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The evening had been quiet, a little too quiet for Spamton’s liking. He hadn’t received a call in just over a week, and the more time went on without the phone ringing, the more antsy he got. He had been sitting in Tenna’s dressing room that was more like an office than anything. His leg bounced idly as he scanned over tomorrow’s script for the evening show. It was simple revisions. Marking anything that sounded off, adding, taking away. He’s done it a million times before, but he couldn’t seem to focus on the text. His eyes kept scanning over the same line over and over and over and over, like he was stuck in a continuous loop. Spamton’s brow furrowed. He couldn’t stop thinking about that phone. When were they going to call? Why haven’t they? What–
“Spamton.”
Spamton looked up, pulled out of his thoughts by a stern voice. Tenna had been staring at him, his screen dimmed, his face scrunched. A cigar was held loosely between two of his gloved fingers. Smoke rose into the air, swirling and twisting around itself.
“You’re picking at my chair, and your leg…” Tenna gestures to Spamton’s fingers, which had been mindlessly digging into the leather of the armchair he had been sitting on, then to his bouncing leg.
“Sorry, Tens.” Spamton forced himself to still, bringing his hand away from the chair. He set it on his thigh, pushing it down to his knee and pressing down some. He forced his bouncing leg to stop. It fell silent in the room again. Tenna had been in a bit of a sour mood. The family got into another nasty fight during their weekend television night, and it was clear that it had especially rubbed off on the CRT. He’d already lost his temper with Ramb earlier in the day, and Spamton most definitely didn’t want to be next. He tried to focus back on the script in front of him, but it was the same thing. He felt his gaze loop the same line over and over. He couldn’t focus on anything other than his damn benefactor. Spamton shifted in his seat, bringing his head to his hand. His fingers tangled and fidgeted with his hair, twirling around dyed black strands. His leg began to bounce again.
“Spamton.”
He flinched up at the commanding tone that had called his name. Tenna’s screen flickered with pent up frustration, and he moved closer, leaning over his desk and placing the script in his hand down.
“What’s going on with you?”
“Nothin’, Tenna. ‘M fine.” Spamton replies, voice sheepish.
“I can tell when you’re lying, you know. It’s insulting to think that I can’t.”
Spamton cringed at Tenna’s tone, and he felt his feathers ruffle in discontent. Light caught on the gold fang that stuck out just past his upper lip as his mouth opened to spew an apology, but paused. He felt his blood run cold, and his face went pale. He looked to the closed door, where he heard faint ringing coming from his own dressing room. His lips pursed, and he turned back to Tenna, who had also zoned in on the door. They met each other’s gaze, and Tenna exhaled, slow and agitated. Spamton began to move, but paused as his partner spoke.
“Let it ring.”
The addison raised his brows, and scoffed a bit, as if Tenna had just spat on his shoes.
“What?”
“You heard me. Let it ring. We have plenty of work to do, and those little phone calls of yours take you away from that. You can call whoever it is back later, I’m sure.” Tenna spoke plainly. He picked up the script on his desk again, and began to read over it. He took a drag from his cigar, and the smoke exhaled through his vents, swirling up into the air. Spamton was still frozen in place processing what Tenna had said. His eyes narrowed with furrowed brows, and he stood anyway. The movement caught Tenna’s attention, and his screen flickered again.
“Tenna, I can’t just let it ring. It’s… It’s not just someone I can ignore. I have a deal with them, and they get fussy if I don’t answer, I need to–”
Tenna cuts him off before he can finish.
“Spamton, I said to let it ring. I can’t do these revisions by myself. I’m your boss, I’m putting my foot down. I said no. Sit back down.” He points to the chair Spamton had been previously sitting at to emphasize his words.
Spamton’s lips pursed. Arguing back would only make things worse with Tenna, and he wasn’t exactly in the mood to deal with an argument right now. So, he sits back down, and does as he’s told. He lets it ring. He replies with a small, “Fine,” under his breath. There’s silence between them again, the only sound being the distant ringing that’s not letting up. Spamton’s fidgeting. He’s picked up the script again, but he can’t focus on it. His leg bounces rapidly, his teeth gnaw at his bottom lip until he feels his fangs pierce the skin, his fingers dig into his thigh. He needs to answer. He looks to Tenna, then to the door.
“Tenna I need to answer.” Spamton repeats himself, voice a bit more desperate. “It won’t be long, I promise, I just need to answer otherwise I’m gonna be in some deep [S%!?].” His voice glitches. A sign of his stress getting to him. It’s been happening a lot more recently. He has a guess as to why, and it frightens him.
Tenna’s screen flickers again, and he rises from his own chair, hands slamming onto his desk. It causes Spamton to flinch and puff his feathers underneath his clothing defensively. He shoots back a glare at his partner instinctively. He didn’t want to do this right now. He really didn’t want to deal with Tenna’s shitty mood on top of whatever that bastard cat wanted from him now. He braces for whatever harsh words are heading his way.
“Does my authority mean nothing to you?” Tenna asks, voice wavering. The TV darkener grows an inch or two. Spamton doesn’t move from where he’s standing. He’s staring up at Tenna’s angry screen, eyeing the protruding fangs. His brows knit together and he scoffs.
“Can you not do this right now?” He speaks with bitterness lingering on his tongue. Spamton pinches the bridge of his nose in his own frustration. “You don’t get it, Tenna, if I ignore this person I face serious consequences for it. I need to pick up the phone.”
“Oh, I’m sure. I’m sure that this guy can’t handle you missing one single phone call.” Tenna snarls, and pulls away from his desk. His claws drag against the wood, and Spamton cringes at the sight and sound. “Do you even answer every call? Or is this you trying to get away from me?” He growls. Spamton swallows thickly and takes a few steps backwards towards the door. Tenna’s growing again, and with every inch his screen dims and flickers more.
“Oh my god, Tenna, do you even hear yourself right now? You’re acting fuckin’ insane. It won’t take me long to answer and see what they want.” Spamton retorts through a bitter laugh and grit teeth. His own gestures have become exaggerated with his growing agitation towards his partner. Tenna’s standing over him by this point, big and angry. He laughs with a disingenuous smile that quickly turns into a bitter sneer. Spamton knows he shouldn’t react like this. It only feeds into it. But it’s hard not to say things he regrets when he’s under this much stress. He turns on his heel and speeds out of Tenna’s dressing room towards his own.
“I’m being insane? Do you have any idea what you look like right now? You’ve been fidgeting all day like some guilty little rat.” Tenna is quick to chase after him. The sight catches the attention of a few pippins, who stare quietly from where they stand in the green room. Tenna doesn’t seem to care at the moment how big of a scene he’s making. He’s on Spamton’s heels at this point, and when the door to his dressing room attempts to slam shut, Tenna catches it with his hand. His claws dig into the wood as he forces the door open. His screen dims further, his antennae twitching. His voice is low as he growls at Spamton, “Who keeps calling you?”
“You know I can’t answer that.” Spamton, who at this point is inching backwards towards the ringing phone that’s sat on its usual stool, looks past Tenna into what he can see of the hallway. His brows twitch. How humiliating for the staff to see their display of an argument. The phone continues to ring, and with it, he feels a sudden jarring ache in his skull. He grunts, and brings his palm to his forehead. The panic of realization sets in. He needs to answer the phone now. “Ant. Get out of my dressing room. Please.” Spamton’s voice cracks. Desperation seeps its way further into his being. Tenna doesn’t budge
“No. No, you can tell me who the hell you run off to call this often. What deal do you have where you have to skitter off and answer their every call like this?” His fingers dig into the wall the doorframe stands connected to, and it dents under his grip. Spamton stares with wide, terrified eyes. He takes a couple steps back. Tenna’s screen has gone completely black at this point. All that's left of his face are his fanged teeth that are curled into a snarl. His claws dig deeper into the wall he’s gripping. “I doubt that you answer every single time. You’re just trying to get away from me, aren’t you? Am I really that insufferable that you have to run off and hide away every time the phone rings when we’re together?” Tenna steps inside, and slams the door behind him with such brutish force, Spamton’s amazed it didn’t bust anything.
Spamton’s head feels like it’s splitting in two. He needs to get to that phone and Tenna’s only making everything worse with this insane meltdown. He grips his head again, wincing at the growing, nauseating ache. It pounds against his skull. He groans, and decides, fuck it. Quickly, and clumsily, he makes his way towards the phone. But Tenna beats him to it. A huge hand falls onto the phone and grips it tight, blocking it from Spamton. The Addison tilts his head up to stare at Tenna, expression pained and bewildered. Tenna’s trembling. It’s more visible up close like this. He takes a few steps away from the CRT.
“Why can’t you just TALK TO ME?!”
“Tenna, ngh–” Another wave of nauseating pain in his head, and Spamton hunches. His hands find themselves tangled in his hair.
“ANSWER ME!”
“No! God, damnit, what the fuck is your [hot deal]? It’s none of your god damn business, [Trash heap!]” Spamton pauses. They both do. He hadn’t meant to say that. He didn’t mean to call him that, that wasn’t him. He sees the tension in Tenna’s shoulders, the way his mouth twitches and his antennae drop like he’d just been kicked in the gut. He swallows, and pulls his hands from his now messed hair to wave them frantically in front of him. “Wait, wait, hey, I didn’t– I didn’t mean to say that.”
Tenna’s quiet, his grip still tight on the phone. He shrinks a few feet, not quite to his normal height, just a few inches above still. With his other hand, he gestures to Spamton’s nose.
“You’re… bleeding.” He speaks barely above a murmur, words strained. Spamton wipes his fingertips against his nostril, and pulls back to see red smudged across them. He stares a moment, then looks to Tenna.
“...I’m sorry. I need to take that call. Please. Get out, Tenna.”
A few beats of silence between them, the phone still ringing, Spamton’s nose still bleeding, his head still pulsing with pain. Tenna, with some hesitance, pulls his hand away from the phone. ‘Trash heap’ repeats over and over in his mind. Spamton’s never called him anything that hurtful before. He’s sworn at him, called him old-fashioned among a plethora of other things, but never ‘trash heap.’ What bugs him further, was the genuine fear in his eyes. He hadn’t meant to say it, that much was clear, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. And… the nosebleed, the way he had gripped his head. Surely it couldn’t have been in relation to the phone. Just a coincidence. Silently, Tenna offers Spamton a handkerchief from his front pocket, then makes his way towards the door. He pauses, his fingers lingering on the knob as he turns back to look at his partner. Spamton has put the handkerchief to his nose, terror still lingering in his gaze. Guilt bubbled in Tenna’s gut. He takes a breath, then shrinks further.
“...Just make it fast. We have work to do.”
Another beat of silence, then a quiet response pulls from Spamton.
“Sure, big guy. Just wait for me in your dressing room. I’ll… I’ll be there in a tick.”
Spamton picks up the phone the moment he sees Tenna leave and the door shuts completely. He holds it to his ear with a shaking hand, staring at the claw marks left on his door, and the damaged wall from Tenna gripping it.
“I’m so sorry, he wouldn’t let me answer,” Spamton begins, stammering as the words spew from his mouth like vomit. He pauses upon hearing a crackling voice on the other end. His feathers puff, and his spine shivers.
“Do not let him interfere again. The Lord of Screens is not welcome in our secret, Spamton.”
“I-I know. I know.” Spamton’s voice cracks, and he looks back to the door again. He had called his partner ‘trash heap.’ He felt disgusted with himself. The voice continues.
“You will not let me wait that long for an answer ever again. When I call, you will excuse yourself and answer quickly. Do not make me pull on your strings, Spamton. The consequences will be dire.”
Spamton cringes, looking to his free hand that’s been hanging limp by his side. His fingers twitch, and for a split second he swears he can see green strings wrap around his knuckles. He blinks, and they’re gone. His heart pounds against his chest, and his feelings of nausea only grow.
“It won’t happen again, sir, I promise.”
“Good,” The voice purrs, and Spamton can hear the sickening smile from the other. It makes his skin crawl. “I have no direction for you now. We will consider this a warning as to what will happen if you are to ever ignore me, by your choice or not. The next time I call, I will not wait as long to punish you for your disobedience. Farewell, mailman.”
The line goes dead without giving Spamton a chance to reply. He pulls the phone from his head, and with grit teeth, slams it down onto the receiver. He makes an agitated cry, and kicks over a trash can that sits by his vanity. Crumpled notes with scribbled words scatter across his floor, along with other little pieces of garbage. Spamton spares the mess a worn glance. His chest heaves, his hands shake, and his grip tightens around the bloodied, embroidered TV Time! Handkerchief he was holding. The only words that come to mind are trash and heap. Trash heap. A heap of trash. His stomach sinks, and he looks to his dressing room door. Tenna is waiting for him. The show must go on, as he would say.
Spamton quickly fixes himself up as best as he can, and leaves his dressing room, not bothering to clean the mess of trash on his floor. The door shuts behind him, leaving the trash to sit in the dark. The show must go on.