Work Text:
Scribbling. Ink, a signature there. Some more complaints written over here. Annotations all about. A frantic hand, watching the clock just a bit longer. Then this can be done for the night. But he wouldn’t let himself do that, he really wouldn’t.
Mr. Ant Tenna, the lord of television! All things entertainment surrounded him, video games, movies, shows, you name it! He’s practically a jack of all trades at this point. A man that swam in his own success, yet he suffered from it as well. Such as this harrowing pile of paperwork for the poor CRT to shuffle through. Maybe he should hire someone to do it.
No.. All of this was too serious, one screw up and a script could go from award winning to an unpracticed failure! And no normal person would understand his offers, they would simply say yes to all of them! Tenna was quite the picky eater, after all, only biting the most exquisite choices that reached through to him.
This studio would practically fall apart without the ingenious Mr. Ant Tenna to hold it all together. Hell, he IS the studio. He’s the guy that owns it! His name is plastered everywhere! His antennae started to quiver, just keep writing. He pushed up his reading glasses, purely to fidget on something other than the paper beneath his hands.
A knock at the door. Angel above, who could it be at this hour? Elnina or Lanino, maybe to provide some advice? No, he would have to be the one giving, the two were in that stage of marriage where they’re a bit hard to be around. A Pippins maybe? What would those little things want, just another sly trick to peek in his wallet before firmly firing them!! Only to hire them again. They kept some of the business running.
“Come in! Just working on some paperwork… No biggie—“
“Ant, you’re still here? You’re usually the first to leave.” The voice was incredibly familiar. The CRT took off his reader’s, setting them on the luxurious red cloth for them, and looked forward.
His mailman. His brows were knitted close, a fat cigar sitting between his pointer and middle finger. The middle sported a chunky, golden ring. All of his accents were gold, the watch he wore, the eyebrow piercing that sat so snug on his thick brows, even the eyes that stared at him. He didn’t have golden eyes, but man would they feel like it, just the way they glared back at you. Like treasure.
“Oh!! I— Um… Jeez, this is a mess, isn’t it? No way to present a guy like me!” Tenna quickly swiped up the piles of paper, setting them to the side of his desk, and standing up proper.
“It’s fine, not like my desk looks any better.” A smirk, just as precious as the rest of his features. He really did seem dazzling for a city boy.
“I know… Sorry about all of that, Spamton.” The CRT toyed with his left antennae, before quickly stopping. Not that professional, was that, Mr. Tenna? So instead, he set a hand on his desk, and leaned over. A pop happened in his shoulder, really showing his rather tired state.
“You look a mess.” Spamton spoke, taking a large puff of his cigar, before hitting the ash off on the doorway.
“I kind of am right now… I get why you deal with this stuff, it’s really difficult at times!” Tenna laughed wearily, now rolling around his shoulder to ease it out.
”Yeah, it’s my thing, I guess. It’s the Addison in me.” Smoothing out his hair, he walked inside. Spamton knows the office as well as Tenna did, they would frequent each other through recordings, either to just smoke, talk money, or casual banter. The mailman was the closest thing to a friend the CRT had, next to the duo meteorologists, who didn’t speak nearly enough to him.
“What are you doing here this late? Isn’t your place a long drive?” Tenna inquired, tilting his head like a curious puppy. He felt that way more often as he spoke to Spamton.
“Doing the same as you, I got through the last of this month’s bills. Seems we’re still standing strong. They’ve all been sent off.” He smiled, pulling out 2 glasses and a bottle of whiskey from a cupboard below. Something that wasn’t cheap, but the two drank pretty often. They could somewhat afford it.
“Thanks Spammy! I can always count on you.” Tenna’s screen glowed a little brighter, a smile growing on his face. He popped off his suit jacket, deciding it would be a good idea to take a break. His head would only hurt worse if he sifted through that pile any longer.
“Don’t worry about it, big guy. Better than being a desperate E-Mail.” Spamton chuckled, pouring both of them a nice helping of whiskey, and sliding the CRT his glass. He took it with an acknowledged ‘thank you’.
“Yeah! Man, that probably sucked… Especially with. Y’know.” Tenna gestured up and down at Spamton.
“Me being short??” The mailman was mildly offended. Can’t be too harsh with the truth. He was way shorter than his other Addison counterparts.
“Um.. Yeah. It was probably a bit embarrassing… Couldn’t imagine it myself!” The CRT chuckled nervously. Struck a bit of a nerve. Their height difference was immense, after all. Spamton could only reach up to his waist on a normal day, to his knees if he was feeling a bit more proud of himself. Tenna’s height was always a bit of a mystery, reflecting like a cheap mood ring you can only seem to find at tourist shops.
“Gee, thanks…”
“Uhm.. Anywho! What did you think of today’s recording? I think it went way better than planned! They loved it!” Right. The show from today. It was more of a horror bit, given one that Asriel especially enjoyed. He had December over, and stayed up watching a horror show that they terribly enjoyed. Toriel would flip if she found out, so Tenna would sneakily broadcast them past the usual bedtime for the Dreemurr family. Another sip.
“It was actually pretty good. Proud of ya, Ant.” He gave him a pat on the shoulder, before snuffing out his cigar and taking a swig of whiskey. Tenna bloomed a little flower from his nose from the praise. Their faces flushed for a second, before looking away. Tenna picked the bloom off and set it on his desk. A keepsake for their rather comforting moment.
“Tomorrow should be much more relaxed… Back to school, I guess.” The CRT’s antennae wilted a little, his size dwindling a bit with it. A sad whine went along with it, he was more of a dog than a man at times.
“Tens, it’ll be alright. It happens every week. The summer’s coming near, anyway!” Spamton nudged him gently, putting on a sultry smirk to show some type of care. He was never good at comforting the poor thing, but his weathery friends weren’t around. They had a date to attend, which left only the mailman to be the emotional support coworker around.
“Why can’t they just stay home? It’s not that difficult… They’re all done with their big stuff! It’s so unfair!” He could only pout in protest, acting like an 8 foot child rather than the 11 foot celebrity he probably should be. He took another drink out of sorrow, sighing out as a disappointed kid who was told no.
“Everyone’s got stuff to do. Just like us. Except their things happen in other places, just let it be. Maybe we can plan ‘em something real nice for when the weekend comes back around?” That seemed to do the trick. Tenna quickly rose back to his normal state, right about at the waist. His screen lit up brightly, his plugged tail wagging behind him. It dusted a quick blush on Spamton’s face. He was never this weak to alcohol.
“Really? Oh, this’ll be great, Spammy!! Maybe Dess will come over again, or even all of them! It’ll be like back then!! Ohh.. You’re just the best!!” Tenna wrapped Spamton in a tight hug, a wince from the other. Spinning him about, the CRT giggled in glee, it was nice to listen to.
“Possibly a family movie! Or a classic!! Something!! Hehe!! This’ll be so wonderful! Their eyes will all be on me again! No worries of getting out of their seat! Except maybe to turn up the volume… I’ll make sure it’s a perfect sound! They won’t have to worry about a thing! You should help me write the script!! And we’ll get some perfect costumes, and—“
“Ant, relax. You did quite a bit today, let’s worry about it tomorrow, ‘kay?” Spamton tried to wriggle out of the larger man’s grasp. He never understood the obsession with the Lightners, but attention shared the same gap that their height did. No one really paid much attention to a spam E-Mail, but people made it their routine to watch TV.
“Hehe… Your fault for giving me the idea!!” Tenna giggled once more, placing the smaller down gently, and then taking a drink of whiskey once more. The alcohol was only sugar to the situation, making him much more stoked than usual. It put a smile on the mailman’s face, the CRT would constantly take more than he can chew. He decided that maybe filling that void with something else would be better for both of their sake.
Glasses started to empty, and filled once again by ringed hands. They didn’t even really care that the whiskey was warm, the nice embrace down their throats was just enough to be satisfied. It burned so good, feeling like a nice relief. They also shared the mailman’s cigar, passing it back and forth, and filling the office of smoke and some mild tension as they stared at each other.
“So.. I don’t ever ask about you. How’s your business on the side going?” Tenna decided to break the silence once more. He leaned a little further back in his seat, getting more comfortable. He offered the desk to Spamton, who replied by sitting on it comfortably. Usually Tenna was more conscious of his furniture, but not to his little love interest.
“Oh, the autos? They’re doin’ fine. Sales are still looking well. I have some employees in Cyber working all of it.” The smaller said, swinging his legs absentmindedly as he spoke. Facing away from his taller, he blew smoke to his left.
“Nice! I know how badly you’ve been wanting to work on them again… Is Mike helping you?” Tenna spoke a little too comfortably. It made Spamton’s eyes widen a little. Only just a little. Barely enough to catch.
“Mike? Yeah, yeah. He helps out. In his weird, mysterious ways,” He waved his hands about. Neither of them really understood what ‘Mike’ did. If that was even his name. Could be an alias, everybody who worked underground all had one. Even Spamton himself. Albeit, he took it as his actual name soon enough, signing with it and all.
“If it weren’t for him, my business would probably be another shitty family company, dying out by a year or two. It’s to help get my name out there.” His cigar hit was way deeper than before, feeling the numbness in his hands once again. Speaking about his benefactor made him all so mildly anxious, as if he could ring the phone once again.
“Yeah…” Tenna felt a jolt of jealousy in his own heart. He hoped the salesman spoke about him that same way. That level of praise, the sincere tone he took whenever speaking about ‘Mike’. He was as good as Mike, and gave Spamton whatever he needed, whenever. The guy was practically broke before working with him! He called ramen a meal, even!! That’s not a meal for a successful man! He should be given at least a touch of thanks! Something. He sighed out, finishing his second glass of whiskey.
Tenna couldn’t help but stare at the man sitting in front of him. He always caught himself doing that. Staring at Spamton in the wild, each and every way. Whether it was him speaking through another deal, watching his hands move swiftly whenever he gambled, anything. Something about him was like a fleeting memory, so easy to miss if you didn’t look long enough. He grabbed the bottle and poured himself yet another glass.
“What’re you lookin’ at, big guy?” The salesman caught the CRT staring at his lips. Something about his gaze made his small heart skip a beat. Tenna’s face flushed once again, looking away rather quickly.
“You’ve, uhm, got something there,” A lie, straight through his teeth. His screen dimmed so as to not show his blush too harshly. He looked back at the mailman, who pulled out a compact from his pocket, looking across his chin.
“Here, lemme get it.” Tenna placed his hand on Spamton’s jaw, rubbing his thumb across the other’s lips. They were so plush, not as chapped as usual. It held a soft sheen from the balm that the younger used, finally taking one of the CRT’s recommendations for once.
He looked so irresistible to the other. Staring up at him, with his nice, smoothed out hair, and a strand that sat out comfortably on his right side. His eyes shared that same precious richness as before, deep and dark, like a pit that beckoned him. Come deeper, a siren spoke, right from his own vision.
“Ant,” Spamton spoke softly, his legs stopped swinging long ago. The cigar now rested in an ashtray, his slender hands reaching over just to touch it. Just to see if he was dreaming.
They couldn’t stop staring at each other, reflection of Tenna’s screen shone through Spamton’s eyes, comfortably nesting the thick brows that were raised. His face basked in a cool glow, even the golden eyebrow piercing seemed more like pearls from the CRT. Tenna could only smile awkwardly, running his thumb down to hold Spamton’s chin once more.
“Can I kiss you?”
It was a dumb ask. A terribly stupid decision, one that made his hands shake. But he couldn’t hold it in any longer. Their relationship could stay strictly professional after this, no one would have to know. Just once, once to kiss the man who refused to even hug him in public.
“Please, Spammy,”
More desperation in his voice, borderlining a whine. Spamton had kissed people before, usually sleeping in their bed at the end of it all. For money, of course. Everything was about money to Spamton. Kept the world spinning on its axis. Yet right now, his wallet couldn’t depend on him. Just begging, like he was at some point. He couldn’t even properly speak. Just nodded, firm and nonchalant. That wasn’t enough for Tenna.
“I need to hear it. Please, please oh please..”
A pause hung low in the air. Spamton drank his entire new glass in one go, his throat bobbing lightly as he downed the thing. Sighing very deeply, he replied,
“Yeah.”
Spamton was even kind enough to lean in. Their faces sat close to the other, warm breaths that reeked of whiskey and cigar taste infiltrated the scent of the room. Tenna propped his other hand right next to Spamton’s thighs, leaning in ever so carefully. Inspecting his rather unreadable face. The brown eyes in front of him looked at him, half lidded and hungry.
Soft lips pressed against their matching pair. They practically fit like puzzle pieces. Tenna ran his hand down to Spamton’s shoulder, rubbing his thumb so easily. It was careful, calculated at first. The mailman placed his hands on Tenna’s chest, running a thumb down the buttons. A pen sat nicely in the shirt’s breast pocket, which he reached over and threw on the ground. Hopefully that wasn’t anything expensive.
They parted for a short moment, taking a breath, and came back so much more starved. Tenna ran his hand up to Spamton’s hair, running his fingers across the strands, ruining the perfect picture that sat before him. Their kisses were much more sloppy this time around, like recreating a picture again. It never came out the same as it first did. It was so much more loud, piercing the silence of a casual, professional relationship.
A tongue slipped into Tenna’s mouth, dancing with him ever so carefully. It felt like the apex of a jazz solo. The saxophone of love roared throughout the room, raspy and disgusting. You could ask any normal person if this was a work of art, and they would stare at you with confusion, but a true musician would bless the air with their applause. Appreciation of the strange, the undisclosed, the uncomfortable love that the two shared.
Or what was love, lust, affair, money, business. Whatever the two shared, it blossomed. The bass strummed ever so louder, the mutes of the trumpets reveled on the ground. It felt so dirty, so sultry, intoxicating. A good jazz musician never played sober, and neither did they. A whimper escaped the salesman, leaning further into the kiss. The solo only got louder, fingers moving so fast in octaves of scales, all in such a strange key.
“Angel above,” Tenna mumbled, before listening once more. Brows furrowed, the shiny tie was tossed on the floor long ago. A growl escaped from the alto, before passing it to his baritone counterpart. Tenna leaned in further, pressing Spamton into the desk below him. The sound was so incredible. They were both so much more of a mess than before. Deep notes rung through the next solo, you could see the fingers run with such deep passion. A button popped from Spamton’s collar, his bowtie tossed away with the same carelessness.
Everything was improvised to them, a trombone could be heard in the background, practically harmonizing with the baritone. Suspenders were unclipped. More buttons danced themselves off. Chests were exposed now. The baritone continued to sing, gnarly with each rip. It felt like muscle memory, yet no drug could taste the same that this love did. The soloist’s fingers went white in such deep passion, a yearn to be so far into the spotlight, it was blinding. He didn’t need to read sheet music to understand it, it was all so well organized in his drunken head.
The alto licked his reed once more, taking a large swing of the liquor, and began their duet. The pace picked up, the bassist’s hands started to bleed with no care in the world. Spamton threw a buckle next, his own, and the CRT, hungrily looking back at him. He prepped his own reed, and screamed along with his baritone counterpart. They answered each other, rows of sixteenths responding back and forth, hands in such coordinated movements, they knew each other like no one else. The piano in the background only played along, brows knitted in such a deep rooted passion.
The piece only got more grotesque, bites littered the two men, blooming like marks on a copy of sheet music. Instead of fighting for the spotlight, the duet shared it so deeply. Staring at each other like their lives depended on it. The room smelled like sweat, love, and brass. You could hear the trumpets cheering, the screaming beauty of sound. Pollution never felt so good in anyone’s life, not until they stood on stage, that being Mr. Ant Tenna’s own office.
“I love you.” Tenna muttered. A screeching halt. A deceptive cadence. Calling for more. Desperately. The baritone ended off his last note, and stared at his alto. Who looked distraught.
“What?” Spamton asked, his face contorting into stress.
“I— Oh, dear.” Tenna immediately realized his spoken words. Spamton pushed him off of his body, a splintered reed in his alto.
“What did you just say?” Spamton asked more sternly. It felt less of a question, and more of a lecture. The director closed his score, the sheet music crumpled to the ground, and the spotlights dimmed.
“I— Spammy, please. I didn’t—“
“Don’t call me that. I didn’t know it’d be like this.” He squirmed his way out of the taller’s hands. His face rapidly changed from shock to distrust.
“Spamton,” Tenna pleaded. He kept his reed wet for a little longer, but the alto was well put away, cleaned out and all.
“Cut it out, Ant. You said it wasn’t like that.”
“And. And it isn’t!” His voice trembled. His size wilted ever so slightly.
“Sure. Right. We’re business partners, not lovers in the fucking night.” Spamton threw his towel in, buttoning himself back up. Tenna looked so distraught. The duet was getting so well, it was at its moment. A frown came onto both of their faces.
“Don’t look at me like that. Do you know how this looks on me?!” The mailman now scolded, his hands trembling. Sure, he would love to have that, but think about the money. That’s all he could think about. His name out there. His face. Selfish desires.
“We could keep it shut off! It’s alright!” Tenna tried so desperately to convince. Yet his closet was glass, Spamton’s was as pitch black as the night outside.
“No, we can’t. You can barely control yourself out there, imagine if I fed into that bullshit!” Tears pricked his dark eyes, his nose scrunched in disgust, horror, and a larger portion of sorrow. He didn’t want it this way. Yet again, think about the long term.
“But, I told you—“
“You told me a whole helluva stuff, and yet it didn’t fuckin’ happen! I should’ve known. Goddammit, I should’ve just fuckin’ left.” He buckled his belt again, and popped back on his suspenders. He looked clean once more. The air went cold, the warm embrace of love fleeted like a runaway girl.
“I'm no liar! Unlike you, and that stupid… That stupid Mike!!” Tenna yelled back, his fists clenched tightly. He wanted to fit, to cry, to get so angry and break that pointy nose on the other’s face. Yet he wouldn’t. He knows he would. Because he loved him.
“What’s this gotta do with Mike?! All Mike does is keep us on our damn feet! You think this studio, this dumbass business is all your doin’? Well you’re wrong. So very wrong. And you’re some man..”
“I am a man!! A business man! A showman!” Tenna’s screen dimmed, almost black.
“You’re a fucking child. A child who tells me he’ll behave, and then does it all over again! You make me fuckin’ sick.” Spamton reached for his keys. His hands still looked so beautiful to the CRT, no matter how much they shook, rattling like a snake.
“I got you off of your feet! I did everything for you, Spam,” Tenna pleaded once more. “I’m everything you need, don’t you understand? Things could be so much happier. You don’t even have to worry about Mike, nor Cyber, nobody!” He hugged himself. No more coworkers left to coddle him. To treat him like a child.
“I’m goin’. Goodnight, Tenna.” Spamton left the room as soon as he came. He wasn’t even angry enough to slam the door, full of pity. He didn’t even listen to the CRT. Like he usually does. A man who stuck by his own word.
“Spamton!! Please!” Tenna called out once more, yet in a whisper. He would only speak to the air, thick with a love gone back. Spoiled, moulded, dirty.
He was a mess. Everything about him. He didn’t hold his showstopper form any longer. All buttoned down, revealed and open. Papers were strewn about, and his liquor was spilling onto the carpet. He picked up his tie, and couldn’t hold back the tears.
He whined through his cries, just like a child. That’s all he ever was anymore. Not a man, a boy. A boy who could only look so pretty on camera. In private, he was a messy boy. Attention only kept him so right. So perfect. But now, he was authentic. Disgusting. Dirty. Ruined.
Tenna fought with all of his might to not lash out, instead wailing, and slumping down to the ground. His knees were tucked so closely to his chest. Everything in his body shook. A real man would go on with his day. A real man would pick up his pen, and continue working. A real man would get his stupid car and start the ignition and race home to do everything in the comforting light of home.
Home. Home sounded so beautiful right now, if it weren’t where he already resided. The studio was all he had anymore. No lover sitting across from him, telling him beautiful things. No mailman to pat his shoulder and comfort him. Home was terrible, he could only think. Sometimes, he hoped that home would keep him held tight, and whisper to him that everything would be okay.
But his home left. Locking up his office, and throwing off his jacket in the back of his car. His home speeded down the highway, tears pricking his eyes, streaming down with the eyeliner that made him seem so much more awake. His home was gone now. He had no home. He didn’t even have a house to call home. Nothing but the office that held that memory, white knuckled.