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Spamton and Tenna were coming back from a walk around TV World. They’d kept in step with each other all night, up until a point where Spamton glanced to his right and shuttered to a stop.
The red-carpeted streets gave out to concrete, which stretched between the neon-lit offices into an overlook between buildings. It offered a peek of dark foggy sky. Spamton was struck by the uncanny sight. “[Hold on a sec],” he said, ducking into the nearest alley.
“Spamton? What’s over there?”
Tenna trailed him with clicking footsteps, his shadow leaping ahead. Dim alley-lights danced off their suits and followed Spamton all the way to the ledge, which was ornamented with a thin metal railing. Spamton readily approached it. Below was a plummeting sea of dust that swathed the cliffs. Wind clawed at his face and bit his nose.
“These are the outskirts?”
Tenna considered him and came to his side. “Yes. Well! No. The cliffs are less of an outskirt, and more like the fabric that scaffolds all you know and love here.” He tapped amicably on the railing.
“Ah.” Spamton leaned a bit less over the edge.
Tenna stared down at the cliffs, his attention seized. “Yes. It’s more complicated than that, of course…”
Squinting into the dark, Spamton carefully hopped up onto a bar in the railing to gain some height. Its metal didn’t so much as squeak. The outstretching plateaus were barren and ruddy, clouded into one long plain of frigid concrete. His teeth chattered just looking at it. TV World was usually so much brighter, even at these spots where the studio dropped into the cliffs. Spamton stared up with dazzled eyes until it clicked. “The overhead lights are [Gone and going fast!].” The sky wavered a cloudy umber, the color of an old light bulb the half-second after it burns out. It looked careless and backstage. Spamton could see the murky, leviathan silhouettes of stage lights hanging in the dark. “Where’s all the [Hubbub] and [Jazz]?”
“Oh, that! It’s, er, a maintenance thing,” Tenna supplied. His downward staring was a little more adamant, offering only a cursory glance up. “I know it doesn’t look as Glamorous with the lighting off, but— we're trying to avoid more burn-in on my screen, haha. Nobody’s… watching this late anyhow.” His hands clasped in a knot.
Spamton’s mouth quirked to the side. He was still navigating his partner, and that meant minding the quicks that poked out from the surface of the world. It meant little to Spamton— the studio was bound to have its off days, so what was the shame in conserving some light for the busiest timeslots? But Tenna’s expression grew rigid the more the moment ran on. A pang fluttered in Spamton’s chest. He thought on it, gaze flickering from Tenna to the cliffs to the sky above. An answer rose without a source and he grabbed it. “Could use some pixelworks.”
An antenna bent towards him. “Pardon me, but ‘pixelworks?’”
Spamton stretched his arms up like a cat. “They’re a [Specil Feacher] of Cyber City. Imagine the sky, pitch black, without any of those old [Doohickeys].” He gestured at the horizon, his other elbow resting squarely on the railing. The stage lights hung limp in the dark. “Now add in pops of color. Usually shaped like people’s faces.”
A yellow star here, red blocky letters there. Nothing special— but for Tenna, he could always play something up to make it grander than it was. Tenna was keen enough to make any dull parts of the imagination shine.
He pursed his lips quizzically, peering down at Spamton. “Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I think what you’re describing is—”
“Yeah, it’s fireworks,” Spamton interjected. The stringed LEDs behind them twinkled in mirth. “You know what pixels are, [Cathode]?”
He didn’t have to look up at his partner to feel him gape indignantly at the quip, then hear him chuckle. “I’ll forget you said that. Yes, we’ve shown fireworks— and who knows how many pixels— plenty of times on the show.” Tenna leaned on the railing beside him. He was only a few inches to the left, the knot of his tie just about at Spamton’s head level. Warmth seemed to gravitate from him as if from a radiator.
Spamton soaked it in a little. He pointed a grave finger: “Pixelworks, though.”
Tenna laughed again, his screen tinted pink. “I’m starting to not care about the difference!”
“Aw, Tenna.” He let his grin shine after that. In the dim gap between buildings, he felt comfortable putting his hand over Tenna’s forearm. Metal hummed under the smooth fabric of his sleeve, a pulse playing beneath his fingers. He pressed it. “[Honeycomb], it’s better than fireworks. When I take you out to the city, I’ll pull some [Silly strings] and get both of our faces up there. Those’ll be pixelworks worth caring about.” He gave the CRT’s forearm a small squeeze.
Tenna let his hands fall to the railing. A lull took root, wherein he smiled, thoughts circling like little stars, and did not breach the moment. The smile faded. Spamton swallowed down another placation, his thumb still moving in small circles over the bright red fabric. He wasn’t sure what was working in his favor: his sweetly smooth talk, or the easy way he’d put his hand there, as if this wasn’t a thing that Spamton had to hide. If he lost the thread of this, then he wasn’t sure where he was going to find it again. So he’d like to know, if anything, what went down well.
As if blinking from a daze, Tenna looked down at the hand on his arm, then glanced back up as if surprised by something. “I’ll believe your enthusiasm.” Colored by a lilt, he said, “You’d take me there someday?” The pulse-current below Spamton’s fingertips thrummed before receding.
Spamton didn’t have to think of a reply. “Yeah,” he said, hastily, like a sale’s pitch he earnestly believed in. He cleared his throat. “I’d take you anywhere, [Dollface], if the Cungadero can manage it.”
Tenna made a face at the petname, which was fair, since they both hated it. Then a chuckle played from him, marcato in that nervous, hacked way of his: hA hA hA. “You’re a tease, Spamton. I only ask, because— well, I suppose it doesn’t matter, but I’ve heard so little about your world. And what little I’ve heard has only been from you!” The dark, dead stagelights stared in silence. “I think that you can understand my skepticism.”
Spamton brought his hand back. “I guess I’ve been a little stingy.”
“A little, he says.”
A retort rose to his tongue, nulled by a scoff. His mouth was dry and he didn’t say much more. He couldn’t explain it, because he had been using the Cyber World as a carrot on a stick: information as service for fame. That got him annoyed at himself, and at Tenna, and at all his contracts. It was impressed upon him that his home world could not be much more than bait. And yet it never failed to bite him instead.
“What’s that about?” Tenna said softly. Not expecting an answer— not while Spamton was focused on an element of the background, searching for some kind of escape. Tenna gave a terse smile and stared ahead. “It’s alright. It’s not like I pay you for your testimony– regarding that, at least.” He pulled on the edge of his glove, shifting away from his prior stance. Spamton did all he could to not lean towards him.
He blew out a breath. In the coldness, he would have expected it to condensate. A thread of old endurance in his chest buckled until it gave way, and then his annoyance fell through all on himself. “No, you’re right. It must be [Bananas!] for you to hear me talk around it.” They were too close to this ledge. Hovering by it, where on either side, Spamton could make a contractual misstep. He knew which of his contracts he was more afraid of. “But [What Would You Do]? What can [I do!]—”
“I know what you mean, Spamton.” Tenna glanced down. He’d composed a thin smile. “Are your Cyber City pals usually so picky about details?”
“Yes. You have no idea.” A twinge of catharsis unwound in his throat. “I’d say I’m [Sorry…], but…” He swallowed a wilted fragment. “I am. Just a little.”
Tenna’s tone was light. “Picky about details?”
Spamton prodded him with an elbow. “[Come on, you [%//]]. I said I’m [Sorry!].”
“I understand, Mr. Spamton.” A grin flashed on his screen, but a quick flicker told Spamton that he hadn’t been joking. “Aren’t we all a little tied up by business?”
He stirred the concrete with the tip of his shoe. “I know who I’d rather be tied up by.”
Tenna looked around, as if seeking to be caught by a stray lens, then laughed. “Well, there’s some material for tonight!”
Warmth went through him at the old routine. “You know you set me up with that one.” With the conversation straying, it was easier to smile.
Tenna did one of his hand-cupped asides to the far distance, which, infuriatingly, Spamton couldn’t actually hear. Something about TV magic; then Tenna looked back at him with a cheeky smile. Spamton scrunched his face. “Must not have been important.”
“It wasn’t,” he confirmed. “But now you’ll be curious!”
Spamton wanted to smack him again, but wound up just leaning against him for a second, cheek pressed to the bend of his elbow. Tenna’s laugh trailed off and he pressed back for that same second. It was all gray around them, but the soft LED bulbs and marquees behind them limned their silhouettes pink until they glowed like two close candles. It was mildly intoxicating. The Lord of Screens, radiator that he was, an umbrella of light pouring down on him.
He’d look even brighter back in Spamton’s world. A snap-pulse went through him, and he blinked, as if anticipating a retaliation for the thought. Spamton waited, but he was alone with it, still leaning on him. A dark sky peppered with stars waited for it to unfurl. The idea rose muddy and inchoate in his mind.
“I’ll make it up to you,” Spamton tacked on. Tenna looked at him properly then. Spamton waited for his throat to close around the words, but it never did. Something loomed from within him to be said, made manageable by the presence against his shoulder. “Not just [2nite]— I swear to whatever’s out there.” He wasn’t sure of the timeline himself.
“Okay,” Tenna laughed. His flush was disturbed by the crackle of cold. “Let’s say that I believe you.”
The wind cloaked over all else. But he liked the intrigue of it, because the name Cyber City evoked nothing in his partner’s mind. Spamton was the only one picturing that electric black-and-lime skyline, the cobalt buildings rising to meet it, with all of the hope and abandonment that it entailed.
A chill crept over his skin, coaxed by a cold wind, then pressed forward by curiosity. Visions condensed: he and his partner driving down sleek blue-lit streets, pixelworks popping overhead, as the afterimages shimmered on Tenna’s silvered face. He would take him for a spin; no matter how pissed off Spamton was at the city, a drive would wipe it clean from his head at terminal speed. Maybe with Tenna, it would be a cure for everything cold in his life. They’d split a CD bagel, and he’d ask Tenna what he thought of it all. Did he like how dark the sky got at midnight? Were the pop-ups funny, or was the speed limit too fast? He wanted Tenna to have those answers, in the same way that Spamton liked to know firsthand the warm shade of TV World’s natural sky and the soft pile of the studio’s carpets: those little secrets that became so plain when he saw them with his own eyes.
Spamton was good at secrets; there was so much he left back at Cyber City, and so much he hid of them in dressing rooms and alleys; so Tenna wouldn’t figure him out completely just by visiting the Cyber World. Tenna could tell him what he thought of the Addisons, and how much Spamton was better. How much easier he was to invest himself in. He had the CRT by the coattails. What did Tenna have him by, to draw him into such speculation? He’d show Tenna the pearls of the city, where the blinding street lamps and tinted windows would block their faces, and no press release could ruin his one great night.
“Spamton.” Tenna poked his shoulder, pulling him back to LED earth. Tenna’s chassis glowed lilac in the night, his light a pouring lamp. “Was it that forward of me to say?”
“I have a new [Proposal],” Spamton declared.
Tenna tilted his head, a smile growing. “Is it related to what I just proposed?”
“I wasn't, er, [Tune in for more!].” Spamton smiled back a little abashedly. “[Yessss!], it was probably related. [Come again] what you said?” The audio clips shot out before he could process them. He grasped the railing, and a light feeling bounded in his chest. He knew what Tenna was going to say; it was like the unsnapping of a lock. The wind blew his voice stronger.
“I said that I hoped you meant what you offered, because I would gladly take you up on it. The bit about going anywhere and the Cungadero. Spamton, wherever you like to hang around, I’m sure I’d find just stellar!”
Tenna knew what he was asking for, and he hadn’t even used the word technology, just you and stellar. Stellar, for God’s sake. Spamton hoped that corniness was a symptom of sincerity. “Well, the Cungadero can only manage so many places,” Spamton bluffed, drawn to this like it was a hundred volts. “It needs [Expressways] and [Pit stops]— Really, I’m better off taking you where I know is best for it. So [Nix] the ‘anywhere’. I already said I’d take you to the city, didn’t I?”
Relief fluttered on Tenna’s screen. “Could I get that in writing?”
“Nope,” he declared. A hum buzzed through Tenna’s circuits, and something similar floated through him, too, tense and perhaps even more relieved. He turned to put his back to the railing, staring sidelong. The chill didn’t matter. “Very [informal] conversation. Just [Take my word for it].”
Tenna clasped his hands swooningly, his voice leaping a few dynamics. “Well, now I have so much to look forward to! What is the weather like in the Cyber World? Are suits still in fashion? Oh Spamton, I could just kiss you!”
“You mean that?” The words flew out, less a question than an eager plea. To his delight, Tenna nodded. Spamton glanced behind them. The flat backs of buildings were empty, the alleyways stagnantly lit. No strange colors glimmered, just dust and ghostly white. The coast was clear. He breathed out. “Okay. C’mere.”
Tenna looked at him as if he’d won his own grand prize. Spamton had to wonder how much of that was for himself, and how much rested in the world which Spamton had wrapped as a gift; but perhaps since it was done up all by his own hand, whatever parts Tenna found stellar would trace back to him by their threads.
A tinny whir picked up in the CRT, his screen growing prettily florid. After a brief logistical analysis, Spamton hopped backwards onto the railing to sit on the thin ledge. It was precarious, but he had a sizable faith in his partner. Tenna shuffled in front of him, gloved hands going to either side of his hips. He opened his mouth to say something that Spamton didn’t think was entirely necessary; he just grabbed him by the lapels— bright red polyester that squeaked in his hands; Tenna must have made a noise, too— and in one swift pull forward, Spamton pecked him on the mouth.
Tenna’s screen was staticky-smooth and warm. Motionless, too, even as the electron display scrambled beneath his lips. Spamton had gotten a good hold on either side of the CRT’s head and pressed kisses wherever he thought needed one: Tenna’s cheek, on his smile, high on his brow line. “Spamton!” That was more like it. It was a feedback loop of someone giggling and then more kisses and a bright white glow bouncing off their faces. Little pixelworks bloomed in the flare. At some point, Spamton shut his eyes to stop from totally blinding himself and saw mirrored images behind his eyelids: a bloom of a balcony, green stripes crossing the horizon, a penthouse suite adrift. They were still at the railing, Spamton perched on it while pixelworks scattered behind him. At the height of everything, he would tell Tenna whatever he wanted, even about the phone for all he cared; as long as it was Tenna with him at that impossible height, looking only at him, kissing him back, keeping out the cold. And Spamton would watch the nervous lilt fade from Tenna’s reflection, replaced by a million points of light.
The CRT swooped a hand to cup his back, the only thing keeping him aloft. He felt a whole-body tingle that was either from the warm contact, electron poisoning, or frostbite. He broke away for a second so he could see Tenna’s loopy smile, flashing one in return. “How’s that?” he said, and went back to kissing him to distract his response.
“Well, hold on— I don’t know what I did— to get this from you!” Each impact was a fizzy burst. He stopped, and all that Spamton could see was Tenna’s smile growing sinusoidally wobbly. “Is it my lucky night? Haha. Wow!”
Spamton snickered. “[Wow!]?”
“Yes! Wow!, Amazing!, What a Performance—!” Another kiss derailed his slew of word art, golden sparkles scattering between them. Tenna’s mouth redrew a few times until it reached a solid composure. “You really are something, Spamton.”
“[Yup!].” He grinned back. “What else would I be?” Staring fondly into his light in a way that would scare an optician, he got distracted in the geometry of his partner. A wacky purple frame, shouldered by ridiculous attire he was totally smitten with. His collar was a little out of place from the stress Spamton put it through; that’s just life. It wasn’t often that he got this close-up perspective. Wasn’t that a shame? It was too cold for anyone to be watching from a window or street. He shouldn’t be so afraid. At least, this world wasn’t so bad to be unafraid in.
Tenna tapped amicably on his back and replied: “You’re a different ‘something’ when you’re in a tetchy mood.” Okay, fair. He strolled on: “Are you homesick, or what? ‘Cause I know my mailman doesn’t get that wound up from TV World’s glitz and glamor.”
He leaned in for effect, hands slipping over shoulderpads. “Should I be kissing you in [Back alleyways] more often?”
“Well, if that's my only option…!” They both laughed, though a sliver of Spamton’s heart fell away at that. Maybe Tenna’s did, too, given the twitch of his brow. After one last laugh, he said, “It’s just… rare, coming from you.”
Spamton waved a hand. “You know how it is.” Tenna gave a so-so hum. It was hard to, and really he didn’t want to, dredge up that last lonely line of tension. His brow creased. “I can't— just, there’s a lot riding on this. [OK]?” Spamton didn't know how to illuminate it, so he just sighed and rested his head on Tenna’s shoulder. “But, I think that it [Wouldn't leave a stain] to have this more often.”
“Mm,” Tenna said, his voice a warm rumble. The sound resonated with the pleasant frostbite-poison feeling that coursed through him. “I can confirm that it would not.”
Spamton snorted, holding on tight. The alley wasn't going anywhere. He liked these close spaces, where it was possible that Tenna understood him; understood why he had to jump these hoops, even when the shards fell away.
A calm moment fluttered by. Noticing what an opportunity he had in his hands, Tenna leaned close and nuzzled Spamton on the face. A clank resonated off his head. Spamton groaned, curling paradoxically closer. Tenna laughed against his hair: “Sorry!”
“It’s [A-Okay].”
Spamton let him do it again, that fuzzy screen pressing to his forehead, oscillating with gentle kisses. Spamton lifted his head to accept, and then the noses became a problem, so Tenna went back to nuzzling him with a gleeful hum in his system. There was no world in which they were made to do this; they fit like swordfish instead of puzzle pieces. And yet, Spamton loved every moment he could steal. He loved almost getting his eye poked out. “Erk— watch your [Nosy neighbor]!!”
Tenna ducked away, this time with a delighted grin. Spamton lazily flicked him on the screen. He smiled back. Feedback loop.
Spamton relaxed into Tenna’s hold, folding his arms above him while Tenna’s gloved hand rose to support his head. Cold air wafted from the outskirts. Spamton didn’t notice, but he did feel on Tenna’s sleeve how the night air was starting to teethe. “Glad you’re feeling better about all this,” he said after lingering a little more.
“Oh, I wasn’t—!” The CRT looked up past his shoulder. A laugh swooped and fell. “I guess I was feeling a little melancholy.” A hum. “It’s odd for a Darkner to need ‘downtime’, though, isn’t it?” A confused hum. Tenna’s voice perked up regardless. “I’m sure Mike could figure out some fireworks here in the meantime!”
“Whatever [Floats your boat], [Baby dolls].” He didn’t think the sky needed it— fireworks would burn into his Light World screen too, the same as the stage lights that were left on night after night. But there were hoops that Tenna had to jump through, too, to make his showtime smile come easier. “If you’re accepting outside opinions, then I think it already looks [Grreat!].” A gentle nod. Neither of them were looking up. Spamton smoothed his hand along the bottom edge of Tenna’s chassis, thinking of the loose thread he’d readily made, a vow that was only impossible if he wanted to keep his life. He picked it up anyway. “So… I won’t have to sign for my word, would I?”
Tenna squeezed him. “Hah. We can wait until the morning for that!” From so close, every lighted pixel that made up his mouth seemed to dance.
“Well. Alright.” He supposed he’d have to not mind after all, even if the logistics would be a nightmare. He just needed to think on it for a long time. Find it in himself to say yes and face the consequences. “Just don’t hand me the contract [Until I’ve had my coffee].”
He shook his head. “Make it your Green Room martini and we have a deal.”
“Wow. I didn’t know I was so predictable.”
He wagged a finger. “Well, I’ve never even seen you drink coffee!” Spamton shrugged. Tenna’s chassis curved up in a raised-brow expression. “Then why are you handing me a mug of the stuff every morning? You’re not making it for me, are you?”
“I think I’m just [Doing you a favor]. Unless you’d like me to stop,” Spamton teased, leaning back defensively. “It doesn’t [Works for me!] anyhow.” Coffee was an easy way to make his partner happy and more tolerant of his cohost’s errors. Tenna just scowled at him, which made Spamton laugh. “[OK], [10/10], let’s head back. I can’t believe you’re not freezing out here.”
“Well, you get used to it after a while!” Tenna maneuvered him in his arms until Spamton could hop down. The encompassing buzz of his voice all but vanished. “Don’t tell me it doesn’t get this cold in your world?”
It did. And Tenna was right; he didn’t want to tell him that. Instead, Spamton steadied himself. “You know what you can do to [Help!]?” He garnered a tilted expression. “[Beam us up] to the studio. [ASAP]. Do the thing.” He snapped a couple of times indicatively. He couldn’t do the thing himself, of course. More evidence of TV magic.
“A change in scenery?” Tenna, with a keen smirk, snapped once. Spamton braced and tried not to blink, but he must have, because in the next instant, the world was gone, and bright red curtains took its place. A couple of stage lights stirred heat from above. The smell of fame and ozone lingered. He dug his shoes into the plush carpet with a sigh. Beside him in the studio hall, and appearing much taller under the defined ceiling, was his proudly glowing partner; he had a bright expression that wanted to be anywhere at all, perhaps, but especially under a canopy of stars.
Spamton knew what Tenna felt at seeing that old burned-in haze in his sky. Spamton had limited options for that, most of them self-invented, but hope, at least, was worth the phone call. For the night, he could leave it with, “Your dressing room or mine?”, and catch a quick gesture towards one end of the hall.
His place, then. He could always work with that.