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The backdoor to TV time studio opens with enough force to bang on the adjoining wall. The top of a tousled, raven black head is seen, but the camera has to pan down in order to see who it is. Spamton stands in the doorway, the light pooling from the studio into the dimly lit parking lot, creating a tall shadow.
He huffs a tired sigh, his eyes adjusting enough to see his Cungadero parked in the handicap parking spot right by the entrance. The backdoor slowly slides shut on its hinge, taking with it the warm glow from within the building, leaving only the white phosphorescent light falling from the outside lamps stationed high, high above him.
The soft patter of falling snow can be heard, falling just beyond the perimeter of the studio parking lot. Tenna made it that way after Spamton complained about having to clean the snow off his car after every shift. Spamton pulls the car clicker out of his pocket, hitting the unlock button twice as he walks towards it. His crimson jacket hangs from his elbow, his sleeves already rolled up and top buttons undone. He pulls the car door open and slides himself into the front seat unceremoniously. The second the door shuts, Spamton’s forehead collides with the steering wheel in a dramatic slump.
Spamton is bone tired. He can barely keep his eyes open. Simply walking his way from his dressing room to where he is now nearly ended him. The effort of performing on stage tonight, of keeping up his million-kilowatt smile, was too much. It took everything in him not to snap at every obnoxious shadow guy and their pointlessly loud rhythms or punt any pippins that dared to get underfoot.
Tenna could tell. Tenna could always tell.
Those antennae were pointed in his direction all evening, twitching in sympathy every time Spamton failed to smother a yawn. He sent Spamton home the second the final shot for the evening is done. Or, at least, he tried to. Little did he know that Spamton kept extra paperwork in his dressing room for this very situation.
And now, hours later, Spamton is finally heading home. The air inside the Cungadero is still. He can hear the leather creak as he tightens his grip on the steering wheel, digging his forehead in harder. This silence… it reminds him of the silence waiting for him in his mansion apartment. Too high up from the streets of the city to hear the constant drone of traffic. Too empty of furniture to mask the echo of his footsteps when he walks about.
When he first moved in, he thought he wanted that silence. For too long, he was stuck in the cramped childhood apartment he shared with his 4 other siblings, spending every night smothered in orange, yellow, blue, and pink feathers. And then he thought he would enjoy the reprieve from the trashy hole he lived in directly after.
He sits in his car now, and he thinks of that silence.
He thinks of the bed he doesn’t bother to make every morning, the room he doesn’t bother to furnish. The only real possession within it is the rotary phone sitting on a short stool. Light doesn’t reflect off of it but seems to come from within it. A white circle of light in the center with no buttons to rotate. It is an ever-watchful eye staring straight into his living space. Thinking of his silent roommate makes Spamton shudder. It is partially why he doesn’t want to go back there, despite how desperately he needs his bed.
No, what kept him awake for the past 48 hrs and some change was the constant pulling at his throat. If he manages to sleep, he dreams of wires and nooses that he can’t untie. Sentient strings that chase him and stangle him and dangle him over a precipice of never-ending neon green. He always wakes up with a choking gasp, sweat soaking his feathers. He puts his head in his hands, and he stays that way for hours under the oppressive light emanating from the demon in the corner.
No. He can’t go back there.
He shoves the car door back open. Jacket forgotten in the passenger seat. Tenna resides in a suite on the uppermost floor of TV Time Studio. The darkner lord is a permanent resident of the building. Spamton knows that if he asks, Tenna will gladly share his bed. Spamton isn’t a stranger to Tenna’s bedroom, but he avoids staying overnight too often. He doesn’t think the phone likes that.
In this moment, Spamton didn’t give a shit about what the phone thought. If he doesn’t get 4- no, 5 hours of sleep at least, he's afraid his heart will stop.
He will never admit it aloud, but he can’t be alone right now. The thought of the giant-sized bed sounds all too appealing; however, Spamton knows that’s not all that he needs. Suppose Tenna were in it, maybe. When Spamton left the studio a few minutes prior, he heard the low chatter of the writing team coming from the writers’ room. Tenna’s staticy tenor present amongst the conversation. The TV always works late, later than anyone else at the studio. Maybe it is due to his status as the lord of this world, he doesn’t show his fatigue as easily as the regular darkner. Spamton isn’t fond of the idea of trading one empty bed for another, even if the second option has velvet sheets and smells of ozone.
The zapper standing guard within the entrance of the building gives him a peculiar look upon seeing him so soon. Spamton ignores them and makes his way through the dark hallways. The usually brightly lit green room sits almost frozen in time. The tessellating stars on the wallpaper are unmoving. The fairylights hanging from the ceiling are little more than decoration, blinking like stars and doing very little to light Spamton’s path. He has to rely on his own pale white phosphorescence to see in the empty space.
He turns down another hallway, past corkboards bursting with pamphlets and flyers advertising employee benefits and rights, and eventually finds the door to the writers' room.
Practicing what he’s going to say in his head, he gingerly opens the door.
The room is a mess, papers litter every surface. On the opposing wall are numerous screens, most not on, but some show paused moments from the day’s shoot. Rolls of film sit on the table in front of the screens, ready to be reviewed. In the center of the room is a large circular wooden table, also coated in notes. Pippins and shadow guys sit around it, making comments about edits that need to be made, suggestions for shows in the future.
The majority, if not all, of them have the same look of pure exhaustion that Spamton knows his face carries. No one is willing to call it quits if the big man is still going strong.
Tenna stands with his back to the door, a cigar in his mouth and a slow curl of smoke coming from his vents, tail idly moving back and forth in thought. Both of his palms rest on the table in front of him, and he stands leaning over it, studying the pages before him. Even with a sleep-addled mind, Spamton takes a moment to appreciate the way his partner’s dress shirt strains against his shoulders and nicely outlines his deltoids and biceps.
He mentally makes a note to inspect them when he next sees them uncovered.
“The kids will love it, boss, you just get totally slimed,” a pippins is saying.
“That’s not happening,” Tenna mutters. The new light coming from the opening door behind him halts whatever Tenna is going to say next. Tenna turns. “I thought I said–” He stops, “Spamton?” He asks. Putting the cigar down in an ashtray on the table, he walks over to where Spamton has his body halfway in the room and half out. “I thought you went home ages ago? What are you still doing here?”
“Yeah, well, something came up. Kept me around. Can I talk with you out here, Ant? I got a favor,” Spamton motions for Tenna to leave the room.
Tenna gives him a quizzical look before he turns back to his employees and barks, “5 minute brake. Those plans had better be done by the time I return!” Joyous sighs and musical notes of relief can be heard coming from the staff before Tenna shuts the door. “So,” Tenna folds his arms and focuses his tired screen onto his business partner. His boss facade softens somewhat. “What is it that you need, Spam?”
Spamton shuffles a bit. Tenna is gonna think this is stupid, isn’t he? No, this is Ant he is talking to. The man doesn’t have a judgmental bone in his body. Tenna patiently watches Spamton hem and haw. He is used to Spamton’s closeted nature. The longer it takes for Spamton to say something, the more vulnerable it is. So Tenna lets him take his time, his lips turning upward fondly at his little mailman.
Eventually, Spamton says, “I was gonna head home, but, you already know, I’m dead tired. Would probably crash the ‘dero if I went anywhere like this. So I was wonderin, do you have a place for me to crash tonight? Just need somewhere to park my ass for a few hours.”
The CRT blinks. “That’s it?” His head tilts in bewilderment. “Sure, Spam, my room is just upstairs. You know that. And I have the couch in my dressing room. You’ve slept on it before.”
Ugh, he has to explain it, doesn’t he? A glance is thrown upward and back down.
“That’s… not what I meant,” he grunts. How to explain this? “Do you have a spot that’s by people? But like, not too close to people because I still want to sleep. And cause I don’t want people to look at me while I sleep. But close enough that I can still hear them?” Spamton slaps his tired eyes and drags his hands down his face in frustration, “I’m not making any sense, am I?”
Tenna finds his partner’s dilemma adorable. His head tilts in thought. “You’ve seemed really tired for the past few days, does this have something to do with why you’re not sleeping?”
“Yeah,” Spamton admits. “I… dunno why. I just don’t want it to be too quiet.” The string around his neck tightens as he swallows.
“Hmmm, makes sense.”
Spamton looks back up into Tenna’s screen, squinting. “What do ya mean ‘makes sense’?”
Tenna balks slightly at Spamton’s accusatory tone. “My internals are pretty noisy, you know this! Me being mechanical and all. Whenever we sleep together, you always have your ear pressed up against my chest,” he points with a gloved finger to his right pec. “You grip me real tight, too. Maybe I should start selling body pillows with my likeness on them. I’d probably make a killing, judging by how much you treat me like one.” Tenna teases.
The feathers on Spamton’s neck and chest fluff up in embarrassment. He whips his head side to side to check the hallway before hissing at the giant. “I- I do not!” Not his best comeback, but he is far too tired for wordplay.
Yet, Tenna has a point. The muted whirring and shifting of mechanisms far too intricate for him to fully understand have a lullaby effect on the email. He’s woken up to the outline of metal panels and screws branded into his cheek more than once.
“Anyhow, with everyone being gone for the evening, I don’t know if there is a spot like that in the studio. I’m sorry, Spammy, I’d love to go upstairs with you, but I’ll be staying up for a while longer to fix next week’s schedule.” Tenna’s fangs flash at his irritation. “Some dipstick decided to double-book two sponsorships at once, and now we have to cut a segment to make time.” His tail hits the wall with force. Spamton silently prays that it wasn’t something that he had done in his half-asleep stupor. “If only I could put you in a carrier and strap you to me.” Tenna sighs.
He seems to be joking, though Spamton knows his clingy nature well enough by now to know that Tenna would do just that if Spamton would let him. To Spamton’s dismay, a look of contemplation suddenly shifts across Tenna’s face at the idea.
“Tenna. Tenna, no, I am not getting strapped to your chest, big guy. As delightful as that sounds, not right now.”
“No… not that.” It is Tenna’s turn to shuffle his bright yellow shoes awkwardly, followed by a subtle pink hue shifting across his screen. “I- I have an idea, and I don’t think you’re gonna like it.”
Spamton raises an eyebrow. “Worse than wearing me around like a baby?”
“It would help your situation, but it’s a bit… unconventional.” Tenna peeks up from where he’s been looking at the ground. “Promise you won’t judge me for suggesting it?”
Well, Spamton is already curious, and now he’s concerned. What could get Tenna nervous and flustered at the mere suggestion? Fuck it, he thinks, I’m too tired to care. If it will help me sleep, I’ll do it. “Spit it out, Boob Tube! What’s the idea?” His tail feathers twitch in interest.
Tenna fiddles a little with his gloves and glances at the door just behind him. “Let’s move locations. Follow me.”
If Spamton’s eyebrows aren’t already quirked into his hairline, they would be now. The walk to Tenna’s dressing room is a silent one, neither of them wanting to expend the energy to make conversation.
Tenna holds the door open for Spamton when they arrive. Inside, a worn, brown leather couch, low coffee table, and a few assorted chairs are the only pieces of furniture, all larger than life to suit the owner of the room. The main draw of the room is a wide vanity set in the corner, a mirror on each wall, making a perpendicular angle with a seat in the middle. Tenna’s screen is the only source of light until he flips the switch, turning the bulbs on the vanity to their lowest setting.
Spamton impatiently taps his foot on the floor as he watches Tenna take a seat and start to undo his topmost shirt buttons. “As much as I’d love to, Tens, I’m far too tired to do anything tonight.” Spamton jokes.
“And I’m far too busy,” Tenna retorts.
“Then why’re you taking your top off?” He motions towards his partner’s now bare torso. Tenna’s body is a mix of plastic and silicone. Rubber-coated wires thread through his neck and along the undersides of his arms, disappearing beneath segmented plates.
“If you’d shut your motor mouth for two seconds…” Tenna laughs.
Tenna clicks something beneath his ribs. A panel in the corner of his lower chest pops loose. The trunk of his body, Spamton soon discovers, is hollow. Mostly. Inside is a cavity webbed with loose wiring and narrow boards slotted into brackets along the inner walls. Bundles of cables droop between them like hanging vines. Toward the back of the space stands a solid cylindrical column that flexes faintly whenever Tenna shifts his weight. His spine, Spamton figures.
Something of a mechanic himself, he hops onto Tenna’s knee to get a closer look, marveling at every mechanism. “You have an empty space in your stomach?”
“I usually use this space as a heat sink. Most of it is left open for cooling and maintenance.” Subtle heat warms Spamton’s face, pouring from the new exit. It smells of warm plastic. “For tonight… maybe you could use it as a place to sleep?” The usual confident cadence trickles into a hesitant tremble.
At this, Spamton’s head snaps up. “You want me? To sleep? There? In your body?” The larger darkner’s mouth pulls into a tentative smile. “I dunno, Tens, that seems kinda…” Spamton scoots a bit further away from the cavity. He is used to Tenna opening himself up to him, but not literally. Spamton’s skittish nature balks at the very notion of setting foot within those wires.
Seeing Spamton’s hesitation, Tenna takes an entreating tone. “You mentioned a place close to people but still quiet, right? And the sound of my internals usually helps you sleep. I’ll be up for a while working, and this is the next best thing short of you being in the room with us.” The large hands grip tighter where they rest on his thighs. “I’m not entirely sure why you’ve got insomnia, Spammy, since you never tell me anything.” That comment is said as an aside, but Spamton catches the implication. “To me, it just sounds like you’re lonely.”
“I ain’t lonely!” Spamton instantly bristles, moving to stand on Tenna’s knee. “Don’t start psychoanalyzin’ me, Ant.” What does this oversized TV know? Spamton’s not lonely. He definitely doesn’t want to be gently comforted and wrapped in those giant arms. Not him.
“Look, Spammy.” Tenna cups the smaller darkner in his hand reassuringly. He easily palms Spamton, his thumb brushing the black strands back before sliding comfortingly down the length of his back. Spamton shivers at the touch. “Anyone can tell that you’re stressed out. It’s affecting your performances on stage. I can tell, everyone else can tell. And you won’t tell me why.” “That’s…” His empty, dark bedroom. Sweaty sheets. Hard gasps and an eye staring at him from the corner. Spamton hugs himself tightly and turns his head away from the blueish glow of his partner’s screen. He feels more than hears Tenna’s deep sigh.
A finger the size of his arm lifts his chin back upward gingerly. “I’ve been trying for days to think of how I could help you. Now that I know what I can do, please let me try.” Tenna tilts his head, chassis furrowed in concern. “Please?”
Spamton looks at him for a long moment. The soft whirr of Tenna’s fans fills the silence between them.
Spamton stares into the cavity. That was not storage space. Those are important parts. “You sure you wanna let me crawl around in there?” Spamton rubs his arm.
“You won’t hurt anything,” Tenna says softly. “I trust you.”
Tenna said it like it was obvious. Like letting Spamton near his internals wasn’t a terrible idea.
Spamton doesn’t answer right away.
“…This is a stupid idea,” he mutters.
Tenna doesn’t move.
Spamton rubs at his face. “If I end up electrocuted, I’m hauntin’ you.”
Tenna releases the breath he’s been holding in. “Just be careful, I’m- the wires- they’re a bit sensitive.”
“Oh?" Spamton sees his opportunity and grabs it. "Maybe this can be a little trial run, then. See how ya react when I mess around in here.”
“...”
“...”
“No, don’t close the hatch, Tens. I’m joking. Joking!”
“No, you weren’t.”
“Don’t act all high and mighty, dumbass. I saw that look on your face, you like the idea.”
“If you don’t get in there right now, I’m leaving.”
“That’s what your mom said to me last ni- I’m joking, Ant! Don’t leave- you know I joke when uncomfortable!”
“You’re insufferable sometimes, you know that?”
“Eahahahah, but that’s why you like me~” Tenna can only chuckle in endearment at his mailman’s attempts to lighten the mood. “The second I say I’m done, you lemme out. Ya hear me, Mr. Ant Tenna?”
“I hear you, Spamton G. Spamton.”
Mind made up, Spamton moves to enter and pauses. “It’s a little cramped, Cathode.”
“Oh, here, lemme just-” Tenna grows a little in height, making it so the entrance to his internals is below Spamton’s neck. That is… better, Spamton muses. Before he can think any further, he climbs inside.
Instantly, he is hit with the smell of dust, ozone, and coin. He balks for a moment before the comforting warmth entices him to slip further in. There is not enough space for him to fully stretch out, his knees have to be slightly pulled up. The wires are cushier than Spamton thought they would be and they snugly fit into the curves of his back and legs.
As he settles himself, it slowly dawns on him how everything around him is alive, a part of Tenna. The wires thrum with energy. Spamton isn’t sure what magic powers Tenna but he is sure that if a lesser being like himself gets even a spark from it, he’d be caput. Strangely, the thought doesn’t scare him.
Tenna twitches faintly. “Uh, Spam?” he says, a quiet laugh catching in his voice. “That ti- itches a little.”
Spamton shifts instinctively, which only makes the cables beneath him wriggle and brush along his back.
“Quit moving around in there!” Tenna huffs.
“You invited me in!” Spamton shoots back.
“Are you comfortable, though?” Tenna asks. Being so close to the host’s voice box makes it so the words reverberate throughout the hollow, sounding muffled, as if said right up against a wall that Spamton has his ear to.
“Meh, could use a pillow or something,” Spamton snarks.
“Spam…” Tenna whines.
“I’m alright, I’m alright,” the Addison has to admit.
“So I can close this up now?” There is a beat where Spamton considers where he is, which is quickly quelled by the relief his limbs feel by finally being in a reclined position. He imagines that he’s piloting a giant mech to make himself feel better instead.
“A-okay, big guy,” he calls, giving a thumbs up that Tenna can’t see. Ready for take off.
“Here goes,” Tenna mumbles more to himself, but Spamton hears it perfectly. The chest hatch begins to close, taking with it the light from the vanity. Spamton belatedly worries how he is going to breathe with no fresh air. The worry is quickly quashed by the flow of air he can feel coming from small vents around him. Right, Tenna does say that this space is a heat sink, which means that there is a constant circulation.
With the extra illumination from the outside gone, the only sources of light are Spamton’s own pale color and stripes of a warm yellow glow lining the space around him. Spamton glances up, trying to find the source. The “ceiling” above him is more of a grate, and between the slats, Spamton can see a yellow object rhythmically beating, a dull thump accompanying every pulse. The sound stands out amongst the quiet clicks and whirrs that now encapsulate Spamton’s body.
Is that– Spamton’s code almost glitching as it tries to compute what he is seeing. Is that Tenna’s heart? Who is he for Tenna to trust him near such an important organ? Equipment? Spamton doesn’t know what to call it, but he feels his feathers flush with the weight of Tenna’s trust.
In the time that Spamton takes to get his bearings, Tenna buttons his shirt back up. “Well, I’m going back to work now,” he warns before moving to stand. Wires slide softly under Spamton as Tenna straightens.
“What about when you wanna go to sleep?” Spamton raises his voice so Tenna can hear. Did he need to do that?
“I won’t, not tonight.” The creak of the dressing room door opening. There's a pleasant rocking motion as Tenna walks out into the hallway and back to the writers' room.
Spamton thinks to himself as he steadies himself against his surroundings. I know what I wanted was a ridiculous request, but being so close to someone…
Feels weird, Tenna’s thoughts finish.
A startled chorus of staccato notes and gasps welcomes the host when he returns. “Hey, boss!” they say together.
A low grumble from Tenna. “Did you all get anything done while I was gone?”
“Yes!”
“Yes?”
“No.”
“♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.”
“If we don’t get this done by the time of opening shift, none of you are getting paid. Now, where were we before I left?”
“The schedule, boss.”
“Right.”
The longer he soaks in the air filtered from the vents, the sweeter it seems to Spamton. Does that mean he is losing braincells to the smell of burnt plastic? Maybe. But he finds it worth it in this moment. The light from Tenna’s heart gives an almost nightlight effect. Not too bright and settling on his eyes soothingly.
Nearby components give off gentle, radiating warmth, like touching a computer that’s been running awhile. The wires are lukewarm and slightly vibrating. Air brushes across him from fans, ruffling his feathers occasionally.
Tenna’s voice is sonorous, imposing and all-consuming, rattling Spamton down to his code. It and the muffled voices of the TV Time crew marry together into a soft blanket of sound. As Spamton closes his eyes, nostalgia washes over him. He hears the clinking of dishes in the sink and lively arguments emanating from the kitchen. Footsteps, doors closing, muted laughter.
The ringing of the phone is lost in the sweet cacophony.
Sheep with TV heads hop over a fence in Spamton’s sleep-addled mind. Every hop repeats two thoughts over and over.
He could get used to this.
There is no way he could get used to this.
Cocooned in this protective shell of plastic and affection, he can truly relax. He feels so safe. There is no phone. He breathes deeply with nothing pulling at his throat.
The strings can’t get to him in there.
“Goodnight, Tenna,” Spamton whispers before he is pulled into sweet, sweet nothingness.
The room drifts into a brief lapse of silence as everyone sorts their thoughts before the next topic of conversation. Tenna opens his mouth to speak and is interrupted by a low vibration in his chest.
For a moment, he is confused. What in the- “Did anyone else hear that?” one pippins asks the table.
“I did!” another one says.
The revelation hits Tenna at the same time it does a particularly astute pippins. “It almost sounds like someone snoring-”
“Wow!” Tenna practically yells. “These old studio vents sure are loud, huh? Anyways, new topic before we all fall asleep here!” Tenna mentally slaps his screen. How could he not remember his partner’s inclination to saw wood?
It's going to be a long night.