Work Text:
A-Side
Finally! Finally! Jevil had slipped past the careless Rangers on duty, then cut down a few more in the halls once the elevator carried him away from that dull old cell. Three months in isolated freedom. Food may have been plentiful and his slumber peaceful, but the lack of company truly did make for such a bore. Seam did not even visit since the scuffle that resulted in the imp's incarceration. Sentenced for being a touch too loose-lipped about undesired truths and crumb too daring in their latest games. The guards barely spoke except to alert them of new meals, a change of attire or the regular hosing that constituted bathing. All tolerable to an extent, there was no end of the ways the jester could make merriment within his own mind and limitless imagination.
But one thing did pull and twist like a devious thorn embedded deep beneath the skin. One absentee that Jevil longed to play with more than any of his home world, more than even Seam. That little man whom put the thorn in, who perhaps was the thorn, digging beyond the flesh right into his chest. The now fuzzy image of that man's face sat in Jevil's mind, carrying them with single-minded intent into the world beyond their own.
To say the clown had thought of him oft would far understate the swirling yearning that grew each day, each hour, each moment without him. Did he even know that Jevil was kept away? So regularly on edge was the salesman, that it would not surprise if he presumed abandonment with the unwilling separation. However, unlike before, the imp could not reassure that such notions were all foolishness and ask if he believed the sky would soon turn to ground, for it was just as implausible they should lose affection for his charm. Then showing the marketeer, so flustered by those words, what full expression of said affection entailed.
Carefully Jevil would groom the strange, glowy plumage that Spamton simply forgot to do between the many hours spent proving his dedication to ambition. An act of careful concentration that usually eluded the wild-card, but oh so easy when it meant touching that lovely man and seeing him relax into the little ritual replacing lost preening. Often the salesman would idly run his hands through Jevil's hair, caress their skin and trace the varied scars that resulted from a life of daring, courtly displays. All the while those jewel-like eyes remained fixed on the imp, almost trance like alongside the steady rise and fall of his doted upon chest. The place where the clown would inevitably fall upon by night's end, dropping the day's worn out smile; a strange serenity only found there, with him.
Jevil had longed so dearly for it in his new chambers, provided simply a limp blanket that could not compare, no matter which way it was bundled and plumped into comparable form. Would the marketeer be keeping up with self-maintenance on his own now? Or would the jester need to make up for lost time? Certainly the stress must have built with the oppression of that land of screens which left the salesman so fatigued.
Yet it could not be forgotten that before their parting, the hours away already grew. Pulled into re-shoots and re-writes until the strict ideas of permissible fun infected Spamton's words and limited the boundless, wondrous impulses that made him so special. Many times the insistence was made that the clown would never understand commitment to serious work and the necessity of another late party with associates. Always advising Jevil sleep, yet slumber could not find them in cold quilts, so their own wandering abounded. When the imp found their own new friend, and a wealth of great knowledge to eagerly share with the advertiser, it merely deepened the gap. Until eventually the day came where staring at it revealed a chasm.
However, they always found each other, just enough to perform the ritual. For that time it would be only the two of them. They could float over the chasm, away from friends on either side, even if they would eventually pull both back by unseen strings. The marketeer was always the quickest to fall victim to that tug, for many hands in the TV land did yank and insist his return. There was some accrued debt to pay, an owed interest for a place in their fold, responsibilities to viewers untold.
A bitterness stirred as Jevil crossed the Cyber City streets in haste to their destination; Spamton's lodgings in that mansion, even if it would require some sneaking to invade. Certainly the Queen would be in the side of those boring Kings when it related to the imp's return to isolation.
Jevil wondered how many of these large displays were the advertiser's doing. Or were his promotions all TV screen-bound affairs since last they met? Spamton so liked to appear on those signs, to show all that doubted his cunning that he had achieved grandness. If the jester could just find one, to see how that plumage was, to know the man was still in this city, not fully molded to the Screen Lord's vision of a perfect performance partner. The tall entertainer never liked the slime that built up between the mailman's feathers, nor the sheen it left on them. But it did result in the advertiser requesting maintenance more. And no matter how embarrassed Spamton would get about the clown's solution; licking him clean and leaving him burning pink through that heavenly white exterior, it always worked best. No shampoo, or soap, lathered it away so well, nor made him melt into Jevil like wax beneath a flame.
The jester was deep into the city now, the billboards bigger, brighter, bombarding the eyes. Each wishing to strike his senses, dig deep and hold attention like a whirling strike from his knife. But all whizzed past; sloppy attacks and ineffectively flashy moves. Not like his advertiser can, no, nothing like-
Jevil's distinctive, colorful attire was suddenly engulfed by the red glow of a most sizeable display. Their yellow orbs shrinking back like a frightened animal before some beast that snuck up all too quietly, now inches from ensnaring them in its jaws. The salesman's image evidently still haunted this city as much it did the fool searching for him. Yet before them was not a man haunted alike; instead radiating as if caught in a moment of unfettered joy. Perfectly clean, white wings and plumage starkly contrasted the saturated shade behind. What it sold mattered little, but the tag-line: "It feels like a dream…" unconsciously mocked the clown that moments prior strode along so confidently, assured Spamton still needed them.
That intense red was nauseating. The same hue of 'TV Time' come to engulf the man that was once his defiantly soaring moon amidst the dull dark, now consumed by an oppressive red sky. Bathing Jevil in a nightmare, just as promised when he followed the winding path towards truth, yet mistook that fate as destined for those who played by the rules.
Pressing his head to the display did not enable him to fall into the warm embrace of the addison, nor pull him from its confines. No, Spamton was not in there and the reason he never sought the fool, following their separation, was as stark as that contemptible red; he was happier now. Jevil truly hoped this was so, no matter the burning it brought to their soul. For how else could the mailman shine so bright even now?
Hopefully Spamton found someone to dance with as they once did, lifting him above the dreary crowds like he deserved. For it was clear the party they knew was long since over and the marketeer could seek entry wherever he desired, but none had an invite for the violent clown.
Well, one invite to a cell for himself alone. What an exclusive guest list indeed and a party that was not ordained to end with any good hurry. Besides, what was there left in this cage? Not a thing for the wild-card, the mad jester, that secret devil on a secret floor.
It was time to head back. The onlookers surely agreed, displeased with the imperfect fractures left upon that red sky, leaving quartz fragments in grey imp hands. But not one scratch on the angel blessing them both. Maybe this little handicap would prove useful when Seam came to collect. How the fool needed a pleasant slumber, one where no nightmare could find them, setting them free of freedom.
B-Side
"The photo shoot went great!", "A blinding smile; award winning." That's what the crew said as the cameras finished flashing and Spamton slinked off to get the damn boat-load of makeup off his face. Not that it wasn't necessary with the dark circles under his eyes. Good concealer and professional lighting sure worked magic. But why'd the background have to be that garish shade of red? Well, it wasn't like he didn't know why; the big guy had dropped a few words here, pulled some connections there. That boob-tube just had to bring everything back to his network, didn't he?
"It'll make them all go 'Gee whiz! That's the TV Time vermilion! We must tune in tonight and tomorrow and every night of our lives!'"
Like hell anyone was gonna think that, Ant was delusion if he honestly thought the brand was that big outside of TV World. There was a reason Spamton still did these ads despite working his ass off with shows every day. Gameshows didn't keep his name relevant in Cyber city, he had to keep his face regularly on the displays, get involved with the big wigs and the amusement park project that was taking so long to get moving.
Of course, he hadn't exactly helped with recent events. Even Queen was at a loss for words when he blew up over getting that carousel ride cancelled. He'd never been so outrageously unprofessional since making it big. Luckily her aversion to anything awkward, and some latent motherly traits, had the monarch whisper to Swatch, who promptly declared a free lunch at the café. Something so unprecedented, with the quality of food and demand for its associated "eye candy", that it quickly sent everyone at the meeting scrambling out the door. Which left Queen uncomfortably rubbing the salesman's back as he dry-heaved and made a small lake of tears on the now abandoned conference table.
Soon after, the carousel plans were indeed cancelled, although officially they were only post-poned. Some citizens complained, but the whole amusement park project was logistically dragging so much that anything to speed up the process ultimately got accepted without great issue. Maybe it would be better if the whole thing got scrapped at this point. Building it under the mansion was ridiculous to begin with, but Queen didn't want to disrupt the already crowded city-scape. Although Spamton half-suspected that because his name was so embedded, she was finding excuses to keep it literally underground. This seemed especially likely when the more quickly constructed, giant ferris wheel was nearly complete, up above ground, for all to see.
Why should Spamton care though? It's not like he was going to ride the tacky, heart shaped monstrosity, nor any of the rides he was helping to get built. After all, the whole idea, and his initial enthusiasm, came from stupid, vomit-inducing love sickness. He'd go back and choke his past self for committing to something so huge all because that fool wanted to experience an amusement park like those in lightner movies. It didn't seem stupid at the time, they'd been together as Spamton worked his way up the social ladder and they'd surely still be together after the bumpy road getting here was over.
So why now? He was progressing so well, landed a job as co-host to the biggest name in TV! But suddenly the imp was never home when he finally got a chance to slip out of those post-work get togethers. When all he wanted was to crawl into bed and feel those familiar claws brush between his feathers and nestle himself against that plush, welcoming embrace, but left with only a cold, empty mattress.
Then one day, Jevil was gone for good. Not a word of farewell, no phone call, no note. Spamton kept losing sleep, forgot to dye his hair the usual rich black, letting the natural white overtake along with a build-up between his feathers that he could never get out so well on his own. Not that he could really get himself to try for long without feeling the sharp sting from memories of that fool's affectionate grooming that had maintained them so long. In the end, he'd spent countless evenings meaning to preen, but instead sat in bath water until it turned cold. Only dragging himself out to fall into bed, were he'd gain little rest and sore, red eyes as another night passed staring at the empty pillow beside him.
All until the day he exploded in front of Queen. She took him out in her limo, to a quiet hairdressers across town and had him cleaned up, although he opted to leave his hair white for the time being. It was his last chance to fix himself up, get his head screwed on straight. Although she didn't say it, he knew. So he pulled himself back into a presentation suitable for a big shot. Spamton wasn't about to lose everything he worked for over some clown that didn't want him now he was successful and happy. At least, he needed to be happy. He owed too many people too much, especially his contact, even if the calls were getting fewer lately. After this photo shoot he'd dye his hair again, throw it all into his work and forget about that idiot. Ant even had a big idea in mind to bring them both to greater heights. Everyone at the network had suffered through his high-strung wallowing long enough. If the CRT was right, he'd make it all up to them with this deal.
Then he'd surely be happy again… The strained smile in his dressing room mirror said otherwise, but he had to believe it. Finally, Spamton would stop being haunted by visions of that sharp toothed grin beside him in each reflection. Finally he'd forget the burning starlight against dark eyes, prettier than any twinkling light in the sky. Finally he could fall asleep without imagining clawed hands holding him close. Finally, finally.