Work Text:
'cause death, it takes too long
and i can't wait
It takes approximately five seconds before Spamton realizes he’s dreaming again.
He’s lucid. His vision wobbles, sentimentality creeping in as artificial warmth hugs his body—and he knows who’s spooning him from behind just by dust and light alone. By touch. It’s not real. It doesn’t matter.
He hovers his palm over Tenna’s fist, encasing it before intertwining their fingers together. The only hands that he’ll ever let himself be touched by. The same hands that once embraced him with kindness. In this comfortable sunken mattress, one they shared before, they meld into one, and Spamton allows himself to believe it. One last time.
Spamton sinks his head further in the pillow. He urges his body to lean closer to Tenna’s, and he forces his eyes shut. If he dares to look at Tenna now, he will see his compassion. His care. Looking would mean acknowledging.
He remembers this well. Back in their old studio, getting too close, tilting too far, dancing around boundaries that form through blurred strings and hushed lines. They used to drink and step on each other's shoes with too much purpose and nuance. They both knew.
His breath hitches as he tenses himself. He tries not to shake, lest Tenna sees his weakness. The cruelty in honesty is as awful as a lie.
He can’t help it. He feels safe, he feels comfortable, he feels good around Tenna’s presence. He hates it. He hates it so much. He hates him.
And so his eyes precipitate into tears that flow to the side of his mouth. Soon after, his breath becomes erratic, and he caves over himself. A flicker of light comes shining from behind him and that’s how he knows he has failed himself again.
“Spammy?” Tenna whispers in the cadence Spamton loves most. “Are you… are you okay?”
Tenna sits up—not so easily, as he almost keeled over Spamton trying to balance his weight on the bed—before reaching out to Spamton’s face, uselessly wiping away the tears as they continuously flow like a stream. Spamton can see and feel Tenna’s pity—no, concern—from his warmth and touch alone.
And shit, Spamton knows the end of the dream is near. Always fleeting. Running. He doesn’t want to open his eyes.
“I’m [A-OK], Tens,” he shakily responds, eyes closed shut. He suppresses the urge to hit himself over the small vocal tic. He knows Tenna wouldn’t like to see that, would he?
Tenna doesn’t seem convinced over the reply. Of course he isn’t. Spamton curses himself internally. He is only ever persuasive in business.
Spamton tries to turn his head to properly face Tenna. But the strings tug at him. He feels them tighten on his neck.
He’s always been weak.
“That was a stupid question. I’m sorry, Spam.” Tenna moves their blanket aside to stand up, but then he pauses. “Would you like some tea? It might help. You’re, uh, shaking.”
Spamton scoffs lightheartedly. He’d always ask that. Tenna mentioned something about the Dreemurs. Using tea to resolve the smallest issues. He knows it never helped.
It’s a stupid question after a stupid question. He should know Spamton better than this. He should know that Spamton wants nothing more than his presence. Spamton needs it more than anything. It hurts when he’s alone. Tenna of all people should know, right?
(He wouldn’t. Spamton’s the one who ran away, after all.)
“…Can you please stay with me?” asked Spamton, hypocritically, and his voice is smaller than ever. He hates feeling small.
In an equally gentle volume, Tenna replies, “of course.”
He moves his feet back to the bed, adjusting the duvet to cover both their bodies.
“Please look at me. I need to see you.”
And for a second, the strings didn’t sting.
Spamton turns his body to face him, bloodshot eyes quickly averted after seeing Tenna’s clear worry spread across his face. Guilt pierces through him until he looks at Tenna directly.
“What happened? Nightmare again?” Tenna reaches to hold Spamton’s hand.
Spamton takes it. “No.”
Tenna frowns at that. Spamton knows he hates uncertainty. “Then what are you crying about?”
Spamton considers being honest. Only for a moment.
“…s’nothing, Tenna.”
“Spamton.”
“Fine! I was just…” Spamton clears his throat, “…I was just thinking.”
Very specific. Tenna’s frown deepens. He tightens his hold on Spamton’s hand.
“About?”
Spamton looks away. He forces his eyes shut.
“About you.”
No response.
He keeps talking.
“I was thinking about you. And how much I missed you, Tenna. How much I want to hold you and see you and talk to you and make things right. Trust me, I do,” tears trickle down his cheek, “but you won’t let me. Won’t you let me?”
The warmth turns into cold. An uncanny sensation. Dread crawls on his skin.
The ringing fades away into white noise, then combining into a harsh tempest. A snow-like coat graces over his hair and his plastic skin. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know that the dream is over.
Spamton opens his eyes.
It’s cruel.
He’s just a puppet controlled by strings that others don’t see. He’s just a puppet laying down on the armless body of his former business partner. Holding on to a memory that’ll never repeat. Holding on to a connection cleaved red by blade.
He shudders. Partly from the snow, and mostly from the lifeless screen humming static in front of him.
He looks away, and he waits.
He knows he shouldn’t stay here.
He does.
He’s not going to leave him again.