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Spamton wakes up with a splitting headache.
It’s a feeling he only gets when incredibly hungover, familiar enough for him to know immediately that he had way too much to drink last night. Without opening his eyes just yet, he blearily attempts to take stock of where he is. He’s warm, and comfortable, and he can hear the faint sound of traffic in the distance. He made it back to his apartment then, which is more than he can say for most of his other benders. Worst case scenario, he ends up on the street somewhere, but more often than not he gets dragged back to his room in Queen’s mansion by a Swatchling. It’s an absolute bitch waking up in Queen’s mansion after a night of drinking—His room there is all style, no comfort, not to mention just how fucking loud it always is at Queen’s place. Spamton swears the monarch almost always has some kind of party or event on, which is fun when you’re in attendance, but not so much when you’re still recovering from the last one. He’s glad he actually managed to get home this time round.
Groggily, he blinks open his eyes, and thanks the Angel that it’s blissfully dark in the studio flat, only moonlight and the faint lights of the city spilling into the large room through the floor-to-ceiling front windows. It mustn’t be morning just yet then—If he’s lucky, he still has a couple of hours to recover before he has to go to work. His head pounds even more aggressively at the thought of the bright stage lights. Maybe he can call in sick or something? Tenna certainly wouldn’t take being completely and utterly wasted as a good enough excuse to miss a day of precious TV Time, especially considering they’ve only been working together for a couple months, but Spamton’s confident in his ability to fake a sniffle or two. Sneeze a few times, spin a sob-story about how he’s oh so sorry that he can’t make it in today but he’s just feeling so terrible—Ant’ll fall for it hook, line and sinker. Not to mention the fact that they’ve been getting along particularly well recently, Tenna’s cute little smiles and fond touches becoming much more frequent and welcome.
No, he doesn’t have any more-than professional feelings towards his boss and co-host, why do you ask?
Anyway, the point is, Tenna would let him have the day off if he asked nicely. Laid on some of that sleazy salesman charm which seems to always get his co-host’s fans in a spin. His benefactor won’t be happy, but really, what does he expect Spamton to do? Going in today with a hangover would be more detrimental to Spamton’s career than anything else, plus it’s not like missing one day out of many would affect much, right?
Right?
Spamton blearily rubs his eyes, trying to scrub the exhaustion out of them. Either way, whether he goes in or not, he still should probably be getting up right about now. He has some headache pills calling his name somewhere in his kitchenette—Chug ‘em with some milk, he’ll be right as rain. Probably. Hopefully. If he’s lucky.
Groaning at the lance of pain the movement shoots through his skull, he rolls over to face the other side of the bed, and immediately freezes when he’s met with the sight of a dark CRT screen mere inches from his face.
Tenna is laying beside him, clearly asleep, fans whirring almost silently in the darkness.
Tenna, obviously shirtless, plastic and metal chest visible where the blanket lays messily and not at all modestly over his middle, leaving his top half and most of his legs exposed.
Tenna, his boss, asleep, barely clothed, in Spamton’s bed.
Spamton’s brain buffers for a second, the only thoughts swirling in his head being Huh What How Uh What Huh, before all of the memories from last night abruptly begin to flood back into his mind.
Him getting drunk with Tenna at one of Queen’s parties to celebrate the insanely high numbers from the latest quarter, Tenna laying his arm around Spamton’s shoulders and pulling Spamton closer into the TV’s side, Spamton liking the sensation of Ant’s mechanical body pressing into his own a tad too much, Ant saying something along the lines of “I’m really glad that you’re working with me, Spammy. I think we’re going to do great things together,” while a pink glow emanated from his screen, Spamton seemingly losing his mind and grabbing Tenna’s tie, yanking him forward until his lips crash into Spamton’s own, Tenna letting out a gasp of surprise which had felt like fireworks against Spamton’s mouth at the time before reaching his arms up to bury his hands in Spamton’s hair and enthusiastically reciprocate, one thing leading to another and them stumbling in through Spamton’s apartment door together, tongues licking and teeth biting and skin pressing and Tenna’s hands everywhere, touching, brushing, grabbing, clawing, Tenna Tenna Tenna Tenna-
Oh FUCK, Spamton thinks frantically, jerking backwards and almost falling off the bed in a frantic attempt to put some distance between himself and the still asleep television. He had- They had-
Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit.
Spamton’s benefactor is gonna be pissed. “Don’t get attached” he had said, that was the most important rule, do not get attached, and what had Spamton done??
No, no, it’s fine. It was just some fun, it’s not like this was anything more than a one-time thing. He’s just been a bit het-up recently, that’s all—He hasn’t really had much time to himself since starting this stupid deal with Tenna, and he needed some stress-relief. That’s it, it doesn’t have to mean anything. It’s not like he’s in love with the television host or anything, that would be ridiculous.
He sits up slowly, still staring at Ant in HIS bed oh my Angel he’s in my BED like the slightest movement could awaken the CRT, and attempts to slow his rapidly beating heart. He tears his eyes away from Tenna’s dark screen to look down at himself. Sure enough, Spamton’s dressed only in his boxers, downy white feathers that cover his chest and shoulders (which he recalls Tenna confessing he finds “so gosh darn cute” – apparently even being in the middle of having sex with his coworker still isn’t a old enough excuse to use non-censor approved language) mussed and messy, clear claw tracks snaking down them. He brings his hand up to his chest to run his fingers lightly down one of them, feeling slightly lightheaded. Experiencing an almost sickly mix of horror and awe, he reaches up and presses his hand against his neck, wincing at the faint spikes of pain the action brings. Bite-marks, he thinks as he feels the punctures with his fingers, and covers his mouth with his other hand as a red-hot flush works its way up his body. He’d always had a particular fascination with Ant’s fangs, ever since he first saw them only a couple days after they’d signed their deal, despite the fact that Tenna tries to hide them whenever he can. Something about them not being ‘family-friendly’—Spamton doesn’t really know why, all he knows is that it’s a damn shame. Just seeing the sharp, downright lethal incisors, which wouldn’t look out of place on a vampire costume, on the PG-rated Tenna sends a strange thrill up his spine every time. Thinking about how those same fangs had been sinking into his skin last night makes a peculiar feeling squirm in Spamton’s stomach.
Okay, so, yeah, maybe he had enjoyed last night. A lot. And maybe remembering all that they did together, the sounds Tenna had made, is causing him to blush even hours after the fact. Still doesn’t mean they can ever, and he means EVER, do it again. Ever.
Spamton glances back at his sleeping co-host, and finds himself unable to look away once more. Seeing the usually pristine, put-together Lord of Screens so vulnerable, so domestic makes his heart squeeze in a way he refuses to dwell on. Tenna’s plastic chest is rising and falling, his synthetic lungs cooling his inner workings alongside his fans. He’s curled up slightly, to fit on Spamton’s much smaller bed, and Spamton has a vague memory of Ant shrinking last night so he could loom over Spamton without crushing him. He remembers the feeling of being trapped underneath the much larger Darkner, the heat that generated in the limited space between them—How he squirmed pathetically beneath Ant, whimpering and begging the CRT to touch him, kiss him, even as Tenna’s whole body was already pressed against his own. Spamton cringes from embarrassment just thinking about it, and some of the other things he had told the TV, the things Tenna had said in return. The desperate way he had asked Spamton to compliment him, to say he loved him, and the way that Spamton had obeyed without question, barely even thinking as he told Tenna that he’s the most charming Darkner Spamton’s ever met, that whenever he’s on stage Spamton can’t take his eyes off him, that Spamton loves TV. And how Tenna responded to each affirmation—A gasp of what sounded scarily close to ecstasy, as he gripped Spamton ever tighter beneath him; Like he would never have expected anyone to think of him so highly, and now that someone does, he never wants to let him go.
Now, even while asleep, Ant’s right hand is extended into the space between them on the bed, reaching towards Spamton as if meaning to pull him closer. Bile rises in his throat unexpectedly, and he suddenly feels intense panic. He has to go, he has to leave—He can’t stay here, in this bed with the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen—Can’t, not when his whole career plan hangs on the manipulation and exploitation of the TV host—He doesn’t deserve to—
He forces himself to take a deep breath, and to begin moving away from Tenna. If he’s quick, he can get out of the apartment before Ant even wakes up, head to the studio to start the day, and it’ll be like nothing ever happened. A part of him, deep down, wishes that he could stay—Thinks of what it would be like to fall back asleep on Tenna’s chest, wrapped in Tenna’s arms. Imagines what it would be like to wake up with him, able to just lay there in a sleepy haze as they breathe and be together. Eventually, Ant would wake up too, and cuddle Spamton closer, probably still feeling the high from last night. After a while, he bets the idiot box would realise what time it is, and panic at how late they are to the studio. He’d definitely berate Spamton for letting him sleep in so long, and Spamton would roll his eyes and laugh as Tenna tries to scramble to get his clothes together to leave.
Spamton shakes the fantasy out of his head, forcing himself to continue breathing deeply. He has to get out of here.
He moves to the edge of the bed, but as he does he pulls the blanket with him, and it slips off of Tenna. Immediately, the CRT begins to stir, and Spamton freezes where he’s sitting with his legs dangling off the mattress.
“Spammy?” Ant says groggily, voice creaking and screen still black, reaching towards Spamton blindly in a half-asleep haze. His fingers manage to brush Spamton’s hip, the skin-on-skin contact sending a jolt of electricity up Spamton’s spine, and the mailman leans forwards slightly to get away from Tenna’s touch. He holds his breath, praying for the TV to settle back down, but the silence just seems to rouse him further. Tenna whines, shifting himself closer, antennae gesturing forwards as if to try and smell where Spamton is. His desperation for Spamton to come here doesn’t help the sickness in Spamton’s stomach.
“It’s okay, Cathode,” He whispers, forcing calmness into his voice in an attempt to soothe the TV. “I’m not going anywhere, go back to sleep.” Miraculously, at the sound of Spamton’s voice, Tenna quietens, sighing almost fondly. His reaching arm tucks back into his side, content in the lie that Spamton will be staying. The mailman feels like he can’t breathe.
He waits there, sitting on the edge of the bed in the dark and staring at his co-host. He doesn’t know how long for—It feels like hours, but must’ve only been a few minutes—but eventually, he deems it safe enough to move again. He almost doesn’t want to, still caught up in the fantasy of nestling himself under Tenna’s arm and against the CRT’s side. It would be so warm there, next to the whirring inner mechanisms of the TV, and he shivers inadvertently in the cold air of the apartment. He feels something in him snap with the want to just be near Tenna, breathe in the same air, and almost unthinkingly he gives in to the urge to be close to him. Slowly, silently, as if approaching a rabid dog of some kind, Spamton scooches towards Ant on his knees. As if sensing him coming nearer, the CRT’s screen turns to face the mailman fully, and Spamton freezes once more. When he’s not bathed in artificial cathode light after a moment or two, he feels his shoulders relax. He carefully takes hold of the blanket and gently lays it over Ant’s huge (He’s massive compared to me even when shrunken down, Spamton thinks, and struggles not to blush at the thought) form, before pulling back slightly to simply look at him, sleeping soundly. This close to his boss, a peacefulness settles over Spamton, and he doesn’t bother to keep the sickeningly sweet affection out of his tired sigh. It’s not like anyone’s here to hear it, anyway. Allowing himself this one indulgence, he reaches out and gently lays his hand on the side of Ant’s face. He can’t help the way his mouth quirks into a fond smile as he gazes into Tenna’s screen, and his smitten expression is reflected right back to him in the darkness of the glass.
And is that such a bad thing? He finds himself thinking almost dazedly, feeling tiredly love-drunk in a way he has never felt before. Even his headache seems to abate a tad in this close proximity with his friend, like his own body is responding positively to Tenna’s presence. What if he just stayed here, what if it wasn’t just a fantasy? If he stayed, they could get ready for work together; Ride in Spamton’s beloved Cungadero together; Be on stage together, as an item, a pair, instead of two different television personalities placed near each-other. The thought is thrilling, intoxicating even, and Spamton slides his hand down the edge of Ant’s screen to rest his fingers on the cool glass adoringly. Sure, it would probably make his journey to being the biggest of Big Shots a helluva lot harder, but wouldn’t it be worth it? If he got to do that again with Ant every night, if he got to wake up beside him every morning—If they got to be Big Shots together, wouldn’t it be a small price to pay for a little extra struggle? Heck, the fans might even like the extra tension and chemistry between their two favourite stars, and who is Spamton to deprive the people of what they want?
Spamton’s smile widens into a grin, and he leans forward to brush his forehead against Tenna’s screen gently. Maybe they could actually do this. Maybe they could be okay, together.
And then, breaking through the silence like a gunshot –
The ring of a rotary phone.
Instantly, as if his actions are not his own, Spamton jerks away from Ant like his touch burns. His lungs freeze up, his throat clogs with dead, stale air, and his mouth goes painfully dry. He doesn’t even have the phone in this apartment—Left it in the Z room, where it would be safe—
Garbage, corrupted noise fills his eardrums, fills his head, and although it’s just gibberish, Spamton can almost taste the meaning, feel the harsh, sharp, spiking words—
D I D Y O U F O R G E T A B O U T O U R D E A L ?
—and suddenly, Spamton is a failing Addison again, struggling to close any deal as his siblings look at him like he’s pitiful, like he’s bad luck, like he’s a SICK DOG just waiting to be put down, and the walls are closing in faster every single day, as his time runs out, and the sleeps on the streets get more frequent, and the cold begins to settle into his chest, into the very marrow of his bones—
No, NO, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I take it back, I’m sorry!— Spamton thinks frantically as he scrambles off of the mattress, almost tripping over in his haste to GET AWAY from the wretched form lying peacefully in his bed.
Please, PLEASE— I’m sorry, it won’t happen again, I swear— I didn’t forget, just don’t take it away, don’t don’t don’t PLEASE he begs, heart beating like a jackrabbit’s in his cold chest, already grabbing his clothes strewn around the floor and pulling them on, working on autopilot as the panic to fix it leave go go go takes control of his movements. He rushes to the door, forcing himself to not think of how Tenna pushed him against it last night as soon as Spamton managed to drunkenly shove the key in and unlock it—Like the CRT couldn't wait a moment more to get his hands on Spamton's body, couldn't wait a second longer to press his lips against Spamton’s own—Ignores the phantom sensation of Tenna's waist pressing between his thighs, Tenna's fangs and tongue against his neck—
And as soon as his shaking hands touch the doorhandle, like getting doused in wonderfully cold water on a suffocatingly hot day, the presence choking Spamton from the inside out lifts away with a satisfied growl.
Spamton gasps with the exultation of being able to breathe again, sagging bonelessly against the door with relief; Even his hangover-induced headache has dissipated. He gulps in air like he was one second away from drowning, clutching his chest and willing the panic to subside. His contract, he has to respect his contract. He benefactor wants what’s best for him; He knows how to make Spamton a Big Shot, how to make Spamton’s dreams come true. He’s keeping Spamton on the right track, keeping him focused. Ant—Tenna—is just a distraction, another obstacle that Spamton has to avoid on his journey to fame, to freedom. Spamton’s in this partnership for business, that’s all. He’s manipulating Tenna, using the washed-up, insecure TV host for his own gain; That is all their relationship will ever, should ever, be.
He gives himself another few moments to calm down after his benefactor’s lesson, refusing to give into the urge to turn around to look at Ant still sleeping in his bed. He has to stay concentrated, stay motivated, stay big. He’s a Big Shot, he needs to act like it. And that means not fucking around with someone lesser than him, except as a means to an end.
Spamton doesn’t love Tenna; He loves the fame. And likewise, Tenna doesn’t love him; He loves the attention. Spamton has to remember that.
He turns the handle of the door, still unlocked from last night, and opens it to reveal the hallway. He doesn’t think about the CRT asleep comfortably in the bed they had shared, the bed they had slept together in; Doesn’t think about Ant waking up in a few hours, alone in Spamton’s apartment, empty space beside him—The glaring evidence that Spamton left unignorable, unavoidable. He doesn’t think about having to face Tenna in the studio later today, having to pretend like nothing happened, like they hadn’t been exposing their most vulnerable parts to each other mere hours ago.
He especially doesn’t think about how him ignoring what happened will make Tenna feel—How the obvious rejection will look to one already so fragile, so breakable. How Tenna will undoubtedly believe that he had done something wrong last night, or that Spamton hates him, is ashamed of him—That Spamton regrets what they had done together, what they had shared. About how Tenna will be sad, and then angry, and then self-loathing; How this action alone will set back his relationship with Tenna by months, perhaps irreparably. No, Spamton doesn’t think about any of that.
Instead, he thinks about being photographed wherever he goes.
About owning his own car dealership.
About being more than just a mailman.
About Spamton G. Spamton being a household name, the name on everyone’s lips, the name of a Big Shot.
So Spamton steps out into the hallway, and closes the door behind him.
And his benefactor smiles a large, sharp-toothed smile, and laughs a loud, glitch-filled laugh.
While Tenna sleeps on, allowed three more hours of peace, happy in the naive belief that Spamton is sleeping beside him.