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It was the end of a long week in TV World, and Tenna and Spamton were perched at the Green Room bar, three sheets to the wind.
Well, Spamton was three sheets to the wind. Hammered, if Tenna was being indelicate. He talked too loud, laughed even louder, pounded his fist on the counter at a joke Tenna made (which even Tenna could admit was not that funny).
And Tenna was completely besotted with it all.
Spamton looked at Tenna — his grin too wide, jacket long discarded and sleeves rolled up, flushed from his hairline to the tip of his nose — and raised his glass.
The realization hit like a bolt of electricity: a sure and sudden knowing. It rippled down his spine, spread through his fingers and toes, suffused his chest until it was so full he feared his chassis might crack.
When it was finished, he felt changed.
How could he not have known?
“[HA Y], earth to [Cathode]!” Spamton called, nudging Tenna with his elbow. “You gonna toast me or not?”
“What are we toasting?” said Tenna. His voice came out airy, like one of his speaker wires wasn’t plugged in correctly.
“To us, I was thinkin’,” Spamton mused, eyes shining with mirth. “We got somethin’ real good goin’ here, you and I. Don’t give ourselves enough [No Credit, No Problem], ha!”
Tenna picked up his cocktail and swirled the contents, smearing his own reflection. He turned to Spamton, a secret smile on his face, and tapped their glasses together, lingering a moment longer than absolutely necessary.
“To us.”
❦
Spamton needed to replace his alarm clock. Surely there was a gentler way to wake up than a ninety decibel electronic scream directly in his ear every morning, ripping him away from another hazy, half-remembered dream and dragging him into the reality of the cold, stale air in his suite and his cold, empty bed.
His pulse raced, eyelids so heavy they might as well have been taped shut, and smacked the snooze button, then threw himself out of bed, on autopilot.
Lamp. Robe. Slippers. Bathroom.
Turn off that damn alarm.
Kitchen. Coffee. Three scoops. Three, three, three. Start the machine. Is it going? There’s the steam. Yes.
Shower. Warm up the shower. Hop in the shower. ...forgot a washcloth. Need to do laundry... later. Scrub down. Rinse off. Towel dry.
Need coffee.
Spamton threw his robe back on and stalked towards the kitchen, wet hair hanging loose and dripping onto his shoulders. The coffee machine chirped at him, eternally in high spirits, and in short order, he had two steaming mugs in front of him: one black, and one with cream and two sugars.
He blinked, trying to clear the graphical error. The mugs stayed in place, offering no explanation, his own face cheerily gazing up at him next to the Big Shot Autos logo.
Then his mind caught up.
He tossed back his head and laughed until his sides hurt.
Spamton took a long sip of his own coffee, the sluggish gears of his brain finally churning to life, and began to rummage around in the cabinets. Several minutes later, he emerged with a travel mug clutched triumphantly in his grasp: oversized and bright red, covered with gold stars, the TV Time logo etched prominently in the center.
Spamton carefully poured the second coffee into the tumbler and placed it on the island next to his briefcase.
❦
For as often as I love you was tossed around in the heat of the moment, it was strictly off limits at any other time. Too weighty. Too sacred, for what they had. A phrase for lovers, for soulmates, not for business partners who helped each other blow off some steam on the side.
But now, the business and pleasure were all mixed together — impossible to untangle without cutting through it entirely — and something new had bloomed, fragile and hopeful.
Tenna woke up first, dark static hissing on his screen as he rubbed the sleep away. The warmth of Spamton pressed against his front brought him softly into the morning. He breathed in time, chest aching with affection as he stared at Spamton’s sleeping form: the gentle rise and fall of his chest, his dark hair splayed across the pillow, a dried line of drool caked on the side of his mouth. He didn’t bother to disguise his adoring smile as he carded a hand through Spamton’s loose waves, brushing his flyaways into place, then stroked his cheek with two knuckles.
Spamton stirred, eyes blinking open with a tiny groan. He caught Tenna’s hand and brought his big fingers to his lips, kissing the pad of each one gently.
“Whatcha doin’, Tens?”
“Just thinking about how much I love you,” Tenna said, like he’d said it a hundred times before.
The corners of Spamton’s eyes crinkled. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” Tenna’s breath came faster now, and a pressure grew in his head, the world outside their bed falling away entirely.
Spamton rolled over, still clutching Tenna’s hand to his chest. Tenna realized he could feel Spamton’s heartbeat. It thudded under him: steady, yet quickening with each passing moment.
“I love you, too.”
Tenna’s smile grew, and grew. He slipped back under the covers, hiding his face in Spamton’s stomach.
“Hey, Ant, what gives?” Spamton stammered. He pulled back the sheets to watch Tenna press kisses up his torso, fervent, until he captured Spamton’s lips. Spamton melted, and Tenna wrapped his arms around him and held him close, even closer, until he wasn’t sure where one ended and the other began. He whispered it into Spamton’s mouth, giddy, the phrase effervescent on his tongue.
When they broke apart, the same woozy grin was on Spamton’s face, too.
“What a [wake up call],” Spamton laughed. “You dream about me, sweetscreen?”
“Something like that,” Tenna beamed.
“Might as well get the [[Mr. Coffee]] going if I’m up.” Spamton stretched his arms over his head with a languid groan. “Cream, two sugars?”
Tenna leaned in and kissed him again.