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Mr. WPNZ should have left a note, a text, maybe WPNZ should have woken Mr. Puzzles up in the middle of his beauty rest to tell him goodbye with a quick kiss to that dumb glass screen. Maybe he should have said “see you later, Sweetcakes”, something even more embarrassing...like “cathode-cutie” or “puzzle-piece”, letting Puzzles’ TV overheat with fluster as he shamed WPNZ for saying such a thing, and hoped to get some action tonight, if Puzzles was in the mood for pillow princessing like normal. That hope was now disintegrated into specks of a material that seemed way smaller than dust. Almost as if it never happened because it can’t happen anymore.
The CRTV-man had woken up in the early rays of morning light shining through their opened-curtain bedroom window, stretching his long, lanky limbs like if he were a feline that had taken a well deserved rest in their own eyes. He was wearing one of WPNZ’s oversized spare shirts that ended at the bottom of his knees. It was black. Puzzles had tied it up at a specific corner so it wasn’t too big that it fell off when he stood or walked. The media mogul sat up, planting his socked feet on the floor of their bedroom, reaching over and clumsily patting around the nightstand, feeling until he managed to grab the rim of his black bowler hat. He sat it upon his head, letting his two thin radio antennas slide through the small holes drilled into the bulging dome top.
Yawning, he stood up and stretched some more before wiggling it out of his system. “Good morning, dearest,” he sang, turning around to face his partner, but if he wasn’t awake before, he was the moment his focus landed on the bed, with WPNZ’s side empty. “Oh...! Maybe...he just woke up early?”
The TV host hums his famous TV time jingle as he bounced with cartoon-like charm of what was a showman’s happiest walk to their living room. His audio sensors only pick up the faint lowered volume of their TV and the wind coming from the vents. Not even the kitchen wanted to join him in tune. The bathroom door was also wide open, wait, did WPNZ even need to go to the bathroom? Not there either. Surely his love hadn’t left without saying something, he couldn't have. Despite WPNZ’s rough exterior and “I don't really care what you feel.” uphand attitude, that wasn’t always the case with people the machine cares about. Puzzles knew WPNZ had spent a long time studying his behavior, the stuff he liked, his walking postures, favorite movies and least favorite movies, the smallest things known to mankind. Puzzles had only noticed one day because WPNZ had noticed him in a bad mood over something. Perhaps a mere moment of embarrassment, Puzzles didn’t want to exactly get into what happened again. He was tapping his foot against the floor like repeating a quick-version of a rabbit's angry thunk of their back legs to the ground. It made the CRTV love his partner all the more. But this also meant WPNZ should know Puzzles’ mental behaviors, he never encourages the insanity ones, but he should know about Puzzles’ fear of abandonment and autophobia. WPNZ wouldn’t forget him like that, they trust in each other too much.
So if he did, why did Puzzles’ heart hurt? Why didn’t WPNZ leave something for him?
At first, the TV host paced around the house, waiting for the robot to come back in the midst of a surprise or maybe just remembered he had not told puzzles, “I love you, be back later.” Puzzles decides to spend the day trying to forget about it, maybe write new episodes, encouraging that creative vision he inspires himself in. But as his pen hit the paper, and sketched and wrote and sketched and wrote and repeated in a loop of two words that circled around his brain.
Sketch.
Where are you?
Write.
Why did you leave me?
Sketch.
Did I do something? Was it the way I spoke? Was I too loud? Too much? Too little? Too needy for you?
Write.
Did I betray you again? Have I forgotten?
Sketch.
The ink is blurring because my hands won't stop shaking; I’m sorry.
Write.
I’m sorry for the things I did, and I’m sorry for the things I haven't even done yet.
Sketch.
The walls are closing in and I’m disappearing into the white space of the page.
Write.
Please come back. It’s been six hours since I have seen you, able to hold me in your arms, my love.
Sketch.
I promised. Please. Forgive me. Just don’t leave. I promised I wouldn't break again, but I’m shattering and there is no one here to pick up the pieces.
Write
The mantra of loop repeated, recycling itself over and over as a nonsensible guilt. Guilt that made no sense. Guilt that wasn’t even deserved nor needed. But the guilt came in anyways, opening its door into his body and soul. It felt as if the desk faded away, dissolving in front of him, he had reached out, for what reason? Maybe it was to save his crappy work or just to find something to hold himself upright, but it only flapped hard against something then it felt like it phased through. His knees buckled and scrambled, as if he had tripped over something in his path. Black closed in all around him, fuzzing his edges and lowering opacity to make it seem as if he were trapped inside it. The CRTV felt his ankles bend at an inwardly angle he doesn’t even want to try and describe. His antennas felt too heavy above his TV. Puzzles technically didn’t NEED to breathe, but he was capable of it, and it still feels like the wind was knocked out of his human-cyborg mixed chest. His hands scramble on the floor, digging squarish slender, yet big, fingertips into the ground and scratching it up. He can’t stop. He’s hyperventilating, blue pixelated tears appearing on his screen. He hiccups, a sob torn from his speakers. His knees shove themself together at an attempt at comfort.
All he knew, all he could think about...a simple fact.
He was alone again.
WPNZ had been walking back home, heavy metal foot cannons clanging on the pavement of the sidewalk. He was irritable. The contract had been a disaster, a "simple" hit that turned into an eight-hour chase through the industrial district and another two hours scrubbing carbon scoring off his chassis. Guy was a runner AND a fighter. He gripped a bag of groceries, stuff he, because boxhead insisted it was gentleman-like, actually bought with the money he earned from kills and not stolen. It was only when he opened the door did the sound of hiccuping sobs made him freeze.
The mundane clatter of the grocery bag hitting the floor echoed like a gunshot in the oppressive silence of the apartment. Oranges tumbled across the hardwood, and a carton of eggs shattered, but WPNZ didn't spare them a glance. Shakespeare. He ran into the room, finding the 12 foot man curled up on the floor, having a fucking panic attack. The 12-foot frame that usually commanded the room with theatrical bravado, more like dramatic queen-behavior in WPNZ’s optics, was now a collapsed architecture of grief. Puzzles’ fingers were still clawing at the floorboards, leaving frantic, shallow gouges as if trying to anchor himself to a world that was drifting away. WPNZ’s feet, usually so rhythmic and intimidating, stumbled in a rare display of clumsiness as he bridged the gap between them. The irritation of the ten-hour hunt, the carbon scoring on his armor, and the stinging exhaustion of the day evaporated instantly, replaced by a cold, metallic dread. “Boxhead! Hey! Broadway, look at me!”
WPNZ dropped to his knees, the weight of his chassis making the floorboards groan. He didn't care about the structural integrity of the apartment; he only cared about the shaking silhouette in front of him. He reached out, his large, calloused metal hands hovering for a split second, fearing he might break something already so shattered, then realizing Puzzles wouldn’t exactly care because WPNZ had beat the shit out of him before, but he firmly grasped Puzzles’ shoulders. The contact sent a jolt through Puzzles. He flinched violently, his screen flashing with static snow and red flashing warnings before he finally registered the specific temperature of his partner right in front of him. “W-WPNZ...?” The voice was a pathetic rasp, the audio leveling all wrong. Puzzles’ head tilted up, his bowler hat hanging precariously off one antenna. His screen was a mess of glitches, it was struggling to form back the image of his eyes that he wanted to express, he reached up to palm his screen, pressing hard against it till it fixed itself, whimpering. WPNZ didn’t hesitate. He pulled the lanky TV-man forward, hauling him out of the cramped corner and into the broad, unyielding space of his own chest, moving from Puzzles’ shoulders to holding him in a hugging position.
“I’m right here, you idiot,” WPNZ growled, though the usual gravelly bite in his voice was smoothed over by a rare, desperate softness. He didn't care that Puzzles’ knees were digging into his joints or that the TV-head was vibrating with enough anxiety to rattle WPNZ’s own internal sensors.
“You, you weren't there,” Puzzles choked out, his voice modulated by a heavy tremolo. He buried his face into the crook of WPNZ’s neck, the hard edge of his screen clucking against his partner's metal collarbone. “The bed was cold. The house was... it was quiet. I thought you...I thought you changed your mind about forgiving me...I thought I....I...I’m sorry! It was me, wasn’t it? I did something stupid again and betrayed your trust! Again! Didn’t I!?”
“What..?”
WPNZ froze, the weight of Puzzles’ words hitting him harder than any physical blow ever could. He had spent years as a cold-blooded instrument of destruction, a man who viewed emotions as variables to be accounted for or weaknesses to be exploited. But hearing that distorted, warbling voice, full of a raw, agonizing self-made guilt that Puzzles had been marinating in for hours, made his brain stutter. The realization stung. Puzzles wasn't just having a bad day; he was reliving the trauma of his own making, convinced that the person he loved most had finally reached their limit. The weight of the accusation decided it hung in the air, heavier than the reinforced titanium of WPNZ’s own frame. The hitman felt a glitch in his own processors, a sharp, stinging recoil at the sheer volume of self-loathing radiating from the man in his arms. Puzzles wasn't just crying; he was unraveling, the structural integrity of his persona collapsing into a heap of static and jagged, desperate apologies. WPNZ stared at the wall, his optics dimming as he processed the magnitude of the damage. He had spent years as a living weapon, understanding the mechanics of how to break things: how to sever a limb, how to shatter a spirit, how to end a life. But looking at Puzzles now, he realized he was staring at an opposite personality-like mirror of his own worst failures except gone through a random spinner wheel of what trauma he had. He remembered the look on Karen’s face when he’d let his own obsession with “legacy” turn into violence. He remembered the cold, hollow realization that he had driven awayt he only people who ever truly looked at him without fear. He saw that same hollow terror in Puzzles’ drawn eyes, the belief that love was a fragile thing that could be revoked at any moment for the slightest transgression.
“Shut up. Just... shut your damn volume knob for one second, baby,” WPNZ growled, but the command lacked any real heat. He shifted his grip, his massive, scarred metal fingers sliding up to cup the sides of the CRTV with a gentleness that felt alien to his programming. He forced the taller man to look at him, the glass of the screen reflecting WPNZ’s grim, mechanical face. An act that made Puzzles tense a bit before relaxing as he noticed his lover's eyes were still yellow. “You think I’m that shallow? You think I’m gonna walk out because you’re 'too much' or because you talked too loud?” WPNZ leaned in until their foreheads, well, his headgear and the best he could do with the top of Puzzles’ screen, clinked together. “I’m an assassin, Boxhead. I’ve spent my life surrounded by monsters, and I’ve been the worst of 'em. You think your 'theatricality' is what’s gonna scare me off? After everything? After the Castle? After I nearly took your head off with a chainsaw and you still looked for me while I tried to forget you?” He pulled back just enough to look Puzzles in the screen, his own eyes glowing with a fierce, steady intensity. “I know what you did. I know you used me. I know you mocked me. And I’m still standing in your damn living room, aren't I? I don't forgive easily, and I don't forgive twice. So if I said we’re good, we’re good.”
The silence that followed wasn't the suffocating, empty void that had been crushing Puzzles all morning. It was a heavy, shared quiet, the kind that exists between two people who have seen the absolute worst of each other and decided to keep looking anyway. Puzzles let out a long, shuddering gasp of air, his screen finally stabilizing into a soft face, his digital eyes wide and shimmering with relief. He slumped forward, the tension draining out of his lanky limbs so suddenly that WPNZ had to brace his legs to keep them both from toppling over. WPNZ let out a grunt, his hand moving from Puzzles' screen to the back of his neck, massaging the junction where wires met flesh. “I went to get groceries, Shakespeare. Real food. The kind you like because it looks 'aesthetic' on a plate. I was gone for three hours because the target I was tracking earlier this week decided to be a marathon runner, and then I had to wait in line behind a guy who didn't understand how coupons work. I didn't leave because of you; I left because we were out of eggs.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the mess in the hallway, the spilled oranges and the sticky yellow remains of the egg carton. A part of him, the primal, frustrated hunter, felt a twinge of disappointment. He had planned a different kind of evening. He’d imagined coming home, tossing the bag on the counter, and spending the night indulging Puzzles' more... pampered tendencies. He’d been looking forward to seeing that TV overheat for an entirely different reason, watching the "Media Mogul" turn into a flushed, stammering mess under his touch. But as Puzzles gripped the front of WPNZ’s shirt, burying his face back into the hitman’s shoulder and sobbing with a quiet, exhausted finality, WPNZ knew the "pillow princess" wasn't going to be making an appearance tonight. Not in that way, at least. "Come on," WPNZ muttered, hooking his arms under Puzzles’ knees and back, hoisting the twelve-foot man up with a grunt of exertion. Puzzles was all height and no density, whatsoever, a lanky collection of wires and showmanship that felt surprisingly light when the bravado was stripped away. "We’re going back to bed. I’ll get groceries with you later, Shakespeare.”
Puzzles didn't protest. He just wrapped his long arms around WPNZ’s neck, his bowler hat finally falling off and rolling away unheeded, revealing those pretty antennas. “You’re staying?”
WPNZ kicked the bedroom door open, his heavy cannons thudding on the carpet. “Try to get rid of me, Boxhead. I dare you.”
He laid Puzzles down on the rumpled sheets, the black oversized shirt riding up Puzzles’ thin legs. WPNZ didn't even bother removing his own armor plates; he just climbed in beside him, letting the TV-man curl into his side like a vine seeking a trellis. As Puzzles’ breathing slowed and his screen dimmed to a low-power standby glow, WPNZ reached out, resting a heavy metal hand over Puzzles’ chest.
“Next time,” WPNZ rumbled into the darkness, “I’ll leave a damn note. In neon. So even a blind bat like you can’t miss it.”
“I’m no bat...” Puzzles gave a weak, sleepy chuckle, a sound that finally signaled the end of the storm. "A text message would work better, really, darling.”
“Go to sleep, Sweetcakes,” WPNZ sighed, the nickname feeling heavy and ridiculous on his tongue, but he said it anyway, just to feel the way Puzzles’ fans skipped a beat in genuine, happy fluster. He’d clean up the eggs in the morning. For now, he had his own showman to keep grounded.