, I haven't been at my best. We can have a break."
An obvious attempt to assuage his guilt. Spamton's mind wanted to tear the action apart, pick for the subtle digs of uselessness, but Tenna shifted, reaching out to carefully brush Spamton's hair away from his eyes.
"What's wrong with my star?"
The touch makes him want to recoil. Something deep within screams at it, but another, exhausted will leans eversoslightly against the oversized palm. It helps the buzzing in the back of his mind turn into an ignorable hum. What was wrong with him?
The evidence lingers on the nightstand, a dull pain etched repeatedly onto his thigh. He thought it would bounce him out of this state, it had always worked when booze and more failed to, but instead he was left scoffing at himself. Only surface level cuts? When had he turned into such a pussy?
Tenna follows his gaze, seeing the mess left on the nightstand. There's a beat of silence, recognition, but Tenna doesn't make a comment towards the scene. Just turns his attention back to Spamton, a small smile on his screen. Unsure. Putting on airs.
Spamton closes his eyes, takes in a shaky breath.
"I'm fine."
"I'm always here to listen. You're always joking about how much space I take up anyway, haha! The, uh… the floor is yours, Spam."
He probably wants reassurance that he didn't cause this. Or reassurance it's not as it seems. Spamton can't offer distracting words right now, instead he sucks in a breath. Holds it. Releases with a heavy sigh.
"I can't, Tens," it burns to admit, even more with the nickname, "…I can't."
Tenna hums a little, and Spamton knows it's permanent. He's confined Tenna into staying with him today. He wants to be relieved, for some sort of distraction to snap him out of this mess, but he knows he doesn't deserve it. He can't look at Tenna while he moves to stand.
"Well, we can… 'can't'… together."
"Tenna…" it's too quiet. He needs to be firmer. The fucking cathode doesn't understand a damn thing going on here.
Yet as the mattress shifts, his lungs stop, waiting until Tenna slips his arms around his waist. Repositions him, easing the ache seeping into Spamton's bones.
"Everyone needs a lazy day once in a while. And that's all this is. Just… a lazy day for TV world's two hardest workers," He pauses, then chuckles, "we deserve a vacation after all we do, but this will have to do for now."
Tenna was an idiot. His puff of laughter rustled Spamton's hair, the CRT not seeming to care that it was unwashed as he pulled him into a snug hold. But Spamton, at the very least , was able to clench his fingers around Tenna's. Breathing easier.
Illustration by Wodnesse (bsky/tumblr)