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Spamton's dreams were always weird. A mishmash of thoughts and feelings and unreality, ranging anywhere from unsettling to nightmarish. But thankfully, his dreams were few and far between, because Spamton had never been very good at... sleeping?
It was strange fact, but true nonetheless. A good salesman never sleeps, he used to say when anyone asked what he was doing awake at increasingly odd hours. His standing coffee order - too many shots of espresso mixed with electrical energy drinks - kept him going, no matter the time. His sleep disorder was medicated, thank you very much.
Medicated in the wrong direction, perhaps, but medicated nonetheless.
No one else really understood him. Not until Tenna.
The first time it happened, Spamton was wandering the halls, phone in hand and a million thoughts on his mind. Sleep was basically impossible when he got like this, but at least no one else was awake to see him. They always had snarky comments about insomnia and sleeping pills and meditation. The last thing Spamton wanted was company.
That is, until he entered the green room. His phone slipped right out of his hand when he spotted Tenna, screen still on and illuminating the scattered papers on the bar-turned-desk. The television glanced back, made a bright noise of greeting, and patted the seat beside him over and over as Spamton made his way there.
"I didn't know anyone else was still awake," Spamton greeted, hopping up to join his cohost. The papers seemed to contain everything from scripts to prop designs to contracts, all in varying states of completeness. Tenna must have been at this for hours after the workday ended.
"Of course I am," Tenna said, tail whirling behind him when Spamton risked a glance over, the CRT was smiling down at his lap. "Tori and Asgore watch the late night programs, and Kris and Asriel sneak in midnight marathons when their parents fall asleep." He giggled to himself and slung an arm over Spamton's shoulders. "Show biz never sleeps, you know?"
That's the moment Spamton realized that he'd found someone like himself.
His sleep schedule only became more abysmal after that, because now he had a partner to stay awake with. It was a miracle either of them could function at all, after spending all night working and chatting and spending time together. It was exhilarating and satisfying and perfect, and Spamton wouldn't trade his late nights with Tenna for anything.
Then Tenna left.
Suddenly, sleep was Spamton's indulgence of choice.
No more all-nighters. No more caffeine. Nothing that could interrupt his precious hours of rest.
Not because the dreams got any better. They were just as disjointed and uneasy as ever, and he always, always woke up lost and confused and gasping for air. His years of ruined sleep schedules had left him a disoriented mess every time he jolted awake.
But he slept every night, because sometimes in the haze of fever dreams and memories, he swore he saw a familiar CRT television set. Sometimes he felt a hand on his shoulder, or a screen against his neck, or a smile pressed against his lips.
He hated it. He craved it. He couldn't stop, even if he wanted to.
---///
In a fairy tale, moving to Castletown should have been the fix to all Spamton's problems. And sure, it definitely helped with the whole 'all his employees rioting' thing, and gave him a purpose after his world was shut down.
But Castletown didn't fix everything. No - Tenna did.
Finding Tenna again had been an equal mix of fortune and fortitude. He hadn't known for sure that Tenna was here, sure, but as soon as he heard rumor of a TV-headed-rat-thing digging through the garbage of Castletown, Spamton got to work searching.
He told everyone he just wanted closure. A perfectly normal, understandable desire, with no underlying issues to address at all!
And sometimes, closure came in the form of kidnapping his former cohost right out of a dumpster.
And besides, was it really kidnapping if the kidnap-ee was happy to be there? Tenna could have tried to put up a fight - with whatever defense a blobby little thing like him could make - but instead, he seemed only a little surprised to see Spamton and perfectly content to go along with whatever Spamton had planned, barring his incessant quips and teasing.
Which was perfect for Spamton. It made it so much easier to glare Ralsei into making a slightly bigger bed for the two of them. The goat kept stared at Tenna, tucked safely into Spamton's collar, but never quite mustered up the courage to say anything.
Just the way Spamton liked it.
That was nearly a month ago now, and their new normal settled like a familiar blanket over their domestic life. Tenna's new form, while definitely strange, had been startlingly easy to get used to when Spamton knew what to expect. He was still Spamton's partner, even all these years later, and he didn't mind having to clean up after glooby puddles if it meant keeping the owner around. (And if Spamton was relieved that Tenna couldn't really run in this form, he would keep that thought to himself.)
The only thing that really bothered Spamton now were the dreams.
Tenna's only request had been his old pillow, and the fact that the trash heap had bothered to keep it all these years made Spamton weaker than it should. So they compromised; Tenna curled on his pillow, and Spamton beside it. Plus, he was much less likely to accidentally crush Tenna this way, which was definitely not a concern he still had.
He just... wanted to take things slowly. Keep a little distance.
Despite their care in sleeping arrangements, however, Spamton's dreams still haunted him.
He dreamed of a person just out of reach. Of a figure he couldn't make out, but knew intimately. Of the man he loved running, running, running away, and Spamton unable to catch him.
That's how he woke up most mornings; dazed and confused, with his hand against a tiny television's.
It was enough, he told himself, when Tenna greeted him so warmly. It's enough, he thought, when laid down with Tenna in arms reach.
It was enough for Spamton.
It had to be.
---------
A scream echoed down the hallway, and Spamton ran towards it. There were no words, but there didn't have to be - he knew that voice, he knew who it was, he had to get there right now-
He crashed through the door to see the phone hanging, piles of familiar metal dented on the floor, dark stains covering everything in sight-
No, Angel, please, not his cohost, not his partner, anyone but-
"Ant," Spamton gasped out. His eyes snapped open, but the room spun and blurred in front of him, just as wildly as his dream.
And then he saw that screen.
Cracked, darkened, distorted by static and burn-in and Angel knew what else. The nose that might have once displayed disappeared with most of his smile. The strong little arms and speedy legs were nothing like what they had once been.
It was still Tenna. Spamton would recognize him anywhere.
After all, he'd had this dream many, many times before.
He knew better than to reach out - he'd tried it so many times, in so many dreams, and it always broke the illusion, and he'd hate himself for hours, wishing for just a few more minutes. But he couldn't stop his trembling hands from stretching towards that little light, trying to catch a falling star.
Dream-Tenna sat up, scrubbing at his screen. He tipped his head and watched. For a moment, Spamton swore he heard the tiny voice ask if he was awake, but it was drowned out by the ringing in his ears, the pounding of his heart, the rattling in his chest-
And then, a little gloved hand touched his own.
Spamton nearly flinched away entirely. This was it, the part where he jolted awake - alone again. But nothing happened; the glove in his hand was a warm, steady thing. The faded light from Tenna's screen brightened a little more.
The realization washed over Spamton, as sobering as it was overwhelming.
"You're real," Spamton breathed.
All at once, he couldn't stand it. The careful distance, the slow pace of their reunion, the anxiety and fear and relief.
"I need you," Spamton said brokenly, unable to even muster an ounce of shame for begging. Hell, he'd lay on the floor if that's what it took. He tugged Tenna's pillow closer, shaking like a leaf. "Tens, Ant, please, please-"
"Spammail," Tenna said, fond and hesitant at once. He was so much more confident now than when they'd first reunited, but any discussions about his new form inevitably chipped into that confidence. "I - I'm all goopy, and your sheets - this stuff stains everything - and it - it might-"
Spamton remembered all those years ago, when his image was all he cared about. Things like the way others viewed him, or having a perfect wardrobe, or a flawless bedroom set. Back before he knew what it was like to have something that really, actually mattered.
Before he lost his best friend.
In an instant, he had his hands around Tenna, pulling him right under his chin. He didn't care what kind of mess it left on his sheets, or his pajamas, or hell, even on Spamton himself.
The only thing that mattered was having Tenna close. Keeping him safe.
Making sure he stayed.
"I don't care about the sheets, Ant," he murmured, pressing closer and closer. Tenna's hand laid against his, a little pressure that made tears well up in Spamton's eyes instinctively. "Just... stay. Stay with me, Ant, don't... don't go."
"I'm right here," Tenna said, over top of his rambling. His form wiggled closer, his free hands tracing the shape of Spamton's cheeks and swiping away tear tracks. "I'm not leaving, Spammy. I'm here. I'm yours."
Spamton stuttered through another full breath, heart rabbiting in his chest. He could feel the hands on his face, could feel the glooby slime against his neck.
It was real. Tenna was real.
It turns out, figuratively holding onto your past caused lots of problems with sleeping. But literally holding onto your past, holding him against your chest, wrapped in your arms, feeling him breathe and letting his weight ground you?
It made the dreams better, at least.